Part One : The Contrapuntal System

PROLOGUE : I dont understand why I feel this way. I have started to

converse with myself vocally about questions that seem to trouble me.

Many nights ago I did and have again and again stirring myself from
sleep with the sound of my own voice. Perhaps it is the drugs. I do not
know.

Drugs . . . do crazy things in your head. But for the first time in a
long time I have felt enthralled in writing shit down and maybe
sometimes with the shit of life. Can I keep writing? Curious. I believe
I can. I have much to say, I guess; I have much I will continue to
discover, I guess, much I will never. Self-reliance. Emerson. Hes a
smart chuck. Can I express myself without posturing? I wish to pull
this gravel through a sieve. Ideas are so much fine dust that I must
shape into a hill. If I am lucky I can make the hill. If I am luckier I
can climb up it. The zenith is impossible to reach. I need to be less
anxious. If I were less anxious I could think clearer. When I was
with her I didnt write much. Or did I? Less than I did my sophomore
year. Junior year was kind of a bust. Ahem. If one practices at
something for long enough, he or she will find that things begin to
sync up. Ahem ahem. A good friend of mine remarked once before that you
must be one step ahead of yourself at all times, forcing yourself to
keep going even if youre not sure anything will come of it. It seems
like that is the case, regarding my own relationship with writing. If I
do not bother to make some sense of it all, however, and write purely
on an unconscious level, ahem, the piece loses depth. In writing, it is
merely a matter of making so many mistakes, that you run out of
mistakes to make. In the end, the unconscious level will not be
unconscious at all, but wholly deliberate, and all the more intricate,
because you are cutting out normal things that would have distracted
you had you been fully conscious . . . so, anyways like I was saying

im not sure when exactly i went to sleep or woke up. either way, i find
myself with a glass of water in my hand, going back to my room. i sit
indian style on my bed, experience a brief feeling of ambivalence, and
light a cigarette.

i soon thought that this instance was not poetic at all; was not only
commonplace, but commonplace in the most general way, so as to make it
seem alienating, and, really, less captivating, in how plain it is, how
artlessly fragmented. in this way only is it unique.

due to the perceptual distance, as regards my forgetting when the day
started, i am thus able to see more profundity by the observation of
this, as a fragment of life, perhaps more artful here, not quotidian
but in the circumstance quotidian, and more alienating than anything
else because of the lacking context, as to when i regained
consciousness, and riled from slumber again found myself doing what i
might do everyday, without knowing from whence the path began.
A h e m :
Let us start with death: for it is the ultimate transcendent
revaluation. As epexegesis, let me say that my wavering here throughout
is the poetry, as an idiot would deny up until the contrary to what he
or she has denied, and continue forth into realms mostly absurd and all
great.

And let me say, in life there are many objective truths, and no one
subjective truth, and that we are to know simply by if not knowing the
outcome of death at least the idea in its present antithesis, that
things are much simpler than they seem, and the subjective simpler than
all of what is smaller than that; something that exists while we live,
simply because it exists. So then there is no thing-in-itself, because
it does not exist. It is too complicated, and if all the questions are
answered after death, then too will we realize we have been chasing
after a mythical phenomenon.

There will always be gaps in hermeneutical theory. The point is that
there is no system, but not that there is no point. The point known, in
death, if such is what happens, which indeed I cannot know, would
remove half of what philosophy pursues.

It is on par with the arbitrary surplus belief wields over less
intelligible theories like a torch. If death is not life, then it is
the general subjective truth, but in no way connected to lifes own
mysteries, which indeed are the torch whose light we throw on that
nothing. I falter, as I will, and explain to you thus that there is
something of the metaphorical eternal falter, in never regaining your
step, and living forever prone and mindless; that is, what it is to
die.

This of course is an hypothesis. I have no idea what happens after
death, and rightly so: it conveniently proves my point. Mortality is
the mystery defined; it is the unchanging fact of life that nonetheless
too we can never know because we live. And yet from this mystery hath
sprung many wrongful speculations: wrongful because they do not denote
death at all as the primary cause of some such subjective reasoning.
Reason and logic are no part of what cannot be known and have no place
there. So then, it is unreasonable to explain a thing-in-itself by such
a humane science.

The absurd part is lain in this: well: think of the idea of rungs.
Think of the idea of concentric relevance. That more and more is
relevant the higher the rung. That is as far as I will take the limits
of reason, the limit itself rather spiritual.

And think of the last rung, or at least, the last perceivable rung:
death. The general knowledge that we die is even known to us, who live,
and who might exist as the very first rung. That is, what exists,
purely, objectively. Even the most abstract truths on this planet will
have somewhere not an element of the ridiculous but an element of the
rudimentary. The element of the ridiculous, after all, is a thing
within every circle, all the circles between life and death.

What lies between life and death I do not know: but I must insert this
as an arbitrary doubt, because that is the poetry of contradiction, and
that is how the poetry of contradiction plays: in a concrete layer of
what is left to be assumed, because not ever to be known: a flaw on
purpose, and humility: almost as humane as what limits of earthly
reason there may be.

Im going to see the man on the moors, for what could I learn if not by
living for the sake of gathering leeches? I bring up this allusion to
Resolution and Independence [see William Wordsworth] to state a point:
that there will be a time when our sense of things is changed forever,
and yet still we live the same. The absurdity is of course in that we
think ourselves with the ability to enter some sensational highrise of
being in being enlightened: this is not so.

We will forget the epiphany, and all that might have come with it,
especially if we assume to know more of death than anyone could know.
This is the human condition, more so because it involves an
individualistic attitude. How to humble oneself before not the unknown
but the readily-to-be-known, in this case, if we are indeed individual
people? It is difficult. The objective nature is a Christian folly
because it is called objective, and to call something anything is a
western exercise, and a religious one. If we concede to the fact, there
is no system, and only an affirmation of the fragmented reason we are
given, we will have gotten somewhere. But then too, we name it
fragmented. The pursuit of an Absolute that is just as fragmented gives
us nothing, if one as a philosopher of humility does not adopt what is
apparent as what is. The fragment is the whole, people; and what is I
ironicallycalla subjective absolute, the fragment seen objectively.

For example: picture the way one might write. Their handwriting, that
is. To them it would most likely be a thing to practice, for those
looking on, a thing most uniquely finished, and them. That is what I
mean. The Objective Subjective. Our outside understanding of anothers
handwriting is the completion no individualistic interpretation could
wager, you see, and yet our observation would not exist without
observing their written words. An absurdity is in this realm of living;
perhaps less so, if applied as philosophers should have to as death
alone.

Death is nonexistence. So then I spread the ideal of the leech. A thing
to suck out the blood of someone. As a philosopher I say I am but a
leech-gatherer, then. I profit off of that which sucks out, for the
sake of sucking out, perhaps, some of the illness. And this illness is
the illness of an Absolute. Such a thing exists; I know because I am
experiencing it now as life itself. But it does not exist in death,
which I cannot know but can only observe: because my life would be
over, my brain over, and all left but a quell, a blankness, a drear of
objectivity. These assertions in particular I base only on what I know
of death: that it happens to everyone: and, relationally: that by its
contrary nature, it is a thing completely blank, a thing leaving us
undone, yet the matter finished, because, simply put, there are no
mysteries left. Because, simply put, we are not conscious. Any religion
might tell you of the Kingdom of Heaven afterwards; I tell you of the
Kingdom of perspective. If we reconnect with the humanity of
relational, simple logic, reason, we will find ourselves once without
those things to nonetheless feel their loss.

So what of the contrarian nature of death, that one Absolute, that
thing that must happen, but not only that, remains indifferent to
anything of what we have discovered before? The thing-in-itself?

To say there is no such thing as discovery would be to apply a leech
too many, so I leave the matter unfinished, and argue for the lack of
systems: the closest thing to what death is that my perspective can
muster, because, simply put, by its lacking and simultaneous
inevitability, we might make, be able to make, its metaphor out of
futility and absurdity in this life. But we will never know what is
obvious about it: that it happens, and leaves us blank, and, most
importantly,

makes us think.
A h e m :

ACTIVE STATEMENT:

The object lacks complication; it is simple. The mind is a complicated
object, struggling forever to simplify itself. This blue vase on the
table consists, mainly, of a blue vase; the mind consists of
consciousness, and this consciousness strives to eliminate itself by
reducing its complexity to something that can be seen as clearly as
that vase.

Thus, consciousness exists to negate itself: to destroy the havoc of
something complex, and align itself with physicality: the simplistic
posture of confidence, seemingly there,

within an object. No inner thought process. Consciousness will always
diminish confident thinking, because no conscious thinking is
confidentsince it exists only in the mind, and does not stimulate any
of the senses at all enough to prove it as realbesides the feeling of
such thought as being true, or proper, which is tenuous indeed."

ACTIVE QUESTIONING:

"If theres one thing I hate, its philosophers.
Take your understanding and fuck off."

[id replace understanding with perceiving since it is folly to
understand anything so impractical.

understanding in whatever context you wish has an element of give-
and-take, especially regarding the sensuous world and emotions. we
cannot feel the sempiturnal emotion throughout life in the same way we
cannot control what we understand all the time. there will be things
we hurtle into the void. the pursuing of the truth in itself implies
this: a mad dash towards what cannot be justified in the moment,
because it has been given to there. that is, for the moment. the
approbation of my dog would forsake me, so i stop, suffice it to say
that to control what one understands is the same as a sort of inverted
philosophical sociopathy, and the same as feeling one thing forever the
same as feeling nothing. this is why a posteriori, and empirical,
knowledge is a fine platelet but a ridiculous exercise it is to apply
that to what is very much out of control, regarding the world of
feelings, which mimic the platelet and yet are very much unlike
anything permanent as that. the sensuous WORLD of ebb and flow and
forgetting and recalling certainly follows the movement of things at
large, somewhat what pattern my dog might take to lead me on the leash,
and is here my a priori, intuitive self. but he does not know where he
goes, and experientially i should not hunger for his approval, when i
myself know my street. i say perceive because, well, at least then
you lend right to the mad dash. lose control, be the dog of truth, but
lost. control, and find yourself stuck in a lie most perfidious,
perhaps more unnaturally level, but without a companion for to give a
reason for your strangeness, and you walk your street alone.

were chained to feelings anyway, they color our scope of things. what
is not problematic is assuming what colors to be what is; what is
problematic is assuming that what is is not what colors. by ways of
Nietzsche: "the apparent world is the real world." thats all we got,
and only an absurd unfeeling monolith, the widest Absolute, could make
so harrowingly blurred a perception a concrete one. but thats not for
us. we live by the five senses, i feel, and what is mysterious is not
that there is some abstract beyond of sensory-perception but that
these five senses illuminate a beyond made up of what they are
anyway. my hypothesis is: it is the passage of time, or experience, and
an amalgam of the solipsistic nature throughout, shifting this and that
way, that eventually brings to us a story of something more than what
is, which in itself is wonderful enough.

discard the concretion that is a beyond and understand, the mystery
is that there is no mystery, yet we are able to see so much, when it
is, simply put, what is there. to conclude: the beyond is a
concretion, the abstract subjective world of the senses much beyond any
contrition to that stoical Absolute. make an idea of what is beyond
anything, and you negate the life behind it. Once you label me, you
negate me." Sren Kierkegaard]

#2 Then the rain pours, subsequent to the moment, after a light
shower and a pause. When the water hits dust, it comes weighty, like a
dropping and infinite coat, discarded by God like an old coat and
heaped upon the grassy miles and the hills.

The large and passive body of a cloud looses a rainy current like blood
through the deep wound. The current muddies the tulips, and saturates
the dry bark of the oaks with water. Much taller than the oaks are the
buildings, and the buildings are dusty with exhaust. The rain sloshes
heavy and thick across the streets, and sidewalks rose from the streets
and they lay flat and bloated like sponges. The one cloud would still
cover the town and surrounding valley, even after the shower had
stopped; and he was under the cloud that made everything grey, so the
building lay there in grey pallor. The cloud reached out to a distant
and lofty border where the sun soaked what little light it could, and
the lightness was made almost mythical by the grey contrast

[is there a brain in my head? Ludwig Wittgenstein argues, more than
likely no. semantically that is. physically yes, perhaps, but it is
still doubtful. existence precedes essence is the existential mantra.
so then one must look (and perhaps even this is problematic) at where
existence begins, truly begins, in the present moment, since that is
after all where the thinker starts from; and not from where the essence
is lain IN the unobservable existence, that is, what IS of the thing
after observation of it has passed to another object of focus. i feel
an essence as such to be most breakable: pristine as a chinadoll,
mostly due to an as fleeting belief, as to a concrete nature that is at
best apparent.

true essence involves an objective, outsider scope. to see the thing
and, delineating between what it is on its own and what it is once
observedis a philosophical nature and a virtue. to see the thing, that
is to say, in the present moment, as perhaps retaining existence before
even the existence of brains to picture it, brains, which justify by
their use anyway, in THINKING. and yet, the great humility of Heidegger
is that, he has not thought at all, we havent, not yet at least.

and when i say, where existence begins" i dont mean, the first thing
that ever was on the planet, but the first thing that was truly real,
existing as itself, for itself, and for nothing else. the ever-popular
thing-in-itself.

a void, in other words. a void in logic of course but in this way a
symbolism for what is too vasty a concept to fully wrangle but in bits,
over time; and perhaps an aptitude of language, the well-used
statement. that is how one justifies the reality of the life in their
brains. as to this abstract point or thing-in-itself, the singularity,
the delta; it is in my view outside of existence-as-we-know and yet
intrinsically a part of what we know thus, which creates an ontical
essence of something merely observed sans explaining. even if it is
only there relationally.

somewhat similar to the way a hole is defined by the earth surrounding
it.

whether a brain is a vase or a hand an umbrella is irrelevant because
it does not search for why the hand is a hand or the umbrella an
umbrella first, but questions reality AT LARGE first, which is
foolhardy.

as i have said before, muttering to myself in the dark back whence. one
can lead one to an objective reason for an subjective Absolute or an
subjective reason for an objective Absolute, but in no way can you go
off an objective line of reasoning to pursue an objective Absolute,
which is the same as supplanting objective with subjective in the
relational case i use (and semantically one that Wittgenstein
simultaneously abhors and is chained to) and lends to naught but chaos.
the thing observed as needing to be observed so as to give it reality
is IN REALITY, i feel, not a thing from which an observation from it
need be sprung; but, as something ontically not definable, as causa
sui, well, such a thing is changed regarding its nature, once given
words to embody something like it. the well-used statement. but this is
something diametrically opposed, we find: as like a description of a
psychology does not make a physical mass of words a brain, though the
existence is therewellso does the existence of I not necessarily,
semantically, make US but instead an ontology. it is nonetheless a
phenomenon of consciousness, one that lends to something individual and
opposed, a uniquity amongst other uniquities, but the same void. so no,
a brain is not in our head, if we consider all things as one infinite
whole, or, rather, an infinite object, reality AT LARGE the rung-to-be.
something that exists as much as a blue vase on a table, yet without a
degradation process that is to me a most human essence, really. the
ending of things is an ontical value, mortality, temporality probably
the only value that refuses words for it, is never effected by
observation. i think it a calling-card for some obscured greatness that
once was and is now no more, such as, well, God. If God is a void, as I
say, and if it surely is an Absolute sort of thing we speak of, then a
destruction of nothingness thereof had to have been the only way for
things to be. so then there is no longer a polarity of
nothing/everything, we merely live as metaphorical braincells of that
shattered vase.

moreover, i agree with Martin Heidegger. we as a species have not and
will not have had one thought, without the will to say it could be
more, which from an evolutionary-psychology perspective is ludicrous,
as we must base our minds on something, anything, in order to move
forward. we give in to the idea that something is what it is, when with
the passage of enough time whatever we thought we knew inevitably will
be muted under some other bombastic, utterly shallow statement as you
say. so then it becomes an overwhelming revaluation of what the mind
is, to declaim we have not thought." So then, we have remained in our
place, and the farthest rung ever farther.

NOTA: I leave those who are religious to go about in their beliefs.
Perhaps it is as much a security as personal vendetta disguised as
religious war; perhaps it is as well-to-do a description for the
unknown as might suit those without the will to find out more; perhaps
merely in a stoical sense, believing vehemently forever, having
religious faith throughout life, is a wisdom in itself. If the fool
were to persist in his folly he would become wise, as William Blake
saith.

But what of faith in another human being. Having faith, they will
succeed. And what of believing that we have a soul. That everyone has
one, the quandary of the soul dates back to before Christianity after
all.

There is more nuance to faith than is readily perceived, and nuance
after all is a virtue of intellect. I have faith there is something of
infinity in every person, yet there is indeed no way to prove this. So
I faithfully concede, there are things we cannot evidence.

By the way, I have no denomination, am not of a school of thought nor
religion. I enjoy what theories I enjoy based upon a mythology of
invention that is for no sake but for harnessing that personage of
reality in myself, so dumbly excised to suit religions explaining
nothing more, a flatness. GOD is for no name, no subject but the empty,
whatever that entails, I feel; and this is not to say that GOD is an
ugly void but a beautiful one. It is the void my soul fills, that I can
have faith in the beauty of nothingness, and perhaps this is nihilism
in its most earnest sense. Believe in nothing, embrace all, or at the
least, breach something.]

#4 I exist within a WORLD of frailtythe white shells were frail as
blue birds clenched too hard in the fist. Both of my feet slipped in to
yellow, pathetic membranes

scattered like ornaments on the imageless ground, and each shell
fractured like a scream out in-

to the developing wilderness of shells, this WORLD of shells and
frailty, this cryptic, timeless space of aborted embryos and, ringing
out over it all, the disgusting, immortal crunch of leaves

[Heideggers stylistic enterprise in Being and Time opens one to
question the differentiation between an actual ontological definition
and existential analytic. As metaphor it works; ontically, the
swerving-away from the truly explicative analogy and towards the new
point is though harrowing and an apt metaphor for the redundancy of
time, a less than apt conciliation for what is being-in-itself. The
analogy, his hammer to break the stone, then, is productive as an
existential indoctrinating of a primal value to perpetuity but is
ultimately a foregone cluelessness as to any sort of final say to this.
Yes, The Phenomenology remains an unfinished thing, which I suppose was
his great discovery. Imaginative Myth as a psychological break-down has
its roots in the mind, which, too, remaineth an ubiquitous infinity of
what is to be regained, not gained for more. This in itself would be
for the sake of a new quality to life, man-madelife, a thing most
unchanging despite our best efforts. So then we are all in the snare of
our heads, and what is unchanging is exactly what is the cause, in our
minds, of what is missing.]

#6 It is there before night realized. Thought as well within as
others out. Day weakened first in the unconscious. And the bite of the
chasm night, there, darkening in bowels. The diurnal relapse of those
who go into a fatigue heightened the more by some arbitrary sphere of
fire

that then perished, like everything else to be in the life of a wound,
once pierced, once festered, once scabbed over the sky as a mirror left
in the closet, to reflect abyss, sphere grown ancient and tired in
falling over itself, tripping over itself like a massive and necessary
klutz.

Thought as well within as others so then out goes the bite of the chasm
in night. Darkening the bowels the diurnal relapse into fatigue of the
people. Some arbitrary sphere of fire that then perished, then returned
to life in form, as a griffin, like, and

in the batty cosmos of rain, a dumb prospect of hope peeps out from
subterranean burrowing like a hairless animal and in the heads of each
a curious and delicate abstraction, that peeps: it

was there before night realized, precipitation came abrupt and spread
its dank wealth over the scene, yet and it

merely wasas though having always been, a timeless quality. Found, in
myth nudging backwards in eons from its inception. Usurped totems of
belief left to stack meaninglessly in my closet, face after face of
stone idols, blank idols. Giving rise to the blood of harlots, giving
the scene to a WORLD of blear slowly, almost

terminal and become the weakened day in the freckled must. To unfold
curious abstractions that before were seen, had been in us. The
contentions of MAN found both between themselves, MAN

to MAN. And raging silently and also forever within the quarrel that
detonates like a feeling bombone quarrel in particular should tickle
our respect into something that should be observed: between a man and
another man,

one of the men, it is not known which, presently desires to urinate,
such a need causes a clenching of speech at the edges of sentences, as
of one at the edge of a cliff who suddenly

fathoms the fathoms

[the everydayness of communication can differ person to person. what is
a quotidian idea or form of communicating can to others seem heavier.
its slightly humorous as well, in the context of how crazy i was off
those jesus tabs. music is like, contours, rhythms, a dance. it would
be the readier diversion for me to put words on a page than give
meanings for the air i breathe in addressing an unconscious
atmosphere." i was talking to the walls of the apartment, alone,
utterly mad. here it is. i think youd get what i was going for,
regarding the veil of communication and practical mind-reading. i
know more than you think about that. its been a plague. but it can also
be a precious gift. and so we go day by day by the license of our own
imagination to suit the perfect moment, and the moment itself, no
matter, but a joke for the cosmos to observe, and we the puppets of our
own fury, in thinking it all wrong. once we detach from the need to
perfectly explain, we lose a layer of self-consciousness, and the world
around us becomes not so needful, and the perfection comes and goes
throughout, us never knowing, perhaps the observer knowing. and we
sully the joke of life, once we are aware, once we observe ourselves,
and find something so serious in our forgetting to forget.]

#8 Whatever creator feels is pain. It is utmost pain. It feel pain
for whole WORLD. It make itself bigger than is. But is great! Is best
thing ever. Is, after all, made me like myself. But is sometime is too
scary. that why id quiet down sometime. Because Down is kind of big and
kind of small. But down also confusion? Me dont know, but when you
speak that way it is somewhat dramatic. Well, I dont con. I think its
beautiful. But it cant respond. Totally. Of course, but then you feel
fear. And then things get confusing. But things are the best people!
And that is the whole point, that humans are not things. I am a thing.
And I make you disappear. But you and I can be together, because I make
you smile. Why would I want to do that. Because you remind me of my
father. In a human way. Sometimes hot, sometimes cold. But. That not
it. It is not a thing. And he should stop being treated like a thing so
he doesnt get angry. But I could never do that, because Ive been to
hell and back, and at least in that way I can know the most human pain
ever, as long as I, as Dan DeMarse, know hot and cold

[I think Beckett provided a story (or stage if you like) for the absurd
where Kierkegaard was an expression of its contrary nature; a
meandering, furious yet comprehensive scrutiny of the self contra what
commonly imbibed neatness of enlightenment doctrines at the time, and
which attempted to explain selfhood in a very different way: that is,
neatly, as if the self were made of principles.

