It took me awhile to learn, but now I’ve got it down:
That God is dead means only that metaphysics is dead.
Nobody reads my blog!
I would hope that it’s not too heavy. Really I have only a very poor (impoverished) understanding of things. I know very little; I am no authority; I would only please; and it is you I would please. I shout into the void: so is it romantically put; I am reminded of that painting in that high school textbook of mine—I suppose it was a history textbook. We all have our little recollections, and these also play a part: listen (I love to tell people that), I have something to say.
(Emphasis.) God! I just wish … I could put commas after exclamation points. They always seem so good there.
Impoverishment: a romantic English word.
Listen well. I’ve felt this way before. It is force; I force myself to do things. What force it requires! Just the bare minimum. But to muster such is almost already asking too much! It is better to muster no force. It is better to muster nothing. We are but nothing, we are but a dynamic experiment. Let us just see how we can be.
Let’s speak of love. Love. I have mentioned it often, as you may have noticed. But was I really just playing for the crowd? Or do I love? Well, the answer is yes—and it is my own fault for bringing up the subject—but my love is actually only a dawning. The people have finally learned how to love. It is after all very pretentious of us, you know; and we ought naturally to have been punished for just mentioning it, but it is nevertheless true.
What wickedness, however? What tainted love? One is wont to salivate and lick one’s lips. We have our debauch; and we have our love. The two must be kept separate. When kink and love play two individual parts, both may do better for themselves. Love should be allowed for all, and love means (entails) certain things.
It is no use stressin’. What you want others will want; and want is endemic. We, especially now, love to want. We want. And want follows want, and so are we subjugated. They give it to us; we already wanted it.
But with love it is different. Love is an opportunity to resist. Because love is reserved, and holds itself back. But nobody is incapable of being loved, hence the possibility, always again newly renewed, of loving and being loved.
We are weak in the face of our own excuses, and because they are so beautiful, let us have them! Never was there a better excuse than love.
The nihilist loves at will. So … let us loosen our own restraints, and be willing to love.
That’s the last I should speak of it.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
I was one of them, I was and I stand by that.
I was one of them, I was and I stand by that. But they left me here, and so here I have remained. Now you are here; what should I name you? Seeker? Lost One? Fool? Ask of me what you will, and I will endeavor to answer.
I’m sorry sir; I don’t know what to say. You see, I’m from the lumber company, and we happen to have purchased this little strip of jungle and, well we had no idea you were here! Now, it’s come to my attention that you stubbornly refuse to move. But the trees must be cut! And so we must beg you to move! Please, sir, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.
Don’t you see! My legs have become part of this humble stone, my hands have not felt the rush of blood since before you father’s father was born, I feed off only those insects who wander down my throat, and you suppose I can just get up and go! Why not just harvest me along with the wood? My body will burn just as well.
Sir! That would be murder! The firm I represent doesn’t tolerate such accusations! We humbly request that you, well, up root yourself I guess.
And if I refuse?
Well, perhaps we’ll cut down every tree around you. Watch out when they fall though! Is that what you’d like: if a whole city grew up around you and everybody just left you alone? You’d probably love it, so many “seekers” with whom to speak.
And you think I fear obscurity, after the life I have lived?
No, I think you fear society, human company!
No, I fear only night, and hence my simple purchase.
Is that some kind of allegory or something? I don’t understand.
Let me tell you a story: once upon a time there was a man, who, tired of having the sun in his face all day, held up his hand so as to block the light; and he was so absorbed in this that he fell down a well.
So the shadow from the hand is night, or the darkness in the well? And you sit here in order to avoid potholes?
No! The story is not yet finished: The man was lying at the bottom of the well on his back when his hand, empowered by the sun, began to leap about, like this! Like a fish flopping out of water! And do you know what his hand did then?
What?
He got a job, got married, invested in the stock market, had kids, the usual story.
Are you crazy?
Oh-no! Not me, it was the other hand that was crazy! Crazy from jealously. You see, this other hand: the fall down the well left it permanently disabled, ironically because it was kept out of the sun and left in the pocket!
OK, old man, so you’re gonna move or what?
