welcome to the land of hallelujah. hello. amen. i need no more. you don't have to say... anything.
there is a nice little place in my mind. a nice little something. something like right now.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
the transcendental ideality of balls
this kid sits in his room. rocks out.
lights out. music on. loud.
when it feels right. he moves his hand over to the light switch/
he chooses a portion of the beat... and flicks the light on and off with every second pulse of the selected portion of the beat.
he does that for the equivalent of four bars or so.
the song ends. and he turns the lights back on.
the other kids in the room get up from their chairs.
as they file out one of the skeletons says:
"That was sick man."
lights out. music on. loud.
when it feels right. he moves his hand over to the light switch/
he chooses a portion of the beat... and flicks the light on and off with every second pulse of the selected portion of the beat.
he does that for the equivalent of four bars or so.
the song ends. and he turns the lights back on.
the other kids in the room get up from their chairs.
as they file out one of the skeletons says:
"That was sick man."
Sunday, March 18, 2007
you did it right
body art
straight up and down
a woo and a swoon.
the crown ain't for you.
you think too much.
used to hover in rooms.
now?
i'm just laughing.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
sleeves out
There were some sounds. I remember that. Some crashing sounds, but not very loud... it was like something small and skinny, something metal-like, falling a short distance into some other metal. But the crashes were constant. Just enough noise and I didn't get tired. All that fucking noise. I think a TV was on too. The crashes weren't from the TV. The crashes were real. I wasn't in the kind of state where I could investigate what was going on. I was stuck looking at the top right hand corner of a computer screen. Watching the little clock. I never thought about the temperature in the room. I never thought about my friends. There really isn't any way to explain... how I knew what was going on at all. There was a girl in my room. I guess that made sense. I knew who she was. Her face was familiar. Her body was pleasant. We weren't talking, but it was fine. It wasn't strange between us. I wasn't questioning anything with her. I think she was from Switzerland, or at least she was a citizen there. And the crashing kept on. Maybe it was outside my window. I could have lived in an industrial area, maybe an industrial district on the outskirts of an area. Somewhere in some gentrified bullshit. I 'm sure i could have put myself in a situation like that. Catching a wave to a desirable area, a cultural area. Maybe I'd like making music. I think writing music gets you pussy in areas like that. And it's like that. With a range of dots and lines written across lines and bars ink and graphite funnel through a brain and eventually come out as something for everyone's privates... what a bunch of fucking bullshit. Fuck. Why was I being like that with a nice Swiss girl in my room? Sitting next to me... sitting across the room on my bed, getting bored, not caring. I wanted to kiss her the whole time. And I did, but later. Right then I was staring and listening. Curious about all sorts of things... so I took the time to pay attention..
I let the world pulverize me. Sounds and expectations. The girl was there. The sounds were there... and I was locked up in an inner dialogue that I can't remember. Doesn't matter anyway. I've got new things... sounds and girls. Maybe a chest pain or the appearance of an object that disturbs me.
The Swiss girl told me something after I ate her out. She said "throw away your bullshit... you'll enjoy everything so obvious."
I let the world pulverize me. Sounds and expectations. The girl was there. The sounds were there... and I was locked up in an inner dialogue that I can't remember. Doesn't matter anyway. I've got new things... sounds and girls. Maybe a chest pain or the appearance of an object that disturbs me.
The Swiss girl told me something after I ate her out. She said "throw away your bullshit... you'll enjoy everything so obvious."
Friday, March 16, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
9
“You see these girls?”
“I see lots of girls.”
“I mean these swanky bitches, these girls that are done up; fashion slaves.”
“Fashion slaves?”
“Yeah, they're slaves to their ‘looks’, they're always hyper about physical presentation.”
“I don’t know if I would say that they are slaves just because they care about the way they look, but I am pretty sure I know what you mean.”
“There was a real looker on the train the other day. She had those big sunglasses… toned skinny arms... nice looking collar bones. Real tight pants tucked into some Eskimo-job boots. She looked real hip. I looked at her for a while. I wanted to kill her.”
“You wanted to kill her? Why didn’t you?”
“Nice, you douche. I decided that I wouldn't kill her because I was afraid I would get caught by the police and that they'd put me in jail. Come on... killing some ignorant bitch isn’t going to cleanse the world of all stupid bitches and all the bullshit that made them the way they are..”
“Well certainly you were afraid... or you didn’t really want to kill her. And your just being a dramatic cock-sucker”
“Nah, I wanted to kill her, I wanted to take her into a subway tunnel and stomp her face on a rail. I wanted to break her down and fucking grind the pride out of her.”
