“I’m obsessed with Kurt Cobain,” one of the residents of my host’s house said. “What made him take that heroin, put the shotgun to his head, and pull the trigger? So when I saw this book, I just had to get it.” He was holding Kurt Cobain: Journals, an undated collection of writings and drawings by the deceased rockstar musician and artist. Each page was a digitized and printed image taken from a spiral-bound journal. “I’m fascinated by people’s stories,” he said, “I want to know how they think.”
“May I flip through this?” I asked.
“Go ahead,” he said.
I picked up the heavy paper book-journal, opened it to a random page, and began reading:
Yeah, all Isms feed off one another, but at the top of the food chain is still the white, corporate, macho, strong ox
en ofmale. Not redeemable as far as im concerned. I mean, classism is determined by sexism because the male decides whether all other isms still exists. its up to men.
I’m just saying that people can’t deny any ism or think that some are more or less subordinate.
But still think that in order to
except for sexism. He’s in charge. He decides. I still think that in order to expand on all other isms, sexism has to be blown wide open.
It’s like when you
It’s almost impossible to deprogram the incestually-established male oppressor.
but likeespecially the ones who’ve been weaned on it thru their familys generations, like die hard N.R.A. freaks and inherited, corporate, power mongrels, the ones who were born into no choice but to keep the torch and only let sparks fall for the rest of us to gather at their feet. But there are thousands of Green minds. Young gullable 15 year old Boys out there just starting to fall into the grain of what they’ve been told of what a man is supposed to be, and there are plenty of tools to use. The most effective tool is entertainment. The entertainment industry is just now…
I was entranced.
Kurt Cobain never experienced his 28th year—my current age—and yet the 20-something was privately writing about sexism, classism, and other oppressions, not unlike myself. In the time it took me to read one page from his personal journals, the rather flat entity I’d once known only as “that guy from that band who wrote that sexy song I often heard being played at almost all the BDSM parties” (I’m sure you know the one) suddenly sprung to a full, if tragic, posthumous life.
(This was originally published on my other blog.)