I often feel like I am possessed. The most obvious of times, the moments when some spirit seems to sweep from above and inhabit my body, is usually as I walk home from school. It is at this time that I begin to doubt myself, begin to wonder how I have managed to make it this far. Especially when you consider the fact that, just four short years ago, I couldn't conceive of moving on with my life at all.

Why is it that it feels this way? Is it because I do not trust myself with my future, that elusive and sometimes daunting task that looms above my head, waiting to rip me to shreds with its many teeth? Is it because I am an artist, something sublime, and as such am touched by something divine, something that allows me to see into things differently? Or am I just mystifying my role here on earth?

Or am I just slightly crazy? Everyone of us is slightly crazy, it is why psychologists have such a problem on their hands when they attempt to prescribe mental institutionalization. Is this my Bane, speaking to me from some place that doesn't exist?

Is it perhaps, that I am actually possessed, living a world with more than one soul trapped in this shell of a body? Indeed, my memory is often hazy, at best, and I do not usually remember origins to tangent thoughts, studies, or even people (very well).

"I have this condition."

No, I think I have not yet touched upon what this feeling is, if indeed it can be categorized as a feeling or emotion.

Are my appentencies at fault, or is it something else entirely?

I turn 20 in a few days. I'm almost as young as my collective subconscious. Perhaps there are holes in my memory because we are the young, while the Old remain unseen, left in the shadows, in a realm which exists inconceivable to our intelligence.

I have seen the pathway, I have seen visions of this other side, yet no matter how hard my mind wraps around this issue, I cannot see how the pathway can be created, I cannot see how I can bridge this gap that I can sometimes mirror in my dreams. How can I come down from my perch, or, perhaps, how can I re-elevate myself, bringing the particular in my hands to the Real, to the Truth.

My tongue is an eye, indeed, yet there are somethings the eye cannot see, and other things the tongue cannot tell.

There exists something else, I can feel it in my bones. Laugh at me all you will, but it is possible to climb up and down from the perch, and I hope to be reminded, I hope to climb back up on the perch but this time, I will not sacrifice my sensation for the journey. I will bring the flesh, for the flesh is a member of the particular, a subset if you will, and I will bring sensation, which invariably comes from the flesh.

There exists somewhere else, somewhere which we have not seen for thousands of years.

I am not crazy.

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I'm sorry, so terribly terribly sorry. Let's never fight again.

Sometimes there's a harsh reaction to a band that changes its sound, especially when these changes result in a more polished, "catchy" sound.

I was just so... hung up on Homework. I'm sorry, it was all I had. I was grasping at straws.

I never realized that our relationship could move beyond that point, transcending all barriers, expanding to all instruments.

Please, please forgive me.

It took an awful long time, over a year, for me to finally come to my senses, baby. All along I knew, "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" got me to our special place, but... I somehow wrote off the rest. I'm sorry, honey, I had my earplugs in. I judged the shine, not the car.

But then I saw them. It started innocently, safely, with the vid for "Better, Harder, Faster, Stronger."

But... the story... it just sucked me in. I went back for a one-night stand and you put a ring on my finger.

Take me. Take me now.



I came back for more. Even "One More Time" hit the spot. I'd heard it so many times before, but... it suddenly just clicked.

You were so far ahead of me, you were on a different plane.

But then you took me back.

I saw "Digital Love", the video. I fell in love with the characters... they were a part of your being. I was taken away, lost in a maelstrom of bleeps and electro vox. I felt like it was being poured on me.

It only gets better from here baby. Let's not fight again.

CLICK THE LINK FAGGOT

I really don't know.

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Grinder submission from our newest member, Arch! Welcome to akpcep.


What is my life worth?
Is it money worth?
Has it any value?
Can it be purchased?

What is my Soul worth?
Is it money worth?
Has it any value?
Can it be purchased?

What is my Body worth?
Is it money worth?
Has it any value?
Can it be purchased?

If my life shall be given away..
Should it be to Satan?
Should it be to God?
Should it be to you?
Or should it be cast away?

If my Soul Should be purchased..
Should it be to Satan?
Should it be to God?
Should it be to you?
Or can it be rejected?

If my Body should be stolen..
Should it be to Satan?
Should it be to God?
Should it be to you?
Or can it be pitched away?

Of Earth I came..
Of people i was hate of..
Of Those shall I vanish from..
Goodnight to whom ever was listing..