“But you'll never do anything like that in your life. And neither will I. First off I don't want to... and second I wouldn't have the balls even if I found the thought appealing.”
“Nah, one day I'll just slay one of those bitches. I’ll stalk her until I see an opportunity and murder her; brutal kill, make her pay for being careless, i'll make her pay for her little fashion choices. Do my part to put these socialite sluts on their toes.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“What?”
“Keeping socialite sluts on their toes?”
“If I kill one of these socialite sluts then there will be a news story, her friends and family will be affected, it’ll be something.”
“I'm pretty sure it would be viewed as an arbitrary murder/rape”
“Yeah, I would probably rape her if I was gonna go as far as murder.”
“I don’t see the point. Well, I don’t see the point if it is actually about hating young socialite bitches. On the other hand... If you’re creating this scenario in order to mask your basic desire; to have sex with hot fashionable underage girls, then I follow your scumbag reasoning completely. It would flow something like this: You will justify the murder-rape of some innocent girl by claiming that her ignorance is a detriment to the free people of the world. Her poor understanding of poverty and power struggles makes her an awful person and you are going to be the one to snuff her out. In your world of self-aggrandizement and insecurity you can feign a hero status instead of recognizing yourself as a deplorable murdering rapist.”
“I’m not actually going to kill a chick.”
“Yeah it's all hypothetical, except for your obsession with hot fashion girls. Because if it was actually about hating a certain sort of predictable girl bullshit, and you really wanted to bring change, then why would you choose a solitary murder. If you really wanted to make an impact you would have to go into a serial killer mode. Or take some other equally extreme angle. It doesn't seem like your motivation would hold up. As a matter of fact I am curious what it is that you hate about these girls."
“Seriously? Get off my dick. And for real... those girls rub me the wrong way. Just the way they come across. With the sunglasses, the boots, the fucking elitist posture, the way they walk, they come off cold and disconnected, but then sometimes they see someone that they feel like they should impress and they start some really chatty bullshit, some smiley valley girl shit that's worse than anything else they could do. I guess I just don’t understand where their coming from. You Know? What the fuck are these bitches trying to do? Are they trying to land some rich dude with a big dick? Are they looking to get into some fucking opium party with celebrities? When I see these hip bitches they make me think that we aren’t the same species; like we’re so different that we couldn’t even mate right, like we would have some fucked up degenerate offspring.”
“I still don’t understand what you're getting at. How do you want these girls to change? What would make them better for you? Would they be better if they vividly realized all the elements of their surroundings? Would they be better if they paid more attention to people like you? Would you like them more if they were willing to blow ugly dudes? I would be willing to bet you my next paycheck that you would talk shit on a girl if she was with a dude that you thought was uglier than you. You would wonder what she was doing with that guy and have a subjective moment where you told yourself that you could definitely fuck her better, and show her a better time. I am guessing that you don’t have anything profound behind this and that you're just socially disgruntled and sexually frustrated. And you're talking all this shit about murder because it's the next most passionate thing. Really you just want to pound out some girl that has the look of the moment.”
“Man, you can go fuck yourself, all I want from these bitches is some awareness. I wanna shake em up. I want the bubble to burst for a few seconds. I want them to think that it’s all coming down, just for a minute. I’m not actually gonna do any weird shit. I don’t have the heart for that. I’m not cold enough. But I do hate the way those bitches are. The only way that I would stop hating them is if they became completely different bitches. If they got grittier, if they got so I could talk to them without feeling like I was being looked down at.”
“You are a disaster. Is this what you think about on the subway? These murder schemes, these counter culture moves? You are going to have to accept your little jerk off fantasies and scum it out like the rest of us. Unless you get up the balls to go out and crush some girls face, which would be relatively hardcore. If you became that serial killer you would get an underground kind of respect, to a small degree, along with the warranted societal fear. Actually, if you were to make that leap, you would be outcast, rightfully so, but I would respect your ability to transcend the norm. That being said; I would probably turn you in to the cops myself.”
“Would you turn me in to the cops?”
“Probably not... but I would be tweaked the fuck out by the whole thing. I would have trouble being around you. Actually, I think I would stand for one final meeting and I would ask you for the details of the kill and the fuck, I would try to bless you with some words, give you some cash, and formally part ways with you forever.”
“I can’t tell if the thought of going through that final meeting makes me want to kill a bitch more, or less. That would be a fucked up day. Imagine if we met up like that. I would probably just sit there and smoke a cigarette. Not saying shit to you like a hardcore bastard.”
