|
Erased by accident late last year. Here it is restored, so I could 'frame' them. Tell Dean it's time to kneel to that 'foot' he's been bombarding me with - if he's done kneeling for that other thing, which your lying TV wants you to think rich people like Mike Myers and Blue Rodeo don't have to do, too. Oh, and is my 'grief' substantial enough now? Maybe you can see why I was reluctant to share it here. Thursday, August 17, 2017 Half Dead I've decided to share some of that large poem, the Host, a chapter of which I recently shared on YouTube (V: the Fire). Well over my nicotine addiction, it's nice to know that I don't rely on tobacco to write my poems, but it's a little disturbing to think of the narcotics my poems were used to buy for spoiled TV stars on Saturday Night Live. Such an evil business, supporting a crime like that, and such an evil president and vice president. Hard to believe these kind of people have the trust of parents and teachers while I, their victim, am half the time viewed as some sort of offender. I finally finished reading Dostoevsky's The Idiot, whose cover I featured in my 2013 video for Nothing but Ashes. What a tragedy, but I should have expected it. I wish I could write more heartbreaking work like that instead of being stuck with comedy that stars use against me to make me suicidal. More Statements Scripts Songs © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. Posted by Dave at 1:26 PM No comments: Email This BlogThis! Share to Twitter Share to Facebook Share to Pinterest Monday, August 14, 2017 The Nanaimo Logs Thursday, July 27, 2017 Better Hick than Prick 11:30am: I am forced to record my thoughts in longhand today since my Google account won't let me in from here. I told everyone I was staying offline for a month anyway, I guess, but things continue to happen around me that provoke me to comment. This morning, for example, I was dismayed to see the face of Justin Beiber in the news. To the woman who wore the black top with the capitalized phrase SICK AND TIRED printed in white ink across her back, did you hear the latest news story about Justin Beiber? They didn't say anything about that song I accused him of stealing, but it sounds like even my superior talent can't save him from imminent collapse. If I were him, I'd quit while I'm still fifty million dollars ahead. And these murders of children on the news show Vancouver's cruel streak, as the city that celebrated so much nasty fraud with my music and comedy - however inadvertently. I think that Plato said something about keeping cities under a hundred thousand, but even compared to other cities of over two million, Vancouver's cruelty seems to stand out. Look at the Pickton slayings. On a more positive note, I am in fine company here on the island. My first contact with people from Vancouver Island came from shipping art glass from the Kona warehouse back in the late 1990's. It was always a treat for me to meet these customers in person, and given the stress of their long journey, their warm affability was remarkable. I do not consider the island underpopulated but ideally so. I have a high opinion of these folk, which may have manifested in Part V of my Obelisk tome, called the Island. I had to buy some earplugs to block out the loud snoring of my dorm mates. The only store available was London Drugs, so I hope that those girls who were mocking London Drugs shoppers on my way out weren't mocking me. If they were, I hope they'll read this note about their behaviour when I return to Vancouver. And I hope that their mothers and fathers are in good health. 1:32pm: Back in Nanaimo Library after a fire alarm forced us outside for a spell. I now recall another thought I meant to post in my Blogger account today: the evil committed by stars with my work will outweigh all appearances in the final tally. I saw a book about Mick Jagger on prominent display in a shop window this morning. I take it as one that is rapidly losing its value. Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones are old fools, and I'm sorry to have to inform their otherwise tasteful fans. Bereft of support from broadcasters to advance this harsh truth, I am thrown into a most uncomfortable position for my music's sake. 1:50pm: I forgot to state earlier that I had a humorous thought about snoring last night. I tried to figure out why God made us such noisy sleepers (not me, though). The blood curdling chorus of the occupant of the neighbouring bunk, in particular, strikes me as the kind of sound which would scare off predators. Perhaps our snoring is a primal security alarm to guarantee a safe night's sleep in the wild. Thursday, July 28, 2017 The Buck Stops Here 6:30am: No time to grieve as I aimlessly wind Sobs all suppressed to make predators wait Then by reflections in eyes wide and kind Out pours my misery, all the more great Tragedy strikes as the utmost of crimes Lending support by a crippling bond But for the outcast with losses two times Caught in an ocean that looks like a pond Heartbreak too hard for my neighbours to grant They with their own clinging heavily on Eager to tears with a smile supplant Like a bright garland cast over the wan Dead end diversion the morbid effect Once the grim option has exercised been With ev'ry face that my mind can connect Rising from ashes to deepen the scene 7:25am: I slept well in my dorm last night