Depression.
This is your depression, your chemical imbalance. Don’t you know? When your fine-tuned God-made perfection – that is to say your nervous system and your brain – is only thrown slightly off tune, it all goes to hell; you become depressed. I jest, of course – there is only chaos and imbalance in the body’s chemical circuits, and no such thing as a God exists (except Azathoth of course, but that is really quite another story). There is only mental disorder, no order, no normalcy, just insanity and depravity. The classifications of disorder span the entire repertoire of human emotion: DSM-IV, your vague definitions and criteria mean nothing.
Your depression is a response to the harsh reality you face, your alienation and your estrangement from the material reality. You have become a dissonant choir, a stalker of the uncharted peripheries. It is not the depression you face that is the problem, it is the world, the world that makes you depressed, this world gone awry and spinning out of control. It is not you who need to be treated; it’s the world that needs emergency surgery. There’s nothing wrong with you, it’s everything to do with the world.
And the world twists and turns, spinning through the interstellar aether; and here we are, stranded on this rock, stuck in the horrible barren gulfs – deep ravines cutting deep through the empty superficial wastes, the deserts of pop-culture pornography; like deep knife wounds cut in a body drained of all blood. The corpse of the earth has been exsanguinated.
Nothing to Say.
“Nothing to say”, I say it – you say it – we all say it. And what do we mean? Are we too shy to talk? We are – but is that the point? Are we afraid; afraid of what, then? Afraid to reveal ourselves, expose our weaker sides. Exposing the belly like a hedgehog turned upside-down by a badger to freely access the insides.
Who is that greasy-looking man with the vile voice? That slick hair and those empty eyes hiding the psychotic fire? He is the David Cameron. He and his ilk, the Tories, the Liberal Democrats, and their would-be greatest ally where it not for the vestiges of a time when there was a difference, if ever so slight, New Labour – parties with no ideological differences whatsoever – they dance now in orgasmic celebrations, revelling and firing off their guns, as do their fellow travellers; the writers of the Euston Manifesto, or the pseudo-intellectual tirades of imperialist apologist Howard Bloom. Massacres of decency proceed at rapid rate. Developments of some positive aspects continue in Greece, with a hopeful eventual second great collapse of financial markets to follow as Spain and Portugal get to face the business-end of capitalism’s loaded metaphorical shotgun.
But where have we gotten since last we spoke? Are we still just sitting in the quicksand, slowly sinking? Going nowhere? Probably. Dark clouds on the horizon challenged still any hopes for a better tomorrow. All over the world, vilest architecture now abound; weak post-modernist imitations of functionalism leave cities full of wicked scars of tasteless shit. The architectural regurgitations, the visual vomiting of relentless leaders of the armies of filth; there he stands, that vilest of men; Sir Norman Foster, proud of his latest rape of urban space. His buildings metamorphose into vulgar displays of genitals and sex-toys, twisting mazes of tools of defilement, fat-rich cakes tipping over for the wind; symbolism and abstract displays of shapes for no reason whatsoever; a mile high his terrible taste like rotten apples in my mouth; why is he allowed to continue, why is he not stopped? His crimes against urbanity, humanity, history and time and space, why has he not been stopped yet?
And Santiago Calatrava, him too, shall be put against the wall for his crimes! Yes, we will never forgive, Turning Torso and his wickedly nauseating museums and cultural buildings, the Milwaukee Art Museum, what a rape of visual and navigational senses, destroy it, blow it up, no value, empty; soulless abstractions to distract from reality, “exciting, exciting, how unusual and exciting!” they shout, the dregs with passion for the abstract, the revolting new design for the World Trade Centre site; REVOLTING, REVOLTING, THE VILNESS OF THE UAE. DEMOLISH AND REBUILD DUBAI, you’re doing it wrong. Your soulless shopping hell-hole and capitalist haven is built on the backs of the dead immigrant workers that you discarded like the used condoms and un-processed refuse you dump into the Persian Gulf. DEFILE THE LANDSCAPE OF THE WORLD NO MORE WITH YOUR VILE BUILDINGS, SIR NORMAN FOSTER; YOU TASTELESS HALFWIT LIBERATED FROM ALL ACCEPTABLE TASTE.
CRUSH. SQUISH LIKE BUGS, THE INGRATES!
SEARS TOWER, SEARS TOWER
On July 16, 2009, at 10:00 am Central Time, the building was officially renamed Willis Tower.
Sears Tower is Sears Tower. Structural names ought to be kept for historic consistency except when the nature of the business in the building is reflected in the name (if a structure housed a court but no longer do so, former hospital, etc). Fuck Willis Tower.