“I don’t consider the taking of life to be funny but I would probably laugh if I saw your mug shot on TV. 'Maniac rapes and murders another sixteen year-old girl." Knowing that you went ahead and crushed like that, knowing that you went through with your hatred bullshit, knowing that you didn’t even have a good reason and seeing it all manifest might fuck me up. But you know what? ... that's what all this nonsense is about, the events in our existences don't need to be logical or rational... not in our subjective bullshit. We're just left to face whatever the brilliant inadequacy of cognition leads us into. If you witness your grandfather spit in a prostitute’s mouth, then you've seen it and its done. Its in your catalogue, if you find your cat dead in your driveway then you're left with that image. None of it really serves any purpose, none of it makes any objective sense, you just have to put up with it. Instinct has been abstracted and all the lines are tangled. Existence is fucked up... our survival tools have made us weird creatures. So you can choose to keep working on whatever's in front of you or you can get caught up in the frivolous battles of analysis. Some people choose to create long-term goals, some people use their brain power to focus on one immediate thing; love, string theory, whatever, and some people try to soak the entirety. Every potential use of brain power should be accepted on one level or another. Because when in doubt you can ask; "well what the fuck else should they be doing with it?" And that's the nature of the nonsense; A flexible abstracted bullshit. Logic and truth don’t have to have much of anything to do with it. If you choose to rape-kill some innocent socialite girl you are entitled to that choice. Most of society will hate you. Most of society will claim that you are in the wrong and they will claim that you do not have a right to your freedom. They may even decide to take your life.I maintain that if it is within the realm of possible action then you are within your rights as a free being to do it. You will face the consequences imposed by the social paradigm… and that is a reality, but the people that you reach with your action will be forced to handle it in whatever way they can. There is no other option, events cannot be erased, the species will move forward... the ecosystem, the universe, and so on. It's illogical... and it may even seem completely haphazard from a distance. But the illogical nature of decision-making changes nothing about the range of choices that are made. So we see a lot in actuality... a wide range of things in spite of norms... in spite of ethical structures... but what do we gain from ethics anyway? The ideal world is comical and the actual world is phenomenaly impressive as one compares it to the ideal world. So… do whatever you want. I think I would probably undergo some personal growth if you went through with your plan to kill girsl. I wouldn't even decline to watch the video tapes if you were to make them. I want to see how far you are willing to go. How far beyond the boundaries of fear you can go.”
“Get the fuck outta here. I caught that bullshit about freedom of choice as a free being. That was fuckin retarded.”
8
i like to think of the artist as extreme procrastinator, with three days left until a major gallery opening, he stumbles into his agent's office, stoned and drunk... and timidly pulls something from behind his back... "I shit in the hat... And that's all I've got."
6
My mother's had a cough for 14 months. Her face contorts and she hacks her throat out. Her body tenses to a point, she arches her neck forward, and her lips curl under body pressure. Her shoulders rise and sharp bursts of tainted air erupt from her mouth like dragon fire. My life has no direction. My most engaging endeavor is watching my mother fall apart, emotionally and physically. I am a soulless vagabond. I am still lusting after my ex-girlfriend. She is currently a drunk, in and out of rehab, and more generally... she is a hopeless sensation fiend. She has many negative qualities tucked away... but her most prominent characteristics happen to be very desirable charms; she is playful and she is classically beautiful. She is the type of female that has been grabbing sexual attention since she was 12. Not that she looks like a harlot, she rarely ever dresses like a slut, nothing like that, it is just that she has a slender toned body and an amazing face. She looked great in every situation. I have some wonderful frozen frame memories of sexual moments with her. A few in particular come to mind: spreading her ass cheeks to look at her asshole. Pinning her legs up, looking back and forth from the sweat beading on her tits to my dick penetrating her pussy. I remember looking at her neck while she would nibble my ear. The extreme close quarters of intimacy. The smell on her neck, sort of like her hair... also like her hands. It cheapens those moments... thinking of it like this... but its already gone. What's the difference... a reflection on my character perhaps. I haven’t moved on. She's still in my thoughts.