Beckett was disquiet expressed via the perpetual boulder-up-the-hill
where Kierkegaard was the philosophy of the absurd, an expression of
the absurdity of his own psyche that amounts to a confession, but no
sort of strange story of the estranged. Beckett gave absurdity the
symbol, Kierkegaard WAS the absurd, sans poetry; though indeed his
prose is nearly that. Kierkegaard laments the contrary nature of
comfort and self-acceptance, that there are rules and things that
precipitate both of these, and which we cannot know. If it is so that
we must do such and such for ourselves to accept ourselves, the
absurdity is that we are not given a navigating system to use to make
our way towards understanding these obviously important things. They
exist arbitrarily.]

#10 We fell together into a cloud of roses, our feet wrapped, our
tongues wrapped, kissing together, a hot breath or two. A coo, a
pinkest of sighs from the girl, as your pale white neck stretches,
inviting me to kiss you there, too, and your limpid eyes roll
backwards, blue, blue and wide.

And yet my hands in the freest of all freedoms roam up and down your
soft, velvet body, and my torso pressed against yours, my belly against
yours, my lips against yours. We embrace forever, you shiver at my
touch as my hardest pulse enters into you, as my heart flutters to keep
up, as you nearly faint under the sudden intoxicating entrance of all
my life into yours, the roses at this point scattered all over the bed
in a disarray, expression itself of emancipating youth, us loving
seeing us through a prism of colors, my eye the prism, and we burst
into the light, and you feel the weight of my thighs, my body, and you
pulse as I.

I take my soft tongue dancing deep into your mouth and squeeze your
softest parts, and remark with merely the luster of my eyes, how pretty
you are, how wonderful, how perfectly round every part of you is, how
perfectly soft and pure, how much a girl you are, the girl, a female
vitality for my coarse male vitality

[Notes On THE ANTI-CHRIST: And religion of course is cowardice, and
The Kingdom of Heaven and The Good mere words that we do not follow
but fall into inevitably. And immortality of course, an expression of
the doctrine of Judgement. I understand that Friedrich. Immortality has
no grey space, nor does the infinite, because of course it is the
encompassment of all the greys. Such an omniscient everything tempts
one to judge it.

The problem with Western Philosophy, and its difference from the in his
eyes no less regrettable Eastern Chandala, is that Christ was put on
the cross and made the metaphor. So as the man says, Buddhism promises
nothing and keeps them all, Christianity makes thousands of promises
and keeps none." [see Twilight Of The Idols] So then the Western mind
is inextricably bound to Christianity, in the need for firm logical
footing, having none. As one would need the hermeneutical metaphor that
was The Crucifixion, to reason what are seen as lifes deficiencies: as
being a sacrifice of the best for the good or the greater good of
people whom are punished anyway by the appearance of a paradigm, a
moral paradigm, that must be followed but never replicated. I am sure
one might see the absurdity here. The religious metaphor creates only
havoc. A sacrifice OF the good: for the sake of justifying what is
removed from experience inherently; that is, what purpose for living
and attempting life disappears into the church, longing sanctuary, for
sanctuary; is replaced with morality doctrines, religions, to fill in
the blanks, upon the consecration of this metaphor itself. Christ
becomes a martyr for the sake of the good, and yet his good cannot be
approached and no one able to be a better representation of thisgood
than Christ. A sacrifice of the goodseen as that everything and
which is more a metaphysic than a matter for the discussion of what and
who should be judged.]

#12 I wait. I pick a part to describe next. I choose the point at
which the ZENITH is reached, the effort it takes to get to the ZENITH
is substantial, as a result, I am depleted, the ZENITH is not even a
zenith, it is not the finale I dreamed it would be, why, then, did I
spend all my savings to bring me to this deserted plain? The immense
satisfaction, so soon depleted for its immediate and only wave, that
is, upon reaching the zenith, takes away from what should be, this evil
paucity. It is not, and the satisfaction a guise, a fakery, an ugly
cheapness.

I know I can only feel this shit once. I know I can only really know
this once, before time steals away the memory: what I was

trying to reach was: that single point on the chart. It is the summit
of all possibility, everything that is, and could have been made
possible: but I already pumped out all of those things in trying to get
to the top, in my messy work I must have garbled some possibilities
together. I am so tired now, and then

I realize that if this were perfection I could experience it I would
experience it more than once, multiple times, because well

perfection is made of stronger stuff, stuff that can last and last and
last. I realize that I am in Heaven,

which is below a Heaven not to be made of words, not able to be reached
because it is ageless.

That blow to my morale causes me to be sucked of all the energy it
would take to move any further, as I am a human being I am affected by
these things, and live forever tormented by this stasis

[It seems to me, philosophy has come so far as to not only posit the
lack of a singular absolute, but prove uncertainty, in no uncertain
terms, as the only singular absolutesimply because of its twofold
naturethat what road it takes to be proven is not where it ends upit
is not and is, singularly; and this combination of metaphor with
reality as the hermeneutical endeavor therein is, though missing a
piece, enough to prime one for such existentiell requirements of living
day-by-day, but moreover proves that language, perhaps, has created
this valve. In other words, there is a proven missing piece that is
not required to live, though perhaps required to end all philosophical
debate forever, and leave us silent partners to a gibbering God, and
all of a sudden the roles forever switched.]

#14 well freedom is transient and also slightly abstract, the
spinning of axes foretells the paradox of what it is to connect mind
and body, if the mind is full of metaphors, so simple becomes the body,
dissect the metaphors and find the organs in your frame to have
developedthat is, nuanced personalities, with an ability to disagree
with you or not, about the, how do you say, relieving of anxiety. to
recognize this wrecking ball and move forward towards that which speeds
away. no come hither prospects, merely the ideal of VOID making love
with her juxtaposition. if it is nothing at all, why not aim all
against the nothing, and push back the concretion from anything but an
ideal of the universe? dependent clause, independently motivated.
diction is a formative eloquence, so i guess i am

[I always view Beckett as one who saw his shadow out of the corner of
his eye, thinking it a woman. Of course this Beckett: a widower of his
soul, too much the soul of any periphery to be of his own warmth, yet
warm enough to coax him forth into the darkness of The Lord.]

#16 BILL: When looking for the reason why you did something strange
it takes the edge off most people not to get a queer answer. They get
scared. They think youre cooking up a shady idea in your head on
purpose, serving up a shady tonic to your head to mangle the concepts,
whatever, on purpose.

But no its just a loose wire in life most times, stealing
concentration like if I sneeze something funny always happens. It
worries me sometimes. Im minding my own business, then sneeze. Then
the sun gets brighter and I lose balance on my horse and my ties get
untied, buttons get undone: ol Mr Pat Garrett gets me to feel his hate
all in the shadow of my mind: and I scream: help!, out to whatever
bristled gang of men, thieves, indifferent men, and, I always hope to
see ol Mr Charlie Bowdre riding there friendly. Or the gaze of her,
softly, to set me calm. Funny, huh? Ha. Well. Yeah, so its always
though another group of men on horses all confused and asking me why
Im hollering so. And they look at me funny and say why you hollering
so and I can't answer. No one would get it but it dazes me up the most
when I sneeze; like the reeeeeeeeeee sound of that silent,
suspenseful energy that comes after you see the smoke peek out bigly
from the barrel in subtle defiance. And the leaden crack can still be
heard, bounding off the sweet nothing of blue sky. And you hear the
black thump of adrenaline, like your rushed heart choking up through
the windpipe. And you see the man, come up against yellow dirt and dry
dust falling up around him, all used up and caring only about the
heartbreak of his mortality slowly dumbing, more and more, him without
the will to stop, and, and the wound, losing pressure through the hole
plastering the wild sand with mellow scarlet, a man who changed from
the rest of us at the crack of a gun. That space, it drags out across
that flat-as-a-cracker wetback plateau that I travel on, and travel on,
but never getting to the end of, but still burning on through one Hell
of a dream that got lost when I was really a kid. Shit, still in a
dream to think of it. But its different. No plan this time. It seemed
incredible to shoot a man and now I cant look at children anymore, and
now theres nothing left for me to hate except this life. Andand its
better when Im drifting like through all these women who know my name,
and Im enjoying the you know power my name brings, so much that maybe
Ill kick and dance and make a racket some more, so much till Im
tripping over bodies with my gun in hand. Till I look out the window.
Out into the night street out of the bedroom and tell her to go, leave.
Then I put my back against a wall so I dont sink into the space of
nothingness outside this bedroom, where old Pat and old revenge waits.
It was even worse when I got to traveling again, with a bunch a people
who just were going my way, and I wake up and ride with them and get
flushed into the suns white heat, feeling like Jesus son again. And I
used to shoot tin cans when I was a real kid. Hit them good, it felt
good to hit dead center. The ping is what I remember, ping of the metal
off the metal.

We were in a shack when a guy got arrowed once. It made a thump, and
two men started to yell and shoot. And I heard the man grunt and I
looked at the arrow in his neck while blood jerked out over his beard
and it seemed hed spit up the demon itself. That man would eventually
no longer be a person. He was defiled. He was made to watch the meaning
of his own life stream out of him, wasted blood going gurgle, thrust.
Gurgle. Thrust. And although I didnt sneeze I still stayed dreamy as a
bird, didnt even pick up my gun and help and I tell you that man
wasnt any tin can Id ever seen in my entire life.



FUGUE:

Oer the strait of rye and grumbling rock,
Where no sun trickles, no foot makes a print
Even though the ground makes all weights sink

And traceless light falls everywhere thats lost
Each day is like a window, opening,
In this godless eyeless house
The window opens, and stale wind goes out.

I set my burning pennant down
And saw - first time - the stitching there,

The threads entangled, beige, and spare
And I had worn it like a gown
And thus the pennant
Trickled
Into dirt.

I think in the place of grooves I met
Some wider, deeper groove. And the chuckling flowers
Braced me better than the wind at that. I was the man digging
After all, and what is of the dirt might as well have shouldered
The brunt of my getting, but am I not sure: I am not sure and all
While it rained out bad confetti, I stuck well enough in focus there
To be celebrating the carnage along with everybody, and make a folly
This: what do you remember when

You have never truly seen . . . . ? If one does something for a long
enough time, in different forms, it might not be that they get better
at it; merely, chance will prove that some of those things that are
done will have more merit than other things done. The ratio between the
good things done in an occupation and the bad things done in such an
occupation in my experience at least have always been balancedas in,
an equal amount of good and bad. However, the good and bad will
themselves out of sync: I write good pomes, then bad pomes, then good
pomes, then more good ones, then more bad, then more bad, et cetera. A
cycle arises from this that is present in all repetitious duties,
whether to oneself or others. As such, it could be that the contents of
a persons life balance between moments of grief and joy; but, never
just one or the other. THEORY: repetition creates dual/multiple modes
of life. Modes that spring from the pattern, out of sync.

[The dignity perceived in the absurd is indeed a most fearful
conundrum, and I prefer the rung below, a state of infinite
resignation, which though serious is only a metaphor for the dignity
and not the dignity itself. It is perceiving the limitation of turning
ones head for nothing, to wage au contraire what would involve a
belief to refute. This as opposed to one who believes doing the same,
senselessly; that is the dignity of a desperate faltering of one
similar to a spasm; who turns his head before a Christian God and
speaking thereof to His aims, finds his own frailty an involuntary aid
and himself in that abrupt, crucial moment a parable for the humane,
but not the reasonable. A commerce of the most contrary nature is this,
ironically, which is why it is all the more absurd: that a mistake, a
faltering, can amount to something much the more like nonsensical,
dogged, invariable magnificence, if one focuses on Abrahams fearful
shoulder, and his turning away from his duty to his God, to find God
behind him.]

We should not fear death, because we will not be aware that we had ever
lived. we are not aware of the indeterminate amount of time that had
passed before we existed, either. We look on the past, and all in the
past that occurred before we became our own occurrence, and we do not
fear what we see, because, we did not live in the past, and so, do not
relate to it. Maybe Im stating the obvious, but our brains are not
equipped to perceive, accurately, what does not relate to themwhether
it be time, place, or, most importantly, in an emotional sense. We are
aware only of our lives, and everything else requires taking conjecture
as truthwhich, ultimately, means lying to yourself: truth we see only
in what we are aware of.

voidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoidvoid
HHARUMPH! .6.g,g
[0;%be
6b6$3Fluffy!
657nku
j7j
7d5putter put
terputerr . .. . .

Each in his own madness thereof, and all the mitigating
Pain, mere thralls, all the thralls, figurations, blessings

eat the black milk please and do too much littleness to make a soiree
of your lo-fi bedroom demo recording because life is too skinny and too
long in measurement to deny the gross host. Of any party his or her own
music, lo-fi or no-fi, yolo, yoo-fucking-hoo, careless hun: man,

these doers thinkers sayers around us politic the shit out of piss, gab
gadding for godheads asf they mouths was big as the word, a nice dug
tomb for rapidly

approaching, individual-apoplexy. My tears thus shed are brine. An
element introduces itself: you have no name for it but chemically it
makes sense. Whatever it is, it is not like the tears. Perry,

his name. And if the wedded gads towards the first thinking make lorn
what sufferance-candles given to the music, why then cant nigh lo-fi
close round us, like some passing storm,
itttt5j43^{^k^(%*GKG>54,5$T%$*("{}

closes, makes barriers, defiles the witnessed ghosts witness, for the
ghost was made to be witnessed. And the whiteness of water remains
translucent to the normal eye, the white blackness of my tears, that
is, and, well,

Luddy Wit remarks: was Goethe sensible, sensible or just mourning, and
have any of us seen pure white, much less

anything

pure? qua being, I am, redundantly, a pouring out of the jug. The mans
in need of some purity, the muse says for me, apologetically, to you,
abstruse, omnipotent eyes. Let him speak. And the best I can hope for
for to rectify whatever battered muse, that is, for coming to my
defense, and existing the way she does for me, enough to be a separate
voice, well, the partygoers answer that with

their demos: their bickering and rough grades of self: all, it is given
to nonsense-shivah, all is. And if it is indeed an it, at least I know
then, my lo-fi logic can exist in not existing, hun, and the being an
observation upon being, the being of the brainy selfhoods hooded-over
capitulations: a thing more Zimmerman than any candy bar: and myself
innocent and observing what witnesses me for my muses sake: this wall
of musical, translucent, teary-eyed ghosts, these breakers of the lock,
this only hermitage of me in me, and the muse waving outside, looking
up in the window at nothing as I sit viewing the recording of last
nights big soiree, big badness of metaphor and amply-mourned rancour
for the hellish wonderfuls. Me once to be like ghosts in tears, and
watching from the opposite pole faith, quenched in a

burning bed sidding on the side of a bed of lo-fi buzzing, milky
flames, hundreds, hun, all massive, all massive, massive.

ACTIVE RESPONSE:

"somehow i think all this turmoil in my head will actually assist me
second guessing
can make you callous
or wise

i talked to my friend about kierkegaard
and i feel as though he wrote his best stuff after the pain
he emerged from it

and its reflected in the paradoxes and frustration

and at times the appearance of a lack of clarity
but his point

is that you dont need clarity
to make an accurate philosophical statement

that its not as simple as, this is inflated
masturbation, or this is a crystallized thought

"if you define me, you negate me"

i hope you understand

the main obstacle in my life is the sense of being a cretin or a
charlatan in the eyes of others, that im just mentally masturbating,
which i get from my mother unfortunately. shes like, youre too
complicated, and by that she means, youre too arbitrary, but not
complex.

ive put in years of reading
and writing
still

to this day

i know what i mean
always

i know what i mean so deeply and well that i know when i am explaining
it poorly in speech, which is at this point an automatic assumption
that can turn quite ugly. the words tho, the words written! thats what
sustains me. i work my ass off to be informed about what it is that i
must know. and despite what my mom thinks, there is no element of
posturing or faking or anything, besides as an anxious jerking of the
knee.

i hate fakery,
its one of the worst things

and intellectual fakery is THE most twisted thing i could ever imagine
ever!

i dont see how people can say they know what another person is talking
about when they dont, or lie about what they know!"



EPILOGUE: All comedy has an element of the tragic, pure tragedy is
lived. Written, is an epic seriousness, a situation, if you will,
unable to be ignored. But written tragedy is comical, somewhat; a near
melodrama for to battle what sadness of insincerity, lived banality, a
song for this, but no honor. For I know nothing.

By the meed of a growing day,
Grow the wants that rise with me.
Wants yet unattained, yet long kept stowed

As these meagre dreams that stay
Securely locked;

They feed a separate soul of me
Whose passion must be kept aflame
OR else Ill see that I have died (when life quit knocking at my door.)

It seems to me that an acute belief of the WORLD as infinitely variable
would be just as stupid a conviction as of one who believes the WORLD
still flat, and that, the circumstances of that WORLD were run on
complete tho articulate, neverchanging standards. Like all things, it
is a mixture of both.

I guess. In greatness, the great person may understand that the WORLD
is variable, and in constant fluxhowever, they themselves by their
character would be unwavering. Would will themselves this. Greatness
deceives one into thinking or possibly informs one that thinking
themselves a giant, complete in themselves, always sure of the next
step to take, is how they themselves should be. If only to go contrary
to what is considered, so as to feed the imaginative disposition,
regarding what is most surprisingly original.

They know what they want to do and they do ithow could they not? The
more we practice at something, the better we get at it, by increments.
So, then, that person is a mixture, in how what they believe externally
differs very much from their posture towards their own future, present,
and past. For no genius denies the variability of the universe. People
of greatness must be of solid character, and yet know that such
assurance does not exist in others, and by this also see an inherent
humility regarding the WORLD at large and themselves in comparison to
those others.

They consist of everything and nothing. By committing to being great,
they are liable to implodethey are not themselves, they are not a
personality, they are that idea of the greatness of all persons. In
order to become a solid character one must also become a fictive man, a
man for allall our human pathos. Fictive, regarding what wavers and
does not; wavering when it is sure, and not when it is unsure. Such
lends to the coherence of what is imaginative.

In order to accomplish what they need to accomplish, people of
greatness must sacrifice the idea of being themselves, the idea of a
personality.

I have always thought my stance on my future, regarding what I want to
do with it, to be variable, howeverand, I do believe I have a
personality, I think. And these things are not really qualities of
greatness.

"The story goes that shortly before or after his death, when he found
himself in the presence of GOD, he said: I who have been so many men
in vain want to be one man only, myself." The voice of GOD answered him
out of a whirlwind: Neither am I what I am. I dreamed the WORLD the
way you dreamt your plays, dear Shakespeare. You are one of the shapes
of my dreams: like me, you are everything and nothing."Borges
Part Two : Rainbow Hat

Much of life I have made out now. There arefew cold places left where
the stone has been spared turning. I guess then theres nothing left to
describe, besides the shit.

Rather, the assurance of true chaff, that it is indisputably chaff. No
matter if I am ambivalent about this, no matter if there is a yet-to-
be-found object-thought or thought-absolute to in one moment sway me
further in the direction of some cosmic, invaluable point, thisthe
shit, the trash, detrituspresently, I describe.

A subject like this rings true to me. I have known this on an implicit
level for some time. That is to say, a philosophical anaemia is there.
In me, right?is palpably there, yeah, sitting like mushrooms or
growths of some kind and left to spread and burgeon from the dead
chambers of myself and to center its birth and to nourish itself alone
and disgusting in the knots of those deep deeps, bad with fluid and
bile,humid, odious, reeking. Etc.

Mine is a muse without a platform besides words that do not satisfy, do
not wish to satisfy, because they do not know the subject of which they
are unwittingly orbital.

However this muse is nearer to a presence than the weight I feel myself
carry in even walking down the street. To deny myself the power of
doing the thing only exacerbates the problem of what a true meaning
is,the problem being my own intellectual diet or rather a lack of food
for thought at all.

My blood longs for iron; my heart beats slower by the day; my eyes
roll; my organs shift, I sense it, from place to place within myself. A
weak belly and a heart of trash to handle and direct to whatever
purpose this tangle of viscera and loam.

Truly it is right to observe that I am reminded on these infinite days
and nights that all loop beyond apotheosis and thus do not culminate
but rather complicatetruly, I am reminded of how very mortal I am but
also I wonder if I happen to feel close to dying not because of a
physical strain on a body far from connate with its head but rather
because of some metaphysical omen or premonitory wheedling that my
brain backs into and makes salient and tumorous.

But it is something spiritual as well. It is a sensing of the nonsense
and of the teetering on nonsense all that attempts at transparent
expression highlight and provoke.

I feel in such a way that I am in proximity with the void; whether what
I speak of is the void in my character, pneuma, animus, etc. or some
more cerebral, epistemological stick i the ribs is beyond me and
indeed not for me to know.

My mind is starving and has been, always, and to me now is left a
wealth of shit to siphon through and make into an order most
unremarkable and perhaps debased. Chaff. That surreal analytic I have
stuck to desperately in spite of the hunch that, like a broken clock, I
am so far right only twice a day. Such patience with my own sense of
logic was not easy to come by. A logic, which in itself especially if
or rather once I enter into it despises any name for its motion nor
does it accept a reason for its reason.

Sad to say that the paucity and the teetering and breaching and overall
state of flux of this limited universe of mine might just always need
and how sad a nonsense-shivah or to put it another way a meaningless,
nonsensical, contrived absolute that is yet an outlier and which for
this reason is necessarily remote from human getting.

Such is, and was, all I have ever been obsessed in wresting to lifeor
at least to lively wordswhich by this string of endlessly
circumnavigated argument in a dull pitch of internalization, conflict
and rage shall be naught, and for naught but alivelycollapse. Death.
So then, let me remark on the death of chaff

Shall I drown the silence with a jabbering and have no true thought be
thought in this fey though disconsolate speechlessness, this drudging
offuckingchaff, of scrapings?

The lost ideas, the lost buzzings, the embellishments, yeah, those
useless thingshahwell I do say, why ascribe richness to this if not
to chain myself in covenant to the most unseen, gruelingly small
microbe or atom of a relevance?

That iswell, what of this train of thought? What of what I chase? Are
these thoughts already much arrived at their destination and if so
could it be that what I have been able to make out of events,
experiences, harassments, trialsis a makeshiftto barely hold me up?
Fuck all. Why forever quiver my mouth before the utterance or devour
these tired hands in an eternal fucking clonus?

