Posts Tagged ‘Travel’

“That which doesn’t kill you makes you a funny motherfucker, most of the time.” — Henry Rollins

I just heard Henry Rollins literally take a shit on the idea of traveling on the trans-siberian railway — something I’ve wanted to do for years — as he spent most of the time vomiting.

But he also said that life fucks you up and that’s a good thing.

“That which doesn’t kill you makes you a funny motherfucker, most of the time.”

I like that.

Like that a lot.

Happy people have no stories, which begs the question why am I trying to be happy.

But there you see is the devil trick, convince yourself that you’re fine, too fine, and therefore no longer need help.

When before you could barely drag yourself out of bed, so where’s the use in sticking to that.

Stop your self-improvement.

You don’t really want to be happy.

You want to be creative, right?

Well all artists are crazy and miserable, so that’s what you have to be too.

Never mind that you weren’t writing anything anyway.

Never mind that your words make no sense.

No.

Never mind that it nearly killed you over and aver again.

You’re supposed to be diseased.

Only the wounded physician can ever hope to heal.

Only shamans and ghosts.

But it also made me wonder whether I’d be bored on the trip.

But that’s ok, you know.

I don’t think it will be all sunshine and light, but there are good ways to travel on that railway.

I have to believe that.

But even the worst will give me stories.

Even if they’re about the cold, terrible food and projectile vomiting.

He did 10 days on the train.

The little puss.

(I don’t mean that last part, Henry — please don’t kill me).

I want to do the whole thing.

The ten day ride is the longest train ride in the world.

But there’s lots of other bits too.

Clearly I need to know more.

But it sounds like a trip to me.

An experience of one sort or another, and you learn more about yourself on these trips than you learn about the places you visit.

Go there.

Art seeks to arouse anxiety. Through repeated confrontations the artist thereby masters the anxiety of being a passive recipient of the existential dilemmas of life.

samurai graffiti art on Bedford Ave and North 4th (detail)

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a gaijin. Gangster, I meant GANGSTER. But, you see, I’m gaijin. I’ve always been gaijin. And I think it’s about time that all writers claimed the word gaijin as their own.

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graffiti
If there’s one thing I hate about blogging, then there’s probably a bunch of other things too. My main bugbear is the continual need for new content. Blogs are hungry beasts. Much of what gets written is ephemeral and has a short shelf, no matter how much time you spent on it. With that in mind, I planned a series of ‘best of graffiti living’ posts with curated links to evergreen content from the archives on particular themes. Then I read my blog and realised that most of it was shit.
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