and I feel much better for it this morning. I had to see an outreach worker yesterday to determine my eligibility for admission into the shelter. When I told her about my mom and dad there was genuine compassion in her eyes, which I found very moving. For the first time I fathomed my grief, as a person who was orphaned in such a brief span and as one with no children of his own to give him comfort. I confronted this grief head on in the preceding verses, which reduced me to tears; but a good night's sleep tells me I might not have so succumbed were I better rested. It's time for me to put my foot down and try to save some money today. With all the good free support from the Salvation Army I should be able to keep most of my money in the bank. The only challenge is how to pass the hours, but that's why I bought this writing tablet. I have a pretty interesting library book to read, as well. 11:37am: I added two more verses to yesterday's poem and wrote four new verses here at the library. I took inspiration from one of my suffering mates at the shelter. Poor guy not only lost relatives but needs a walker to get around after some awful car accident. He is obstinate in his grief and made me feel silly for trying to cheer him up. How much lament for myself do I choose Seeing in sorrow a thing not to mock As if my good hopes were better to lose Gouged out as pieces that fell from a rock? Still in one piece, though on legs doomed to fail Drawing forbearance from paralyzed peer Whose resolution to openly ail Renders my blessings abundantly clear God loves him more to his bitterest woe Wreaking upon him a horrible price I in position to happiness know Could only taunt with banal good advice One day perhaps in a hospital room Like my poor father, bound fast to my bed I will at last know the measure of gloom That won't be lifted by dreams in its stead 6:01pm: On page 192 of the Analects of Confucious (Note following 12.20) Liu Baonan points out that Confucius was most suspicious of those who coveted fame because they would 'do anything to have their name known.' Such were apparently the ways of the 'village goody men' Confucious condemned as the 'ruin of virtue.' How can I not love Confucious after reading this? Saturday, July 29, 2017 Fraud Stinks 7:00am: Back in a happier fragment of part Mother and father beheld me onstage Where my career might receive a good start As one whose voice was advanced for his age There they sat cheering, their love for me plain Covering over my lyrical slip Shining like beacons to pierce the dense rain Stationed to guide to the peak of my trip And in an interim stuffed with delays Firmly they kept their support for my song Willing to warmly extend me their praise Until their very last breath would be drawn Now I'm unsure why I toil and rack Melody lost on indifferent ears Of whose humanity, showing a lack Harshly makes up for with putdowns and jeers 8:50am: I wrote my four verses between 7:00am and 8:45am this morning. It's shaping up nicely. I guess I'm lucky to have my rhyming verse construction to help me pass the time. A bit of excitement in my dorm last night: one of the guys got kicked out for fighting. The Salvation Army has a zero tolerance policy for violence, which I fully support. The staff person showed up to clear out the evicted person's locker and needed to break the bolt with a bolt cutter. She accomplished this handily, but still managed to look feminine as she did it. I thought it was time to get to the focus of my poem, my parents. I touched on how their dual demise sets me apart in my first installment (losses two times) but that falls short of expressing my loss. I think I covered it nicely this morning, tracing their support for my music all the way back to Grade Six. My music teacher liked my singing voice and wanted to give me a head start on a career as a performer. If only she'd have known how rotten the business would turn out to be. It was March 1977, with the Rolling Stones already having enjoyed twelve or more years of stellar success. My worker here thinks I may need grief counselling, but I hope I can address my grief with my poetry. She explained about how there are several stages to grief's cycle, and I think I'm familiarizing myself with them first hand. There must be a phase of anger. Thinking over some of the things I've said in the last year or so, I'm not sure if I'm myself anymore. It's not like me to blurt out hurtful remarks, however at fault my enemies might be for provoking them. I think I'd have been able to keep my correspondences a lot nicer were I not so entrenched in disputes over my songs and blogs. It's quite unfair to subject me to insults at this time and then hold it against me when I lash out in defence, but that's the kind of behaviour that has up to now been richly rewarded by the brutal entertainment industry. It's quarter to ten and time for me to head down to the library to read some more of my book. Apocalypses by Eugene Weber - a friend of the Frums (David Frum et al) unfortunately. Oh well, I'm keen on the history lesson it offers, though I find its style somewhat tedious. To the person who mocked me for having no car: ask billionaire bands like the Rolling Stones how much money they've made from my music in the last ten years to see why I have no car. 5:00pm: I was astonished to learn that someone reported me for having poor