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I have Tolstoy in mind. In all rights, I should be tackling the 600+ pages that I have left to read for tomorrow (I think my teacher is teasing us slightly with that ridiculous deadline... I still have Doestoyevsky's The Idiot and Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being), but a thought has occured to me.

The structuralists suggest that, in the meaning of a work of art, the artist himself injects a large percentage of the meaning, and what the reader receives as ambiguity is holes in the flagging of the text (for it is literature that I wish to speak of, though I'm sure the theory works equally well to describe my favourite painter, Salvidor Dali). This makes much sense, since a writer can inscribe a certain amount of meaning to a text.

However, it leads me down a dangerous path. How much of what we are, what we perceive and what we feel, is really ours? Is our lives, perhaps, something that we have been told to feel, passed down from generation to generation in the words of Homer, Vergil, Dickens, right up to Stephen King and Anne Rice?

Probably not, but still, it begs the question: who sheds those tears we shed when we read? Is it the writer, who bleeds his breath unto the piece, giving it autonomy through his tears and pain, or is it the reader, creating this entity inside his or her self that says, "yes!"?

One could also ask the immortal question, "well, so what?" Does the origins of our emotion really matter? That is to say, we can get emotions in the form of a pill, so does it really matter if we can be led down an emotional pathway?

To me, it does. Somewhere inside of us is an entity that lasts an eternity, and with this immortal being, all we have is what transcends the flesh, what is eternal in itself. Humanity once thought emotion was transcendental, but then science came along and told us just how wrong we were.

Thanks Prozac, Valium, et cetera.

Yet, still, I would like to believe that some emotions transcend life and death. I am unaware of a "love" pill (perhaps lust, but not love) that would force you to feel the emotion of love. There are pills that can muddy this emotion. Certain drugs remain highly volatile, and are the cause of many downward spirals in the users, but still, it remains true (at least, to my knowledge) that there are no drugs that can mimic love.

So with that, I read Anna Karenina, being led by the hand and possessing the character Levin, who is both a product of his love and a sufferer for it.

Not that I suffer for my love, but I have.

I wonder what character I will relate to in The Idiot.

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Maybe this is just another example of Hollywood and the media grossly misrepresenting a culture and an era. As they say, history is in the eye of the director.

But...

There is still something strangely unsettling about university life: apathy. This is supposed to be the breeding grounds of change, where tie-dyed peaceniks, stoned on Marx, do something or anything to bring about some nebulous change. We don't even have that. A lot more thought goes into the fall fashion line-up than whether Bush will bomb Iraq. Hell, we spend more time arguing about brands of beer than we do about all political, social, or economic issues - combined. We're not even any better in our classes.

The "smart" students are too busy copying notes and playing the sycophant to think or raise pertinent issues. Get into Law/Business/Med. school.

The smart students are too busy hiding in the back of the classroom - or arguing over some irrelevent detail of punk culture. Go home and feed your escapist addictions.

The rest, of course, are just parts of the system. A giant hydra of CampusCrew and new outfits from Winners adorned with hoop earrings, platforms, and shell necklaces. Why fight something that tastes so damn good? My parents fought too hard in that office for the past 20 years, 9-5mon-fri, for me to fuck it up by not spending. I will not let the GDP take a dive to suit the commiepinkotreehugger desires of you scrubs.

Have they had us since day one, or has the complacency of today's youth been a hard-won battle? All of our ideals and sentiments: anti-war, anti-NAFTA/NATO/WTO/USA, and, with PC's saturation, anti-anti and anti-anti-anti. Anything. It's all so...

trite

I can picture those goddamn executives, dug into the bottom line, wearing army hats and perpetual frowns. I can picture those goddamn politicians, stomping plants animals people like so many flaming bags of shit. I know it's wrong. I know that the youth know it's wrong.

So why don't we give a shit? Is this what happens when Boomer parents get so fucking concerned about the RRSPs that they teach their kids to worship money? "Shhh, don't talk about Kyoto, that $5 in your wallet has eyes, don't it?"

Maybe it was the sex. I mean, maybe all that revolution shit in the 60s was really just about horny college kids out for lovin. "The man" fought it and got burned. But now? The man sells it. Ours is an environment fueled by beer, pot, and latex, and their sales pitch doesn't deny it.

So who gives a shit about the environment, the world, the person sitting next to you? Have a Pepsi, it'll keep your note-taking legible until we get to the bar tonight.

Meet you there, beer in hand.

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