Great Jones Street Book

Human thought moves in mysterious ways…
What started it was abstract thought. When man started thinking abstractly he advanced from killing for food to killing for words and ideas
The borderline between the sixties and the seventies of the last century was the time of freaks so Great Jones Street is a freaky postmodern mystery.
All she desired was the brute electricity of that sound. To make the men who made it. To keep moving. To forget everything. To be the sound. That was the only tide she heeded. She wanted to exist as music does, nowhere, beyond the maps of language.
Rock musicians were the only almighty and omniscient prophets of the epoch…
For me, Great Jones Street was a time of prayerful fatigue. I became a half-saint, practiced in visions, informed by a sense of bodily economy, but deficient in true pain. I was preoccupied with conserving myself for some unknown ordeal to come and did not make work by engaging in dialogues, or taking more than the minimum number of steps to get from place to place, or urinating unnecessarily.
But pushers and movers and shakers kept pushing and moving and shaking those freaks just to make more money… So trashy artistes created trashy pop culture greedily cannibalized by covetous trashy consumers.
Read your Kafka. Read your bloody Orwell. The state creates fear through force. The state uses force eight thousand miles away in order to create fear at home.
Well, probably any time is the time of freaks and trash.