hygiene when I have been showering, brushing, and laundering daily. Sunday, July 30, 2017 Where Is God? 7:00am: Where would be God as I limp from my load? What corner hides his restoring white light? Will it cost all the rewards I am owed While I'm still living to stand in his sight? People too faulty upon to rely Show no way out from the trap they have sprung I turn my tentative head to the sky Aiming a vaporous chorus unsung Justice will come as a pendulum tide Fully encompassing all who now laugh I have the brilliant truth on my side Poised to cut cruelty's darkness in half God knows the righteousness of my despair Set against armies who practice deceit He'll catch them all in His glorious glare And lay them finally down at my feet 4:00pm: I'm glad I'm journalizing my days here because a few things have happened that I should share with my YouTube following when I get back to Vancouver. A woman was dragged out of her seat at the computers by two RCMP officers in the library this afternoon. How long does it take these industry creeps to learn that their web assaults are illegal? I guess our streets are so crowded with released offenders who have nothing to lose that there is a never ending resource for those rich fraud stars stars to employ as professional character assassins. Maybe we need more crippling punishments for this kind of crime. Looks like I finished my poem about the cycle of grief in which I am currently trapped. I may touch it up later, but I want to move on to a more imaginative topic for my next one. 4:45pm: I'm also nearly done my second loan from the library here, a non-fiction book about ghosts (Ghost Whisperer by Mary Ann Winkowski). From it I gather that I am attractive to ghosts because of the the negative energy surrounding me from all the crime with my music and comedy. Ghosts feed on negative energy, according to this author, which may explain my lingering depression. While it may be healthier for me to somehow evict them from my presence, I don't want to offend them. As long as they use their paranormal advantages in my defence, maybe we can work something out. Monday, July 31, 2017 (Untitled) 2:25pm: I'm back at my favorite bench - devoted to Beverly Conrod, overlooking the harbor - to record a few thoughts for the day. Not much to say except that I sense that the pressure has lifted from Saturday's assault. Maybe now I can get some of the rest and recuperation for which I came. Also I noticed a few errors in my HTML links when I checked them here. I thought I'd already corrected them, but if that book I read last week is accurate, my code may be tampered with by ghosts. I'll try not to let them nettle me because it only feeds them energy. Perhaps I may live up to La Rochefoucauld's maxim, after all, if only from necessity. [Vancouver, August 14, 2017: After the above note I limited my writing strictly to my tome's construction, one of whose chapters I read for you in my YouTube video Rhyme or Reason - June 25/2018: Voluntarily erased from YouTube.] |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| © 2017, 2018. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
Monday, June 25, 2018
Bust of the Day
Friday, November 10, 2017
Remember the Post
|
Not much new to talk about. We're headed into Veteran's Day, which used to be called Remembrance Day. It's important to remember unpleasant events. If we don't recall them, we're in danger of repeating them. The past is filled with as much horror as pleasure, but when we look back, we skip over the troubling memories in favor of the fond ones - at least I do. Trying to proceed with no acknowledgement of the past is like trying to grow a plant without roots. It won't grow. That's why I try to face the unpleasant truths of my life, the horror of these thousands of copyright violations of my work. It may not yield much of a profit, but at least I know I'm alive and I'm standing in the light. As for those celebrities who needed to lie to the world with my music and comedy, I find them profoundly disappointing. I wake up to an extremely unpleasant reality every morning now, but I'm usually in an optimistic mood before the end of the day. This is a very difficult time of my life. Less and less to look forward to with each passing year. To help you remember the last eight years of my life, I developed my Chronoblog. My statements since 2010 will show you what has happened to me on this internet. I'm certainly not afraid to talk about it. I'm not afraid to say that these crooked stars and broadcasters committed a terrible crime, even though, most of the time, mine is the only voice saying it. It's November 26, 2017 and I'm at the library to return a batch of DVD's. I'm depressed because I have nothing to take my mind off the injustice of my life. I have nothing to look back on now but ten or so years of fighting against an army of frauds on the internet. In all that time, the frauds managed to get paid for my work, but I can't seem to find a lawyer or a policeman who will help an author to collect his rightful pay. It is a serious flaw in our capitalist system that lets rich bastards trample all over our copyrights and image as they did with me. But some capitalists disagree with this and think we should just ignore massive copyright violations in favour of news stories that glorify mass murderers. Perhaps this is in response to popular tastes, and even I might normally be interested in such morbid accounts, so I'd better not condemn them too harshly. I just wish we had a safer climate for innocent authors. |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Back to Normal
