Human consciousness has evolved along survival lines. Our senses exist primarily to warn us of imminent danger, and our brain is primarily wired to process this sensory input in a manner that prioritizes threats. Humor, beauty, sensuality, pleasure and even raw emotion are learned, imprinted on us after birth. They certainly do exist, but they are far outside the “natural” blank slate state we’re born with. They’re all matters of perception.
When we re-wire our brains, whether its through the introduction of entheogenic substances (drugs) or guided self examination (meditation), we radically alter the way in which perceive the universe around us. When we become bogged down in endlessly striving for that which is “real,” we’re simply trying to go back to that emotionless, survivalist form of our newly-born mind. We can’t go back. We can’t kill off our hunger for beauty, wonder and magic. When we force our minds to stop working in the threat assessment mode and similarly force it to rewire itself, we are perceiving reality in a new manner. Sounds may indeed have “tastes” in this new perception of reality because we’ve forced our brain to process the signals in a manner in which they are not traditionally routed.
Venetian Snares and Aphex Twin have already demonstrated this.
Browsing tumblr for all of thirty seconds netted me a moderately re-posted diatribe aimed at a positively ancient joke, wherein the author of the diatribe either doesn’t understand that said joke is not actually utilized as a serious philosophical attack on body modification, body image politics or gender oriented philosophy. Or they may be operating under the delusion that an amateur “postmodern critique” of a crusty “old people making fun of young people” type joke has any merit outside of facile external validation from an insular peer group.
If you have to ask “Does this make me a bad person?” or “Am I wrong for thinking…?”, it probably does. If your intent is to offer a serious critique and/or condemnation of a particular aspect of social conservatism, the energy expended on your “heroic defense of freedom of choice” would be better utilized if it were not directed at a soft, easy target like an unfunny, widely forwarded joke about a punk rocker and a parrot. The audience for this joke consists of aging social conservatives who have interacted and are uncomfortable with young people who are comfortable with their body image to openly express themselves. It is not being distributed as a part of a larger intimidation and propaganda campaign.
Wasting your time on bad jokes only paints you as an unfunny, touchy, tedious cretin who cannot comprehend the concept of “humor” outside of all jokes being a form of rape or physical assault– and as one who finds critique of more worthy items too challenging.
No, I’m not linking to it or reblogging it.
IF YOU DON’T HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR, DON’T TRY TO BE FUNNY.
FUCK ‘EM IF THEY CAN’T TAKE A JOKE.
Wintertime wants you to think it has sucked all of the life out of the air. It wants you to think it’s a harsh, unlovable beast that only serves to thin the ranks of the sick and weak. Winter is depressed. Winter has to carry out the unpleasant, unenviable task of stopping life, stopping growth and placing everything into a forced dormancy where a certain percentage of hibernators will not reawaken. It strips the peeling paint from the creaking, tired walls of the forest and primes them to be refinished come spring.
The voice of the forest is silent. The chorus of agitated rustling has broken for a seasonal intermission. Now, naught but the pure, quiet song of the sky fills our waiting ears.