DEAR ADBUSTERS:
This is just a note to say I'm thinking about you.
Day-end after day-end I flick my butt, burnt out, into the front stoop ashtray, follow the blue-grey smoke of my habits up into the twilit clouds. I see Orion waiting for the moon to bloom. I'm a good boy. I'll await the full moon too.
I wonder — do you feel alone? I hate to imagine you feel as lonely as I do, watching the moon wax and wane across the dull blackness.
Alas, such are the lives and dreams of space-walkers: astray in radical thought, wandering about spaceship earth. I can't complain. Loneliness abounds when the only uncolonized, unprocessed, uncommodified space left is the few centimeters inside your skull.
Our loneliness, though — this revolutionary affect, this rebellion against the orgiastic sycophancy of the virtual masses — has a purpose. It is our brand of individuality — better, our brand of personality. Queer as a rule and dogmatically unorthodox. Staking the claim of our completion in the revolution eternity-future. Preferring the loneliness of autonomy to the deceit of a simulated 'social' liturgy. Standing alone, on principle, in defiance of the odds.
I look up at Orion, nightly, still. His sheath falls so delicately below his arm, frame aslant and slightly obtuse.
Do you look up too? We are all of us strewn, pricking the firmament with light, piercing the meta-conscious fabric of space and time by the very potency of thought and word.
I won't stop dreaming of the liberation of your embrace. Even if I wait until we meet, drifting conclusively into the dregs of history, into the null void beyond.
If you're lonely, dear jammer, look up. I'll be looking too.
And keep fucking shit up.
AB# 149