|
I've decided to erase the last twenty or so entries from this blog because I have been unusually pessimistic as a side effect of quitting smoking. There's no point talking to the world when you're depressed. I was totally abstinent from June 10 to October 10 this year, which deeply impacted my mood. (Fell off the wagon a tiny bit since then, though.) Going without cigarettes all that time showed me an abysmal new level of depression, which you may have noticed. But I've learned that my will is quite strong. I've been writing some comedy scripts at home in the last few weeks. Sharing comedy was a nice way to engage an audience. A lot of musicians like to engage the crowd with entertaining dialogues. That might be another reason why I started writing that show. I've written a few new episodes for that in the last couple of weeks. I just wanted to see if I still could. Maybe I'll add them in before the end of the year. Anyway, writing keeps me busy. |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Offline Rhythm
|
As long as I'm here to let you know my plans for the next couple of months, I should thank my astute followers for catching the fraud that has been committed online with my posts over the last couple of days. Yes, that's my pencil! Broadcasters, were you aware of this violation of my Color My Girl video? Why did someone need to commit fraud with it? Do you think it was so he could kill [my identity] and breed in my place with your support? And this morning I heard that those are my scars! My scars! Broadcasters, why would someone steal my picture of my poor carved up knee? That's a very nasty crime you've encouraged with all your support for crimes against my work and my name. But I guess you counted on me to kill myself by now so that you could pass off this kind of filth as legitimate work. I guess that's why I tell everyone that broadcasting artist killers breed fraud, because that's what you artist killing, fraud supporting broadcasters do. And who was that gang who beset me on my trip to the grocery store to buy tomatoes? What an excruciating walk that was for me. They're with you, right? They seem like the kind of people who'd think it's all right to put assholes who steal my music and poetry in limousines to be admired and leave me exposed on the street afterwards. If you're a subscriber to my blogs and videos, I'm leaving this note up to tell you that I'm saving my new creations for when I have an itunes account or something like that. I don't expect to have such an account for at least a year. I was also thinking of reserving my best sounding new tracks for an agent - also known as an entertainment lawyer. I'm sure that he or she will hear the potential of my music without it being on the internet getting constantly abused by frauds. I'm reading my Dostoevsky novel again because I didn't absorb much of it when I tried to read it in 2013. It's all just conversations really, just a bunch of crazy 19th century Russians all talking to each other, but I find it far more stimulating than TV or radio or the internet. I'm glad I'm back into my reading because it will help to keep me occupied as I travel over the next couple of months. Yes, I'm leaving Vancouver tomorrow and I'm not telling you where I'm going. All you need to know is that I won't be in Vancouver. So don't let those monsters here try to pull anything while I'm away. I won't add anything to the web anywhere except to this blog. Mark its URL: http://broadcasters-breed-fraud.blogspot.ca And I'll remind you that there are no live videos of me permitted outside of the ones displayed in my live videos slideshow of my Chronology of Recordings. It's URL is: http://chrono-dave.blogspot.ca/2014/11/my-live-recordings-2013-14.html I hope that's all I need to say until I've had a couple of months vacation. And to my good followers, keep up the excellent work with busting those evil frauds. Someone has to do it, after all. 4:49pm: Before I get back into my novel, I should say a little more. I don't hold it against the whole population of Vancouver for my departure, just against these awful production people who have me surrounded in the street and against the evil broadcasters who hyped all the fraud with my music and comedy. They don't have any moral problem with what they did to my sad music, delivering into the hands of spoiled rock stars like the Rolling Stones. The only pity they seem to be capable of is a kind of warped self pity which I tried to describe in my poem the Crybabies. They are such a poisonous, hateful presence in my sphere and have caused me so much harm that they've made me lash out in uncharacteristic violence with my pen here, at times. Regarding my earlier note about hearing someone say that those are your scars, the person could have also been saying those are your stars, which I would take to be a reference to my Copyright Issues page. Don't let anyone else get away with saying that they're the fraud victim, like that stupid band tried to do earlier this year at the Fortune Sound Club. |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
Friday, July 21, 2017
Who's Paying for This?
