I once wrote these lyrics in my hardcore days: “These metaphors, don’t tell me who I am. They classify me in a box and feed me to death. Now I am dying here, in your euphoria. Your soft coercion, I name chains. I don’t need your new age doctrine, I don’t need to shake your hands. I don’t need your pretty pictures, I don’t need your promised land. You spread your lies, like rain across the land. They live your lies, savages… “ and so on.
The song was called ‘Box’ and the thought of it kept me awake last night. Or maybe it was just something to do while I was awake anyway. Serves me right for listening to this 108 compilation (which you all should get if you want to know shit about shit) over and over again in my car, to and from work. I got up to piss and while I strolled into the bathroom, I saw the light of the washing machine which sprung the voice of my girlfriend saying: “I’m gonna put in this laundry, but – shit – it’s gonna suffocate if I leave it ‘til the morning. Ah fuck it” (what a marvellous woman), while pressing ‘go’ on the display. So after doing my urinating business and washing my hands (really, soap, towel, the works), I took the laundry basket, popped the hatch and started pulling the damp stuff from the cylinder. I walked over to the little white wash rack (all bent and banged up from falling over) and hung the shirts and shorts and socks (most of it my stuff) over the wires. It felt gratifying. I almost felt like I should have been awarded a prize or something for doing this. What a great new man I was for a moment. Look at me, standing here in my ‘greige’ undies. Feeling all empathic and understanding, knowing I’m not. Then the song leaped back in my face. I have enjoyed that box metaphor over and over again. I’m in a box. With arms and legs, and a face. And cardboard walls of character and thick layers of bubble wrap ego. The things that we call immaterial are nonetheless manifestations and folds of a box that contains our really damp stuff. Filled to the brim with a mindless magic that would scare the hell out of us if we knew where it leads. This infinity. But still, smothered. On my way out, I kicked the basket to the side and stepped over a fat black cat, stretched over the floor like he too, owned it.
When I stepped back into bed, she asked me where I’d been off too. I decided not to joke about masturbation but told her honestly I hung up the laundry, cause I remembered her saying something about it. I got my appraisal. I felt truly dumb and male for having chased it.
The song was called ‘Box’ and the thought of it kept me awake last night. Or maybe it was just something to do while I was awake anyway. Serves me right for listening to this 108 compilation (which you all should get if you want to know shit about shit) over and over again in my car, to and from work. I got up to piss and while I strolled into the bathroom, I saw the light of the washing machine which sprung the voice of my girlfriend saying: “I’m gonna put in this laundry, but – shit – it’s gonna suffocate if I leave it ‘til the morning. Ah fuck it” (what a marvellous woman), while pressing ‘go’ on the display. So after doing my urinating business and washing my hands (really, soap, towel, the works), I took the laundry basket, popped the hatch and started pulling the damp stuff from the cylinder. I walked over to the little white wash rack (all bent and banged up from falling over) and hung the shirts and shorts and socks (most of it my stuff) over the wires. It felt gratifying. I almost felt like I should have been awarded a prize or something for doing this. What a great new man I was for a moment. Look at me, standing here in my ‘greige’ undies. Feeling all empathic and understanding, knowing I’m not. Then the song leaped back in my face. I have enjoyed that box metaphor over and over again. I’m in a box. With arms and legs, and a face. And cardboard walls of character and thick layers of bubble wrap ego. The things that we call immaterial are nonetheless manifestations and folds of a box that contains our really damp stuff. Filled to the brim with a mindless magic that would scare the hell out of us if we knew where it leads. This infinity. But still, smothered. On my way out, I kicked the basket to the side and stepped over a fat black cat, stretched over the floor like he too, owned it.
When I stepped back into bed, she asked me where I’d been off too. I decided not to joke about masturbation but told her honestly I hung up the laundry, cause I remembered her saying something about it. I got my appraisal. I felt truly dumb and male for having chased it.