And so the jealous hand murdered the successful, enlightened hand. But he didn’t stop there; he murdered his children and his wife as well! Finally, ashamed of his crime, he chopped himself off. And you know what?
What?
Just think how the penis felt!
I’m sorry sir; I don’t know what to say. You see, I’m from the lumber company, and we happen to have purchased this little strip of jungle and, well we had no idea you were here! Now, it’s come to my attention that you stubbornly refuse to move. But the trees must be cut! And so we must beg you to move! Please, sir, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.
Don’t you see! My legs have become part of this humble stone, my hands have not felt the rush of blood since before you father’s father was born, I feed off only those insects who wander down my throat, and you suppose I can just get up and go! Why not just harvest me along with the wood? My body will burn just as well.
Sir! That would be murder! The firm I represent doesn’t tolerate such accusations! We humbly request that you, well, up root yourself I guess.
And if I refuse?
Well, perhaps we’ll cut down every tree around you. Watch out when they fall though! Is that what you’d like: if a whole city grew up around you and everybody just left you alone? You’d probably love it, so many “seekers” with whom to speak.
And you think I fear obscurity, after the life I have lived?
No, I think you fear society, human company!
No, I fear only night, and hence my simple purchase.
Is that some kind of allegory or something? I don’t understand.
Let me tell you a story: once upon a time there was a man, who, tired of having the sun in his face all day, held up his hand so as to block the light; and he was so absorbed in this that he fell down a well.
So the shadow from the hand is night, or the darkness in the well? And you sit here in order to avoid potholes?
No! The story is not yet finished: The man was lying at the bottom of the well on his back when his hand, empowered by the sun, began to leap about, like this! Like a fish flopping out of water! And do you know what his hand did then?
What?
He got a job, got married, invested in the stock market, had kids, the usual story.
Are you crazy?
Oh-no! Not me, it was the other hand that was crazy! Crazy from jealously. You see, this other hand: the fall down the well left it permanently disabled, ironically because it was kept out of the sun and left in the pocket!
OK, old man, so you’re gonna move or what?
And so the jealous hand murdered the successful, enlightened hand. But he didn’t stop there; he murdered his children and his wife as well! Finally, ashamed of his crime, he chopped himself off. And you know what?
What?
Just think how the penis felt!
Thursday, November 08, 2007
It is true that hernia
It is true that the world appears exactly as it is. There is no denying this because there is no other way for it to appear. However, it appears to each of us differently, and radically so. For while in fact everything might appear very similar to each of us, there is no way of qualifying the difference. Therefore, the world might as well be something vastly unique seen through the eyes of vastly unique things and at great distances from one another.
But this is not so profound a thought. One cannot even disagree. My world simply is very different from a dog’s, regardless of my “special capacity for perceiving”. What I perceive nevertheless appears true to me: If I perceive that I am unhappy, then I am unhappy. If I perceive that I am doomed, then I am doomed. If I perceive that truth exists or does not exist then it will or it will not. Likewise, if I perceive that I am Napoleon then I am him. And further, a dog afraid of being beat acts like a coward. The way I perceive the world shapes the person I am.
Let us look again: Perception is paradoxically both of the self and of the other. It is of the self because the self is projected onto others, and it is of the other because they have great influence on one’s self-perception. The relationships between these two aspects of perception are indiscernible; they are in fact the same; their influence is simultaneous, and neither ever has more of one thing than the other. In short, they are unified—a single, fluid stream of consciousness: As soon as we make an impression on someone, they are immediately impressed upon us. We might see them only in passing and project but the tiniest fragment of some concern upon them, but this tiny impression helps to articulate, in some unfathomable way, said concern and we all become more alike.
The more intimate the relationship becomes the more mutual influence is shared. Projections take the shape of barley understood, but deeply moving ideas, and one’s world is then changed. One also wants to please them and so changes one’s world. Or one wants to struggle with the other, or make them angry. This relationship is dynamic and persistent; we are ourselves only because we ourselves are each a little of the other.
