Dear USA,
I'm not usually very political, at least not overtly about our President and our System, but I just thought you should know that we have recently passed into legislation a bill which grants dictator powers to our President during "Catastrophic Emergencies" defined as "any incident, regardless of location, that results in extraordinary levels of mass casualties, damage, or disruption severely affecting the U.S. population, infrastructure, environment, economy, or government functions". As I recall, Caesar was given similiar powers in order to save the republic. Hopefully Bush (or whoever) will be able to save our republic in times of catastrophic emergency, just like Caesar saved his.
No joke, read the link.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Post #16
Dear only reader,
Thus ends my activity. Read Post #15 before all the rest of the stuff I've put in here, or not.
Best of luck,
crm
I wholly understand and agree that the views expressed herein are amateurish, disconnected, disjointed, poorly composed, and hopelessly abandoned; but nevertheless they are WRITTEN, and so I have ejaculated them, given what little I can give, dumped them, abandoned into the intra-net.
Thus ends my activity. Read Post #15 before all the rest of the stuff I've put in here, or not.
Best of luck,
crm
I wholly understand and agree that the views expressed herein are amateurish, disconnected, disjointed, poorly composed, and hopelessly abandoned; but nevertheless they are WRITTEN, and so I have ejaculated them, given what little I can give, dumped them, abandoned into the intra-net.
23 April 2007, From Major Social Theories
Something must be said for journal writing, so consider this my first entry. As every beginning should have a mission statement, let this be mine: to record every detail of significance, as often as it may occasion, and to obey them. If I cannot obey the insight provided by such a detailed account, I have no leg on which to stand.
It is only with despair that I describe the conditions of that gruesome future: to teeter-taater around on your ass, or walking on your hands--hands that have become feet and thus must be taught to write all over again, and therefore also must be severed--crossing a busy street, your small frame barely enough to warn the onrushing motorcycles, a monster in the night begging for money. Such a mode of self-transportation (-representation) results usually in the elongation of the fingers and the widening of the palms.
(Could I perhaps be a writer? It is an interesting question, but sadly not my own. If thirty years from now I am a writer, does that mean that I am now a writer? Is it possible that I am a writer now, but not in the future? I feel much more like nothing. For example: Hi, I'm a doctor!, or, yes, I'm a gynecologist. In German the idea is stronger still. I'll remain a mystery to myself, but I'm sure I'll never 'be' anything, although I might talk like I am: "Hi, I'm a writer," I might say. But instead I'll just be as I ever was, maybe never even read!)
It would be a mistake to believe IT to be a great sadness--such romances are no longer ours. The only romance is estrangement, and, its shadow, the child, the home. Wipe your eyes then. Many before you have disobeyed their parents. It's no great loss--don't cry.
An abundance of blank pages--purchased at what price?--means an overabundance of truly mediocre writing. This is however the truth of our age: we write desperately (if we write), and mostly unsuccessfully, in order to be estranged--that is, in order to compose ourselves on the page, to be composed there, and so to escape ourselves, and to save ourselves from ourselves, which cannot be controlled or tolerated. 'I' speak from the page--"I" spoke the page. "Listen, I am more real than you, even though I have no name. Indeed such only confirms all the more my identity. It is of loss that I speak: I am nameless. Come home to me, fill yourself up with me, and I'll have many names!" But the page fills only slowly and, now more than ever, it is quantity more than quality that matters, although even that is quickly losing its value. One begins more or less confident, but is eventually crushed by the combined forces of theory and speculation. At first one is intrigued, until their vapors solidify and become the truth! And, as a light goes off in one great city, so goes on one in another, but this other is deep underground, as of yet undiscovered, even perhaps the future habitation of all man kind, and also the sedimentary stone upon which the first city is built. A novel, it is readily admitted, must be of a certain length. This, therefore, is no novel. It might, at best, be a symptom of the novel's death, and for this I claim no responsibility (I am but humbly a bad instance). A new novel is nevertheless born-- a new, shorter novel. "I am only the desire of one who was once a living, breathing one. A desire to write. Kiss me! Smell my pages. Weep on me; (for) I am your desire too!"
It is only with despair that I describe the conditions of that gruesome future: to teeter-taater around on your ass, or walking on your hands--hands that have become feet and thus must be taught to write all over again, and therefore also must be severed--crossing a busy street, your small frame barely enough to warn the onrushing motorcycles, a monster in the night begging for money. Such a mode of self-transportation (-representation) results usually in the elongation of the fingers and the widening of the palms.