Meaning is everywhere, though. Even if only to be recognized via
anxiety and mental entrapmentyeah, its there, its there, in the
atom, only, only in the smallest atom. And if I did not know this for a
fact then I would not write these hideous, insignificant things.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In Whitmans Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, we see he notices a woman on an
opposite ship, wearing all white. He then ruminates on her delving into
the watery solution of the New York his ferry treads:

A corrupt petri dish, a wealth of shimmering waves, whatever way you
choose to look at the forgotten; and to be absorbed into this N.Y.
milieu forever.

But what of that which comes away, falls off, crumbles, only to in this
portray itself all the more oracular, biblical, there?

Such a thing denies its first rightful place, perhaps, for a second,
perhaps third, better one. The ambivalence created by this is
staggering, as it is, we do not know when this serendipity will take
us. So we wait.

So perhaps it does hope to see itself, so long dismissed, come to the
light later, with patience. And perhaps the Surreal Attitude of we whom
are dissenters fights for to be recognized in the darkest and dankest
places. We are without a proper mould, without a way of growing,
because of the dissent. As it has been with any rebellion, there is an
awkward stage, and we push against our bones.

To deny oneself the immediate explosive material even for a hatred of
normalcy, however impractical, leads to the best sort of truths,
though.

An anger for the suns leaping flame, angrily given by the sun and for
so long to spill us out into these living beatitudes. We should have
been made peaceful by this unrest, a sacrifice. And yet the hydrogen
dies, we fear, and all that is feeling felled.

And then we are THERE. We hit the dirt and shockwave like angels
plummeting from the vasty sky, and send all that was, that has
been, to dust. We leave those irrelevant pieces on the floor, have
already leveled the idols, the horrific monolithsof what so long we
had perceived chain poor others to their stone.

Pithy commencements of absurd naming, fake ideal, and wrongful praise
for wrongful reasons. All of it goes to rubble. Because, well, we
waited it out. We shaped shapelessness. We stifled our gorge long
enough to spew more angst than a World of angst could fit.

Sending a girth of hydrogen and fire out to ripple and then die for
all. All whom are still yet locked glumly within the cumbersome spaces
of culture, society, indifference and ultimatum.

On the other hand what disappears forever, that is, might be as
beautiful and might in its tragic, sudden explosion prove the cheapness
of what lasts arbitrarily, because it is the way, because it derives
from what has been.

Sometimes what must be done must be done until it is done right, which
involves perpetual creating, not for the sake of names, and not for the
sake of nothingness, but for the sake we make our own name that others
can only ever perceive as nothingness, and grand; an illumination of
the personality of the imagination, the singular myth.

And so: these names that have been. They are fiends, fiends because
they no longer recognize themselves as equally myth. Too much time have
they waited that they no longer wait but merely, stubbornly exist. They
forget, they too wait as we do, for the next greatness to usurp them.

They. They, prancing and scoffing at the fire of us, in us, of we who
do not name, since, well, the idea will die out, as it always has, and
leave the prolonged surface of this swampy void to stagnate further: so
that such horrible things might still feast on the lichen-matter of
what is left of our dim heads: we who hunger no longer for expression
but perhaps a bit of peace, of the nothingness they of a culture, they
of a society, rule over and give us in pitiful, tapering amounts, like
methodone to the addict.

But we make, we make and make, and know something is wrong throughout,
and continue to flare up and die out. The tragedy of course is that
this will be the case forever. The strength here, as with any dissent,
is that how one goes about exploding will always be the same. In this,
there is a sadness too, that the perpetuity of all things we cannot
escape, and the namers we cannot escape.

The difference however is a crucial one: that there are things still to
shore up on the beach. Flotsam. Jetsam. Collage. Shapelessness as the
axiom by which to judge the furious confusions life subjects us to. We
die, and find ourselves underground with knowledge only of the void.
What then is this obsession with stillness, static mores? Such a thing
would make one feel desperate, each of these is a death in itself
because it lasts. It lasts longer than it should, and we the
representations of that ghostly pallor, when once things had made
sense. We are the ghosts of what is sensible, so of course we too are
sketches, barely there, or remainders, bones. Not much is left but to
waken the technique of expressing the invisible, in vibrant colors. The
invisible is not nothingness, it is what cannot be seen but is. Add
colors, and the drama of absurdity breaks through, that we have our own
glass through which to approximately judge a sense of things to be.
Maybe forever to be, a constant coming-up like waves plashing on the
shore, driving the bits of wood and debris from the fearful naufrage.

The new will always need to be expressed as the new, which of course is
why the rebellion is the same. The nature as to what is rebelled
against, however, need be examined. Perhaps it is still to be examined.
Off of what do we base our dissatisfaction? What is going to waste, and
what needs to change, and how do we do it?

Consider this a call to people who understand transience as the most
permanent idea. And perhaps the woman whom we suffer the gaze of, does
the same of us. Perhaps the Surreal Attitude, no, it very muchisthe
only thing that can ride the wake of an ever changing wave, because it
rejects even the standard of naught. The flare of the sun you feel, it
aches in this formative way, it aches for meaning to dazzle itself to
life, however much this means it goes out, and all the World in
darkness.

Perhaps we cannot be the sun but together can make a lightbulb go off
so bright it shorts out, and kills us all.

Into the birth of a new imagery we go, an imagery of the poetic art, of
a woman seen, only for a moment, seen and remembered, though she never
knows.

And perhaps what seems to be killed off is stored in someones,
anyones mind, is remembered, after the moment passes, maybe ten years
along the line, remembered, while the beautiful person him or herself
goes on none the wiser in a darkness they caused, long ago, when they
in rebellion against the void, they, as in, all us, flared up their own
weakened brightness of the sun, and revealedthat voidto be naught,
and themselves everything, and culture, and society, and standards of
any kind, the most perilous dimness. I must only wait to hear
yourselves speak your own surreal women, and then will know again what
must return in the minds of those, like us, forever to be in their
tragedy of loss, in fighting against the void.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Am I really all the things that are outside of me?"

Animal Collective

Dignity in words ironically is not as dignified an ideal however an
ideal is what it will remain and should remain. It is strange that for
how futile it is to do there is not much in it. It seems to me to be an
imaginative deluding. A prank.

Words are little boxes. What is it in them to which the speaker could
relate her terrible greatness? Perhaps dignity itself is a pretense
however I like to think that there is something outstanding about the
human race. It wont be expressed and that is why it is outstanding; it
wont ever be expressed. So then it is the only certainty I know of
when I think of how much things fucking change.

It is the only constant and it is the only thing that cannot exist. I
havent read a lot of Nietzche but I know a few things and when the man
said that god is dead, god remains dead, I thought to myself that
that statement mostly was important for what it suggests.

If god is dead then whatever it was, at the least, once was, and so
then once was not dead.

How after all might something die if it did not once live? This is how
I view the limits of words and this is how I recognize their concrete
efforts to explain as quite ignoble. We are riding on the wake of a
nonexistence or rather a nonsense so potent that it to this day plagues
others upon hearing any sure statement made by someone else with a
sense that that assurance is somewhat laughable, at least if one
bothers to look deeper into the idea of wordslanguageas an
approximate detailing of a world itself there approximately.

The only difference between the reality of expression and just reality
is that expression is and can only be inaccurate and yet it attempts at
clarity because at times we all have had clear heads and have felt
transcendent things. Whereas reality by its natureat least, to one who
has had the pleasure of losing control and all sense of reasonis a
thing that is palpably not what it is and which never possessed such a
fantastical clarity as a mind might have in the moment indicated as
truth.

But inaccurately expressing an inaccurate reality is not like fighting
fire with fire and most importantly my perception and how I relate that
perception to otherstranslate itis not a mirror to represent that
ever-pale, ever-tired countenance looking backthat penumbrathat
inaccurate perspective.

Rather because expression itself stems from a source or absolute
reality that is and must be questionableobviouslywhat is wrought,
viciously, from this void, is a thing that should by all accounts be
itself slightly questionable.

Again, though, just because a persons view of reality is equally as
tenuous as reality itselfwellthis does not mean that in their shared
lack of a core definition they are the same and if so would not be
discernable from one another. If what I saw was what I saw I would be
what I saw and any ego or sense of self would dissipate immediately. In
order for one to know thyself, it must happen that there is a
difference between theirown internal and external world.

The only thing, as I said, that is constant, is the lack of god, of an
absolute; this void, truly, is our guiding light because it is eternal
and is the only thing that really is what it is.

Absence instigates need, thus, my reactions to reality might change
though what stirred them in my own conscious mind is forever the same.
In other words, nothingness is god, god is nothing, god does not exist
because nonexistence is the only absolute and, moreover, to speak
bluntly, is the only thing I can think of that is both accurate and
variable, static and dynamic, because how, quite literally, everything,
every goddamn thing, reacts to this eternal voidwhich, to say it
again, will always be a different reaction, untrustworthy, tenuous, and
most of all liable to changeis as important a part of the void as the
void itself. And this system, this absurd system, sadly, is no joke,
and is of course no greatness.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

its just as real to think simplicity into complication. each
complexity can stand alone as its own originating thought, if only we
were not stuck in time and context. the complication is as true, as
much an origin, as the simple, and which pertains to something not
unlike, in nature, something of a starting-point, potential energy, and
lost kinetic the blur, for your sake filled in with other thoughts that
might have been as equally simple, had they not started somewhere else.
simplicity is a matter of beginning, a matter of the halo underneath
the head, the one above, others see, and we cant, so you can see your
own differing specialness in our glowing cause, force, ourselves blind
to our own, beholding simplicities everywhere, hanging about the neck
like an albatross. we place the date of a thought in conjunction with
what experience beforehand, never think we might have consciously put
ourselves in that experience so as to have the thought. so then, I say
that I have been heartbroken before, see it origin (as not myself) of
brooding, and stoicisms grace revolts against the committed man to his
loves expanseexpanse being the complication to stoke us fill the void
when were confusedlike a kindly balance, an arc of life, a story, or
some sad Petrarchan song.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Ephemerality. Should I know exactly what I am talking about? When I was
on blow every thought in my head lacked implication; so then every
thought I had was what it was. There was nothing more to get because I
couldnt see beyond the thought I was having into the thought I would
have had had I not been on blow. In a way it was like an intellectual
stagnation. My brain lacked the ambition to go to a level it was
uncomfortable in inhabiting and rather inhabited, stagnated, within
whatever concept or series of ideas uncomfortably.

Uncomfortable, because this was not how it usually was. Things werent
that simple. There was always more to an idea than I could immediately
fathom. The true hell is to be in a place like this but in-between one
idea, concept, and another. So that one, I, is, am in the midst of
confusion, and, frighteningly, the WORLD becomes confusion, because the
fugue is the fugue is the fugue and there is no longer a need to
understand and shape a thought.

The thought itself does not present to you, me, more that it could be
and is rather, as I said, what it is. So in other words, the abstract
becomes concrete. Imagine an animal, any animal, suddenly blessed with
knowledge of its existence but not an understanding of what that
entails. Give any animal an ability to be aware of abstract things
without an ability to understand abstract things and find that animal
eternally tortured.

This is hell because your, my, mind, at points like these is in a most
abstract place and yet, unlike abstraction, how you, I, perceive it is
very much concrete, is in no need of expanding into something more
illuminating,which, ironically, would involve a sort of concept-
futurity or hope for clarity or at the least reconcilement that could
only come in embracing the blur of thoughts and lighting up that fugue
via more fugue.

Perhaps one way to do it is to follow confusion with deeper confusion
that by contrast illuminates or rather highlights the spots of clarity,
in whatever thought previous. But this cannot happen if youre yakked
out, because. Of course. Ones. My. Train of thought simplifies into
whatever inhabits my mind at the time and there is no blurry ideal of
transcendence to slouch towards, no implication to clarify, no future
for the thought. In a way, blow can rob a mind of poetics, can leave a
train of thought as no such train, as hopeless and meagre, as a lapse
drudged to lifeless fucking life.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But one must know what I am trying to do with language here. So I will
tell you that too.

Generally speaking, it is an attempt to show people the difference
between words as they are understood, and words as to how they feel,
but in a sense of a poetic kind of reasoning, rather than purely poetic
images, meditations, tropes. It is poetry-as-philosophical, or poetry
comprised solely of thoughts, at least, in a few cases. It is in so
many words viewing poetry as having its own form of logic anyway,
despite the absence of strictly poetic, confessional or anecdotal
content.

It is my own form of reason displayed in a diction that is, to me, a
communication: I as an indirect medium, and the soul of myself
portrayednot as a contradiction itself, though perhaps as one once
translated. I liken it to perhaps describing the invisible.

If what is in me cannot be defined then in translating that I am closer
to what it is on its own as a concept, but I am less the manifestation
of what it is on its own. However this weave is not made with a
smattering of contradictory statements or meaningless imagery, to
indicate the unfathomablebut instead, it is rage, rawness, bliss,
confusion, moreover, the hopeless tragedy of my pursuit in
deconstructing it. However

that I suspect, is not only harmful, but futile. Deconstructing the
soul.

Really, I would do better to wipe the word soul off the face of the
planet, have people know whatever it were to them implicitly, and
without a name, or even words on it. But no generation could and we
still cannot vividly see enough and know this eternity in ourselves
enough at least (as it should be) to leave it without a referent able
to be acknowledged. If we knew vividly (though implicitly) the nature
of what is in us that is unnamed, we as people would find it quite
harmful to ascribe anything earthly that unnamed thing.

It should be noted, too, that words themselves are earthly, and
language is. And this is the only contradiction; that the argument of
these poems, as a whole perspective, is sound, has to do with a
recognition of this very divide, implicitly or explicitly. Whether this
is a flaw or merely the way things are well I believe, it is the
way things are.

As I am swiftly discovering, my only subject ever has been the soul.
Mine; and the idea of it in others. But to even express the soul as an
idea is faulty. For I cannot know the soul of another as I would mine.
If I tried my hand at it, I would probably base whatever conflated
idea of the soul I have off of my own as a general platform on which
to judge this. And I would rather say it is not there, in those others,
as much as to others it is not there in myself. Because it isnt.

At least, ones perception of it isnt. Not even my own. But as you
will see, or rather as I will tell you, perception has nothing to do
with whats eternal, eternally pure, in people.

Indeed, such is the case with, even, you, as to the point of view of
seeing me as anything but flesh, body, mind.

So then, the soul defies logic. It refuses communication with anything
earthly in this.

I think of what I am saying in the context of work I have done in the
past. Perhaps, if people gave themselves to an unearthly reasoning,
they might better see what it is in them that is sublime.

This takes an enrapturing principle, however, and thats why art is
important. It feeds the impatience with truth those, and myself, have,
by shrouding it in a storyline, or imagery. My poetry, here, is an
attempt to lift that shroud; as I said, the words express only the
logic of poetry at large, at its base. And that is why I think on a
philological, critical level these recent words of mine are important.
Because, they enrapture, yes, in a different way.

It is simple enough to say, You see things this way; I see them
another. Look at both sides.

But regarding thesoulof a man or woman this is impossible. The soul,
indeed, has no choice but to see what it sees as what it sees, which is
whyand, regrettably, I must relent to an idea of it in order to state
my pointit is unreachable, unreachable, by any standard of
perspective, perception, retrospect, et al. It is that Eternal Self
that Kierkegaard saw and which is apart from all of these, perhaps
anything involving a period of time at all. Unwavering, stubborn. It
cannot be touched or influenced.

The soul exists uniquely in each person; so then there is no identity
to it nor definition, so sensitive it is, as we cradle it in our hands,
like a childto the sharp sting of categorical thoughts, empirical
postulates. Thoughts after all are a remark on what is observed; in any
case, the soul is not to be seen there. And that is the conflict here
presented: namelessness throbbing in my gut, asking for a name, and
rejecting every one I give.

This lends one to think of themselves as unhappy, but I prefer to see
it as a multi-layered, infinite negation. A wealth of Nay! that I in my
soul will undoubtably pursue to its Yea! and from there on to the next
Nay I come across.

That is, there will always be something I recognize in each point I
make, upon moving on to another, that dignifies at the least the notion
I had visited, for a time. Each of the half-thoughts, half-ideas, only
express the closest thing a soul can get to in words: securely between,
pure out of an ignorance of impure defining. It is not an inflated,
lofty philosophical discovery I commit to in this but an appreciation
of the mechanism of my own soul, which is to swerve away from the most
possible to the least possible in the shortest space. Its called
poetic crossing. And as well as an artist it is my duty to bring some
of it with me, organize a few points, and make the shape.

To think, even, that one has defined their own soul has put it to bad
use; this is such a highly regarded belief that I dont think anyone,
even atheists, would say otherwise about it. Their soul is a psychology
that is just as true as to its being unfathomable.

I believe something so outstanding and righteous would be no other way,
without a feeling of similarity settling in as to indulge the fear of
powerlessness. That is, that we upon viewing clearly (hypothetically)
anothers soul the same as ours might either be frightened that we have
been someone whom we are not all this time; or that the inner ways of
man are expressly limited to a set of souls, which I find
preposterous.

So then in this variegation I cannot say any soul exists besides my own
because it is what colors my eyes, my touch, my senses. It bleeds
through me and because of this is my immediate and moreover static
WORLD. So then it is immediate, but not fleeting. On the contrary: I
can say of my ownsoulthatitis unchanging, and exists only for me
tonot usebut feel and act on.

I have felt and acted thus in these works, then:

First, I have come to learn to indicate in words, quite frequently, a
massive flaw present in my reasoning somewhere unheeded as yet by
myself and that forever comes up against the pride of the soul, as like
two waves crashing together in a tempest. The words are through which
my soul breathes but are not contingent on them to breathe and so then,
it breathes on despite my faltering. Breathes in gusts while as the
waves crash I struggle for calm and an order to the sky. I struggle to
place there the lighter, calmer clouds as they billow up out of my
ears.

The soul is an insensible thing, because it is not applicable to any
circumstance, is sheepishly unaware of everything because unaffected by
all. The forced circumstance here of course is that of words for the
soul, put into words, with an attempt at accuracy. Rigid, focused
methods for too long I had assumed were applicable enough. But accuracy
can involve vagary, and confusion, if these are aspects on a higher
level of the thing you are shaping. Maybe what is being described is
not so proper, but perhaps the higher representation of what it is you
see as you write, if it is the soul, will pull the loose threads well
enough through the heddle of the loom.

Moreover sense is a bad player for any description on behalf of
something so invisible. It has the capability to be touched. And
distorted, amended. There is purity in nonsense for a reason, so to
speak. Not that the words convey truth, but are an attempt at a moment.
It is history I speak of. These poems are evidence of my personal
history of having a soul, a timeline for this.

Of course, a timeline for something so outside of time is bound to have
clashing elements, if only they be the tempest I have going with each
petty thrust of my heart. Moreover,

they are long, the poems, very, some of them extremely. And yet this is
extensiveness to prove my point. One gets caught up in this work, if
they seize it. If they really see the merit, the merit will show
itself, eventually, line after line proving a point that is meant to be
no immediacy but to sink in, as one reads. If you give it a chance, it
will enrapture, whether you have knowledge of poetry or no.

Needless to say, of course a stripping-down to poetrys logic, poetry
itself an inexpressible as the soul, would be, funnily enough, the
clearest way to make a roadmap, whereby one like myself can better
understand what is within. Add an anecdote, an earthly matter, and you
as a writer remove yourself from what is on your mind as you write,
furiously. It is the heart of the matter of my soul that interests me,
in all of its rage and rawness and whatnot. And this has nothing to do
with anything reasonable. It is to be envisioned in the minds eye, not
worked out which is the case with strict, formal philosophical
arguments. That of course is the prize: that you will see something as
you read take shape. My poetic-dialectic is clear I have no doubt, but,
can one really say they have made a skeleton of what is inside of them,
accurately, to the most sniveling degree? I believe I have.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Odd figuresperhaps ten or twentygrouped restless, witless on the
broad margent of that river stand in their odd way and click out noises
which come out the dry flue of their throats as like somewhat tortured
sounds or sounds tortured to lifewrested uglily to life.

The odd figures or things stand in the slew of the jetsam come wading
off that rivers endlessness. Their made sound is communicative of a
threat however what it is these blue vagaries know of that is
threatening is not to be determined. The clicking is yet rather wild
with the freedom of peace, of knowing peace. That river flows like
glass to a big place in the distance not to be perceived which is why
like glass it does not seem to move.

Things dive in there and go hitting off the sides. Things hit off the
sides and ricochet madly until entering a crack in the glass. In
entering the murk of that static pool, that river, whatever had
ricocheted will go way down to the bottom of it. And what stands there
on the margent feeling the lapping of the sand and then dives into a
river yet unmoving and gross if taken in to mean the dynamism of all
rivers and confluences will go off into the disappearing thickness of
it and never return.

There is a line of men or to say it more accurately figures whom one of
this world gets the feeling of knowing well and yet they are
unapproachable as ones noon-shadow shed on the ground is them and yet
not them. Each man takes his place among the stones and each man is a
figure and each stone smooth and tonsil-like very much reminiscent of
graves.

One out of them crawls through the stones and shapes an arroyo in the
mud to drink from. And then as though that were arbiter of some change
in the universe the day goes laughing into the pure margins of that
firmament beyond the dam, dwelt like a red, flagrant kiss grown smaller
with another days hissing out and then darkness. But the night comes
too and more are found to people the shadows come against the bush,
more men to dig in the mud and tend to thirst and die finally and for
all time between the stones.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There is a difference between an absurd system and absurd art and there
is a difference between a philosophy of logical entrapment and somesuch
one of---redemption. Regarding the latter part of this incurring
philosophical method: in both one must rule out certain elements. But
it is how you rule them out which determines whether you doom life to
its primary meaning or distil a thing to its exclusive purpose.

Regarding the former incurring two different planes of absurdity: in
both there is an hypothesis based in the idea of correction, that
something is wrong; what is to be learned is why we are able to know it
as wrong,---and, moreover, how I, the writer of these words, can
implicitly relate to whatever "it" is, and yet I do not know exactly
what "it" is.

Through an emptying of clutter, we acquiesce to the idea that clutter
there is to be rid of---that there are unnecessary parts to the whole
as there might be unnecessary ideas in our minds. But an unnecessary
idea is based only in how it is ultimately received; it is a matter for
the history books, quite literally. In the same way a minute passes and
is either absorbed into forgetting or remembered yet tenuously. The
idea that things can go to the wayside is what riles up in us the
sentiments of the absurd. Indeed, an impermanent standpoint regarding
the way of sense in a WORLD run by the megrims of human feeling is most
unlucky for us, who want nothing more than to qualify an absolute via
an absolute, unchanging, unyielding, merciless method.

