White psychosis/white dementia

The chair on which I do my extensive computing is too tall, putting me nearly at knee level with the makeshift desk that my keyboard is on, causing me to contort myself into a near yoga-like position in order to accomplish whatever it is I do on a computer all day (searching for the ever-elusive job in between myspacing all new bands, which is simply the newest behavior pattern in an old pastime of some bizarre fixation having to do with an obscurity fetish stemming from my upbringing as a Marxist teen rebel, wanting to see the collapse of everything). This works out okay for a while, until on a trip to the coffee pot--to fuel the apparent goal of future computer-related tumors which will soon be festering in my brain-- I realize that I seem to be cultivating a particularly bad hunchback, the pain in my neck and shoulders developing into a pulsating throb evocative of a four-hour rub down—which may be suggestive of either my massive dedication to checking out new music or my determination to find a job. And, inevitably, the more germane failure at those things: my apparent lack of a job and bad taste in music.

Computer speakers sound like shit, and this is good for listening to noisy music. I have meticulously placed a speaker on a surface on either side of my head, and have turned up the volume as loud as it will go. On repeat, over and over, for days on end, I have been listening to a song called "White Psychosis". It seems to be the supple balm to a life which has gone off the tracks--so far from the road that the brush has covered, in grown weeds and vines barring the entryway, with no hope of being discovered again.

“Listen,” I tried to point out to el Smelldog last night, erroneously attempting to fill her in on my supple balm theory: “You have to place the speakers on either side of your ear,” I said, with all of the teaching of a trained expert. “Do you feel it?” I asked rhetorically, turning the music up for effect. This didn't seem to help much. “It’s a pantomime of simian creatures,” I explained of the music, “trying to break free of the shackles and concrete cages of industrialization and insanity.” She just shook her head, which was a gesture of not really getting it. It didn’t really seem like it mattered, though.

Today, as I was in the fervored throes of Supple Balming, I couldn’t help but note an extra drum measure in the "White Psychosis" web edit which I hadn’t previously heard before. I double checked, just to be sure; the band hadn’t retooled the song, and before long I noted that it wasn’t the song which had changed-- it was my rather irate-sounding neighbor pounding on the wall, demonstrating a complete lack of appreciation for my music selections at one pm. Sorry, I mutedly said to the wall, before turning the music down a measure. I wondered what it sounded like on the other side of the wall, and what my neighbor made of all that, despite his pounding. Our interactions had been limited to muted gestures on trips to the dumpster, to discard boxes which at one time contained microwave pizza slices. This unfortunate interaction would only add nuance and “vibes” to our future encounters, I thought. But wait—you just wait—, I thought, until next time you’re rocking your Phil Collins soundtrack, man. Because a retaliation is in order!

I got up to get something from upstairs, and as I did, I staggered off in the hunched nature of an ape, white knuckles scrapping the ground, and pawing at myself for effect. The music choices were not up for discussion, but I had probably find myself a new computer chair.