(Could I perhaps be a writer? It is an interesting question, but sadly not my own. If thirty years from now I am a writer, does that mean that I am now a writer? Is it possible that I am a writer now, but not in the future? I feel much more like nothing. For example: Hi, I'm a doctor!, or, yes, I'm a gynecologist. In German the idea is stronger still. I'll remain a mystery to myself, but I'm sure I'll never 'be' anything, although I might talk like I am: "Hi, I'm a writer," I might say. But instead I'll just be as I ever was, maybe never even read!)
It would be a mistake to believe IT to be a great sadness--such romances are no longer ours. The only romance is estrangement, and, its shadow, the child, the home. Wipe your eyes then. Many before you have disobeyed their parents. It's no great loss--don't cry.
An abundance of blank pages--purchased at what price?--means an overabundance of truly mediocre writing. This is however the truth of our age: we write desperately (if we write), and mostly unsuccessfully, in order to be estranged--that is, in order to compose ourselves on the page, to be composed there, and so to escape ourselves, and to save ourselves from ourselves, which cannot be controlled or tolerated. 'I' speak from the page--"I" spoke the page. "Listen, I am more real than you, even though I have no name. Indeed such only confirms all the more my identity. It is of loss that I speak: I am nameless. Come home to me, fill yourself up with me, and I'll have many names!" But the page fills only slowly and, now more than ever, it is quantity more than quality that matters, although even that is quickly losing its value. One begins more or less confident, but is eventually crushed by the combined forces of theory and speculation. At first one is intrigued, until their vapors solidify and become the truth! And, as a light goes off in one great city, so goes on one in another, but this other is deep underground, as of yet undiscovered, even perhaps the future habitation of all man kind, and also the sedimentary stone upon which the first city is built. A novel, it is readily admitted, must be of a certain length. This, therefore, is no novel. It might, at best, be a symptom of the novel's death, and for this I claim no responsibility (I am but humbly a bad instance). A new novel is nevertheless born-- a new, shorter novel. "I am only the desire of one who was once a living, breathing one. A desire to write. Kiss me! Smell my pages. Weep on me; (for) I am your desire too!"
From Thesis Work
An indescribable blast, of something from which life must first have emerged; resembling cheese. Here stood the door, that inescapable passage into authority: manhood. And yet the other side is the same; all his life experiences coalesce and he finally loses his fear of his own sexuality, and the door heads back, always back, and so he will speak of his defeat. "it was at the very beginning that mankind was slain," he heard these words. "If that's the way it is, then it is inescapable," he thinks," and the only possible difference is: I know it." Yes, but what have you forgotten?
The Great Herminias
The sun waits off to one side, barely noticed in the unpleasant and already dismissed sky. A bird flies overhead, the sun throws its shadow into the eyes of an onlooker. He salutes the sun automatically, as a veteran would the flag, and shades his eyes. The man watches the bird as it dips and flaps loudly into the recesses of a low concrete arcade. He is on his way to work, but the office holds little attraction for him on a day like this, so he decides to show up late. He calculates everything perfectly, and now finds himself in this beautiful old square, among very few other passersby, most of whom are tourists, admiring the architecture. "What a beautiful bird", he thinks, "and [looking closely at the engraving on the concrete] it appears that she has flown under an equally marvelous little bird, albeit a bit faded from age". He kneels close to the small stone and begins to rub its course surface expertly with his thumb, moss and other debris fall away and scatter. "There", he speaks aloud, "Now we can see you!" "Quite marvelous, really," comes a voice from behind. Startled, he stands up and turns around all at once, almost falling over himself as he does. A smiling, middle-aged gentleman stands before him, apparently admiring the carving. "What do you think?" the latter asks. "Oh, yes", stammers the first, already out of breath, "you took the words right out of my mouth." The old man finally looked at Carl for the first time. "Oh", he said, his bright eyes widening, "My dear! Are you by chance that man Herminias?" After a short pause, Carl lowered his eyes and raised his hands as though to avoid a blow, but the movement was too fast and the other, perhaps a little afraid, jumped back as if fearing attack. "Oh, I'm sorry", said Carl, head raised and facing the old man, "I wasn't going to hit you." "never mind", said the old man quickly, "I understand, I didn't mean to bother you." It was his turn then to lower his eyes. "So you know who I am now?" asked Carl. "Yeah, sure I do, I know you, at least your face is familiar to me." "Well then", began Carl.