Thursday, July 20, 2017
A Rigged Game
|
Before I start, I'm getting another flash of memory from 2007 that tells me I talked about my 'Olympic penis' (12:40pm note) ten years ago and it ended up on TV. Looks like my brain is going to rewrite every word they plagiarized out of the thousands of pages I had online ten years ago. Hey, broadcasters, why won't my brain let me get on with new posts? I've been trying to write new things for eight years now and look what I've done instead: duplicate the thousands of pages of posts that your stars stole from me in 2007! Why? Why won't my brain do what I want instead of forcing me to relive past experiences and rewrite past works? All you broadcasters who presided over the theft and scattering of my thousands of posts from 2007, why am I forced to rewrite every damn word now? I want to write new things! Why can't I write new things instead of rewriting old things? You know why! You all know why! The only reason I'm still around to fight for ownership of my work is because I was prepared for this fight from childhood. The overwhelming adversity I face now was all anticipated and a path charted around it long before most of my enemies were even born. Even this note I'm typing now was predicted and factored into my rise. My mysterious protection, which lets me face down whole legions of evil production scabs by myself, hinges on the billions of dollars I'm worth in the future. Many thousands of lives are depending on me to follow through with my career and generate that wealth for them. Such future dependents are all betrayed by their broadcasters in the present. Do you think I'm insignificant? Why are you here reading this? Do you need to ask me my name when you see me? Do you really? How long have I been online with this account now, busting superstars with my songs and blogs? But you don't recognize me, right? You need to ask me my name so you know what to write on my order. Oh, and then you forget who you prepared it for as soon as it's ready. Yes, talk to your cue ball of a friend instead. Don't worry about disrespecting me. I'm unimportant. Too bad all your other customers can't get the kind of mistreatment you reserve for insignificant people like me. Maybe that's why stars get others to do their shopping for them. Maybe that's why they need to hide behind tinted windows. Maybe that's why artists go running to the business to beg for help to escape the brutal glare of the spotlight, but I think the business should offer their help freely to me since it's their fault I'm famous. And if they don't, I'm just going to try to make it as an independent artist. How is everyone liking the new music on the rock radio? As long as it sounds terrible, you know they didn't steal it from my YouTube account like they stole: All My Money, Arise, Assault, Beguiled, Canopy, Chair, Decent (as Kneel to the Power), Easy, Ectomorph, Fantasies, Fool, Fool's Paradise, Fortune, Free, Goddess, Godspeed, Harmony, Lifeless, More Sold Out, Natural (offline), Nonplussed, Outside, Prone, Rusty, Size, Smile, Spoils, Therapy, and Virtue, as well as Bad News, Mischief, Nonchalant, and Nothing but Ashes. I'm sure I'm leaving out many others, but as long as the goal of today's broadcasters is the same as Josef Goebbels', to unite the population with hate, they don't need songs of good quality like mine: they just need more untalented assholes who want to be stars. 1:47pm: When George Carlin was talking to you about the game being rigged, folks, he was plagiarizing an earlier post of mine like this one. When Saturday Night Live stole my Treachery script, it was not just to make them look funnier than they really were, but to make my script lose its meaning by disconnecting it from its author. These broadcasters are totally treacherous and I can tell by the way they've been trying to argue against my points with vicious put-downs. For a couple of recent examples, I might ask them who wrote my song Mischief. They, instead of admitting the truth and saying I wrote it after they told everyone that Blue Rodeo wrote it, respond with a blunt reference to my urine. What does my urine have to do with my music? Nothing at all. It is a simple mind manipulation, intended to make their followers reject me by applying disgusting imagery. Go back to the song before that and ask them who wrote Nonchalant. Instead of admitting it's my song, they hold up a billboard of toe fungus. And if I turned this paragraph into a comedy script, like I did with Treachery, they'd put it on a sketch comedy show like Saturday Night Live to bury its meaning and confuse my readers. It must be nice to have your own powerful broadcasting transmitter to support your