Transcript

It's the first day of September 2014, I'm Chad MacQuarrie in Vancouver British Columbia and welcome to the second installment of Reuseable Radio, A Rented Crutch Production.

Ah, the disconcerting suspicion that language only refers to itself again and again, over and over... imploding feedback loop, sucking vortex sucking, falling star falling. Maybe the meduim really is the message but the message maybe nothing more or less that an endless array of reflections of self, me and I endlessly reconfiguring/mutating each other in the narrsissis pond, our so called gene pools wrapped in an ocean of our so-called other, non-scientific: collective consciousness, ourselves, we.

Could it be that the speaker only cares about him or her self while appearing to inform/educate/ indoctrinate us all with new combinations/mixtures from the same old familiar lexicon/dictionary/language of words and gestures?

The kind of crazy notion that we are what we say is all the more crazy when it gains, develops and maintains a certain dominance from within our own collective efforts as norms, conventions and behaviours.

Collective efforts which forge institutions risk the jeopardy of becoming terminal forms of power invested into and beyond the pure theories of religion and the practical ideas of politics each swirling around the other into a wild orgy of snakes and worms, forging, engineering, generating 'the one', the viper, the Messiah, the serpant, the Savior, the gestalt, the greatest refinement and it's unforeseeable tragedy and so on and so on and on.

But after the play/fair/party/orgy/harvest/sacrifice is over daybreak illuminates a motley array of drowsy officals and clerics of many colors and ranks left busy compensating each other in a confused 5 dimensional version of musical chairs. Rotting grapevines connecting to broken Chinese telephones, oh my. All the crazy messages, twining down broken, rotten lines.

The orgin of convention is always the elephant in the room or perhaps we should say all the elephants in all the rooms at once and downstairs all the monkeys on all the typewriters at once, clicking away keeping all quantum posibilities and astral planes well lubricated and calberated for whatever coming happens to come next. Whatever Ha mlet or Raskolnokov may emerge on whatever horizon.

Maybe like how every donut needs a hole, every room needs an elephant, every closet needs a skeleton, every clever figure of speech needs a wise man's larynx and pen. The blessing and praise from ghosts maybe the only way for habits, rituals and ethics to span many generations, to be peranial, immortal even.

Somehow in my loose, free wheeling, silly mind a field of eggplants just happens to sprout, flourish and harvest underneath the heavy feet of 10 thousand elephants.

Ah, lets think about 10 billion penguins all dancing in perfect sycronicity to ancient nordic hymns.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” oh how all the cowardly vicious boneheaded tarts amongst us harp endlessly, “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

But shut up now... just for a moment, listen to the elephants romping in the eggplants, pressing the pulp with great grey ivory nailed toes stomping towards some strange bitter wine.

Ah.

(MUSIC)


Listen, I may be unprepared for this broadcast/recording/speech/vanity fair, whatever it is, whatever you want to call it, whatever I want to call it, whatever it might want to be called.

Maybe I'm unprepared to make any reasonable announcement... ah, err, make any announcement reasonably, to make an announcement, to announce, to reason, to speak comprehensively, clearly.

Maybe I'm too tired, in need of rest, low blood sugar levels, low dopamine levels.

Nodding off while the audience boos hisses and heckles in disappointment.

Ah, I'm off to a bad start wearing my uncertainties, insecurities and ill confidences on my sleeves like drool dangling from lips so undesirable, undesired, so unentertained and unentertaining, so repulsed and repulsive, dumbing and dumb... ahg!

But maybe this very disabled speech can find some positive value, some reconciliation-

'We are most creative when we are tired/underrested,' they say.

Or 'We learn from our mistakes, no pain, no gain, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' endlessly harp the stoic, hopeful and optimistic.

But do we really learn from our weaknesses?; our mistakes?

But weaknesses and mistakes are value judgements meaning that they are strictly acts of perception rather than material or materials.

But than again so is learning.

We don't buy and consume textbooks like we buy and consume food, but we continue to consume ourselves with the idea of such equivalances otherwise institutions like public school as it is would never have suceeded for this long.

Consciousness is not spectacular, reality is not a show. Determinations can not change this.

The heavens are not fireworks, potency rings beyond every height, pin holes in dark blue fabric don't blast and fade away but rather peer and persist.

Our personas and personalities are as dynamic and finite as our bodies despite all the spectacular narratives of popular lore and history which preach the grand- perhaps grandest- lie that our personas and souls are bound by fate, an earthly, worldly fate which guarentees the hubris of identity.

Like a parasite, identity starves the soul.

Lets throw the monkeys from our backs and then underneath whatever bus happens to be barrelling by, murdering the entire microcosim of germs burrowing in our folds with a carelessness resulting in silent horror and violence.

I have an ongoing waking day mare that this is what happens with every casual usage of hand sanitizer.

Like fools, like dogs barking against our own vicious echo

Don Quiotte and his windmill and his wind, our wind, farting away...

Energies collide with forces and forces collide with energies until they finally collude, combine, circulate, co-operate, deploying each other's allegiance like ghosts.
Ah, finally final.

(MUSIC)