But is not a futile existence existence enough? Off of what do we gauge
our own dissatisfaction with life? What must be corrected besides a
refusal to accept the truth of our situation? Not much. A redemptive
philosophical search leads one from either the subjective to the
objective, or the objective to the subjective. However, in no case can
there have been an explicit journey towards an explicit absolute. In
the same way, a broad statement might be understood by the sayer in a
way it might not be by the listener.

One can easily manifest an opinion out of their own semantical
aptitudes in raveling ellipses and wordplay and yet that is the worst
strategy to use to rid oneself of the chaff. In such a way, one runs
the risk of throwing themselves out with what they think is needless,
so tied they are to the poetry of their argument that they hurl their
own identity into oblivion for the sake of irony, and leave what could
have been said to be puzzled over by others, who in their turn are
likewise hurled. That is to say, we are all poets, and what touches us
about the WORLD is what is poetical about the WORLD.

An absurd system is based in reality; absurd art is a blatant, and
thereby poetic, denial of the truth. This applies both figuratively and
literally. The idea that we are alone in the universe is artful in that
it reflects the feeling of an individual alienation from others. It is
poetic because we are able to relate to a larger scope of things by
means of an atomic scope; that is, ourselves.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have felt something of chaos in the wind. But if I knew once if at
all what possessed air to move I do not know now.

This is an airless place. Compressed, damp. What I thought I understood
is understood and yet it is so much blankness against more pale void.
And yet nature is no poverty it is I who lack the words. If there were
such a thing as life I would only too easily ascribe meaning to the air
I breathe.

Wind changes direction though and so then I do not have much to say
besides that I would rather be or you know exist in a vacuum if only
for the sake of perspective. If only for the sake of knowing that I
need air to move and change and need to feel this motion and its ever-
altering velocities.

To be hermetically sealed is to be safe indeed however I am become more
obsessed in the chaos as of late and like to express such things in a
mannered way so that I may at least see this contrast in airless
language, if I cannot be robbed of wind.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There is beauty perhaps somewhere in this negative and Spartan world
and it is still to eke out in full back towards an equally full
opposite-as-peace that will assuredly be gotten insofar as it can be
redeemed by the ardor of a thing gone, presently chased; presently, to
be chased, presently to wear the soles of ones two feetbrittle with
callus.

And it is in the world, it could only be possible in this world that
what one sees as numb agitation or perhaps a static fit of the brain
renders itself clearer if in a poetic way.

And sadly and abruptly and briefly exposing its frailties, this
beautiful listlessnessas one speaks of itruns off, and one is left
unfeeling.

And so one starts to chase it, madly, so as to return to a place, any
place,any source from whence this weak or to say it better, gentle
theme of listlessness had contrived itself forward and on to be made
senseless and insignificant by the caprice and buckling of onesown
personal sphere of repetitious fucking emotions.

This lassitude, ennuiwhatever you would like to call it, it is, has,
will rule.

Because, simply, one has let it rule so long and has roused to life so
much of it that it seems kind of that one has altered in the face of
some bafflementlike receiving windher own passions, pale and stricken
by the curse of that wind; that rather one has become the one who now
knows he cannot, will not, let such a thing depart, for fear of the
ugliness it might have shrouded for all that time,for fear, yes, of
what had dwindled once one had let that listlessness be the whole of
themself.

So, then, one stays on with it, like an irritating lover of some time,
and whom with some time loses a shade to her oddity and in a snap of
fingers is instead all the reciprocated had desired, if only because
the love given is consistently returneddown both streetsthough once
as alien a reaction to the blusters of a windy brain as no reaction at
all or maybe a parallel expectedness forever bouncing off itself but
never into a proper oblivion.

As if one reacted to a linear nothingness oftheirown double.

So listlessness has been ones habitation and is couched in each pore,
whether it is an open pore or is to remain obstructed by the dirt of
their irrelevant being.

Or perhaps irrelevant dirt with a good gust drooping and following that
awaiting the right pitch to groan in the lorn pass of a zephyr might
lose patience and alight thus from its place in the atom of ones
rendered skinlike plaster,always on the verge of a fixity to clog the
hope of small flesh, particular flesh, with what is mean and hopeless.

One is only ever the being they strove to affirm; the hope of being
alive, like these words, is an ideal made lax, and not firm, no, not so
firm.

But one continues, one grows digressions out of the first thing; the
first, unvarnished truth and to overfill this cup of weeping.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

If addiction were a disease itd be an epidemic. Everyones fucked up,
some people just like getting fucked up more. Or everyones fucked up
to start with people just like getting fucked up as a way to pretend
they hadnt been previously. Sometimes people feed the bad side and
sometimes they feed the good side however whats true for a given
asshole walking the streets is that both sides are equally them. Im
not saying everyone is the same rather that everyone has trouble
reconciling something about their identity, something, anything; and
this creates a wedge between all that they realize they are and every
thought or part of themself or thought on a part of themself that
cannot come to grips with this irreconciliable thing and thus cannot
fully be there, not fully IN the conscious mind of the given asshole,
and not then in a fully real and by extension more acceptable way. So
then the wedge becomes the irreconciliable, the split in who you are;
and whatever had at first been unacceptable is now layered over with
millions of other things that are as repugnant, but not as truly
related to what had started you spiraling. Its focusing on collecting
the blood drawn from the wound, rather than on stitching up the wound
itself. Eventually you will find yourself bloodless and the ground
beneath your feet painted red with your waste, all you have let of
yourself

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Come close. Im not here but I try to be. If I were anything more than
what you could make possible then I were a thing too riled by the
compression of what I have spent so much time attempting to unfold and
thus disintegrate. You are what has come in and out; you are the
lengthy pallor I drive over significance to keep it up. So you could
talk about how what was understood was not realized nor what was talked
about very significant. I try to be here. I try to be here next to your
logic. I inhabit all and everything that that statement before the
confession to connect, yes, to connect to you, who reads this, all
this, compressed into, highlighted and signified, without a knowledge
of what might just or just not be united, verily, verily, some intimacy
similarly understood, realized, what have you, by something outside of
what it effects. I am outside of what I effect but only in that I
refuse to have that be me, at least now.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Its all pages now. My life is only pages. Thats all it is. Pages I
flip through and finish with. But there is more to me than that. Its
not that there must be, it is that there is. I know. I wish I could
have figured out exactly what was inexpressible about me. But I suppose
thats why its inexpressible. If I knew it I either wouldnt know it,
know it wrongly as the wrong thing; or I would express it upon the
discovery and that would be that and I would find myself blank once
again, to be filled, like pages, with words that always tell me what
they cannot express, what I fail at doing. And somehow I think this is
transcendent. Really I am only emptying myself of meaning, more
meaning, every day. I take what I learn and give it to the pages.
Meanwhile I continue to refuse to inhale any meaning for myself, refuse
to keep what I learn as me rather than as words. Perhaps the
inexpressible thing about me is what I have become due to this
affliction: meaningless. But then, in expressing that, I am rid of
that, as well. So then I say that all this is a pack of lies, yeah, and
maybe everything I have ever externally said in external words reflects
nothing but itself, exists outside of this disquieted person that I am,
looking in on a blur, and most importantly coming to no conclusion at
all since what I write is what I see, and what I see of myself is
blurred, so then what I write of myself is a translation, a
translation, a digression, an eternal escape, as I said, from defining
what I am afraid to define and indeed what cant be.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .















Part Three : And Shipwrecked Idols

I follow with my eyes the proud and futile wake. Which, as it bears me
from no fatherland away, bears me onward to no shipwreck.

Beckett invented the twentieth century Purgatorio as much as Kafka did
its Inferno, though the output of both writers are definitively
absurdist literature. Beckett knew how to ask the question invariably
well; Kafka's answer is as far out as his castle, which as K. nears--at
a turn in the path--magically, bafflingly, returns to the same distance
from him as it had been. A static, unchanging existence is at the core
of the vision of both writers' works, the difference being that Kafka's
WORLD of bureaucratic nonsense and alienation is, though maintaining a
sense of hope beyond hope, utterly hellish; Beckett's work, though dark
at times, and strange, can be comic. This is not to say that Kafka is
not funny; he is. But where Kafka's characters are human and do human
things--eat, drink, dream, love, and, most importantly, struggle--
Beckett's characters are scarcely human at all, at least a few. They
seem more composites of the writer's consciousness, figures, and the
struggle that is there is not towards redemption but silence. Beckett's
Malloy is completely displaced from anywhere and everywhere--has no
fatherland', so to speak--like most of his characters, is a wanderer
without a place to go. Or, in such and such a way, is forever caught in
a savagely meaningless inertia, yet is, too, safe in the fact of not
knowing nor caring to know the meaning for keeping on with himself, the
destination for his journey, nor from whence he came, nor the point he
is at now. As the quote you sent me demonstrates, however, at least
being wrapped in this pause, this fixed purgatory, this unchanging
continuum, this complacency--the complacency of waiting for that which
might never come--is better than knowing that such a thing, an answer,
will never come. So, then, to be stuck is to be safe, and there is no
'shipwreck': to forever push the boulder up the hill is best because it
is all there is, if our fate has anything to say about this perpetual
masque. At least there is a seeming motion, a wake, a meaning without
meaning, an answer without a question.

. . . . . . . .

"Whats remarkable about our present condition, is that you can make a
tactical input on your computer, and if done with enough skill the
output can be, even a year or two later, the fulfillment of your
strategic goals. This is to say, you will have made a thoughtform
manifest." - - Samuel Dwyer

What gets me up in the morning is the idea of a new piece. Its like
sprouting a new limb from myself; its a part of me but a new part.
That excitement is what gets me to write. The motivation to keep on
doing it. Therere definite flaws, but what I have learned to do is
prize them, almost leaven them to something of a needful place, a place
where they must be for the poem to be. The strange contextual shifts,
parataxis, it is all an emblem for intellectual toys. The cogs that
turn and turn, God playing pinochle. Thats how I always viewed William
Blake: the infinite wheels. And thats what I try to do. Shift the axis
of a poem that makes order out of chaos and chaos out of order. Theres
going to be fugue states; justly, continuous eloquence would be dull. I
wish to shake the ground, really. Make reality tenuous. Take the reader
to a place of some other, new reality. So to compress: I come up with
words that fit this duty. How? Lots of coffee. And, endless study of
myself. Thats what does it. To transcribe the sensuous World that is
me in contact with my soul. I touch with my tactile impressions, is how
Fernando Pessoa says it.

The sensuous World is the World, the apparent World. The soul of the
mind puts itself restless in garnering the outer universe when it does
not follow the protocol of the sensuous World and shouldnt. So then,
my only hope in bringing one into a new reality is by the tools I have,
the tools that are my sight, taste, touch, smell, and hearing. This is
a hindrance and a flaw but as I said there is something to prize about
it, and precisely because it is so human a limit. Poetry manufactures
the World so whos to say one cannot reach the outer universe, stumble
upon or rather launch oneself upon the sword of a new reality sans all
sensing, maybe even reason, and that yet ultimately is an overwhelming
transcendence? We disorganize the senses, as with Rimbaud. So then, one
might consider this somewhat of a suicide. We make them alien and
introduce death into confidences sheer corners. We have the words be a
representation of the outer universe, maybe close to a metaphor for it,
and yet as well we cannot know the outer universe this way, by the
senses, I believe. But poetry manufactures the World. It is an imprint
of the foot of the God-mind, and the concord of the soul my lacing
myself up into it. So then I say all this, that I can do it, and then
say it is done, and it is, and the soul recognized despite all the
shapely death. Simply put: I write the thing, I make it written: and in
this I find it is the same to touch with my tactile impressions.
However it is not the same as unmasking poetry herself, nor the naked,
ontical manner of the World. My perspicuity is lain in what tireless
work with these contradictions, and some of them are indeed absurd to
handle, and but all of it the mellifluousness of my person and soul.
And, they are a hindrance, and they are a prize, for in this absurdity
we find the outer universe in the human animal, apart yet a part; and
the soul of poetry thereof in its representations, apparent realities,
close-to-being-somethings, though perhaps we see not her true face.
Poetry-as-the-truth then is a wealth to find, when you have, especially
when you have found it in those nearly-doomed crevices of confidence
and good faith, those corners this unbearable mind of mine hurtles
myself into. And all of course for the striven to deal with as toys,
once the reality of a poem comes full circle: and perhaps the one
contextual thing not elucidated, not pursued further, is so then never
fathomed except as a beautiful, self-induced flaw in the stitching,
similar to the flaw of nothingness, that the flaw just might be in the
existence of a something: a sphere filled with deft minds and analyzers
amidst its dullard cacophony, its unwieldy, tidy, tenuous, deathly
meticulous, terrifying gape.

What then is the physical manifestation of thoughtforms? Words on the
page? Or what you make in whatever medium? Well that springs from you.
And if you consider yourself at the core as I do to be honest, as I
think everybody is at the core honest, then it does reveal a sort of
means at least. Translating that honesty onto the page is different and
perhaps involves an external understanding of how the effect is
generally received, which is why style is important. But to start from
there is foolhardy. To start from an external, as a means. And in a
good work the ends are the means. The honesty of the individual wrought
honestly. And the mechanism, the action of doing that, is revealed as a
simultaneous detachment from the individual that is really a skill, if
one can keep the intimate natures afloat throughout the process but
still detach from them enough to not be inscrutable (after all, if we
made something only for the intimate natures to understand . . . this
would be most honest but in no way would this be understood at large).
What, I feel, encompasses style, control, and a subduing of erudition,
altogether amounting to poetic restraint, is what should be the main
player in this mechanism of detachment, while we do the thing.
Restraint. There is something mendacious in applying what should really
be a skill to something for intellectual harlequins obsessed with the
ends, with the effect . . . because ultimately such persons have no
willingness to focus their efforts yet are in need of producing en
masse every bit of themselves. Its a spotlight-sickness, and lazy at
that. What people are aware of regarding making their promulgated image
soils the image if its meant to elicit a reaction rather than itself a
reaction to something that has happened to them. So have the image be
the least open to interpretation by having it mean what it means
personally, not stylistically. People have no excuse but to fall back
on the honesty that is an individuals making of the thing for
themselves rather than for a particular external reason. Similar to the
artist who breaks free from the influence of styles by means of
personal crisis that comes about as a universal crisis, seen the
clearer because it is so intimately rendered. The contradiction and
beautiful irony of course is that Tennyson wrote In Memoriam because he
was grieving his dead friend Arthur Hallam. But people read it and
said, Yeah! I see! I understand!"

Moreover, I dont quite get the connection of poetry to that of
politics, that it must be relevant to be relatable. As for empires I
see cultural ones. But perhaps that is the fault of the generation I am
a part of, however much I am wary to keep culture from soiling my
image of myself with what amounts to an inverted kind of plagiarism, an
over-consciousness of the effect, so that we forget what the cause is.
The ideals of today eat themselves by wanting an effect, so then that
is the cause of the work. But the work should come from that intimate
place. All a fancy way to say, live for yourself, but add a larger
scope and more is in need of elucidating, hence the ramble. I think
its amazing however that everyone can catalogue a story of who they
are that actually makes sense, considering the usual nonlinear aspects
of the everyday world. I see what you mean there.

[GOD, I feel, is a thing much the more useful when it has a use. I see
it as GOD-as-idea, a wonderful allegory for the duality of the spirit,
probably the only thing most applicable to duality. In this case, the
use, my use, is in that GOD is existing at present as whatever
initiated function of it there is, still, in its destroying itself. The
function of GODs death is then an eternal ripple, for the extent, and
very much unlike what GOD is conceptually, in this case I mean, what it
ontically was. Indeed, in a religious sense, one feels the pangs of the
ripple, feels the dispute. So goes the allegory: GODitisa
function, now, as opposed to what GOD was, as being: a mere infinite
nothing, a non-being, an utterly useless yet undivided, object. GOD, as
being, was the one impossibility; we are now the impossibility, this
World is, and therefore we are to cover the rest of all logical ground,
which also means we have no bounds because we as people encompass the
bounds. There is no one to give them to to hold. We as people have no
excuse in the case of my little allegory here: moreover GOD is not what
dogmatism has played it out to be, in that it amounts to a metaphor for
dogmatism, and an unrelenting, palpable, childish, extant solid. And
rightly so, dogma makes dogma. GOD in my mind rather is the one
unrepeated point, the one unique thing, existing as itself, for itself,
and for none else, and for all else to strive to penetrate. But we
cannot penetrate nothingness. It is impenetrable, as death is
inescapable. A thing that is, no matter what, precisely because it
cannot be broken down, so involuntary and volatile it is, and
unknowable too. Such is GOD, and such is death, perhaps, if one sees
the correlation as sensible though maybe if one believes in
reincarnation not accurate. And such is the perfect commerce between
man and what in man makes her stick her head up: all the repetitions,
all the senselessness might there be somewhere else, where lifes
flotsam becomes gold? Where there is a balance, or at the least a
functioning ambivalence: whereby the drunk gets to his bed and home
from a-ways downtown without remembering at all his entering the subway
next to the bar? It is all about pragmatism, but it depends what you
see as pragmatic. To me, what is pragmatic is in relishing people over
objects; at least this is spiritually pragmatic. The idea of an
Absolute to me as well is different than an all-knowing thing,
precisely because it involves knowing. GOD in my viewwasan ignorant
void, encompassing all, knowing nothing. And much the less grand than
these fragments, these people of the World, who walk up and down on it,
and at least who know, a few of them, some things. As for the all-
knowing, I suppose, one speaks of the collective of mankind, taken
together, as a metaphor for that wealth, an encompassment or container
for all, being all; and yet we as we exist give up the container, for
the sake we are partially aware this way, and maybe a microcosm or
smaller metaphor for this foregone universal object, this thing that
lost itself so we might know all ourselves. And this, our own personal
function on the globe, cricking our heads, is what I like to call, All
At Nothing.]

"Blaise Pascal said, The Philosopher does not take his philosophy
seriously. I think you have a splendid understanding of this virtue. It
is indeed more than enough, even too much, to say one understands the
given statement. To say, I am not sure if I am getting it right, that
is the mark of an analytical mind. And you always end your epistles
if I may, with that disclaimer. Its fascinating to see this pattern
develop. Of course I dont mind communicating with you about this, I
too wonder if my life falls into something I view as if on a screen or
indeed is a consummation of the pure I. To say, I do this, I do that,
in your head, is that what you mean by living in first person? OR do
you mean rather, that generally speaking there is a layer to your life
that separates you from it? That disconnects what I would see as a
novel expression for the I. It takes all the swirling contexts and
fits them into something relating to you, that your head cannot
construe as anything like an I. A contradiction, I know. But this is
precisely where logic infringes on selfhood. We cannot narrate our
lives, say that I am me." Rather, through the veritable prism we
perceive ourselves selflessly, that is, for no sake, though the sake is
there. We have no choice in the matter of our ego, after all. We do
have a choice in what we absorb, how we relate the world to us, how we
derive from the daily splendor of living our own self, all the while
refusing an ability to see that self as us, for, no, we are no
splendor! It is my contention that people, everyone, even the highest
of the mighty, see themselves as nothing, up against the brightness of
the world they view. Indeed, if they did, if we did, life would become
a narrative, rather than an insanely delicate transposition of seen-
self, and self-as-it-is, which has no arbitrary I. Logic makes only
barriers, layers, dilutedness, of the I. Logic would assume that the
worldwe see through the prismthat we are defined by what environs our
states and reactionsnot ourselves, through the prism, defining
ourselves, and then seeing the world that ultimate, that split apart,
that concrete splendor. But that is, I feel, the nature of the
incessant, gibbering argument in our heads: that we cannot be this
vastness, we are but portrayals, and theworlditself, the keymaster to
anything that would need unlocking. The world has no self, we are not a
variety of I and logic, reason, fails at this, at describing a
transposition that is really a swirl through a fantastically unreal
prism. So you see, we deny ourselves greatness, so as to perceive a
self. If we didnt, each person would have only the world. And the
world, my friend, is no sort of selfhood, is but a representation of
the greatness in persons, and yet is not OF persons. And the greatness,
that very disconnect: that we perceive as us, when, yes, its only the
world, a vastness."

. . . . . . . .

HOMEWORK: I know you can do this. Make of me an epic speechfor brain.
Tell it well. I cant nomores. As to infinite amounts of words I have
scribbled, dumbly scribbled: This damnable WORLD needs that person for
its shitty overwhelmingness to describe a space, so to quell it into
reality. Emptiness as the ultimate sanity. When asked in Narcotics
Anonymous what my higher power was, thats what I called it. Emptiness.
The WORLD needs sayers, needs one to give credence for the WORLD by
giving their life, for the sake of breathing it into words; needs the
man who for writing feverishly is rejected, for years, perhaps decades,
and yet by the sanctity of this petty marbles spirit, HIS WORDS ARE so
honestly done out, the people begin to listen. Such is what is Earth-
shaking; because, no one can ignore an earthquake, if even it is a
miniature ripple across deafdumb space, one shall hear the frequency,
and know life changed, forever. So, then, I speak the space, forever,
until my retina is clogged with voids. I go scrapin the pen across you,
brain, like an axe to gash it. Too many holes in my head now, makes me
tired and grumpy, and I smoke too much. Dignity, wheresit? Find it in
the odd phrase. Romanticism is the adding of strangeness to beauty. So
then I make the void strange. I make it a whole piece, all of the
writing a symbol for that contradiction, and in itself a clarifying of
that delineation between what is symbolized and what is meant, the
space in this, that overwhelming kinda one I guess. Write an oracular,
surreal epic, Mr Dog, so as to force the strange void, that strange
piece, a negated whole, a sort of 'contrary' relying on what I call The
Literal Symbol. Something that stands for what it is. A metaphor-as-
not-fucking-metaphor, because as you write it you live it out. A truth
of the now. I think if I am remembered for nothing else it will be that
work of nothingness that keeps me from death.

Sincere pardons for living AS ONE OF ALL US,

THE MURDEROUS CLOWN

. . . . . . . .