I have only spoken to two people, in person, in the last three weeks; my mother and her brooding male friend. Her brooding friend is an interesting study. He is a man that cannot control his anger, and he is miserable beyond reconciliation. He is abusive to every person that he is familiar with... and the notion he holds of himself far surpasses his talents. He is talented… he is a good singer and a generally intelligent person… but he has bolstered his internal image quite a bit. If you are familiar with terms that stem from existentialism then you will be helped by my description of this man as an absurd hero… or the absurd hero. He constantly harps on the fact that life is weighed down by the burden of maintenance. He delivers speeches condemning lawn mowing, condemning the laundering of clothes, praising David Mamet, praising Astor Piazolla, condemning people that lack culture, praising the last woman he had an affair with… these speeches vary somewhat but whenever he speaks passionately he comes back to the same basic points and the same key words.
i should clarify by saying that this man is not the absurd hero in the classical existential sense but he fills an almost identical role within the current cultural framework. he shares some traits with the classical existential figure because he recognizing the futility and presses on with his baseline functioning in spite of his recognition.
classless. degenerate. he and I.
is and am
5
Every little dance move that you’re doing means sex. I don’t know what you think it is when you start moving around like that, but all the gyrations, the circular motions, the changes in tempo... all of that speaks directly to my penis, feel free to continue. I'll be eye fucking you over here in my boner pose.
4
She blinked again and I read it. I study her face with passion. I like the material. I like the shape, the content, and I even like the aroma that emanates from her body as she passes. Tight zip-up hooded sweatshirt, wife-beater underneath, and velour pants over a nice looking causal sneaker. I love that look, the light shine of the material, the strings that hang down, both at the bottom of the hood and at the crotch of her pants, helping to accentuate and extend the line from her chin down between her breasts to her vagina. The aroma hits as she passes, it’s a fresh scent, sometimes lightly vanilla, sometimes lightly fruit, not a specific fruit, a synthetically acceptable fruit that gains its acceptance through emanation from such a tight bodied exemplar. There is a sliver of exposed skin between the bottom of her shirt and the waistline of her pants. There is a tease of stomach and hips and a cloth barricade above her trimmed patch of pubic hair. I steadily imagine it.(The desire to know that she wants you to slip your hand beyond that barricade can be overwhelming; overwhelming if you are infatuated enough.) The skin is there to intrigue, the creep shows and the normal people alike. There are no mistakes in this atmosphere. I smile from one hip bone to another, in control… but fancifully dazed. I wouldn’t be in danger of walking into a table, but my formulations are single track.
3
What was my perspective then?
What choices brought me this?
I don’t care for labels.
not looking to judge myself.
I simply want a record.
But how? How did this momentum build?
Bringing me to question.
Believing certain things to be the case.
Bleeding from my soul.
My soul is not my spirit.
can’t escape the history of the word.
My concept is something all my own.
soul is a series of thoughts that I have about myself.
then the pattern breaks.
The rhythm that lulled me to comfort has ceased to be.
Not only have I stopped hearing it. I have stopped feeling it.
I cannot imagine it.
I cannot recreate it or fight toward it.
I cannot ask anyone to duplicate it.
I have no point of reference.
And all the sources of comfort from the past…
Every one of them has become a chilling reminder.
A reminder of the changes I see in myself.
Words stop changing situations.
There is nothing to be said.
There is only the momentum that we find ourselves within.
There are brute facts
And
Brute weaknesses.
There are ways in which we speak to those who do not know the truth.
And ways in which we confess to those who exists outside the pressure of the realm of appearances.
There are fine lines
And
There are dirty deeds.
You know she sucked his dick.
You know you were out of sight out of mind.
And that horny slut went looking for a new thrill.
That stings you.
It stings me.
it’s the past.
Others aren’t so lucky.
claiming to be in good stead.
The isolation only shields the recluse from harm.
But what of growth?
What of reward?
What of the future of your kin?
I am right to turn to away.
And you are right to stand firm.
We are all correct.
Because the world functions as an undulating mass of relativistic nonsense.
Objective viewpoints?
Logical reasoning?
Shall we infuse the manifold with anything more ambiguous before we crumble under the weight of such shadowed content?
Shall we look at the stars and guess that they are the lamps projecting our image?
How beautiful it would seem above a melody.
It would be perfect.
Useful for seduction. a goofy tactful sort.
it all crumbles.
The façade is fleeting, of course.
Of course, of course.
We see it.
We recognize it.
Everything is so carefully done in order to have the benefit of hindsight.
But wait!
What have we done and begun, begun and done?
Everyone is waiting.
Calculating.
Everyone knows that they must approach somehow.
You are aware that you are disposable.
So you must entrench yourself.
You must establish your position and play it right.
But it can be done casually.
In stride.
It can be done without much thought.
Follow your propensities and improvise when trouble brews.
It is easy to run.
There is so much for sensation to do.
You need not be fulfilled.
You need not be solid.
You need not have a beautiful life to get you to sleep at night.