crimes against talent like that. Do you wonder where these TV shows got all their comedy? Look how much they stole from me alone! Do you think the Simpsons wrote all their first seventeen seasons on their own? Isn't it more likely that they stole them from other unsolicited authors like myself? It sure looks that way to me. It looks like broadcasters use every dirty trick in the book to seize the high ground on an extremely warped playing field. No one, however, possesses higher ground than Almighty God. 5:55pm: So that's thirty-two songs up there that I heard on the radio. That's an hour and half of music. What do I hear in response? Hick? Is that all? What kind of a stupid answer is that? And what's this hideous talk about my genitals? Can't we stay on the subject of who wrote my songs? See how they take my songs and put them on the radio as the property of their friends and pets, and then, when I accidentally rewrite my old work, they call me nasty names! And how many years has this been going on now? Are the police reading? If so, I might ask them if we have any laws protecting honest citizens from this kind of cruelty. Are any judges reading or are they all in the back pockets of the corporate perpetrators of this outrageous fraud with my web posts? These people want to make my life as loveless as they can. My siblings were able to retreat into the love afforded by their own families after my parents died. Look at the social desert broadcasters left me in in exchange for all the gratitude offered by my sweet music fans over the last ten years. I can't believe how empty this world is without my fans, my friends, and my mother. And they want to call me rude names on top of it. Were it not for divine intercession - as I see it - I'm sure I'd be dead by my own hand now, as I expect is every other author to whom they owe vast sums of money, but I'll survive to teach them that no one can rig a game better than God. |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Licensed to Steal
|
Yesterday evening, as I attempted to drink myself to unconsciousness with my broken fridge roaring like a Maserati, I heard a woman's voice say that I was in prison. Later, in the wee hours of the morning, when I went to use the toilet with the window left wide open by another tenant, I heard the same voice falsely accuse me of being a hack. Did we get that all straightened out for another day? Whoopee. These constant false accusations of crimes committed with my own work are all I get for giving others pleasure. It's made me discover a level of bitterness so deep that I no longer recognize myself in the mirror; I feel like a loser for not killing myself. These zany imitators want me to write funny blogs for them out of this increased bitterness so everyone can keep thanking them for my suffering, but now I rephrase my words to keep the humor out of them. Were my index links blocked again? What good is that blocking program doing? It could only serve crime. When someone is caught committing fraud on the web, as NBC was caught with their YouTube videos of my comedy sketches, they are forced to erase their offending posts. That's how we deal with web fraud. Offenders, on the other hand, are always looking for some way to pin their fraud on their victim, so I think this 'K-9' site blocking program should be kicked the hell off the internet. I've suffered more than enough harm to my image for an innocent man. The broadcasters seem to have every creep in the world trying to build a career in show business out of stealing my posts. People see me receiving no support and get the message from all the glory handed to my assailants that the path to success is to steal my things and lie about me. Why are broadcasters allowed to bring so much harm to an innocent man like myself? Why aren't their broadcasting licenses revoked to discourage any further crimes? They must be licensed to steal. What would Dick Cheney or George W. Bush do to someone who falsely accused them of assaulting a child? I bet they'd only have to suffer such a false accusation once. They'd use their money to silence that lying prick and no one would dare take his place. But look what happens when it's you or me who gets falsely accused: it just goes on and on and on, with a new liar stepping up to replace the last one, for ten miserable years, branding us with the face of a pervert, regardless of our innocence. That's because we don't have the money to have any real justice in our capitalist's paradise. Do you think these horrible things couldn't happen to you? How precisely would you avoid your songs getting turned into fraud if the big broadcasters wanted it to happen? Do you think your