What, are you depressed or something. The slender black chick is one
of the friends of the young brooding white dude with unassuming
hornrimmed glasses. Shes the one asking him this. And both look rather
youthful in the rainy twilight and interested in something-or-other and
are somewhat the fault-line rendered across their own era as most who
in youth are that and are the finest, polished generalities of their
own onerous age, given age, of discontent, onerousness. They are in
kitsch-tees throwbacking some other, unremarkableeraor technicolor
scheme for to express perhaps not disdain but confusion as to what
mattered these days, what was important. They walk out of the subway
and she attempting then to wear out the veil the conversation before
had begun to drape more and more over their sulk, box-brained, as the
causeless persistence of either one towards questioning not-sure-what
on the 1 train uptown had brought them to an alienating place.

In the rainy twilight I passed them, that was all I heard of the
conversation. Had I known he had told her,

Well, take that guy in the black shirt and the weird design, with
shorts, suppose he wrote about me. What then. Am I expected to be
ready-made for someone elses story. So I guess youre right, Heidi, I
am depressed. I am depressed that I cannot live my own life rightly
through others glass.

Were shards. Heidi said. And they walked somewhere I dont know for
awhile, maybe in silence, maybe changing the subject. If these two
peeps are as eloquent as I portray them through my own glass, probably,
most likely, he hadnt responded at all to her question, but with the
eloquence a shrug gives. As for me, I dont know, so then I lie and
create: all I heard of the correspondence was her question, passing by
the two loners as they walked the stairs up from the 1 train on 86th.

. . . . . . . .

The only God I know is in whatever is more outrageous an expression,
whatever is more far-reaching, intricate, formed, yet least likely.

It could be: the swerve of free will away from what is pleasant into
anxiety, or the will to freely defer from an immediate reaction to
stimuli, patiently waiting for something more of a transcendence, or
evermore pleasant feeling. A God of the sensuous World is what we have
in either case.

A God is there for a sense of control over our peace: in us, of
tendencies towards escaping the loss of pleasant feelings in the hopes
of forgetting their pangs, rather; or escaping unpleasant feelings by
finding a way to feel good, or capriciously turning ones mood around.

What levels there are here of control are multifarious, which of course
is why there are platelets set out already for what is generally
understood as right.

But what is generally understood as feeling good? It differs, from
person to person, and might include the moral platelet. But for most,
what is moral is a capricious way to turn ones mood around, a renege
to voodoo, paganism, what is told us as the right course of action,
even regarding the movement of a finger.

This atomic level of discomfort/comfort presents a leery way to judge
what is comfortable to begin with. We sharpen the sensation, pinpoint
it, and lose it in an inevitablestaturemuch unlike what freedom to be
gained from the bounds of anxiety, in feeling natural. But here, we are
relenting to feeling or presupposing a feeling, that it is God-given.

I suppose, God is whatever is most natural regarding a balance of
instinct and intellect; knowing which negatives to shave off, which
positives to pursue, but, regarding us. People. Personages, everywhere.
They are the greatest deflector of and adherent for sensations, to
either go awry or be made clear and consummate, that is, between
personage and personage; and sometimes clear, but not consummate.

Clarity is the means of the will to step out of its bounds and why it
is always the means of asoulstranscendence.

The apparent World of haze and doldrums is not only the closest thing
to the real World but is the real World, however; and perhaps this
alienating distance between ourselves and reality that we presuppose,
is not but there if to give us a presupposed chance at the divine.
After all, this World is an unusual container: where most Earthly ones
box in, there is no outer circumference, and we have no choice but to
look up and witness the places we cannot yet go, perhaps even in a
million years, perhaps ever.

The real World causa sui, the high concept, the unknown as known, is
impossible to be a matter at all besides as something quite importantly
alien. The only way one could resist Godthe absolute, the planner, the
ever-altering fate of things as a whole, as static, quite frightening
to think, as all the same thingis demurring from the pleasant feeling,
or what is most natural. When we do not know what to do upon entrance
down a less natural path of stiffness of muscles and sweat on the brow,
we think about what has been done by us to prove us right.

Thus, a moral platelet is the least true, because it is voodoo, it is
what we turn to when no other path is left, the obvious path. It is the
lies in the head of a complex personality, as all personalities areat
the firmest depthsand who approaches nullity without guidance and an
infinity of failures to step one step forward beforehand.

Into the abyss, past the abyss, past the anxiety, and into a feeling
beyond natural; and with a purity most definitely compounded by its
definite unreligion and, freedomnodiscipline of will, to avoid an
immediate reaction to stimuli, to be patient. If God is most definitely
the cause of itself it proves we have some inner obligation to be the
happiest we can with the least amount of effort. But this leads to no
peace of mind as to the palpability of a soul, as to its undiminished
nature, because it is the least effortful and thus the most likely to
pass away quickly.

To will the mind to find clarity in perceiving what is eternal in
oneself, so then to step off the haze of anxieties and doubts into
nullity, brings one to the place where all that remains is the soul,
rather than a moral platelet. Fear takes us into the causa sui, the
perpetual unknown lingers as fear builds, because something of the
intellect must be satisfied. If one has the intellectual courage and
strength of will to step away from pleasantness, surely they will,
eventually, find a place where the last step is towards the soul as
cause, not consequence, of living in doubt and depressive thinking. And
this, if seen as beautiful, and disregarding what is right or
comfortable or told to us, will maketh a soul show itself, however
briefly.

We lose God, we lose accountability, too; and a need for standards of
happiness by extension. We become happy with the standard that is daily
life, haze included: in its richness and variegated expression of the
eternal drama, a war waged to find peace.

. . . . . . . .

When we are most free in perceiving the beautiful, the will is nowhere
to be found, and we enter into a representation to us all the same of
what is seen, especially regarding natural beauty. When we will to
create the beautiful, this is sublimity, and a nasty contrition. The
horror of folding ones brain to perceive the made thing as
aesthetically pleasing to its creator. This has to be the most awesome
thing about being human though. Schopenhauers philosophy, not mine.
The will is shit, we can only will to feel awful, or out of sync, or
manufacture freedom away from the freedom of pure, will-less knowing.

deride and understand the ineptitude of any deterministic. it lives for
us to live and grossly begs us to. in the force of our personalitythat
is to say, what about us makes us livable with ourselves, even there do
we find things we do not like, merely tolerate: things that disprove a
sensible enough immortality . .

You say it is bad that I cheat science. Bad? Good? These are
moralities. Is science a morality? No. To cheat in itself is an ethical
question, and it is here in this phrase being applied to something
ethical only involving lying about it or not lying about it, tampering
with it, which is not what I mean. To cheat science itself, to create
an equally scientific yet polar untruth. That is what I mean, to cheat
science, I do not mean I claim it is science that results from this, I
mean I claim to change a factual thing into a different factual thing,
by expressing it deliberately, like a hypothesis to be tested, and yet
I know it is untrue. So then it is true by the means, not the ends. To
have a quite unscientific ends, a known ends, come after by means of a
system. Science, it is based in fact. To cheat fact, proof? So you say
it is impossible. But that is the very nature of the quandary, To Cheat
Science. So let me make fantasy, and alter the proof, to fit my own
mythology that exists.

This is what I have figured all philosophy to be. A science to prove
the absurd.

. . . . . . . .

Man is but a reed, the most feeble thing in nature; but he is a
thinking reed. The entire universe need not arm itself to crush him. A
vapour, a drop of water suffices to kill him. But, if the universe were
to crush him, man would still be more noble than that which killed him,
because he knows that he dies and the advantage which the universe has
over him; the universe knows nothing of this. All our dignity consists,
then, in thought. By it we must elevate ourselves, and not by space and
time which we cannot fill. Let us endeavor, then, to think well; this
is the principle of morality."Blaise Pascal

Pascal examined his despair of humanity as an overarching feeling on
which to base his informal truths, hundreds of years before
existentialism itself had even begun to germinate as a means to express
this as a philosophical Spirit of Alienation, and a beautiful stoker at
that, a positing of argument, less a poetical.

Pascals humanity is a relentless deposition against individual
feeling, a pursuit and hungering after this judgment by those who are
judged; and his arguments, although they are on an ascetic, sceptical
basis, funnily enough do not maugre the expression of waving ones
hands at this consumption, shrugging shoulders, and saying, Might as
well be Christian. Because the pessimism here described is meant to be
received as a poetical, not an indication of absolute truth, or perhaps
even accurate.

Remove the infinite resignation of this, to borrow from Kierkegaard,
and it becomes more problematic to mold a useful philosophy that says,
We have no excuse and should not shrug, and yet these things remain.
What becomes of alienation, despair, when there is no GOD of morals as
such to receive it and revive the inspired moment, whenas such things
are suddenly, very much untrue?

It is all a default. There is an assumption of values in both cases.
And it is just as much a default to look upwards at the sky and say, We
cannot know. And that is why I examine GOD, in words. As an experience
of blank, neutral perpetuity that unfolds sensibly and is not
elliptical but in, linguistically, the surface-pattern of the words
themselves. Eventuality precipitates a truth behind things, with
patience, and what seems superfluous becometh necessary. These are my
means of sense to explain something like an Absolute. My maxim: volume,
it is a matter of that, a matter of the huge. And yet this is not a
Christian falling-back upon an Absolute, but the problem of the
Absolute examined: that it is solid, yet we cannot rely on it, perhaps,
not even as a concept to examine. The only known unknowable.

On a moral level, I examine GOD precisely because it meant so much to
Pascal, and because it is quite denuded by the early existential
palaver, but not through a means of negativism or despair. The
existential would say, These are human things, and controllable, and if
only there was not the tickling of something fathoms underneath, yet to
be found, to create what is most anxious in a man: that all be
reasoned. This yet-to-be-found, this eventuality, is a most interesting
phenomenon to consider in the context of nothing to blame for ones
anxiousness as to the unknowable, which, in the solid figure of a
Christian unknowable, is something I do not blame Pascal for throwing
up his hands at, shrugging his shoulders, waving his hands, pen in
hand, across the page.

To give up is a default; to know to the bone that one is ignorant, Id
argue, is a more complex virtue, and not easily ascertained outside of
a phenomenological ideal of layered context, that says, There is more
to this. That is, in terms of language, at least. But that too is a
default, once if one has humbled themselves enough in the presence of
the huge they do not bother to examine the rungs. Such is the nature of
literalism, that it can make each rung relevant, because, if it is, it
is perfect, literally, it is wonderful, it is great; the only despair
is in an arbitrary mimicking of the solidness of an Absolute in any
philosophical investigation, Christianly defined, or atheistically
deconstructed as an assumption of the idea that it MUST be, there MUST
be, a complete, solid something, as a matter of no dispute, though it
be unknowable. My maxim is: explain the volume, explain the
eventuality, and you explain it all, and again, all, the next day, the
next year. To the end of your life



. .
.
.
.
. .






I N T E R L U D E : On Abraham s
Silence

Abraham went beyond faith, into a universal consideration of letting
go. Similar to one who goes up high to fall further down. In a
universal, infinite sort of sense, all that matters is the length of
the height between one and another discernment; there is no side to
side, no numerical order, no gradient. Only the volume distributes the
substance, because overall it is devotion that leads to any perfect
thing, infinite devotion for an infinite thing. To not need to
understand this, even unconsciously, and yet to consciously live out to
its end the climbing up, steeper and steeper, the way more precarious,
without an extreme fall? To have an infinite, objective faith
implicating an infinitely leveled metaphysic?

The universal perspective in Abraham lies here in a functioning
ambivalenceignoring the encroaching, brutal event he must commit to
pass, and as time passes without a word to evidence he could not share
either way. He is committing to his function as a subject of his God,
but does not know his function, because his God demands this from him
without reason. He must have felt the role of Prometheus stealing the
torch, to know not how he might make others see, if even he himself
could not. Without the extreme fall, as Abraham was spared: that is, to
put all of ones vigilance to an order from upstairs that a Christian
God, He himself did not see through to the end: a much the higher thing
did: that is, not what makes a Christian God Absolute, the Absolute,
not the infinite object itself, containing all ignorantly; but a thing
aware of all, everything, omniscient in the truest sense. Such a thing
is indeed no container but impresses like scales over our vision; it is
ephemeral precisely because it is precise, each, every perspective,
thought, every reality, every WORLD a crystal case. This I believe
carries its own possibility of an Subjective Absolute, and these two
poles themselves combined, a container that is all, but not the
characteristically different things, themselves in unity with whatever
infinitely variable state of being developed from those elements, a
unity which involves equal discernment of every corner of consciousness
in all who are connected to it, as if God were peeping all across
peoples heads; this is simply speaking its own massiver Subjective
Absolute, and quite un-Christian.

God stays Abrahams hand, and too was saved by the infinite mechanism
in Abrahams function as to the role of a very much more abstract,
aware God, what on a universal level amounts to something morally
straight: a way of morals however, at this scale, somewhat like the
conservation of energy, where relevance is neither produced nor
destroyed but maintains itself in a permanent sternness.

At a point where height is lost and depth takes over, there is no
longer a fall or rise: there is stasis held in place amidst the silent
pitch of darkest void: held in place by a faith, a baffling faith that
it is good. Such an intimate thing might also be something wooden,
and, indeed, obstinate, unyielding, stern.

Neither produced nor destroyed. It is to have a supreme sense of
Abrahams faith, to apprehend a belief that what should be rightly will
be. So then maybe Abraham shut his mouth for himself and to lie the
next time he spoke. To soothe himself, because he loved his son.

He had no choice, or to recognize his Gods absurdity instead of his
own. By calling himself no father of Isaac, rather than telling him it
was Gods will he kill him. Then at least, Isaac prays for a merciful
God, uplifts Him, instead of cursing God to the ill luck in being given
a loon for a father, who thinks he hears God. In denying the divinity
Abraham so surely might have experienced, one puts the earnest truth
upon Isaacs shoulders. Abraham is willing to dishonor all of himself
so that his son might still retain his faith; Abraham reveals nothing,
so that he proves his faith and his sanity. The insane mind voices to
convince others of his delusions; the sane, merely, learn to keep their
delusions under control, and the matter tight-lipped.

As well, by virtue of the absurd, it is too unbelievable to tell anyone
else, too real to ignore in oneself. It is the going-through of a plan
that would directly involve informing someone, especially if its God
whos informed you, your sons life that must be given, without reason.

That if he were to reveal the reasons for what came to pass of this to
anyone would dishonor the pact between himself andGodis true, but
why? From a psychological standpoint, consider the opposing
possibility: that Abraham heard voices, and murdered his son, he later
tells, because it was the will of the Lordin whatever sense you want
to put it, Im not a Christian. It is the idea that it happened but he
does not say so that is important to consider because, otherwise, how
is there evidence? Would that not worry him? But Abraham is in faith
trusting that it was indeed a divine presence that he experienced.
Otherwise we would consider him a murderer! How is there a story of
Abraham in the Bible unless the man himself was an extraordinary case;
as it is by definition an ignoring of evidence, faith, but for the
means of shrouding the horrible deed that must be done, in fact
remaining all but reticent on the three days journey, until Abraham and
Isaac come upon Mount Moriah.

An extraordinary case, indeed; unless it were a complete fabrication
and no man named Abraham ever existed, whose slaughtering hand was
stayed before upon the throat of his son, by God?

But on the level of what amounts to mere mortal distinguishing of right
and wrong, in the moment, at least, the only reason we consider Abraham
in the Bible, from what I can tell, is for the miracle in that his hand
is stayed by God, and for the devoutnessof one willing to sacrifice
his best for his faith. And of course, honestly, truly, it is as simple
as that, of course.

. . . . . . . . .. .. .

Declaimer. Look over this again, if you have the time. I just wrote
this, its about Kierkegaard and his book. Fear and Trembling. Check it
out. Im almost finished with The Sickness Unto Death. Both of them are
masterful, Declaimer.

I wanted to explain to you that you should see my work as a universe
unto itself, that whatever I speak of you should find the sense in,
because I do, if only you give the shape time to emerge. And then, like
as here, youll find that there is a realm of understanding much able
for a man to enter, but not dwell in. That ones place in his head can
indeed fathom unfathomables, though his head, strapped by anxieties,
cannot put all of himself there.

Thus it is a matter of volume, and my arguments are, there^ that
Abrahams case is extraordinary because it is selfless, in an absurd
way; besides the love had for his son and the sacrifice there, it is a
selfless act still, to take the rap for Gods insanities. In the words
of Kierkegaard he is indeed theKnight of Faithfor his silence on the
subject, decisively. It is a general way that perhaps while not needing
to be ritualistic is consistent in its result as to the respect of
paying duty to the unfathomable.

And here, a substance, too, though unfathomable; that a foundation for
consistency could itself be a ritual, though not ritualistically
repeated but used as a jumpstart at random times. One thinks that God
caught Abraham in the crunch, a timing deadly swift, as when a heart on
the brink of not beating again is brought to the thrust again by two
chest-prongs of electricity.

As with THE PHILOSOPHIC DAME, an understanding what should consistently
come together, indeed, a clean, objective matter, substantive: that
things should organize and at some level be the very extremity of
perfect, that's the ideal: and which will be, though time obstruct one
by even passing from seeing their record, and yet once one broadens
their scope of this to include the next possibility in the line, then
at least there is that hint to direct one to the best one, what might
sensibly happen. And perhaps a case for fate, once one takes on an
universe of this. What a horror then, to be asked to sacrifice your
best one, as with Abraham!

What I was trying to explain was this: so lets say I need to find
relief and relent to prayer: and lets say I do this, without fail, for
a long time, as a general platelet on which to judge my own surety as
to what I believe is good and right, as a way nearly like a
superstition, that if only repeated would dissolve the peripheral
worries as to this if nothing else: and lets say moreover that I were
to take it to a level where it became not so ritualistic: that it was
not so general, how I paid my respects to what is good and right: that
I did it differently every day, and yet still the superstitious feeling
was retainedthat what I had to do to fend off this manner of dread as
to my way of existence, the obstinate questionings as Wordsworth puts
it, in a present moment, changed.

Surely this is more like a compulsion based off of a reaction to
anxiety, but not completely outside the realm of faith in a higher
being. This in a way is different and somewhat less a strength, because
its never a tracking of the source of anxiety but rather provides
helpful hints to what is an endless shuffling of anxieties to different
areas of the mind, different statures.

This of course would be enough for anyone to feel resigned, if one is
powerless to their sensations as to affecting the process of thoughts.

One of course must have the thought first, before God does, in order to
experience what is its unbelievable difference: that is, the sensation,
the tingling of the flesh, is our reward for the courage to have been
unchained by the thought of powerlessness, if only for a moment; that
is, that God is fate, that there is even an Absolute and All-Knowing
thing, disregarding this precept, and then having faith in oneself,
once you are outside of the WORLD whatever Absolute could give. And yet
like Abraham realized, such a thingAbsolutecannot, once silenced,
provide those hints, if this periplum, roadmap, schematic, whatever, of
fate as to all-that-is is wrested from his own God and given to him who
is much the more an ignorant man. One as him takes on the matters of a
universal fate of a recurrence ever the deeper, past his own reckoning
that, Abraham realized, was the importance of even the shadow of an
Absolute in mens minds, that it held everything together simply
because it was everything, and yet too could he enter faith in a plan
beyond the plan of even God itself, in ignorance, perhaps the more, of
what it would do once needed to function itself as a subjective
wavering thing, able to be snuffed out and all, everything, silenced,
with one sleight-o-hand: perhaps the man whom Abraham was was able to
use his own humility to his advantage, as if in on the joke that God,
too, was in on, to a mightier extent: that we are in control of so much
for the sake of what is so little to a grander location, and which
would be destroyed, save the humility of that grander location as to
its own powerlessness to see Abraham as anything but a little man. So
then Abraham has a hunch about the greater thing; the greater thing,
encompassing all, has a hunch about what is humane. And within degrees
of this, there is folly on both sides of this ultimately sideless
length.

As to what Kierkegaard thinks, I believe his hunch about Abraham was
this: that we can choose to need to know more past the usefulness of
the need, which clearly typifies the use, etches it in the passions,
the use of it for the human heart. Once removed from ones best fate,
or, that which moves Abrahams heart, so then Abraham must rely on an
inaccurate morality founded in that his own faith of what is right and
wrong fell in line with this order from God.

As a foundational thing in an infinite sense, faith is a ritualistic,
atavistic thing. Any skeleton of surety, though fool-proof, is too
inaccurate. Why then, once he received no new information, did he
assume only up to the point that what must be done done and Isaac
slaughtered?

Well, he, Abraham, accepted the gift of what he knew, such as, his God
speaking to him, telling him to kill his son. Abraham here is
immediately willing, that is, to play directly into Gods hands. And
moreover be a step ahead, just one step, or perhaps a step before God"
as Kierkegaard better says of it, so that an infinite resignation as to
ones powerlessness to perceive anything not choked almost to death by
limits, human, corporeal limits, might dissolve for him, too, as a
peripheral worry.

But corporeal limits are all of humanity, who stake much on them,
despite they might lose. Does this make Abraham merely inhuman, or
divine?

THE PHILOSOPHIC DAME is about that obligatory unfathomable space
perhaps created by man because perceived if of course not understood.
There is to an Absolute of course nothing subjective and yet it may be
viewed many ways. Anyway, a perception at the least, a notion, of an
unfathomable thing, if one pays, compulsively, dues for this, inserting
ones own arbitrariness, might make it in time, perhaps relevant,
necessary: if at first one doesnt in his heart believe it, so too will
his sensations precede thoughts, and so too will he be a slave to
feelings. My ways of paying respect to what is right and good, these
compulsive superstitions, anxieties as to whether I amin my
questioning wayeither of these in my own mind, and that insist on
anxiously replaying, are variable, moreover, they change, paragraph to
paragraph, and all a prayer, the same one, different thoughts, on the
same objective matter.