You can stay awake.
You can push the substance.
Live the hazy dream.
Escape from all that is.
BUT I KNOW
I know what it was like to be special.
I know what it was like to be in the throws.
Hours through days and days through weeks and a blur of events tied together with fucking and conversing, kissing, eating, showing up together, showering alone, laughing, being told to stop, bad moods and breaks, the pleasant return and the inexplicable acceptance.
The brilliance of the thing that engrosses.
Completely without understanding.
Only with a willingness to be there.
A form of choice that works out.
A form of choice that yields companionship and fulfillment.
For a time.
And I feel inclined to ask.
Will you wallow with me?
Will you wallow with me in the fetid bullshit of those that cannot find what they want within emotion?
Those who are so fucked up that they run around in a daze thinking that there is supposed to be something that cleanses the pain.
Have you seen them?
Have you seen yourself?
I think the subjective answer is implied.
Where is the catharsis?
The release comes from the process.
The process builds.
There is a momentum that carries us.
And in order to engage in the process there is an initial effort that must be put forth.
There is a sacrifice that must be made.
There is a form of choice that yields results.
This form is based in certain principles of character.
More words.
The moving mouth of wisdom.
The moving mouth spouts the doctrine of a given form of choice.
And those that adhere are unknowingly admitted into the halls of cathartic embrace.
They live out their lives in the midst of a cleansing ignorance and The Wretched, the people of awareness, stand in the street screaming as they claw at their rotten stomachs hoping that the pain will stop and that the beauty of the remainder will come around to make the smells and the sights of a glowing memory from a better day.
And there he was.
The middle school pussy ridiculed for his choice.
The soft faggot trampled by his girl.
The bi sexual miscreant that nervously bought a dildo only to throw it out a month later because he couldn’t imagine being caught with it.
The sentiments drift.
The sentimental drift.
When the good times remembered incite a longing in the subject.
The protagonist recalls… despite his effort to stay engaged in the present… recalls an afternoon in which the time was good.
The way it passed.
The way it came out of its surroundings.
The way space flexed with strange color when he pressed on his eye lids after a nap in the sun.
He realized that there were no choices to make and all he had to do was reach over and touch.
He would be allowed. He would go unhindered. He would be encouraged and kindly responded to.
There are no boundaries to the level of pleasantries that one might know in such a situation. Is she free enough to let you violate her vestiges of innocence? We she let you fuck her in the ass? Fuck her face? Pull her hair and call her a whore in anger?
NO.
She has an image of her self, an image of sorts. She doesn’t like the thought. She doesn’t feel right. She puts herself in a category of exclusion. I imagine it could be called self-respect. But you can shove your thumb in her butt when she’s drunk enough to slur some empty words. Consistency is lacking. Come to accept.
It doesn’t matter.
Experience continues.
Hardship.
Nicety.
Complaint.
Resolution.
We are far from caring what we overcome. There is the hope to avoid something unpleasant. There is the hope to be free of the concentrated flow of that which requires a concentrated effort in relation to that which leaves us disinterested, the hope to avoid that which does not entertain us, that which does not keep up stimulated and occupied in the most engaging sense. There is the desire to be one place while in another. There are sensations and thoughts. But I only care about my sensations. Everything else is subordinate. Any chain of events, any dialogue or preparation, it all belongs to the business of sensation.
But, the nobility… it must be taken into account.
Its existential position must be recognized.
Certain pieces in the pattern must be offered as stalwarts.
We must have a sturdy picture of the ways we should know and teach.
And what ties it all together?
What brilliance can be said to unify?
What has you listening to the sounds and knowing the concepts and keeping tabs on the state of your body?
What is that inexplicable inner sense?
The constant stream of content-filled perception.
I imagine it is something in the structure of our brains.
But what on earth is that?
More symbols?
More token language?
More box diagrams sketched up to explain something that intelligent people are far from understanding?
Clump information into broad categories and hope that someone more energized and informed will hammer out the details… bang up job… you quasi-scientist shits.
But there are social versions of these quasi-entities as well.
Use your attributes.
Use the gimmicks.
Please the crowd when you must and always… always remember that you must have an immutable character.
Your consistency and your admirable qualities will breed respect.
You will come to be known as a good kid, and a stand up guy.
A happy gal and a nice person to be around.
And you will be free of the character you seek.
Lacking substance.
I am comfortable grouping you with a chair.
You are capable of formulation but you are only causally related by default. You have nothing to offer and your knit picking style order made-to-please trend riding bullshit makes me want piss on my feet.
