Radio Dada

Money can’t buy me love, and all I need is love. I may need to hide my love away but I want to be the one to walk in the sun, ‘cause tramps like me were born to run. Here today, gone tomorrow, so don’t get attached to things. If not now, when? And if not me, who else? I will never regret the travel. Altering perception < altering location. Though maybe I needed to know the pain of unmet needs so great that addiction seemed the only way out, or suicide, to appreciate the wonder and beauty of wandering, letting go, and taking in. I have fire and music in my soul, and I would like to bring it into the world around me to feed hungry souls I love like mine. But haters to the left, all the way to the left, into the sea, keep walking until you put an ocean between thee and me. I am done being othered, being small, being scarce, living lack when I know what life I radiate when I live fully.

Fragmented bullshit. Better out than in, hey?

V is valid.

It do.

“Go sit in your terrarium and think about your punching, you knife-footed ice gremlin.” Elliot. ELLIOT. Your existence, for me, makes much bearable that wouldn’t be otherwise. And your little dog, too.

NOTE: This episode contains less than 1% of: humour. Although there are some spirited doggies having a rally about the dying of the light outside the window at one point. I need more real-weather friends. Friends when there’s too much wind, or no wind, or the world is upside down and backwards and covered in petrol in a ditch on fire. Friends in crossfire hurricanes and trenches and howling rain. Friends at four in the morning and six in the evening, on the other side of the world. Friends when the pain is too great to bear alone and isn’t fixed by words or good intentions or bad advice or well-laid opinions ganging agley. Friends to the bittersweet end of the universe, with which I can have Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters at Milliways while creation dies.

I need to hear the indirect no. I want to reserve the reward for the actual result, rather than give it for assertion/promise to help. Talk is cheap as FUCK. And talk is not action. I need simpler requests, to resist the urge and even pressure to provide explanations or accept BS or (ugh) thank people for judging me. Nope, keep that, stop talking. I need to go. In the future, if you can’t ask before sharing your views on my problems and won’t actually do anything, keep cakehole zippered! Oh well, it’s information, specifically: “don’t ask this person for help, move on.” Need to hear the covert no. And not settle for rewarding the yes, or a soft yes that doesn’t include a follow-up (i.e. you check your schedule and get back to me by the end of the day tomorrow or I’ll ask someone else, appreciate your understanding — or I could just put you down as ‘No’ and move on). I don’t have time for wasters. I need to keep cleaning house when it comes to my attention and who I spent time and words on. I’m still fighting for my life, not networking at a cocktail party. Socialising can come after the war’s won, with everyone left standing.

Caught between Scylla & Fuck-Thys.

Is broke. Like rest of me. There are worse places to perish, like Siberia. Is not Siberia.

Topical Ingredients: Sartre’s ‘No Exit,’ breaking the seal on humour, ratio of unsolicited to solicited advice & opinions & sex, the audacity and risk of asking, sleeping in until nearly dawn, Tew’s days & not getting the hang of them. Dadaism does not exist, it never existed. Dadaism is a lie. Dadaism is life, is art, is soul, is everything. Dadaism contains all. Dadaism cannot be contained. Dadaism is in and on TV. Dadaism will not be televised. Video killed the Radio Dada star, when all we wanted was Radio Dada. If you have to ask ‘what’s Dada?’ you’ll never know. Dada is a bore. Dada is dead. Long live Dada. Amanda Effin’ Palmer is the fairest bird-of-paradise. She excites my rhythm, probably needs more sleep, and may be a myth. I think I saw her once lurking suspiciously behind a piano. After the cabaret fencing was finished. I was on guard and in grief, so my memory of this time is patchy and hole-y.