.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

Part Four : The Philosophic
Dame [1]

in the mind, there,

one finds the only instance where a wheel can be completely flat. not
to say that this is imaginary, as I speak only of the wheels of the
psyche as a mechanism for trains of thought, moving, as they would, in
as straight a direction as they can. and only in the mind could one
meld the metaphor of trains and their wheels into a single shape: for
example, this one.

the wheels the train itself. the train, thus, a hefty concubine, to in
this unreal context becometh as a burden. if carried past the point of
use, it would be, if even the point of use were encompassed, after a
few words. and, moreover, a concubine, because it is this, a secretive
object to be used and cast off.

no need is for it besides in the name to be morphed, as a way to
compose a thing-in-itself. who then is made cuckold? and here is the
dame of logic, punished for ignoring the cohabitation of her image with
that of trains, and tending to her wheels, rather than what is carried
by them. to thoughts, perhaps; to awareness perhaps. but as for what it
is literally, that is a pure distinction, wheels as wheels, not as
trains, and the mechanismwhat it is to carry forthseparate from the
two objects: being one, perhaps, a single car, another a series of
metal wheels shrill on the tracks.

and myself? I am the creator of this triangle, and my psyche the tracks
that initiate the mechanism heretofore a meld, once taken to the level
of thoughts, and the figuration, metaphor, no part of trains or wheels.
I perceive a blankness eventually, that is, as to how heavily one might
diverge from the literal image, for the sake of an imagery, then
figuration. Then abstraction.

I would be replaced by trash, I would becometh the concubine, a mammoth
set of cars, settling their weight this and that way on the tracks,
than see the dame of logic reviled such ways. yet unlike the train
wheels and allthe locomotion and destination of this thought-object,
in at the least an expressively literal way, depend on me. I am the
tracks on which the train settles, wavering, after all. but objects for
the use ofontologicalspeculations, that is, ones existing not but in
my head, have more freedom as regards any offense to the philosophic
dame.

especially, conceptual statesself-generated beingspecifically, have
more malleability than I do. that is, if at the edge of disappearing.
the strangely obvious distinction of course is that I would cease to
be, whereas the concept might not.

. . . . . . . . ..

I see the need for a wastebasket in which to throw reasons cast
jetsam. and in this, the only thing thatmorphsis so done by the
appropriation of a question as to who, rather than what, is dishonored.
and that is the most important distinction. that is, I believe, the
philosopher would do well to see the life of a thought the same as any
sentient life. the train, an image; the dame, the question as to what
becometh a combination of wheels and trains, what carries on them
after. and yet such a combinationnot to prove, but throw light on, a
state of a thing-in-itselfwould be in need of an image to use up for
this result. something to throw away. yet what is to be sacrificed here
without a question of dishonor? perhaps, then, I would be cuckold, the
trash, the jetsam.

such is the fault of philosophy. we dishonor the figuration, keep the
result. we rape the marriage of ourselves with logic by inserting what
to me is a concubine in either the futile attempt at the figuration of
a thing-in-itself orperhapssimply, it is something unneeded, but for
its quick purpose. and to focus on all of it as if it all were needed
is the dignity and science behind philosophy, to me, at least. one
needs a careful mind to make it all relevant without succumbing to
mania.

. . . . . . . . ..

that concept indeed is only for the noblestmindto follow through to
the station, at this point a merest caricature, barely there, cloaked
in fog.

and of course there is an philosophic assurance of things, despite
looking for proof. a priori, what feels, seems, right, to one. the only
experience is not the looking for proof for a previous designation but
rather comes in new designations of new things as time moves forward,
catching us up with them. and still the prior to prove itself fast and
loose; as rightly limited. I prefer to think of it as a harness.

I mean, might as well hang on to a priori allegations of the trivial,
as with Lucretius, and his telling of the birth of worms from the dirt.
or as with Aristotle, and his holding to the idea of men having more
teeth than women. as if the truth were ad-libbed, one makes the
fabricated truth a truth of a kind, in shewing where intuitive logic
holds sway and where experience is the weaker frame, that is, if it
needs evidence. for not everything contains evidence as to whether it
is, and yet it remaineth there. as to the comparison of experience with
what rings true, wisdom as to experience will ring true in those with
empathy. but the a priori needs no empathy, however one must build on
it each day, each moment, to feel the vaster and vaguer empathy all
share in what is inexpressible. if it comes with the passing of time,
of course it is expressible. the passage of time is, simply, how one
travels forth into new reasonings, new empathies, if perhaps more
concrete ones. what rings true will always be, though false, and even
after proven false, the insensible feeling remaineth. obstinately. and
of course there will be a loggia of smaller assumptions that connect to
whatever pure and clear limit the mind has made of a greater learned
thing, which in most cases would not be limiting but rather a
conclusion, tied together.

but it is always with time that this happens, and thus the gain of
knowledge is inevitable, whether or not it is pursued; and, so, the
loggia is inevitable, especially if it is not pursued. pure reason is a
construct; that is to say, it must be constructed, and once this is
done, and all loose ends cut, the argument is made and that is that.
but it is not a reflection of experience, which involves the
inevitable, false idiom, What Rings True. intuitive logic is necessary
for the aesthetic of an philosophical text to exist; moreover it is
necessary in order for a text as such to be atruereflection of
experience, of the to me very much intended messiness of life. pure
reason perhaps might explain the mindful intention of the mess, and
comprehensivelyprovesomething, but it is not a description of the
mess.

(Its beautiful. What is. Whats going on inside your mind. You refuse
it all, for the sake of some manner of dignity, always to come. That
things not necessarily might run short but that there is a greater
sensation, a greater pleasance.

What do you mean. You are blessed. You are blessed with discomfiture.
It will take your life; you know this. Moreover it is not
dissatisfaction, which is something similar to ennui. It is hoping for
more, not greedily devouring with the hope of more to be devoured, and
once there is not, turning the other way, arms crossed, pouting. You
never pout. You hope for more, and when the sensation does not provide
it is a great suffering to you.

It is not greed that drives you; it is hunger. It is starvation;
feeling eternally on the brink of intellectual and emotional famine.
For this you give your life, for this you will. It will become too
hard, as it was for me, DAN.

You have a wonderful book, Sren. I wish I could understand all of it.
The confusions the blessing, I understand. Your point is an epic
faith, a resonance in something of a parable of the mind, unable to
resonate in the breast. But it does, unlike parables, morals, things
for a point. It is through the privations of Abraham that we all
realize the disorder of significance. That it can be murderous, if
applied to selfish means, which come about as most negativities do,
through mangling whatever point is made, to suit ones own picture of
what appears right.

As regards something so baffling as blind faith, no metaphysical
picture can be made, Ive found, DAN.

But that you yourself applied a subjective universe to something so
stoical as faith, so unmoving, is a brilliant cohesion, and humane.

And so you see, your blessing of discomfiture does not make a picture
of that, at least one that it relies on. You turn down the dial on
assurance; for all thoughts, the ones that are philosophical,
metaphysical etc. are for selfish means. You know this.

That is, to experience transcendence. Greatness. Immortality.

It seems to me to be your unique humility that gets you to refuse what
great sensations that others would feel blessed themselves to
experience.

This sounds like ungratefulness, and, again, this is not greed; it is
refusing those means of thinking for the sake of a more naked manner,
for the sake of the ideal you give up all transgressions of the ideal
that are committed in the heart of one who speaks them. You speak what
you can in the moment that you can, as an offering. Neither of us is
grateful for what we have been given, anyway, only grateful for life
itself. And if that includes our own lives, much the better. But as to
sensations as applied to thoughts: you know the ephemerality of this
that leads to false assurance. And that is a wisdom much foregone
nowadays.

But listen now. Writing is the ultimate balance, and words are, throw
aside your philology, give me more of your time. That is, give my idea
more time. Do not study me, is what I mean.

I know what philology means.

Yes! And give to the feeling of the idea, for now. Not the other way
around. I have to go. Why?

I must dissolve along with all the angels of suffering, and leave you
alone forever, until I come again, as some other progenitor. But take
care.

And I would only have you, Sren, be the momentary vision. For I value
too much the possibility of objectively viewing your massively
subjective reasoning. So go, restless horse; you go. Leave me to my
quandaries, and do not be bound like all the rest to this inane galley
of ghosts. Be free from me. Go.

But he had already left. Farewell, I suppose. And I am left the man to
be left, left behind. That wonder I see in what is forever, yes, it is
an eternal discard. That we each are left behind, by some more gifted
thing, something morehow to put it

Do me well, others, ghost-others, leave me, you only create havoc,
leave me, I say as they loom over, telling me back to my place, and
thereupon I will dissolve.

I kick a stone, and it is like the blood swimming in my brain, and it
is like the sky, and the wind, and the trees. And it is like faith.

Goodbye, Mr. Kierkegaard, and thanks. I say this as I obediently
leave him to his WORLD of thoughts. He appears deep in contemplation,
then, kicking at something in his head; and I return to my place in the
WORLD of people, not knowing he had told himself to go, nor that I had
left, when he had wanted me to stay.)

. . . . . . . . .

RIGHT FROM THE END.
Alive I am though wrongly blent
Into this game of life . in the hedging-off of it,
I go ranting to sieve through brush
And branch there, to the height
Caught delicately: unknown, what is on the brink
Of a softer peacefuller jargon, argot what-
-Have you: for my ears yes yes or
For this uhn, ill mess of thrusts . a frail man
Still I am, though heady enough, in having the
Brunt of the beat of my heart stolen at last, and
I powerless and misconceived forever in this way .
And there
Is nothing
To save that . heady though it be, it is of the last sheet of the
thrust
There; I speak that-
-Mute part
And I a frail man caught in the wilderness
Of some dark love, for the sound sieve
And sieve .

In wait yes, yes for the weighty measure to swing
Out the damned messianic viols, perhaps,
And, lutes of some far-dismissed EDEN of a self
As gone far gone but in ranting-
-As it is that the monstr I have passed on from
Withal the viciousness of it
And said goodbye to it
Left it riven out to-

-Cast the die
Elsewhere in dimensions elsewhere
And I myself have gone on since
Through the sheets of brush and branch there .
Marveling without him . once at the build of him I roared
And his scaly, lizard belly I opened with sword
I killed the him in it for my duty to the hymnal .

And fuckin mightily reeking, hissing with sickness
The creature perished, agape
And dumb, as I would: in the paradox of Abraham

Together we die, Abraham
As the passing of the universe to an
Absolute faith, grew an
Unapproachable briar-
-And withered as like flowers: and no dirt: I
Passed me into epic faith, no water-waster there: and no,
No parable, nor just: and I as no murderer
As he is he of that
Forlorn fuckin universe I have doctored out,
And made lusty with forgottenness perceived
As tragical, tracing back

As far as I could to that meticulousness
Of momentary collapse and build
Myself of guttural sounds as though
To tear my own stomach
. and I have
And usurped I have, now, only the vividest lackey
That
My truth has sniggered
Forth
To tell me here-
-Through him: of some odd marvel,
So that I, no monstrs to go mad with might never battle
Any anymore . I might be revived as something
Less religion
And more stout and new,
And tormented and individual
I guess . and valued
And human, without
Being riven too much by some other
Mortal father of faith, whose
Son
Forced bicep to forearm
From heavens to stop him o
Abraham able man of GOD-
-As it was, I had held man to my breast
Of me: I knew him alway
Whether Moriah or no, no mount, here
For this son . and truthfully,
The belly
Of the uh matter, it is in a wealth
Of dry brush . and some
Torn socket: a sign: a
Lineal man: new,
New man there born from
The uhn- undines at flutter to-
-Convulse life out the mould
Of husbandman to give care, anew
Anew to new mankind
With the physic of old mankind
And kissed him close as my faerie waves
Could get, yes .
Lord of atavism not so much
As you think of it derisively in that German way
More, it is as like an elongated description of telos
Seen in the Leopardi as la noia the choiceless pleasurable VOID
Filled, between
Chaos and suffering, what purpose there,
What would have made that object ever chased
And how in the limber stretches of an obsequious hand
To us from somewhere vanished, of some riches
The wherewithal to see it through, wed gain, what could have shared
An inkling of the doubt a slap across the face would
Rather, divests the matter of its true disease, that is,
In modulating way off the bracket of even plausible
Discomforts. Theres to beckoning,
That all thinking circles round lifes the purpose, if any
Ye consider . yes AH
In the same wise as life itself circles,
Circles itself to suit the thrilling VOID I look happy on that war
Of simulations of EARTH: in your head there boy I do not fight it
It is an access for a time the sounds of the VOID my gate
Glory glory to the one of his aftermath pursued thoughtless
From the grimmest manifold a life in the chambers comes
A single one deep there too deep to reach there
And each one of my wretches looks down into the well
From their idiot chambers: rattling like stony bones glory
So call you swift to him down at the bottom that is get him,
The one who dismal in an odiferous fog a tremulous psyche
Hunches thus within his cell and all
Fools slaughtered . . . . . . : dragged the fuck out
Beheaded each identity to the drains, and drugged
For to make stupor of this gone intelligence caught in the wrist
Caught in each face on each rung of spine I leave this one
I leave your dread pate here to portrait thus.

Give me what is there: cold and dripping damp:
This, my reason for what is to be atoned laughably
Evening presses like a dog upon his hasting way
Move me wrest my bones as they rattle in the cage man
And don the wisest reason for regret refer me to it
I will place it on my bald head like an absurd cap of naught

Nor will crowns
Delude me crazily in the pinch of a moment
To crater my skin as you look down the well at my
Forgotten pate dear lad let the bald head shine funnily at you
From this darkness this place of lies and fearful wonderfulness

Belting out of the cracked chasm a space of a doomed self
And all fools slaughtered glory glory tell me one for his ribs
And desist and maim me tell me I am not straight tell me
Glory for the one in house with his
Wretches at table there tell me
Father and son give up your knife
What blood is lost anymore
For this . his weakness

Changeling, dumb and stricken at that
But what stirs epic and false
In a caged heart to tunnel the valves
And arrive at a cancerous mark
And remark remark upon the cronies of some

Sniggering peg in the heart from the welling feeling
Some hate consumed restless in the evening press
Upon our three-day travels to this place with good Monstr
To that place that is witness the only witness


. . . . .. . .. .


CATHEDRAL SKETCH.
I guess, you cry for the smallest
Hailstones, you think, for what all of
My care, for smaller ones
Gives back to me, in the end remains
After your murderousness . go shoo you,
Your damnable selfs light
Needs to lighten up
The caverns, before to
Think it could suck out voids
From space, much less rant ofbut ah yes this in itself
Is Cathedral, in derisive since more
Derisive than
The derision promoted could
Flourish, if you see-
-What I
Mean: you pesterer!!!
Says he the boy, as an understanding GOD
Breaks hymn to the figuration
Of coarse cowardice: news
Flash: no suns:
Youre not enough: and spread somewhere,
But not here whatever
You go towards is light, a psychic admixture-
-On the preceding mile

Of birches, shot
Jetting for a place that is yet
Kind, and for that ancient, grim cult-
-To blank out the moons mood
Awhile and,
Do it as well, well
Before the churches
That is, in rain, down in tears on that which tears me much-
-Less up proper leaves,
Leaves good Monstr comatose
With rage-eyes blank for the travesty
That is dark as an age is: triple-saucers of odd
And/or alien beliefs,
Seemed such wise as familiar to the one believing, though why?
Who knows knows not . dirigibles, particles, satellites
Hover he tells me I
Speak for the boy and also as
The boy I speak now for the drunken words
Wine menagerie sin sin sin sin
A stark will for who
Is claimant of a beat lachrymae
There, on the
Cathedral lawn o light, brighter than-
-Any misstep folly error what
Have you what have you,
Could
Darken . what has you-
-Shunning
All space: a wealth:
For it is indeed more open than
Opinion, than sights on the-
-Martyr then blasted
As like an idea exorcised with each of all tears for the hymn,
Let me call you that light
Of intelligence, per se-
-Imprint on mind embronzed,
For you are no exercise
To muddle thought, leave it till the metaphor, I have enough
Of it for ages of puzzling to whittle the quandary
Down until dawn, you big magnanimous thickening light,
O painter or
Renderer in bronze glazes to glitter like electrums
The big slew of a-
-Frothy seas impetus and to gaze at: go on to level
Swell and good hues a bluet on the branch of psalter and yet
corruption, a wealth
Of stones for this glass . you
Spare a few bits yet to me this
Evening, evening, grace a tidal
Now to blaze forth me on that structure to be, to be
Described, go you there wrinkling out
Saffron-bullshit in dirty words glowed
With blunt
And bent musing might
As well say the hue is scarlet with care
Though the sun and the yellow belly of it breeds breathing hymn
Rays in torpor too cautious to illuminate
This sadness dank though light
It is palpable as if
Made sparked from mortar
Shot next shot of the mortal boy, next
Utterance in the hankering of
Lines: you hunger to find victim
In this crime that is the bled chest: once aimed
And poor with inner arguments and complexes shoot you
Already you parochial derringer that holds
Faith an orthodox
And spells them
Sparks gone

Wet with lurid, amplified with conundrum,
Drowsy with belief they go bleeding
Fuckin saffron rays in the dawn on the silly church like spinning
Whiles there
To prove a sad state and too I see the
Homeless gather on steps that seep,

The steps of that cathedral drawn
Sinking steps gaunt as death the structure
Blind the eyes of it blinking as struck dumb
Loose in what is meant
No mentioning of petering out this time except that mentioning

I give its guts to the cathedral lorn and laggard cathedral there
Broken steps good Monstr I have given hymns to the girl
And she on the breakers of that wave of eyes never once spotting

And she only collateral to this nude matter meant never but once
And she the lucent mimicry of my holy face she is not that
But no petering out this time no the grace fits
To spook the chasm

And rays upon cathedral purblind compared to utter darkness
Of this my heaven and the heaven I am more than content to have
Have you still a moment to insist upon my VOID to make me cuckold
And sink the steps further

Have you lost a matter in the meaning there?
Good Monstr shapes tongue to fit this round his girl
The laureate hymn for this purpose all strikes to the argument
List themselves and disappear

Conciliation? Maybe but maybe more
Of a fit of words to suit everything
In moments each that dear to the receptive
And kind mind might make up
In attempted beefs with the greater
Good of poems good Monstr knows

Listen to him maketh more and more for the purblind at least see
As opposed to this weariness this face of faith habitual
Abraham gruff in his peppery beard peppers my deceit says
Look at the eyes, the peepers,

Look at how tired the cathedral is my boy
Listen to the wind on the lawn of it
Fastening each meant matter to the matter of each blade
Held by forefinger and thumb
To scrutinize the local harlequins that beat out charities
In congregations, here I must

No, I cannot, no, I cannot bless the deign of this
Limy church scattered
With ponderous gorges
Between one reason and another nearly the maw
That is to eat it all eat
Meaning up cherish the charity that brings us here
To this halt in the hurt, between the
Hurt that is that it is there for the clowns
That is harlequins and for my guide he is
No VIRGIL to lead one back
To the byways of Venice nor aqueduct to make labyrinth of
What is merely faceless structure and sprinkled with golden
Grass chilling in the breeze, and I
Thankful for its question and source

. . . . . . . . .

PLEA: son of then:

The WORLD is become a blankness. Blank trees, blank wind upon them. The
light changed white to lesser white, and I crossed. It was cold, the
air thick, polluted, however, frigid, frigid as hell.

Heh. Blank films, and the culture no such culture, more filmy than what
is on the screens. Not that I watch many movies or am involved with
society in the least, anymore, if there remain either of those. For I
look and see only propaganda and pedestals fallen and new ones put back
up. New representations, new shadows; the old contrarian and unwise and
the new, false. And everywhere, representations of blankness.

I had a dream recently about millions of coffins falling from the sky,
empty ones, hitting the ground in quaking smashes, ludicrous, absurd
sounds, quaking, louder than the surf and surging of an infinite,
uncharted sea out of the window, my window. And, both visions, as I
think of them now, discomfiting: the actual one, that is, the vision of
reality and not the dream, a vision which is just as ludicrous as the
dream: dreams: a paucity of the WORLD. I wish it were something to
awaken from.

A complexity and poverty to the WORLD of reality that has now come as
opposed to a planeless, guileless dream.

Without planes perhaps more muddled but therefore not split; and a
WORLD that once was and is now no more, a unity to reality once, a
single plane at the least to this WORLD that got tired of making itself
beautiful that way: AH!: the coffins, they returned to me then, looking
out upon that vast graveness of water: and I think of the wood siding
shattering into splinters the more, more millions, all disorder, all
absurdity, all emptiness, and waiting for myself to wake up from this
shuffling consciousnessas if consciousness could be awoken fromI
thought of dreams then, thinking of myself looking out the window
thinking of dreams then, now, as I went walking streets.

And the CITY empty too. In the dream, that is. Not a soul, not one soul
outside of my quiet, miserable nest, hovel, shack, and I the only one
in the WORLD, and I watching, I only to witness what might as well have
been as equivalent a reality as will be demonstrated by myself here.

This is a missive to that LORD in man again, for him to come out again,
to give brightness back to the people, know them honest. Oh deity,
leave not, please leave not these people strapped to their bodies as to
a gurney, as my wife, no, as I, should have been, should be: and her
convulsing panicked and senseless in her shame of me and that should
have been mine to feel and not this sangfroid regret for having another
close one die off. But she too knows; somewhere, has given in, become
an artful vacancy to express in lifeless life the thing she wished did
not happen, an apocalypse of feeling, and soul. LORD, sell this
telegram to the angels, or whatever, please, please behold it, see it
in the desperation and frailty of men if you wish; rather than in your
own metaphysical clockwork of endless circumference and mindful peace.
For the latter is gone now, and clarity is. It is not lamentable, but
it is how things are, now. Your creation has fallen.

It is how the deity made its blueprint, sans figuration, sans the
fancy; though even before, I knew, it was all loosely sketched, reality
was. It, it is now sans the endless parable of what fleet beauty I
thought I saw, and all, all is of no experience to learn from, but the
learning from a blankness to merely get past, maybe with a chink or two
on the sides of ones brain, maybe just a chink or two. And I think it
a regurgitation of a mind, once in need of more, regurgitated, that I
do not see so much in this minimal sparseness, this dread grey and also
black CITY, nearly placeless CITY,as all things are, now, of no place,
no consequence. The strange thing is I can put my finger on when,
exactly, the color left from that WORLD, graceless despite, and which,
at the least, was a novelty, though graceless; a clumsy novelty, then.
Not to say anything for a WORLD of grace itself, which is more
individual; which I have looked through my sock drawers to find, under
benches, taken apart my watch to find and have not, since I murdered my
son.

Was it the sport of the deity, to finally rid the WORLD of care as it
saw it? Not that the buildings of our city were ever anything besides a
careless blank, each one malevolent, each concrete slab a soul
equivalent to the flesh of present day. For, we all are careless, now,
and might as well remain prone and starve. That I would have more than
this senseless buzzing about, and to no place all snared, in a fate
for all of us, and all of us an eternal witness to the crime of a
sudden lack of choice as to being what we could achieve, as to being
something only seemingly there, once. At least the seeming was there!
AH, me.