I am both disgusted and disgusting. I am not in the business of using my ability to choose. I allow myself to enter courses of action without knowing exactly what drives me. I am scatter-brained and inconsistent. But my inconsistency is not bound to commitment. I am allowed to drift because I do not owe.
I want to fall through. I want to see the others get what they deserve. And we… the community of degenerates will fall to the unyielding pavement. We will be crippled and the only option we will have for social sustenance is to turn to one another and view the mangled fool that lies crippled next to us… and after soaking the horror we will be forced to converse about whatever we can muster. The silence would be broken by the groans and the screams. Nowhere near enough discipline for silence.
2
There are layers to the way that you function. There are the appearances and the motivations, there are the genuine desires within the realm of interactions and there are the strategic movements within the realm of interactions, there is an intricate lattice that involves the perceptual apparatus and an inexplicably complex set of factors which accounts for the propensities of individuals and the way that these propensities work themselves out in order to create the unending social rhythms that can be seen as scenes. The din in your elementary school lunch room and the buzz at your local dick farting coffee spot, people are bound to deal with each other. The din and the buzz are not the same. Sometimes it’s just the acoustics but other times it is the content within the interactions. Some will gossip about Jude Law’s current sexual partner while some others get enthusiastic about dragon lore. It is a simple theme. Socially involved beings are usually different, the sample in consideration has been taken with each individual in consideration without a self-fulfilling prophecy involving trends. I am not looking for trends. Synthetic patterns may be backed by the data, and we may have propensities. But I believe that the mold can be broken in any instant. I, the cock mandible creep-lord have had intercourse with some extremely attractive women. I have received fellatio and passionate sexually fueled kisses from multiple attractive women. It is a reality that I can extend out into the world. I do not do it to brag. I will not attempt to identify myself or the women… this is only an indirect glory ride, the glory being the joy I receive as I realize that I am smirking at my computer screen with a limp dick and a shitty finger remembering the peak visual moments of my rounds of intercourse with these rather impressive vixens. I actually cared about them at the time. I assumed nothing in my courtship of them. It is as though I was a different person then. I was a different being. I did not have this inward focus. I wasn’t so quick to judge. Maybe I am jaded. Something must have occurred, something that made me sour, something that sapped my enthusiasm, something that brought about the brilliant misery that makes me more valuable then the next asshole with a brain. I laugh as I see people focus, I laugh as I see them hone their skills, as I see them refine their goals in concert with their achievements… I see a world free of talent. I see buffoons stumbling around on ice. I am not worthy of help or acceptance. I realize that I benefit from living within a socially cooperative society… I realize that I do so while expressing views of isolationism and rigid cynicism, but not caring about that has come to me naturally. It is as though I am one of these fools that hope for world peace. It is as though I am one of these sheltered credit card hippies that doesn’t understand the way that power affords the privilege of freedom and the luxury of comfort. All those good feelings of a warm existence are founded on someone else’s work to maintain power, someone else’s work to maintain the necessary standing for privilege and luxury. The only step required for me to actualize the nature of this degenerate viewpoint that I have chosen to express and speak from… is the move that involves destroying my laptop. Throwing my cell phone against a wall with all my strength, telling my friends to go fuck themselves, followed by truly unkind tirades involving the flaws and insecurities that I have picked up on after knowing them and observing their lives for a period of time, an abrupt farewell to my family, with similar, but shorter tirades involving their flaws and insecurities. Oh it would be marvelous, like a scene from a gimmick whore comedy, I would stand during a family dinner in my grandparents dining room and I would go around the table spouting hate at the people that have shown me unconditional love, unconditional love makes me sick, we have abstract cognitive capabilities now, instinct and compassion can fuck themselves… through us… I am allowed to let myself drift into a state of physical and mental failure, I am capable of putting myself in a terrible position to achieve reproductive success. I am the immaculate king of ungrateful bullshit. There are no more idols, there are no worthy, living, icons. There are not nearly enough valuable and interesting people within any given social scene to make social climbing a worthy goal. There is no pinnacle. The only pinnacle that I can even imagine is a fully synthetic painting of a world that could only be maintained with special horse blinders and tanks of nitrous oxide.