But this is not so profound a thought. One cannot even disagree. My world simply is very different from a dog’s, regardless of my “special capacity for perceiving”. What I perceive nevertheless appears true to me: If I perceive that I am unhappy, then I am unhappy. If I perceive that I am doomed, then I am doomed. If I perceive that truth exists or does not exist then it will or it will not. Likewise, if I perceive that I am Napoleon then I am him. And further, a dog afraid of being beat acts like a coward. The way I perceive the world shapes the person I am.
Let us look again: Perception is paradoxically both of the self and of the other. It is of the self because the self is projected onto others, and it is of the other because they have great influence on one’s self-perception. The relationships between these two aspects of perception are indiscernible; they are in fact the same; their influence is simultaneous, and neither ever has more of one thing than the other. In short, they are unified—a single, fluid stream of consciousness: As soon as we make an impression on someone, they are immediately impressed upon us. We might see them only in passing and project but the tiniest fragment of some concern upon them, but this tiny impression helps to articulate, in some unfathomable way, said concern and we all become more alike.
The more intimate the relationship becomes the more mutual influence is shared. Projections take the shape of barley understood, but deeply moving ideas, and one’s world is then changed. One also wants to please them and so changes one’s world. Or one wants to struggle with the other, or make them angry. This relationship is dynamic and persistent; we are ourselves only because we ourselves are each a little of the other.
In drowsy moods
In drowsy moods such as these one hardly finds the motivation necessary to lift a pen, let alone to move the world or maintain one’s obstinacy. It is this, more than anything else, that I have come to miss. Not in the way the one misses a dearly departed pet, but rather in the way one misses sunshine at night when the leaves seem, paradoxically, more green. Or perhaps not at all. I miss it as I miss my childhood; justifiably so, because what is obstinacy but a child’s illusion?
Anyway, staying on topic is so easily and pleasantly ignored that I suffer under the weight of it; drowsy moods eek the only color from my flesh and pin it up against a billboard for all to see. And even then I am filled with the presentiment that it is naught but duplicity, an excuse in other words. These never make sense, whether they are about moods or obstinacies or what; and I am each time surprised anew that nobody sees beneath the fumbling words I use to frame my reasons for being the way I am. But still, most of the time, I myself am not aware of them either.
Illness would not suffice. Although I wish that I were ill, because that would imply a convalescence, and there is nothing I need more than the reassurance that I will someday, tomorrow perhaps, get up and see things they way that they really are. Or at least become as great as a comet that passes once every seven hundred years—so great that half the people wouldn’t even know of my existence, while the other half would maintain that they had intended to watch me except that so-and-so had then prevented the meeting on account of some well-to-do grand uncle. The same grand uncle, I’m sure, that had also wanted to go and see the comet, but then waited too long for his grandniece and her friend. And even this, even this would inspire me to do it all over again; I might even take a backseat and enjoy the ride from a distance.
But to return to the topic: these moods are no illness. They are something else entirely, something from which there is no convalescence, but only the promise of more of the like. And even speaking of them becomes dry and boring and I find myself wishing to be someplace else. Yet I cherish my most embarrassing memories because without them I would not be the person that I am. So is it then love for myself and despair for my fate? This must be the answer; or at least it will suffice as an answer
Pierre had notions of fate that even he realized were romances. But that is as far as he got. It is better to assume that everything is just the way it must necessarily be, because then one can maintain the impression of being a man. His hope was that his fate would hold something for him besides death, and so it may said that he had little hope. There was, of course, the woman with whom he was in love. And there was the position in the firm, which he had been almost promised; the bowing servants, etc…. But still, one cannot hope alone on these things, because—however pleasant they might be—, being separate from oneself, they cannot help. And it is help that we all require. “I’d ride on the mystic’s back all the way to nirvana if I believed that his legs could actually carry me there,” said Pierre, “and likewise I would eat the brains of Germans or Jews if I thought I’d live a little longer.”
Anyway, staying on topic is so easily and pleasantly ignored that I suffer under the weight of it; drowsy moods eek the only color from my flesh and pin it up against a billboard for all to see. And even then I am filled with the presentiment that it is naught but duplicity, an excuse in other words. These never make sense, whether they are about moods or obstinacies or what; and I am each time surprised anew that nobody sees beneath the fumbling words I use to frame my reasons for being the way I am. But still, most of the time, I myself am not aware of them either.
