Shooting the Censor

The Case against my inner censor took years to build, and while the sentiment of the court in the end was clear for all to hear - "shoot the bastard! up against the wall!" the spin out from his execution has yet to resolve itself. While the Censor may have been shot square in the face, it is still somewhat unclear whether another, perhaps more powerful one has taken his place, or if the bureaucracy of my bullshit is such that I continue to avoid the point of all this out of habit, if less out of raw fear.

Better a bad artist than a loser. Because while some bad artist's may be losers, it is far less likely that most losers can even lay claim to being bad artists.

The snob's dilemma, the argument from fear, all the excuses in the world for self-censorship are painful to work through - to be discarded quickly if you can - and maybe it's just a lifetime of inadequate testosterone? Lacking the balls to just take the risk of looking stupid. Because by all accounts more than a few people seem to live what for them appear to be relatively adequate lives while radiating, no, sometimes indeed, glorying in their stupidity. Take the conservatives, just to grab a group out of the air.

So the puppet's back - and I've started singing. And sweet Jay Z H Christ, it's got some room to, erm, mature. But the song I recorded yesterday sounds way better than the one from last week - and I like to believe it's really quite ridiculous. And that's kind of the point isn't it? All of this life is quite ridiculous. We get pushed or carved out of our moms, we spin around the sun for awhile, and then we die. More often than not really fucking terribly. So am I happy to have recorded a version of the Ballad of Happy Forest, where the Beaver and Beavette sing about their love for each other and the righteousness of diverting small waterways? All the while knowing that the bulldozers of the Evil Doer Stephen Harper are about to descend upon their boreal idyll destroying it forever? Separating Beaver from a now visibly pregnant Beavette, who for all he knows is dead with so many other of the forest animals? Yup.

Nonsense, glorious nonsense, and it would be funny if it wasn't actually so serious, and well, if it was written a little better and someone sent me a voice coach, or, well, sang it for me. But what's the fun of that?