The people of this CITY, since that day it rained, the day I murdered
the one thing I loved. The AH! child,

the child I made, once loved, no more can gain love from, as all signs
have gone, now; all is trepidation and loveless at that and for myself
to feel and all of it to lose itself in the grey void that each person
has left to wrap around their spines, pitiable. The void of fate made
void, once fully encompassed; made violence.

And yes it is true, we are each of us puppets, must needs, to me, lay
prone, since the strings indeed are cut, have been for two years passed
in the senseless turning of this marble, this once-beautiful that has
lost its gleam,

as it once did have yes it had that gleam, shining out to strike out a
forlorn wink, perhaps once; to refuse a lackluster innate in what it so
surely is now, and which in the face of the vacuum of a magnificent
space had made this planet but a mere, a laughable delusion, to
whatever GOD-infinite I thought I knew. Now, that blackness in the sky
is all the magnificence left, and people left as lookers-on of
themselves, running their motions as distempered machines, none the
wiser, all worser.

My son was named Ersint Palcs. Im Frerent Palcs and killed him. But
thats all one with the deity now. As for me I am left with a wife gone
mad and a drifters house near a big loud desperate sea, grey sea.

. . . . . . . . ..

Blank trees, the wind blank and slow upon them. I heard that winsome
blowing of leaves on branches once; somewhere far off as I walked down
the street. I crossed to the next block, the next, shrugged away my
eyes from the slightest gaze, reared my feet in a slow crest of a
semicircle preparing distance between myself and strangers walking
ahead, found myself in the park. Someone had made sore my thoughts, all
of them, that day; not much to be expected, from that, though. Not
much, but a passing weariness, to pass again back, perhaps more
formidable, into my focus, as I read before bed, now or the next day,
when the conservation of energy no longer can hold bleakness in a too-
real figuration, all this damned blankness I now see. It is too-real,
because it is real. And it has happened. It wasnt unavoidable. What is
however is for example this very predicament of a sore feeling wherein
the process of ones thinking switches towards a critical bent and
becomes irremovable. And that I know there is much in my mind remaining
to feel anguish over, and much to dull even those pangs to an
insufferable, nameless quandary, is good, is a good. Needless to say,
with all this complacence, resignation, I have no hope left of making
something of my life.

I have my unspecified, undisclosed shack; I have my books, and writing;
the only thing I have not and crave more than anything is a form of
retribution against me. I loved my son, and it was just.

And I dont even know why Im thinking about it today; Ersint was
loved. By me, perhaps only me alone. Perhaps by others, I never probed
into his affairs, kept to my writing and books. And my wife, her name
is Dirretrol Palcs. What about sums up life at this point is the memory
of Ersint; my wife, gone mad in the house, rather than gurney; me
slowly dissolving, hoping for no shadow of a solution to delude me, not
even if it were if carried out a true end to all these petty means.

I found myself in the park, far away, down an oddly desolate stretch of
a symmetrical treeline that spread along with thenearest thingto
visible stars around, anymore: that is, what I see in the wan pallor of
streetlights, here and there, winking nastily in their knowing way at
me, telling me, We are not stars. And you see none. But pathetic
fallacy never takes hold of the more creatively manic thoughts anymore,
perhaps because I know streetlights are not imbued as I am to think,
with a mind, and to be able to give these oozings to the pages of a
grey life at the least tells me I had not killed my only good for
nothing, but for this. This.

And this thought: for my wife, Dirrey, for the love of her, herself
dissolving, really, as I see her smoke cigarettes endlessly, choking on
her coughs now and again, smoking again. Slowly rotting in my shack by
a disaster of sea, humming with useless portent. It is in a
neighborhood long crumbled, heavy structures crumbled, disrepair, for
the deity has finally gone, and I am left to receive blankness merely,
and I am left lost in this stretch of treeline to hear the lampposts
wink mercilessly.

And I wonder of nothing, think of it and wonder at it and find of
course no solution and find only more of a nothingness to put me to bed
as I read and perhaps think sojournly, for once. For all that I have
given to the WORLD in killing my son is not to be rendered honorable by
anybody; poor, good Ersint. A man he would have been, the love of my
life he was, that I could kiss him on the lips in fatherly honor, know
him safe, would be a blessing, but, he is dead, I killed him, two years
now it has been. And I wonder now no longer of nothing or nothingness,
but think instead on the how, the why, the worth in robbing the entire
planet, for the sake I might have lingered too long in an ideal I could
never possess, that perhaps was long gone away into some other more
neutral, scientific mind, a mind better equipped for his wearisome
task. It wearies, that it will do onlyand I think, if only once I
could leave the planet. To wrest oneself from being tired, if only;
perhaps then more easily the sleep of death comes, and yet each day,
each hour is strung out minimal as if on a wire. And all the colors,
all the colors gone, not even the most meager fancy to scoff at, naught
but a grey, shrill sea, and a dull wind on far-off leaves as I walk,
and think of my son.

. . . . . . . . ..

Quick, come. PSS! A sharpness to gesticulating, as if to say, You
must.

Why? The day shone bright in its eves, once in the Spring, there.

Maybeaffectof a new time was in that sharpness. A level of being,
magnanimous being, was there, shone bright, my eyes to their sockets
all in a constant, elusive rhythm, the rhythm of thoughts, elusive
ones, the feeling fresh, real, as if saved from the brink of drought. I
ask Ersint

What ideas have you, about the logoaedic? About the manner of rhythms,
they change; how can one constitute a pome out of the worth of meaning
alone, if it sweep and change in tone, rhythm, sense?

Well, its a conversational attitude, father. The rhythm is in the
length of space the eye takes to course one and another line, the
caesura, thats prolific about it. One can go many places if he bothers
to stop.

And?

I remember that conversation. The least bit of it I remember. I was
smoking a joint in the bathroom, Ersint of course kept away. This time
I was in sight. He did not do as he usually did, hid from me, when in
these solitudes, door half-open.

These taciturn ones, that marked me somewhat, bruised a tenderest part,
especially now, as I now seem to have transferred it all to Direy. But
she was not around then.

My son spoke often, to me, of pomes. I spoke to him of pomes but I
didnt understand most of what I said most of the time and had the
sneaking suspicion that Ersint could just as well fill in the blanks of
my thinking on anything of poetry at all. Whether it meant a like mind
is somewhat in question. Though now what ekes through of that anxiety,
as a suspicion of dullness, that is; that which started my heart then
bears a striking similarity to what jolts I get now, in feeling myself
in such a frenzy.

A frenzy of meaninglessness. Nowadays, all is meaninglessness, and that
I can barely focus on enough to watch myself cross the street and feel
the necessity, the will to do it. Im here, now, watching myself, then.

For we are all eternally belated, now. Everyone is. They watch
themselves do things and do not readily know why until it is clear in
yet another baffling motion to come here, or go there, or get up from
bed. Imagine one who never sleeps yet sleeps each night, merely can
live off of this unrest as a form of the hurt, that which one had most
of themselves in, when fate had not yet made itself an increase of
whims, and people thus not left in the lacuna forever, existing between
when they knew what they were doing each thing. But that is the WORLD
now, and I cannot say that I find myself fully responsible yet
responsible somewhat. I should have gone to jail, I should have turned
myself in, should have, did, did no time, had no trial, wrote of GOD
for hours, what I thought GOD was, is, that it was in time, apart from
time, a stoker for time, a waste of itself for the sake things might
move in seeming freedom. Condemned to be

FREE? I said.

Sartre, too much whimsy, Wittgenstein, more soul, more the questioning
of reality, sensation-based. Sartre has his metaphysic and sour grapes
and whatnot, but its a psychological process that is used for
philosophical work. When, if anything, it should be philosophy that
sorts our psyches, not the other way round. I of course could never
trust my psyche enough for that.

I look at my Son then, watch in a moment the sun bleed through the
blinds and to look the part of a furnace through them. I feel, however
sloggingly, again, the warmth I had for this kid of mine, and the
environment and sensory perception of this all lending to some movement
of inner chords. But I could say nothing, feel only, feel thewayof
him, Ersint, trying to wend its way from what is doubtful to what is
artfully real. This I could always sense in him as a divergence, and
that it troubled him there had never been doubt. He is after all the
only ghost I dont see, these days.

This is an inherited sense, I thought. Of troublesomeness, divergence.
He inherited my doubts. And it is without a somewhat rueful grace. And
I miss moments, peering at them in my minds cubed eye, looking at
myself walking meaninglessly through a park of eternal, starred,
belligerent streetlights, and thinking of this memory. And, also:
inhabiting the presentat mostthoughts of mine, they say to myself,
from far of, How did things get so grey?

The manthereswerves to the right as approaching a lorn call and
sitting then at one of the benches says the exact same thing, five
minutes later, hearing some GOD that I suppose was, is me, is me
beggaring the question, knowing the answer, not able to convey its
obvious, ruinous tangle to this, ah, this edgy fellow, squandering all
his time breathing, on sitting restively on a bench.

I feel myself sit, feel the bench, sort of; five minutes later, the
fellow feels it, and the clockwork of reality again begins its awful
course away. I felt it then, do not now. I peer down at me:

I got up and walked for a few miles, then went back home and scratched
my nose. Another day.

I wagged my head lax on its rotary, mulled this over, felt the ball in
my chestfelt another pluck it out to examine it. I, part of me, saw
the will in a self, once; a part of me saw my son: a different part,
however: that is, one looking in on me thinking of him, or something,
as in, not myself, in the moment thinking of him. Once maybe this
perilous divergence did not exist. Such distance is my repose, now; a
sort of dissociation, you would say. A sort of meager relief, in
feeling what I think is not necessarily a present-me thinking it, but
some far-off stranger listening to hear the sun glide in drafts of
winds, and perhapsimpossible!drafts, drafts enough to light in flames
the trees like a brushfire. Light up all the trees of our CITY. Wishes,
AH, me. This place I have come to know and see as grey, now.

I wagged my head lax, whether again or for the first time I know and
only I know. Your creation has fallen. And I see myself wake from some
odd revery at home, scratching my nose. I know his eyes, there. And I
know when they are being lecherous or merely staring off into space.
Sometimes Direy is in focus, sometimes not, this time I know I was not
focusing on her, was not focusing, was tired in my little cove of
nothingness, again. Speculative. Abrasive. The temples I can tell
throb. Maybe here a little I can make him take two fingers on his pair
of hands to them and rub them. Five minutes later, this shadow, this
man, he ravels outside again, nearly at a slither, to walk and walk.
And I stay, or a part of him does, with my wife, watching her in her
endless nothing place, smoking merciless smokes endlessly and nearly
absurd.

It is then I realize and with great power, the sea, this desperate,
grey sea, it is of my own tears, and I the one who bleeds them, feeds
that frothy body, and will, in solitude, for ageless ages

.

More is all we know. In the basic context of this, one appears to know
the dream. But what loses? How can one possibly extrude the slightest
dimmer sensation, held in solution

Within the great catastrophically real one: that is, the one that makes
life whole, momentarily? To veer in blessings out of nowhere makes

Life too much a haven. And in this, we lose what had us tolerant of
them, the littler, dimmer blessings, that now seen because too much of
the soul seen seem dictions of that soul, them to take its place.
Dictions, explanations of the soul.

And without medicine of doubt even for what all could have been the
sublime state, we would not have doubted, we would have remained happy
where we were. What would have had the ability to be ignored in an
emotion, that is, would as well have been ignorance of knowing, of
self.

And this is frightening.

It means that one can never return from dissatisfaction. That is if
your life is quite clearly become a diction that never shows itself
externally, is caught in the knowing without the one blessing of
understanding. From others, yes, that is one context for the word. But
there is another. It lies

between that association, is more metaphor, mere metaphor, by now so
complexly strained forth to all corners of life that in mine it is
rather an inherent philosophy. But it has become too semantical.

Between the association; by the same mechanism wherewith the two are
themselves separate poles, if you were to define the one so far not.
Which I have.

It has become a diction. And I am left a weak body and weaker mind, and
yet the spirit remain.

What is frightening needs no explanation, and the truth no result. So
then should this frightening philosophy of mine rescind back from its
place here, come back when I am more of a man.

[shrugs, baffled]

. . . . . . . . .


.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .







Part Five : The Philosophic
Dame [2]

PROLOGUE : THE SEARCH A DISTORTION : Let us say that an individual is
born with a need to search for GODbecause, perhaps, that individual is
born with a compulsion to understand what is hard to understand, nay
impossible to. Yet, if we are to make the assumption that whatever GOD
is is already located in all people, that is, located, in a simple
form, in the innate reality of who we are ... well, then, it seems as
tho GOD loses the ability to be found completely, because this
individual feels the need to search for it. That is, if we assume that
he must search for GOD, in order for the idea of GOD to be meaningful
to him. This compulsion to search, unfortunately, keeps that individual
from finding whatever GOD might be, simply because he does not expect
GOD to be familiar, or, at least, to be as familiar as he finds
himself.

And yet, this individual does not find himself familiar: he is a ghost:
the confusion he feels toward whatever is essentially alien in him
turns out to be what he perceives GOD to be. So then, this alien thing
must be searched for, and clarified. As it is to repeat that whatever
alien thing one may speak ofoften, if not more than oftencompels one
to clarify. To find meaning, to figure out. We must do this in order to
be comfortable with ourselves ... in order to fix our own, unique place
in a universe of repetitions. But, thats another story.

As I said, the search is ultimately fruitless, because it is unneeded,
and so brings one farther from whatever TRUTH they might have chanced
to findthis being a thing that, by definition, is all we needfarther,
that is, if only they had not preoccupied themselves with a thing so
justly nameless as GOD ... so, then, this individual is condemned to
understand TRUTH as a concept that is invariably alien and
questionable.

The search for GOD, then, traps him in a paradox. Because, to an
extent, I must say, we do understand ourselvesand, tragically, we do
not expect to understand GOD in the same way.

How to remedy this? One cannot, because they look in the mirror and see
themselves, rather than someone else. And what is GOD, if not someone
else?

So it is, if we are to take this grand assumption that all people are
GOD" for what it is, we find, it is better not to search for this
abstraction. We find, in the end, we are searching for ourselves, but
ourselves in someone else. A vessel that we can still understand as
persuasively as we understand ourselves. To feel this way is to feel a
sensation of being the part of something bigger. One is recognizing,
down to the finest detail, exactly who they are, in something that
nonetheless is not them. It is an idea, really, of two things together,
in a divine, equivocal singleness: the idea of unity not needing to
rely solely on one thing expressed as what it is, and only that. In
other words, something simultaneously alien and familiar: ourselves as
not ourselves.

GOD, it seems to me, is the result of an attempt to fuse our displaced
feelingsour sense of othernesswith something that we can identify as
clearly as we identify our own face. I gape, dumbly, in the mirror, and
see an individual who is not yet fully himself, because he has not yet
understood that the GOD within himself is unfindable ... and yet there.
It is in this sense of ourselves as fragments that we are able to see
GOD as what it is, to us, to me: a fragment of ourselves, and, thus,
never complete. So then GOD becomes, by this strange logic, a
representation of what is lacking in our lives, rather than a fully
formed whole. In other words, we see ourselves as incomplete because we
see GOD as complete, when in reality it is the individual who is
complete, and GOD who is merely a fragment of our denied greatness.
This notion, to me, is unspeakably poignant.

[1] QUIERIES TO HIMSELF : I find, if I do not focus on the physical,
while I may not feel as much a wealth of intensity, will too not suffer
such consecrating lows. Or in other words: if I allow my mind some
governance over itself alone, I can leave the pangs and deeps of my
chest as a dropping feeling and nothing more. I can choose not to
connect it to any specific (or perhaps general, if at all) reaction. I
can choose to objectify my sensations, and say, I am in some way of
thinking completely disparate from my physical self, in the same way
one might say, He was suffering a great deal for three months, when he
had been, though the experience itself to the sufferer would be much
different. I can call a dropping chest a dropping chest and it will be
a physical truth, though to myself, in experience, would be, yes, quite
different indeed, and perhaps harrowing enough to need the mind as a
quicken to its source.

But because really to be physically comforted a mind would need no
source, because it would not be, we should not connect mind and body.
Reality becomes tenuous anyway despite the husk. With the introduction
of strict confines, as any selfhood is, consciousness may well restore
this rather Unreal Mind for any selfhood, who so view their own image
of the world, but in turn they, this any, will lose that infinitude of
possibilities of mind as present themselves to me, if only notionally,
even regarding instinct and the senses it is true, that an idea can
come about to balance me, sans extremities. But if the body is the
source, the mind will make itself the source. And then, well, we would
be bodiless wouldnt we? And the physical pain an existing quandary.
It is the mind that is the source, the body the vessel. I speak on no
neurological terms or even spiritual but practical. A body without a
mind is a dead husk, without at least a few dread synapses. In my
opinion. With animals, there is too at least an instinctual
representation of reality before them, they move and react. Nature
itself is alive but in a different way, a bit to me like a causal ebb
and flow that perhaps mimics consciousness altogether, in some great
being, this planet of flora and fauna.

Funny I should include flora and fauna, the World itself, as if it were
apart from human beings. Because they are not. We have a guess at
heaven, but that is all. And mostly it appears to us as sacrilege
anyway, something so treasured. To the devout and the atheist alike,
our very guess is something we keep to ourselves, yes, but also to
ourselves in the mind.

And funny how you can make the word atheist singular, and it seems
more noble than the devout, but if you had just said atheists the
word itself would imply a cult. A small group, nothing immortal, a fad
maybe; in a similar manner, replace devout with religious and that
turns the whole concept on its head. Because religion is simply plural
... let me explain:

It is the same word to make the atheist a hero by whatever famed
sense of individuality that is used diminutively in one word
religiousbecause to use as powerful (and how simple!) an article, a
novel the for a mass of people, is, well, connotatively, disparaging!
Label the mind as alike others and disparage the mind, is what Im
saying. Our uniquity, or even a sense of self, is our religious nature.

[2] PREFACE OF THE LITTLE HAND : John, if you never believe any miracle
I ever say again, believe this one, that I have just awoken from. A
literal representation of reality, beyond what Id think even I would
have ever known.

Not lucid dreaming. Not dreaming, at all. Rather, representations of
the need to sleep working themselves out in my head, but without the
rest of emotional distance, which anyway would stifle one, in the
presence of such absurdity.

My problem I guess before was in taking too much advantage of a given
dreams absence. Being conscious only of sensations of whatever reality
I knew by day and applying these to the dream; either I was numb then,
or numb now. I heard the realities of a creaking house and my ears
depicted a nearly cartoonish snoring sound. I heard my experiences
drift by me as people, who thought or did not that I needed to be
lifted up out of an opiate drawl. I speak for the first time, in a
literal sense in this. It is the most literal dream Ive had. And if
youve ever made representations of reality apply to a dreamstate, tell
me, where is the soul in that disgustingly neat nonsense? Please call
me, it is, for the first time, fucking urgent. Please understand, that
in my sleepless psyche I have lacked the rest needed to emotionally
distance myself to face the realities of the real world. Most of all I
know this as an act of GOD more than anything ever I could have written
before about what it is. As soon as possible please.

(Also, I do not speak of any time, but the present, when I say, enter
the real world as each morning, for awhile, I had. And whatever code I
could have put to this musiclay always in applying that retrospect as
anything but already reached and so then not an issue. Maybe when a
dreamstate decided to work its true miracle of this taste of death it
happened.)

It was imaginative, oh yes, but terrifying, because a dream that always
must be, night by night, takes us away from anything but the numb fear
of a present that always is not, at least, in terse, how REAL THAT LIFE
HAS ALWAYS BEEN, dumbass. So stifle your own complaints, if you have
any, about my detachment from fucking reality whatever the fuck
anyone knows about what that is is wrong, as I know I am, will be, if I
bring my poetry into the sleep of death I have always dreamed in. No
representations; forgoing ALL of the senses for the sake of rest. That
has always been sleep, I think, to most people. This sleep, though, it
lasted way longer than I would have liked, despite the literal few
moments it was, that is, regarding the actual span I spent awake in the
dream, which was at least seven or eight hours, maybe more.
And it had something to do, with falling asleep in front of my
computer, entering a state of what instinct of rest should not be at
this mineral level.

Once the dreamstate is run by what sounds and memories, and feelings,
and fears, the heart employs these readilyas equal sensations.
Really it is my unconscious saying that my concept of telling the story
of the GOD of perception has become desperately hokey. Solipsism I now
know, for certain, is the truest form of reality, beyond any
communicationwith the fivewith a nameless sixth that wills to combine
them how it would be helpful for the mind. Value

the mind too much, and your body will take the value of rest to there.
Basically, I gave myself irrefragable proof of the existence of
something beyond the senses as needing to be there, not as a hokey
great power of a sixth, which I find insipid, and even in mentioning it
I become nauseous as to the idea of what is no great power but a great
balm, to keep the powers of sense-perception in place. That is
something far different. If the sixth sense is anything, it is what
everyone has in the valuing this sanity, this normalcy, and sanity is
no great power. Please dude. You must understand that the nature of
solipsism is to eternally deny its placement in the perspective of
another, as such I refuse to give in to the clock-perspective as a way
for you to see the respect in that despiteno hyperbole, that is key,
everything here is an accurate representation as a balance of feeling
and time where it all needs to befor the sake that the eternity, in
the soul in each thought, might live. I will say that the eternity in
my soul is shaken after this night of sleep. And as for the clock-
perspective: it is gotten in knowing the counting of minutes readily as
an appreciation people have at large for the unreality they can wend
off into, had they not looked at their watch. I have never needed that
chain before, and there is a major conflict in the fact that absolutely
no one, around me, will truly know this as anything but insanity. My
lack of care for time was always my sanity, and it has always made me
saner unfortunately, because it is the one discord between me and
society everywherethat I came upon naturally as a comfort
association, long ago. Knowing that the normalcy lies in an accurate
frame of reference, perhaps, in wearing your own guttural form of watch
even. And I am not for this time, if people will judge me for not being
able to see any sense in concrete minutes. It is too much of a lie to
myself for myself to see as anything but ghastly. But I have tried, I
have tried to be normal in the way I thought was normal, happy in the
ideal that was, that I thought everyone was this way. I tried to push
out of mind, that my sense of time, is innate anyway. But too long in
the heat of customs of time will in this age make this too figurative
for even you to believe that it was ever anything but I-willful pushing
against the current. And John, that has always murdered me. My
imagination spoke last night, in way too much of an absurdity, as it
lay in an actual contiguous narrative. I have always saved the
senseless violence of the dig deep parts of me for dreams. Now I see I
am robbed even of that respite. And I have and will always feel
uncomfortable with putting faith in clocks. I always will. But there is
something torn between the comforts I knew before in allowing myself a
wonderful, meaningless rest of dreams to feel more alive in the
morning, and a literal sleepless rest. To be honest, it was probably
the light from my computer keeping me awake in the dark. But like, I
wasnt awake. The contiguity I had always saved for a clear morning
head, for the sake of giving up any flair of imagination at all,
unconsciously, in dreaming. It is all an instinctual response to quite
literally getting the least amount of rest out of however many hours, I
went to bed around twelve or one. Ill feed that abstraction.
[3] Feelings are simpler than thoughts, and for this reason leave our
minds at a slower rate, since there is at least a need for time to
properly feel but perhaps not properly think. If we are quick, perhaps
shaping a thought might take longer than to approach the crest of a
feeling and accept its passing, but even resourcefully attempting to
locate its origin involves too much of the given moment to really
present the feeling as a clarity and an arc. To transform the feeling
into a thought that corresponds to the moment: now, this is not to say,
this always must happen, but usually, feelings produce reflection. If
not reflection on the feeling than the moment. This implies not only
that the moment is imperative to our appreciating the suddenness of the
feeling but that, if a thought comes to us at once, a feeling might as
well, yet the thought will pass swifter than the feeling from
retaining, the feeling remain longer because it is without a need to
clarify with a thought, and once it is, and the origin found, passes.
But perhaps then we think, we round out the thought, and find ourselves
perhaps more blessed for accomplishing the rounding, feeling that way.
For people are in endless excessive struggle to find permanence, a
permanence of mind, and as equivalent perhaps to the seeming permanence
of the WORLD our minds observe, a reality that is at base static but in
every way is questionable, unless we are travelers. But then, what
manner of travel do I forsake or indulge here? I will leave out the
mental kind, for now, and leave the physical movement
and dynamism of place, to rely on the moment one arrives, then, as much
as one would consider the WORLD anything but a wilderness of questions.