At that moment, somewhere far off, a bell was about to be rung.
At that moment, somewhere far off, a bell was about to be rung.
Women and Society
To speak of the largeness of a room, I have recently learned, is also to speak of the feminism that inhabits its walls. Such discourse is seduced into silence by soft carpets, pleasant fires, and warm, spicy, after-dinner coffee. The habit of smoking cigars in such settings may be further attributed to the absence of women, who may occasionally smoke cigarettes, and blow the smoke out the kitchen window, and thus reek of the manly. The living room is brightly illuminated and, although highly exclusive, classless; here utopia and and distopia are discussed and discarded with confidence and an eye toward competition. The men feel safe in this niche because the invisible weight of society is felt most strongly here, and is thereby safeguarded for tomorrow, and progress absolutely guaranteed. Eventually they may even fall asleep, their bristled or shaved chins having sunk deep in their chests. Woman stares through the walls.
The amazon fights behind the cupboards to keep the unreality out. She is sacrifice; women are mostly useless because of the burden they somehow bear, the negative to society's positive, and the levee against the first flood. And were they to ignore this duty, come then would the nightmare of men: ourselves, or Muslims. When woman lays her hand against the wall and sees how wrinkled it has become, she is then the most unknowable to me--were I her I would desire to kill my babies and run headlong into the concrete so that I die too. But the woman is the wall, and sits against fear.
The amazon fights behind the cupboards to keep the unreality out. She is sacrifice; women are mostly useless because of the burden they somehow bear, the negative to society's positive, and the levee against the first flood. And were they to ignore this duty, come then would the nightmare of men: ourselves, or Muslims. When woman lays her hand against the wall and sees how wrinkled it has become, she is then the most unknowable to me--were I her I would desire to kill my babies and run headlong into the concrete so that I die too. But the woman is the wall, and sits against fear.
Murder and Society 2
Reproduce that savage moan in frustration (a source of hope, they say, already faded) to catapult the movement against the derangement of the society that weeps only deep in the soul. And fail!
Why not speak no more?
Perpetuate petty evils justified in the shadow of that death so thoroughly obscuring the source of light; an object in shadow cats no shadow. It is more philosophical to be a murderer than a consumer; to throw the child in the lake and thereby repudiate any cause to save it. It is better to be 'a part of the problem' when the solution is the problem. There is no truth beyond murder. The only alternative is Fascism, absolute murder, holocaust and utopia. But perhaps I am ignoring something. I am but young, and so see not very deeply. The truth, still murder, is probably much slower.
"Quiet my dear, be calm, mommy is here. We may now breath together." Spoke the angel of death.
Why not speak no more?
Perpetuate petty evils justified in the shadow of that death so thoroughly obscuring the source of light; an object in shadow cats no shadow. It is more philosophical to be a murderer than a consumer; to throw the child in the lake and thereby repudiate any cause to save it. It is better to be 'a part of the problem' when the solution is the problem. There is no truth beyond murder. The only alternative is Fascism, absolute murder, holocaust and utopia. But perhaps I am ignoring something. I am but young, and so see not very deeply. The truth, still murder, is probably much slower.
"Quiet my dear, be calm, mommy is here. We may now breath together." Spoke the angel of death.
Murder and Society 1
From the very beginning Carl was just an ordinary man, he was preoccupied with ordinary preoccupations, and entertained himself mostly after the usual fashion. It was the unhappy world which demanded of Carl something spectacular, or at least so he believed as he set out one evening to take his place among those obdurate figures of classic and modern tragedy. He brought with him only a few objects that seemed symbolically important: a flashlight, a gun with ammunition, a backpack with some changes of clothes, and a copy of Mendelssohn's Jerusalem by which to remember the follies of man. He stood motionless at his doorway for a very long time, one hand on the knob, the other in his pocket. He held the flashlight under one arm and shone it into the darkness of the familiar, its light reflected off a mirror opposite and blinded him, but he didn't mind because there was really nothing worth seeing anyway. Carl searched himself for the appropriate emotion, but found only confusion and various distracted fragments of irrelevant thought, like: "For six months already of constant struggle..." or "For weeks and weeks...", so he gave it up and took his departure as all men do.
