Paroles Strange Friends and Friendly Strangers de Tim Kinsella

Textes et Paroles de Strange Friends and Friendly Strangers

You'd think someone would have thought to take some notes at the dawn of time. Confusion would be totally unnecessary if whoever this first someone was had have had a bit of foresight and kept some minutes so we could all know who, what, when, where, how, and why we are. But the mysteries give us our beautiful confusion, and wonder must be the primary blessing. I mean, time wasn't time until someone thought of it as such. So the dawn of time was the dawn of life, in some sense of the word. Sensing time passing, right? And therefore, before that there was no time. My first thought would have been, "This is really somethin, I best take a note."
Instead we're left to wonder (wander?), spider-silk harvested from goats. Factory farms at all even really. The phrase has a great ring to it: "factory farm." But food isn't even really "food" food. Why do the Sunnis and Shi'as hate each other again, in what seems like such an intuitive way? And Easter Island? Deep lakes on the moon of Saturn? The moon? Israel? White privilege, the pyramids? Rasputin, Nostradamus, the Bible? Why wasn't Christ drawn and quartered instead of hung on a cross? "Cross", in its most immediate moment of recognition, must mean "intersection". So what's so threatening about people's reactions to intersection, that the historic dominant powers needed to hang the gory corpse on it to lock whatever door it might potentially open? Intersection as in mind and body, time and space. Of course we're out of time, we were never in it to begin with.
"All I know is that I don't know..." we were all so happy to sing as pubescent punks, liberating to sing. As far as I can tell, culture, and when I say "culture", I mean "politics", works as something like a prison. Like how supposedly, everyone really sees everything upside-down first, and then somewhere in your brain some gear flips everything over for you. A thing, a verb, an intention exists or doesn't in one way or infinite variations, and then it is the function of culture, and when I say politics, I mean business, to reverse that meaning, or lack thereof, so that it can be disseminated. So beer straightens things out for some people and obscures them for others.
Unfortunately, a lot of the time people don't know themselves which side of that they fall into. I've seen my man with his beer with Mexican food at the beach at sunset in the breeze, and felt the secondhand opiating effects of this recipe for perfect being. And our breathing falls in time with the waves, and when we sit in quiet we both know it's the special quiet past trouble, when that wonderful self-preservation instinct for exhaustion kicks in and the mirror maze, as we call it, has compounded trouble on trouble until it's all a soft density, which where is there to look, and what else left to do, but be quiet?

But culture always prefers answers, answers answers answers answers answers answers answers, but no questions. Questions are lazy and thoughtless, but any old answer is great. All these answers from every direction, each articulated with boundless confidence, and everyone, always right or wrong about something or other--but all these answers don't leave much space for conversation, do they?
I can say wholeheartedly and with all the confidence I can muster, "Fuck it." And thank good I can, 'cause I only can because I am engaged in the all of it. If I wasn't, it would be too easy to not say, "fuck it."
It's like my man may care what you think, it's a very real concern of his, but also he can't care what you think, because if he cares too much he wouldn't be able to do anything. He does things for other people for himself, and he's bothered by it only when he's bothered by it. But there are no decisions to make. That's our plan in common: Plan B.
How many times have we criss-crossed and zig-zagged, this openly hostile beast with beautiful details, The Homeland, together? With how many friends jumping on and off now and then? At what point did all the trips inevitably blur into the one continuous sprawl? Who this night? unexpected loved ones turning up where they may or an indifferent dozen, hostility or hospitality, and a fear more real than anything else: the fear of being swept along, a passenger to your own momentum, toward what ends, and it's what time, and I'm where?

When I try to express myself honestly about what I think my man is doing here, it's construed as being obtuse or difficult or pretentious. But I know my man's only regrets or resentments are all aimed in word, when he allows himself to get bothered by the thought-police fictions. The only regrets or resentments are regretting or resenting anything. Two negatives make a positive, but can two positives ever make a ... yeah, yeah. Funny is sad and sad is funny, words are boxes, and words are box-cutters. Because of quiet, or more specifically, because quiet. Because quiet might be perfect, and we can't quite be perfect, now, can we?

C'était les paroles de Strange Friends and Friendly Strangers
Voir les autres titres de Tim Kinsella.