Throbbing Gristle
Discipline

THE REVIEW

A dull morning. Wednesday. The day with the longest name, mind you, even surpassing "Sunday" in letters. Sunday tedium...

My redheaded friend, with his spiky hair, recently surprised by "Nevermind The Bollocks," shows up with two tickets. It's a concert of Throbbing Gristle. I had heard of them in name, but I was too busy trying to understand kraut. Anyway, we went to a concert lost in the English countryside.

I had cut my hair a few months back, feeling uncomfortable in my room, but poking my nose into the herd of people slowly approaching the stage, I begin to find a lively ethic. Ten years earlier, one was excited by the love and expansionism of mind and self. Ten years later, one clashed with rooms and long arms.

The expressionism of Orridge, Cosey Fanni Tutti, and the other two blokes announces a new climate, more seriously conscious than the freak one. It felt like being back to the tension of a final oral exam on the most difficult subject in late May, the oral that was decisive for the final grade. One was no longer so calm... but conscious of what? Of what?

An indecisive nervousness collapses onto me. I begin to hate because everyone is inferior to me but sits on a higher chair than mine. Maybe I'm just crazy now.

Now. But I'm not a hundred years old... More and more idiots and times in need of peace, exactly what isn't there, alongside self-assurance. Whatever move you make, you feel your shoulders derided.

Since I'm so fast, I try to make a leap of ten years. I see all failures, quite belonging to others. With "Discipline," I think that's what it's called, since it's the only word screamed by that undefined insecure androgynous, half-nazi but with a soviet scent, I disturb life a bit. I tease it, the true life, the one where you're grateful to feel some sensations still. Everyone is genuine with me, they seem reliable, I could speak to them again tomorrow afternoon at the bar. Actually, not the bar, let's say the park, the lake, a chat in the woods.

See, I'm already complicating my existence again...

I land safely on a completely new island. Perhaps, though, I just turned over the walkman's cassette. Soon I will hear the tape getting more and more worn down. Scraping against the plastic, without any sound.