Carl did not bother to bring his passport, which he had lost a long time ago, and so he had to keep to himself and not arouse suspicion; if he was caught without a passport he would be promptly incarcerated. With a smile he reminded himself that even if he had his passport it would do him no good, and that he would really be arrested all the more quickly, since the authorities were, without a doubt, searching for him. Not three weeks ago he had shot dead a lone, drunk soldier who had accosted him on his way home from work and demanded of him proof of identity. At the time he was, God be thanked, clear sighted enough to realize the mistake he would have made had he submitted to the man's authority, and so he acted decisively. It bothered him, of course, that he had to become a murderer there, but, he told himself, he always was a murderer, and now he could recognize himself and move on. "In fact", he thought aloud, "it is just this sort of character that will inspire others to follow me".
Carl did not bother to bring his passport, which he had lost a long time ago, and so he had to keep to himself and not arouse suspicion; if he was caught without a passport he would be promptly incarcerated. With a smile he reminded himself that even if he had his passport it would do him no good, and that he would really be arrested all the more quickly, since the authorities were, without a doubt, searching for him. Not three weeks ago he had shot dead a lone, drunk soldier who had accosted him on his way home from work and demanded of him proof of identity. At the time he was, God be thanked, clear sighted enough to realize the mistake he would have made had he submitted to the man's authority, and so he acted decisively. It bothered him, of course, that he had to become a murderer there, but, he told himself, he always was a murderer, and now he could recognize himself and move on. "In fact", he thought aloud, "it is just this sort of character that will inspire others to follow me".
Post #15
Dear only reader,
I'm going to post now a buch of shit taken from various notebooks and written over various years. There is much that I have lost by way of such short pieces, and I think it worth mentioning that my very favorite, of which I can recall nothing, is, it seems, forever lost. It would of course be silly to ask you not to judge me by what I've written, but rather by what I cannot give you, so judge away. But remember, the best is not present, and was probably lost already as a thought: slipping away.
Yours,
crm
I'm going to post now a buch of shit taken from various notebooks and written over various years. There is much that I have lost by way of such short pieces, and I think it worth mentioning that my very favorite, of which I can recall nothing, is, it seems, forever lost. It would of course be silly to ask you not to judge me by what I've written, but rather by what I cannot give you, so judge away. But remember, the best is not present, and was probably lost already as a thought: slipping away.
Yours,
crm
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Ein Liebeslied
I’ve sponken to you, tonja, i’ve told you. I know that you must love another, and, in fact, i coulsel you to do so. It is better after all, ein leben von besseres. Remember i’d love you and still do, you who have guided me and accepted what I’ve done. Such is fate afterall, so much for love and so much for all the love, we have ourselves to look after, be mine, oh, be mine, such sweetness would you bring, with bring, with you, I love, and love.
But forget me not the evil, that which lives within, such calamintiy, such godlyness, there gibt keine dinge wie es, ein ding von Unleben. Please forget me not! Please, I beg of thee, of thee, please forget me not. To be screamed, but not yet, to be laughed about. Oh please forget me not. Ein Pause.
To be welcomed and to remember a certain dawn, oh dawn, and again that which is responsible for our release, ein wunderbares release, that which is responsible. Tonight, I smoke a cigarteete soaked in wine, wine from those cherries that die as quickly as they grow. Those cherries, much like strawberries, which give way to a rot so much sweeter if however cut short. How could you not love those over ripe ones, and the perfection which they adore?
Forget me not, nevertheless, and think not sadness for me, of me, think not!
But forget me not the evil, that which lives within, such calamintiy, such godlyness, there gibt keine dinge wie es, ein ding von Unleben. Please forget me not! Please, I beg of thee, of thee, please forget me not. To be screamed, but not yet, to be laughed about. Oh please forget me not. Ein Pause.
To be welcomed and to remember a certain dawn, oh dawn, and again that which is responsible for our release, ein wunderbares release, that which is responsible. Tonight, I smoke a cigarteete soaked in wine, wine from those cherries that die as quickly as they grow. Those cherries, much like strawberries, which give way to a rot so much sweeter if however cut short. How could you not love those over ripe ones, and the perfection which they adore?
Forget me not, nevertheless, and think not sadness for me, of me, think not!
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