There’s no telling how far it goes. Or why it goes. There is no reason that can be seen. There is no logical structure to the ways of a fiend like me. I am sure that some analyst could paint you a jazzy picture of what it is that goes on with me. But I am smarter than the analyst. I have not failed to do my homework. There are many people alive that are better than me, but I could even beat some of those that are more talented by playing my position correctly. I am the drifting nothing. There is no burden of victory on my shoulders. In my picture… all relevant forces come to a point of defeat. Everyone will give up, at least they will give up if they choose to press my front, they will fail and enter a regression involving attempts to regroup and reformulate, but my strongholds are amorphous. This is not a matter of overconfidence or narcissism, I recognized long ago that my depression and my rumination stemmed from low self esteem and a slew of insecurities; in fact, I am going to say that, in general, my entire outlook can be traced to a lack of confidence. I wish I was better looking, I wish my dick was bigger, I wish I was smarter, I wish my toes weren’t hideous, there are all sorts of eccentricities working behind this mask. But I have entered a different realm, I am not in the business of fighting the mask. I went to therapists when I was younger and they assumed that I was a naïve child… lost in the folds of development, caught in the pitfalls of some shit they heard an interesting lecture on, those mustached pricks and warm-talking cunts made me laugh to myself, I wondered if the balding 35 year-old clinical psychologist made funny faces when he took a shit. I was more concerned with the character of the therapist and the strange hollow feeling in my chest than anything that was being said in the sessions. There was too much experience to take in, too many details in my surroundings to try to reconstruct a firm notion of the core of my self. Therapy may help some people, but I have always been a steam roller of my own experience. There will be no fixing, it will all be flattened into a path, it will be archived as a record, a record that none will have access to, not even I can revisit the ghostly theatre of my past, the hazy colorlessness of my dreams, those things were moments in my brain that I cannot effectively access. They are gone and all the damage that the events of the past have done to my core, to the self that is mine, all that damage remains and makes me what I am, there is no fixing, there is no learning how to cope. There is just a base desire to move forward and a recognition that something must be done during the experience of the sensation of temporal movement. The body gives signals, sleep----wake up----- muscle spasm==[[arm’s asleep----- the phone rings----I get horny---- I write a paper---- I go out---- I speak to a person I have never spoken to before---- I roar at familiar people---- sleep--- I don’t remember going to sleep and I ponder that---- sleep
The pattern is foolish without introspection. The lack of introspection brings about the buffoons on the ice… they are not adept enough… they cannot fathom the choices or improvise in a way that is novel enough… the lack of talent shines through again… but my acquaintances tend to accept people as they are… as long as a certain boundary is not crossed at one extreme or another… as long as a style is within a certain realm… then the person gets by… it helps if they are unassuming and it helps if their acquaintances don’t give a shit, if their acquaintances don’t set high subjective existential standards… whatever the circumstances… most people find networks and form social backbone… somehow the buffoons manage to function. Sometimes the buffoons produce in areas that I wish I was producing… the buffoons manage to avoid handcuffing themselves in situations that I find myself constantly restrained… I handcuff myself through indecision and a lack of focus… these little doubts creep in… I consider the absurdity of my claims and the brittle thread upon which my perspective hangs… how it might all change if a pretty, smart, funny girl were to become my steady intercourse friend. There might be a new outlook, I might come to deserve the criticisms of my former self while still agreeing with the doctrine of my past self in principle but acting upon the pleasant sensation of a new momentum in actuality. There is very little room for me to interpret the stream of asinine thought that comes through my inner sense of things. There is a sort of lying and fleeting story line. I craft fictional situations and forget them, I decide to change my life in various ways, and I lose motivation, I lose interest and I revert to the masturbating stagnation. Responsibility does not exist, I am accountable in the sense that I have riddled myself with anxiety, my unpleasant moments outweigh my pleasant moments approximately 20 to 1, but that aside, I do not have any sense of responsibility. For example I do not feel as though I should do anything to change the nature of my situation. I am content knowing that my being is a brute fact… and I do not view my life as a progressive project… I just view myself as a series of time slices that I may reflect upon and dissect within my chamber of self-loathing, my inner sense. It is a strange blurring of every thing, but somewhat addictive once you have been familiarized with the practice. Non-risk takers can’t understand the brute fact of having explored such an unacceptable thing. To stay alone and fight yourself… to face the things you hate… to ignore crucial responsibilities within the synthetic goal realm… The non-risk takers are lame in ways beyond the general understanding… and even ‘the general understanding’ should be subject to intense scrutiny, the general understanding is neither exact nor worthy of reference… regardless, the absence of risk is a horrid property of my surroundings… everything is done so carefully; the planning of outfits, the allegiances pledged, and the courses of action avoided in order to maintain a projected image, specific to general, I range as I move forward, and I only briefly look back to explain on the fly, the ranges may vary slightly due to the lack of planning and/or editing. This is not good writing, but it is certainly honest, and this form of honesty comes through a subjectively tainted lens. I am the type of person that cannot control particular forms of lying… I have been fooling myself in regard to the way I feel and the opinions that I truly hold and the things that matter to me, so much so that some of my formulations are guarded without conscious effort. In a sense I have pigeon holed myself as an automaton in certain areas of my emotional life. I am not in control and I am bothered by that fact.