Illness would not suffice. Although I wish that I were ill, because that would imply a convalescence, and there is nothing I need more than the reassurance that I will someday, tomorrow perhaps, get up and see things they way that they really are. Or at least become as great as a comet that passes once every seven hundred years—so great that half the people wouldn’t even know of my existence, while the other half would maintain that they had intended to watch me except that so-and-so had then prevented the meeting on account of some well-to-do grand uncle. The same grand uncle, I’m sure, that had also wanted to go and see the comet, but then waited too long for his grandniece and her friend. And even this, even this would inspire me to do it all over again; I might even take a backseat and enjoy the ride from a distance.
But to return to the topic: these moods are no illness. They are something else entirely, something from which there is no convalescence, but only the promise of more of the like. And even speaking of them becomes dry and boring and I find myself wishing to be someplace else. Yet I cherish my most embarrassing memories because without them I would not be the person that I am. So is it then love for myself and despair for my fate? This must be the answer; or at least it will suffice as an answer
Pierre had notions of fate that even he realized were romances. But that is as far as he got. It is better to assume that everything is just the way it must necessarily be, because then one can maintain the impression of being a man. His hope was that his fate would hold something for him besides death, and so it may said that he had little hope. There was, of course, the woman with whom he was in love. And there was the position in the firm, which he had been almost promised; the bowing servants, etc…. But still, one cannot hope alone on these things, because—however pleasant they might be—, being separate from oneself, they cannot help. And it is help that we all require. “I’d ride on the mystic’s back all the way to nirvana if I believed that his legs could actually carry me there,” said Pierre, “and likewise I would eat the brains of Germans or Jews if I thought I’d live a little longer.”
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
I was recently asked what post-...
I was recently asked what post-modernism means to me, and I've decided that the concept is best clarified in a lyric found in an early collaboration from Boa Bei Da (hope I spelled that right, bitch) and Chris Komar:
I'm fillin' my gas tank, psych!
I drink your blood into my gall tank,
Fly kites!
The meaning of this rather enigmatic lyric is of course obscured under layers metaphor, allegory, Derridian differance (I don't know how to put that French apostrophe thing over the a), what have you, and can be interpretated according to Marxist-Hegelian dialectics or Historical Materialism (gall tank as antithesis to gas tank, ending in bloody class struggle and of course the promise of redemption), Freudian analysis ("filling" the gas tank as drive for sexuall fulfillment but hindered by illusion produced probably by a carnivorous unconscious and promise of freedom from / unification of the self (did Freud say that?)), structuralism (the unnatural as prototype of the natural, each tied to the other by this process of sinking or going-in-to, offest by height attained by kites; the going-up as contrapunkt to the sinking-in -- I'm just making this shit up), deconstruction (there is no difference between gas tanks, gall tanks, and kites), and what have you. Anyway, this post sucks.
I'm fillin' my gas tank, psych!
I drink your blood into my gall tank,
Fly kites!
The meaning of this rather enigmatic lyric is of course obscured under layers metaphor, allegory, Derridian differance (I don't know how to put that French apostrophe thing over the a), what have you, and can be interpretated according to Marxist-Hegelian dialectics or Historical Materialism (gall tank as antithesis to gas tank, ending in bloody class struggle and of course the promise of redemption), Freudian analysis ("filling" the gas tank as drive for sexuall fulfillment but hindered by illusion produced probably by a carnivorous unconscious and promise of freedom from / unification of the self (did Freud say that?)), structuralism (the unnatural as prototype of the natural, each tied to the other by this process of sinking or going-in-to, offest by height attained by kites; the going-up as contrapunkt to the sinking-in -- I'm just making this shit up), deconstruction (there is no difference between gas tanks, gall tanks, and kites), and what have you. Anyway, this post sucks.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Must not slack off and keep wasting all my time
The power is everywhere. It is here and there, within and without. It is in the body and the mind, as well as in the world outside. It is everywhere. But the truth? The truth is worse; the truth is you.
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