quinta-feira, 27 de julho de 2006

da série: CTRL+C, CTRL+V

Navegando na net, outro dia, dei de cara com o texto da Lydia Lunch que inspirou o nome desse blog ("somos injetados nesse mundo como pequenas múmias sujas... nascidos banhados em sangue, para morrer igual..."). Posto ele aí embaixo, na íntegra, só de nostalgia pelo impacto que ele tinha causado em mim quando li pela primeira vez, anos atrás. A música da mina - tudo: as coisas do Teenage Jesus & The Jerks, as contribuições dela com o Sonic Youth, os vários projetos solos - nunca desceu redondo pra mim. Quase tudo soa mto atonal, sombrio, claustrofóbico - é música suicida demais, não faz bem. Adoro música triste, e mais do que qualquer outro tipo de música (as alegrinhas são sempre uma bosta... fora o Save Ferris!), mas quando a coisa resvala pra completa falta de luz, de soluções e de "energia vital"... num dá. Pode ser que daqui a um tempo eu volte a curtir esse tipo de som, mas no momento tô evitando o Joy Division e todas as coisas mórbidas e cemitéricas parecidas com o Ian Curtis - hoje sou mais o Jack Johnson, tá?! Apesar da música dela não me empolgar, o talento da Lydia Lunch como poeta, como performer e como provocadora profissional é inegável - na história do rock, em termos de minas anti-convencionais, ultra-inteligentes e corajosas, só a Patti Smith se compara. Mas chega de papo... leiam o texto. Adoro esse pessimismo extremo, essa prosa beat revoltada, essa imitação classuda de Henry Miller, Ginsberg e Cioran... Grifei minhas frases prediletas pra quem tiver preguiça de ler tudo.

de LYDIA LUNCH (1996)

We are injected into this world like dirty little mummies... the roads are slippery with blood, but no one seems to notice... born bathed in blood... to die the same... everyone is travelling at their own speed towards the exit sign, down a blind alley at the end of which waits a scaffold. We are all suffering from collective induced fiction, bundles of conditioned reflexes, victims of an ambushed memory, suffering from a historical lobotomy, consumed by junk culture in a third world country. I know that the only minds which seduce are those who have destroyed themselves trying to give their life meaning.

After all there is no one more logical than the lunatic. No one more concerned with cause & effect. Madmen & women are the greatest reasoners of all, attempting to make sense out of a demonic rage which litters the playpen of their demented fantasies, where life is a thief, it steals everything. Creation's but a nightmare spectacle, a trembling accident. We are all just germinating on this hothouse planet which has been soaked with the blood of all of its creatures for hundreds of thousands of years now. Everywhere you turn. Ambulatory schizophrenics trying to diffuse their instinct to die by fantasizing about killing others... all struck wallowing in Orwell's memory hole.

This country like so many others lays testament to a civilization which teeters on the brink of collapse. Disaster lurks behind every shadow. No one can be trusted. Nothing is certain, except the end. No one knows how long we have left. I don't even care. The future is obvious. Obliteration. And besides, only the immediate has any impact left, what with our 20-second sound bite remote controlled imaginations.

And the past... we haven't learned anything from it. The past is just a resurrection of emotions... memory running backwards, toward the vaults of eternity, that red pyramid of death whose accumulated catastrophes just keep billowing on forever & ever toward the edge of the earth. This world being just the stopover point between heaven and hell or another endless limbo where we're all stuck... all stuck in this inquisitorial prison cell, attracted to the novelty of the spectacle, where the roar of a beast whose throat has been slit breaks the silence...
all invalids of duration, crucified by our own desires, clutching of bibles of disillusion... fearful souls, doomed to corrupted forms of wisdom, always unable to say no to that imaginary demon... who just might seduce.

Entrevista com a Lydia Lunch

"What do you do if you're one fucking person? Just a small individual whose message has never and will never be popular? We should try to speak some universal truth whether it's personal/obsession/frustration/experience or from the larger picture. What can one do? Why don't I just give up and shut up and go smell the fucking flowers before they're all dead? All I can do is try to find various formats to express the things the ills obsess me, hoping that others will either find release in my voice or will acknowledge that there's some truth in this. They can see that this IS as horrible as I make it out to be, that I'm not fucking exaggerating. How can you exaggerate reality? We can't even condense reality. We can't understand what's truly happening because it's too immense. I think that overwhelmingness is what helps turn us back into our cubicles and sit in front of the TV. Ultimately, if one thinks too much, one gets a massive fucking headache and realizes 'where do you begin and what can you ultimately fucking do?' There's a lot of small things that can be done. People are (and this is really the American curse, not the American dream) born and bread to be capitalist consumers. We always want the latest toys and we have to work to pay for all of these modern conveniences that trap our time and waste our energy.

Spinning off into a diatribe, what can the individual do? The individual can refuse to buy Nike which supports slave labor wages (as if everyone in this country isn't somehow effected by slave labor wages). We can be a little bit more frugal in the sense of knowing what we are supporting, knowing that our money is going to these Hollywood companies putting out these 50 million dollar sci-fi pieces of complete shit. It's realizing that if you go to fucking McDonald's what you're doing to the environment and your body. The individual has many small ways to revolt whether it's forced frugality against capitalism or consumerism or small acts of volunteerism or donating things to the VA. There's a million things that the individual can do that might seem small but in the face of it, it all helps.

Where do we begin signing up for this? I'm not ready for fucking politics because I realize what a lie the whole arena is. That's what is ultimately frustrating but that's what ultimately forces me to continue to create, especially because in this age of placation, who are the protesters? What do we have? Me and Jello Biafra? Who's the voice of reason? How did we get so far afield from the ideology of the '60s? In the '70s, I saw activism turn into apathy. Then the greed of the '80s and I don't even know what we should call this fucking decade. The decade of struggle. There is so much to struggle against. There is so much to make you stressed out.

I don't know. I can only continue to fret. (laughs) Write my little speeches and sell them to a handful of people and hope that someone will not buy Levi's or Nike or anything. Start somewhere.