friends would stick up for you? Ha, that's a good one. They'd sell you out in a second. Do you think your family would defend you? That's even more of a laugh. And judging by how broadcasters stay in business to add to my miseries now after already causing me so much harm, I'd have to guess that they aren't just licensed to steal, but to strip us of hope. I wonder if they're allowed to do anything good. 1:23pm: All these shaved heads I see around me make me think of my Austin Powers cartoon. Are they expressing support for my hero or trying to emulate Mike Myers' villain? You know that I also invented the characters of Me and Mini-Me, right? I invented them in a James Bond parody that I shared on Blogger entitled Goldmember. Myers seems to need someone else to dream up his characters before he can be funny with them. But I'm not a comedian, really; I'm a musician. So the fact that my comedy has brought me nothing but sheer misery, right up to the present, on the way to delivering lying comedians their greatest pleasures doesn't trouble me as much as the question of who received all the pleasure for my music. Let me now ask the radio stations who made all that money from broadcasting my music about who got to feel good with my music. We'll start with my most current posts and list them in reverse chronology back to 2013. Who got to feel good for Mischief? Who got to feel good for Nonchalant? Who got to feel good for Bad News? Who got to feel good for Therapy? Who got to feel good for Beguiled? Who got to feel good for Fool's Paradise? Who got to feel good for Virtue? Who got to feel good for Nothing but Ashes? The answer to all of the above is not me! On the contrary, I spend my days and nights howling in pain from the misery of my condition. Broadcasters are licensed to take away my pleasures, which are meant to reward my hard work, and hand them over to their friends and favourites as a reward for committing fraud. Who was it that told me I'd be happy later to endure the agonizing conditions of the moment? When was that? Two years ago? So how much later is later? Do you know how fucking horrible I feel? Do you think it's worth it for me to live through this for what feels like eternity and let it turn me into Jack the Fucking Ripper so I can be happy later? I think you care less about my feelings than my late friend who advised me to kill myself. 5:03pm: I'd rather be dead than have to contemplate the hate that motivated so many crimes against my music and poetry and comedy, a hate which may be born of self-love's sense of being diminished by another person's beauty. If you don't write elegant rhymes, for instance, you may need to break up my most impressive rhyming verses, as was done to my Octiverse. If you don't write appealing music, you may feel more comfortable with my best songs in the hands of twenty-five different bands than with them all together in my name. If you are intimidated by cleverness, you'd possibly get more fulfillment from a stand-up comedian's thefts of my posts than you would by rewarding me with your laughs of support. I'm telling you, I'd rather be dead from suicide right now than contemplating how this crowd around me may have cheered more out of hate for talent than out of appreciation for beauty when they packed stadiums to support crimes with my work. I'd rather be dead from hanging myself than wondering if our broadcasters nurture this incredibly destructive mass psychosis. Seeing how some people make themselves laugh for the most kindergarten level insults now tells me that they may never have appreciated my wit or my imagination but just their own vile hate. If so, wouldn't stardom only demean me? (The next morning:) I had a rough night after I went home from typing this. My life has been made unlivable here and I invited the Lord to sense it for Himself. I think He agreed that my suicide death from this pressure would be judged as a murder at the hands of an evil business. I woke up strengthened this morning. I'm not sure I want to blame the whole crowd here for the behaviour of their broadcasters, production scabs, and a few stupid cashiers. As long as I don't die of disrespect over the next year, I hope I can follow through on my plan to play my music outside this Telus owned region, where I might receive fairer treatment from the crowd. Now that I'm back to normal, I think my words on Adam and Eve are rewritten from the past. Don't let the person who plagiarized me get away with calling me a hack. What's everyone suddenly laughing about at 9:35 am this morning? I'm glad I don't know. |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| © 2017. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)