Nights like this are bad for my soul. And I don’t use soul in a sense that can be directly defined in any of the traditional senses. My notion of soul has to do more with a general sense of the state of self. It isn’t an explicated thought… it is more of a direct perceptual thing. It has to do with the level of comfort that you achieve upon exiting a deep breath. Would you describe it as a pleasant release or a momentary respite? The soul is that general ambiguous awareness of the self imposed moral standing of the thing you view as ‘you’. The heightened status that one gives to certain aspects of experience shine through in the readings that are given through the functioning of the soul… and sometimes… it is just known that the soul is in a garbage state… because shit is upsidedown.
The shapes and the angles as the neck extends up to the cheekbones and out with the jaw. And the way in which those shapes and angles change as the neck accommodates the object. When the action is performed skillfully the shifting of the angels and the contour of the shape can be extremely physically pleasing. Stimulation--------Numb, repeatedly, is not good for the soul. (my notion of soul)
1
I do not feel foolish saying that I am a person who can produce a quality product from time to time. But I am certainly inconsistent and there is no telling when I will hermit myself in a room with nothing but electronic music and porn… only leaving the room when I need to eat… and maintaining that pattern from anywhere between three days to two weeks. My need to hermit makes it so that I cannot have a job. I also have phantom health problems that seem to come and go without any causal connections to grasp at. I have some friends, but very few that I end up spending time with. I attribute this to the fact that I truly believe that I am better than most of the people that I see around. I cannot say what the objective standard is when judging myself and others within this realm of better or worse… it seems to be based on a subjective feeling and the relation of certain observed characteristics to a set of standards stemming from other subjective notions. I blacklist anyone that happens to smile and cock their head when listening to another person speak. I am fully aware of my superiority when I hear people spend entire dinner conversations gossiping about the events of their drunken weekend, and I am clearly superior to anyone that cannot play sports, write music, and organize words and ideas in a somewhat novel fashion. Most people are worthless. Most people are uninteresting. I have no reason to pretend that I like these people. I have no reason to pretend that I am okay with their existence. On the surface of my misanthropy I often claim that I want the world to be a desolate place without community. I want the world to be a network of hermits that run into one another on rare occasions. And I imagine the hermits using their extremely infrequent meetings to exact profound realizations through the juxtaposition of their isolationistic musings and the musings that stem from their dialectics with one another. Undoubtedly there will have to be fuck farms. Places where these hermits can show up and have intercourse with female insemination bots. They could be cybernetic or organic women… as long as they can bear viable human offspring. There could certainly be female hermits as well. But the majority of females that I come into contact with are too tainted by their instinctual predispositions to be of any true substantial value. In other words the insecurities and social survival strategies of females make it very hard for the average female to have any worth to the adept hermit observer. If a female is physically attractive she will have a default worth merely because of the visual and sensual pleasure she can provide… but it takes and extremely special combination of elements for a female to be stimulating to the point of being worthy for adept hermit status herself. I have encountered zero females of this caliber in the 23 years that I have been alive. I am sure that there are some that have lived and died without finding a female that had what it would take. The female issue being out of the way… there are also very few males that would qualify for adept hermit status. This all fits perfectly with the picture that I am trying to paint. I want the world to be socially destitute. The world is already socially impoverished in the sense that most social interactions are vapid, yet necessary norm development, support network forming, entertainment providing, shit festivals… but the social destitution that I speak of has to do with the quantity of social interactions and not the quality. I believe that there is a relationship that can be expressed and recognized between the quantity and quality of social interactions. My hypothesis being that the quality goes up as the quantity goes down. Even if people became unfamiliar with the ways of handling the physical presence of another I believe that there would be more honesty and less habitual ritual. The interactions of the hermits would be epic sharings. What is there to do in isolation other than masturbate, move around and think? When the hermits finally bumped into one another… perhaps it would be awkward… but they would share and they would have to deal with each other’s refined and isolated concepts. Some more adept hermits would school the less adept hermits when it came time to debate or discuss… but to become an adept hermit at all you must be a discerning individual… so there is a good chance that any meeting of individuals would result in a clash of two well thought-out programs.
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