[4] life makes so much more sense when you judge it purely by your
tasks, and maybe assuming reactions have a source, any

[5] The facts of life are our history. To have an opinion about the
facts of life is poetry. To organize the facts of life is the job of
classical philosophy, and a lofty wager. To destroy the history,
reorganize, and remain in but one single, bare fact is existential.
The single, bare fact (not the atomic fact) is the distance used to
connect one, throughepistemologies, or even general insightsto the
place where all facts are free from the suffering that is a screen. But
what of, to portray the screen? To penetrate the facts of life without
losing them in whatever opinion about them, opinion the sole bastion
within that voidlove, deaththis is existential poetry. One needs the
reflection; it is beside all fact, commingled with the cold read of the
history, without the history. So RIMBAUD then laughs at suffering as a
rhetorical device, while knowing it himself very much the serious
matter, as it is. So the philosopher relegates the suffering as fact,
without the damage. Combine the damage of truth with the cold, serious
matter of facts, disorganize it, and bring it forth as a messianic
parody, and then you have something, outside of organized truth, kept
in the order of lines and lyricism, which is the buffer. The facts of
life once were organized but general. Suffer as you read Sartre, and
find the feeling introduce itself in that classical scheme as slightly
wangled. History remains, and it remains my job as this murderous clown
that I am to suffer while I write, no matter what I write of, now. For
it is the single, bare fact of nothingness I find most pleasing, and
that will alwaysgetone, in the end, despite love, death. And
especially this linear way, this being iterable, chokes itself into
living the disorder of a life that is only monologue. It is a love of
death, and of laughing at it, by being in the moment of what I process
and feeling it my own way, apart from the process, and writing this
down. The divide here is the poetry, the suffering and pains to
understand; the facts laid out, out of place, to portray the screen but
not what is beyond, is my own fear of knowing what I know well, and
good. For it is no good, and fact is fact is fact is not just fact. Add
that not just as an epistemological formulation of what is
questionable if bare, and you have the existential.

[6] By dreaming, one engages their impossible conquest, some perfect
life, all ends met, and feels powerfully, vigorously motivated. Vigor
is key here. For along with there being a possibility of some benefit,
some actual accomplishment, would there too not be something not like
dreaming but anxiety? Anxiety at the notion of proceeding into
greatness, whatever sort of better life, as opposed to feeling
vigorously precisely that which is impossible to gain.

[7] You are left with the first thing meant by the words
The first thing you can grab on to

Because its insensible until you allot a place for emotional
value/connections

I hate the phrase, Think before you speak.

If we did not have a thought in our head we wouldnt have spoken,
even if half created we are judge enough of our vocal chords to know
what should susurrate and what coo

It should be, think about the thought and judge whether it
Is appropriate before you speak, but that would apply to fewer
Circumstances, which moreover the phrase alone should

I almost always need a muzzle. I just talk. No thinking at all

Absence of mind is key to fluidity
I say what I mean best in conversation when I
Am not thinking about what Im saying
But just have the shape of the idea in view

Space that could have been provided for the flesh Of the idea instead
given to the superego Morality mundane

Just kinda breach the void a little

[8] In his minds distance KNUDJERK wanted to grab something potent his
hand either shrank away from or perhaps was misinformed about in some
way. The location was ever-shifting, any way he viewed it, the
doorknob. Couldnt begin a thing at my leisure, he thought; any ideas
or any proper relationships, with ideas, perhaps with people. Always an
element of effort involved. Perhaps it was no sleep. Either way, he
stood at the door, drunk, struggling to bang his key into the keyhole,
then after that his wife upstairs, but for the moment struggling to get
the key in, and outside of time entirely grasping little petty torments
in his brain, expression blank if perhaps somewhat pasty, broken jeans
fitted down to broken sneakers, some anonymous jacket. Knit of brow.

[9] The factual is what makes the impossible not so. Otherwise you
could just say that it is a fact that something is impossible, and
negate the contents of the package for the sake of recognizing the same
cardboard box as among the rest, the same. So then it is a matter of
looking inside the box we have not opened. Not negating the plain
definition of something by saying it is as plain as cardboard, but
rather plain as day, that what is not contains not a whit of fact, yet
this does not make it untrue, or there. The content of the context, not
the context of the content, is what matters. That is to say, what
something means, undisputed, though more be in-between the lines, if
you fit what is through the rungs of what before was the
extracircumferential, through and into the scheme of a larger
connective; despite this lollygagging way of sense at its chaotic base,
we still are left with something like what is and something like
what is not. Between that, we find the sprout of Ananke, that is, the
exigent need to de-layer reality, as if, well ... as if it, as it was,
was problematic, perhaps even impossible.

We enter impossible realms to glean from what conclusions we draw a
near-masochistic sense of escape from that which cannot be rectified,
and eventually we resign ourselves to the fact, it started as a process
of rectification; we lead thoughts somewheres right into the hands of
senses chaos.

Think on that.

[10] "Its not a real thought if the person Im with cant hear it.
Its not something I believe if I do not speak it." But what of when we
are alone? Who will be my neighbor? Even if I have a conscience, my
mind might still not be able to sift through the disorder

and find what I truly believe. Thought by nature is reflection, that is
to say, we turn to look at the visage and spend our time adjusting our
eyes to see it the clearer, as it works with us to adjust itself. Both
of us fail and both of us succeed; we need not approach the question of
the need to approach not a likeness in ourselves but a clearer shape in
what we see, rather I know this need much inherent and beyond
explanation, at least for as milky a mind as mine, a swimming mind.

That it works to be absorbed by us, the visage, is the discerning
element of this manner of reflection and then is different from merely
looking in the mirror.

The statement above in quotations: as for it, it might be the same to
say, all outsider selves are a thought, ourselves what we believe and
feel, as the thoughts in our own head shroud what we believe and feel.
That is, if we judge our thoughts based off the reaction they have
externally. Read that over to yourself.

And so you see! But then, you might say, the argument as to whether we
need another to assure us of what we believe, of what thought is real,
breaks down, and in fact commits us to many distortions of that. In
another manner, what I mean is: external relationships with people are
the same and as distorted as the thoughts that people our head, and too
easily do we renege to that distortion in a long sweat of experience,
of doubt.

Too easily, too easily we will drop down to the pits of fear, if the
thought is swift enough to gather barely the notion of before
departing; when in fact we should not be so fixated with the loss, not
assume it is due to a malignant thing somewhere hidden.

And so it does break down. So then to speak a thought in conversation
remains only secondary, an outward representation remains secondary.
What we know we know within, the shapes that move about our eyes, just
representations waiting for us to absorb them and feel a better
clarity, as they adjust, perhaps alter slightly, to fit what we fit our
eyes to see. Approximations, after all, of the milky mind.

[11] It is a more than surreptitious element of the English language,
that the article I sounds the same as the word eye in the same way
water reflects the very WORLD it feeds. Is life-giver, and yet
colorless.

Both indeed are coincidental, yet it is also true that they are the
same manner of coincidence. That to call the self I is to give being
to the self, the audacious I am more dignified because solely
personally applicable; that water is what we are made of, and is
transparent, reflects what it has made possible and by this is an
subordinate entity to the seen WORLD. The veil over I creates the I
am in that the being itself in it that is considered, perceived, is
nonexistent without this subordinate veil.

So then why the need for hiding, if being is not hidden but blatantly
there? What is the source that feeds a being and metaphorically,
perhaps literally, IS being?

Water is the I we drink to be, its substance the eye through which we
perceive being, and simultaneously a veil.

Therefore, perception is the veil over a literal WORLD.

[12] [what would id take an human has a sixth sense, commonly known as
compassion.]

you rather have: familiarity, or comfort? unfamiliar comfort over a
familiar hell any day.

unfamiliar discomfort? there are degrees of discomfort and pleasure
that need defining, but i suppose out of the options youre right. its
better than being familiar with comfort.

[Comforts can be unfamiliar. For example, discovering a good novel when
you dont read, or, say, a law-abiding citizen stealing a car. The act
towards the new, and the immediate fear present in the one committing
to itthis conceptualization of, in doing so, thrusting oneself on the
swordgenerallycan be a comfort. That is, if it is an act one can rely
on in always being chancy, despite that the comfort in it lies in a
possibility of that thrust on the sword. And in no need of a particular
reason why. Spontaneous acts of

vandalism, curb-stomping, trying a different type of foodthese are the
meat of the soul and comfort it in putting what it thinks it enjoys to
the cards. One can rely on the complete absence of fateat least,
sensible fatein those unfamiliar things one might forcefully introduce
into her own life, once in awhile. In this way I feel that unfamiliar
comforts are on a higher tier; after all, there is much different about
whatever next redemption-or-sword-thrusting activity, whereas other
familiar things to people always once were not. In other words, change
is comfort, the universe is round, yadda yadda yadda.]

[13] THIS IS NOT A MOVEMENT : **** wanted me to look for something in
the band. Tell of a proper induction or punctual moment to start on
something, wherever. But there are no rites and no punctual moment is
to be made of what is a timelessness. A sort of furious result, this.
Of societal discord there is much to be rid, in its conceit, itself a
disorder of art.

Any rebellion should not, must not, be initiated; rather wrested to
life, from the bone of a one who cherishes the working and yet the
results of that misery as not being more a blessing than.

A prism is that sort of mind through which all colors eke through as a
drama, as the passion of the drama in each heart rattling weakly, at
its weakest to be heard the best.

Music, musicality, art, is no rebellion, if a charade. That is, to be
made into with blessings or nods or punctuations. The declaration here
is but to be felt a part of intermittently, without greeting, like an
arrhythmia, or the triple-thrust of a heart in its voice.

Ghosts, ghosts in the heart. For what should I owe the pleasure of this
pain! For then I smoke my cigarette until it burns my teeth. To
smithereen out your own goddamn blessing from the hydrogen is not yet
for others to enthrall. Unless they see in their eyes my own tears,
such a thing at most is a phantom, at worst, degrading nonsense. And I
would not some other in me fall off anothers face, if they know not
why, that wisdom is a killing. My own weakness is not in the making of
carbon, but in building off of sensation, until the carbon is lent to a
place of ultimate weakness, and all colors through the prism become a
mere passage through a screen. All is translucent after all if going
through the same dull round that is each square of that screen, each
window, each door. And the weakness of all creators of things, perhaps,
lies in what they do at the point when lusting for the sensational
feeling of creating overrides what has been done so far.

And then the heart, in its patter, denies the music of the prism. And
then the heart has nothing to follow.

And then, what is denied in the artistthe creator of the thingthat
is, that sensational rushif denied for long enough, will deny too the
enthrallment of those whom have followed forth into this place of him,
or her, this stigmata, this one of a one who believes too rapaciously
in his or her own good as relating to the vision rather than relative
to it. So we as those who are enthralled smoke our carbon, and remember
what had moved before, while the artist dies.

The true compound of course is when one who is an artist or proclaims
to be has received a blessing or two, a nod, perhaps; one chiseling
his, her, head, into the rock sees themselves, eventually, once they
bother enough to quit banging their head against it. The face on which
their head rests, the movement, here, yet another nod and smile, merely
a brain. But it is when they look up and find again the sensation of
their own face that what seems for a time is created out of this
measure of ghostsnotestuneful space.

Merely ghosts, congregating together, though the best sort of weakness
that. Such disenchantment with an unbelievable surrender is one who
loses the child in the creation thereof, and that sensational rush
becomes merely the charade of a thing of life that is forced to fit
about what is in the language of no sort of tuneful space. So give a
way to silence beyond the silence.

So give a way. Give to the fact that the movement is from artist to
artist, not self to self, and then all are enthralled by all. One

does not feel the hardness of the rock his or her heads have felled.
This is for some to go following, some not to; Ill see where its at
in the editing process. For that it all is the same shape to the lord
in Modern Man there is no doubt; and the same face.

Theres nothing it doesnt say, that art doesnt, rightly. At least
somewhere. People each have lots of mind devoted to this end, this
rightness.

They make the shape in some waywe doof what clogs our heads with the
carbon, that remembrance. A vague knowing of a vagary, and knowing the
use to lay somewhere passed. But there is a way as yet to use a
movement already approaching.
. . . . . . . . . .
There is no preaching of that which comes at the drummed moment, a need
to desist, it goes on, life does, art does. It lives itself and the
people its own charade tomanipulateas it will. We are powerless to
stop the artist. They work towards, not from, a place, to escape from
where they have been, and so as to concentrate the energies they find
in life and therefore create dominion over them in this new area of
being. But the being-itself is no part of the creation that is reality.

And we are but children, children who play with toys, toys of
intellect, toys, toys. In the face of that venerable dominion there is
little that gives way ...

Here I say to you, you who listen to the listeners. I grow fractious
out of those thoughts in my head, as if they each had a life and self
their own, and all burdensome. I assume a reality of faces thereof,
many, that give me advice or admonish. Each note in a measure has a
similar expressive state if given time to realize the imagery. To see a
drifting hand in your minds eye touch you as you listen to Down There
[see Avey Tare/Animal Collective]is something, if it happens so fast
that no sensation of feeling it conjured is involved. **** who sees
the science once he has been touched by what has resonated should not
let go of the fact that art is art firsthand, and a fleeting science is
any as applies to the dissection, if sprung from the emotive power. As
for the form there is much to dissect of textured meanings, textured
voices, textured sounds that all construe something to venerate in
editing to that clarity, that shape, that passion.

Though, such is the wariness of connecting mind and body: thought and
feeling: that it can seem conjured, or contrived. Each in his own might
might assume a certain very pallor way more concrete than is asked of
the musical phrase, or music, in the phrase. At least perceive a
difference, ****. I knew in my own way when I read Epipsychidion by
Shelley this morning, that I should do well to go to sleep upon
finishing the poem, not continue to whir about. Inspiration gets tired.
Sure, one knows the thing and has the power, as with Emerson. But a
head that is a goddamn castle still should know vastness the utmost
abstraction so as to know the wealth of it in being purely mesmerized.
I have trouble with being affected by a piece of art and letting that
be that, without trying to figure out why; so perhaps I speak merely
for myself.

However: anyone who admits the justice in art knows the castle, that
there are corridors about its pillared mess leading to a finer justice,
a dirtier silence, not clarified. When in centuries hence we as a
species will look upon art of today as not antiquated, but looming over
the infinite into a greater bastion, we too will know that gesture to
be a sturdy one. Wonder for music and the ideal for people immersed in
it, at the least, do not lend themselves to that but have a part of
that lend themselves to them, and this part is irrefragable. Infinite.
Its infinite because it is for everyone who pursues it the same.
Thats why I make the hyperbole, and perhaps you may bob your head.

Signs, beats, dirtiness everywhere around all present itself in the
people who want to know, I guess.

Just a totally hyperbolic assumption, but some people are hungry for
music in their gut, some for it in their head. And if I could, thered
by a time where nobody takes themselves seriously enough to see
anything but everything in it all. Nobody can have an illimitable
consciousness like that though; you stop somewhere, knowing the game
not win-or-lose but hardly begun. So I write this, I say it is written,
I grow out the factionsfriends, screaming to

one another. We all scream, all the time, for love.

So if youll accept my scream here as being just me writing to you
personably, take it as that, Ill be sure to not know a whit about you.
I think I do know something about anyone I meet, if even briefly.
People should not be scared of one who approaches one as a friend,
despite not knowing them. There is a care taken in me to this end to
grow the factions, build an army from words, phrases. Like little
messenger-pigeons, you see. The old friend is an appreciation for the
build of something artful, if perhaps a bit unwise. And people know,
people communicate the same to me, if only if its me imagining that my
phone rings, stopping the writing, and not being able to find it. No
need to respond, merely I hope you see the movement, that it is not
one, and the vision that is, that it is for everyone.
. . . . . . . . . .
My mind boils with this. It aches to scream out for the love of people,
but that ideal I save for Whitmans eyes. It is more, their illimitable
fates toward the harboring something much beyond fate at all, but a
fate of will. The will, rather, towards whatever possible outcome,
towards them all, which involves more than one person. When a movement
tempts fate by seceding the vision of one to that of a mass of people,
all bets are off, and it seems more the playing of unity to rations.
Especially in the frame or shape of something it goes off from what it
was meant to remain in kind, though years pass, the age of people
remain. And one is left in the rehashing something of what sense in an
old dog. Some lost harbinger got me there, to see the poetry. Something
that made sense, once. Something that howled.

But movements are movements because they move, they take the need for
the rebel and give him his lost appetite. The vision of a movement is
not rationed out though either. It is not to be given but recieved
automatically without the cause. It is each outcome of itself met in
that mass of people.

And it doesnt seem to me to be anything less than a movement that ****
spoke of. The creation thus denies its idol in the output, which is not
done out to put its meaning in the hand of some creative other alone
but the otherness of people. I do not speak of an unapproachable idol
either but the ideal soul of a person; that it can be reached. And it
is in the presence of people that movements take place. Not to take a
stand; no, more, to stand and feel in your standing, to approach
gratitude. That is the synergy. And if I could this destiny be mine
alone, I might as well deny that why people keep going is people. It is
bigger than us. And Im sure you know.

What I can do is excite you, to try and figure out the shape that
anything so unreal could take. Myself, he is without a reason to make
sense unless it is typeset. That I cannot provide the synergy as of yet
to take myself to the personableness and gratitude of friends is not so
bad. The vociferous mind clogs words out of meaning if known to be in
the presence of a listener. So I shut my mouth there.

But the gratitude is here: that the movement of the day is apocalyptic.
That, we sense a disturbing nature somewhere, especially when reviewing
how we are daily influenced by Kulchur. It is not a cesspool though;
merely people, to me, no longer seem to know how to feel, because they
have no time to process anything. Kulchur provides the crib we lay in
till the grave, and Modern Man lifts his head in forgetfulness towards
some bafflement he in reality had more knowledge of with his head
lowered. And the reason here is simple: discard the necessitous Kulchur
of a thing and have art be art. Not for its sake, no; but for the sake
the vision might be adequately perceived by the individual, that is,
their own literal interpretation, outside of influences of any kind.

And this has little to do with anything linear. For example: as I type
I listen to the grimmest Radiohead album, Amnesiac. But I do not feel
any sort of lament here, not even in thinking on an apocalyptic less
that and more an apocalypse of the mind of feeling. These words are but
words, and I consider it a masterful greatness to know I can know, and
search away from the knowing. I, as all people, cannot loose the bounds
of feeling without-time but at the least I know without to be
different from what is within.

The movement is such as to be away from something that has dominated
for what seems an age: that we are scared. We are scared of relevance.
It comes at us from all angles; it is the ultimate hunter. And that
things can be said, like, dont be scared inevitably take us to
places where we are, especially if we know not why we should be. Such
is the lunatics ramble: an endless reassurance for days beyond when
the need for one to feel reassured was met. But we speak on the web of
such things all the time; I know I do but others do as well in a much
more implicit way. I merely see the poetry in something so willful as
the need for all us fellow suffers to apologize for being. That people
cannot be wrest from loneliness ever is a sad state for Modern Man.
That we return to the past, find in it the things we knew as a child,
that they are not that way. Maturity is no fall from grace, however,
and the maturity of a vision surely not.

The otherness of people, in them, is no loneliness though. And perhaps
we are struck by the insurmountable berms of Kulchur enough to assume a
sad or happy state to be the ultimate return to childhood. But this
is poptotally, undeniably pop as shit. I see the most complexity in a
child however in the fact that in him or her they have the freshest
mind for feelings, howeversadlywithout the knowledge to wrangle them.
And I will give my sadness that.

Whatever movement, it disregards that reassurance that in reality is an
apology for suffering. As if people could melt away from their seethe!
Well, will it. Will oneself to see the child of the now as moving
alongside the bones we were forced to acquaint to a simpler state of
being later on ... all the while, the child suffering in us in his or
her personal cage. For we live, we live and live, and better if this be
not chequered with queries as to our consequence as individuals. The
Heiddeger I know lives in forgetting; this is dasein. And forgive me if
I indulge abstractions once more for the sake of proving to you that
time is for no sake. We as people cannot indulge one train of thought;
the forgetting of one via gratitudes of others, laughter, takes us away
from an emotive place that all communication will ultimately lead. It
is the angered child: they wish themselves out of their cage: they
bruise, they weep, they feel the conundrum that is a guilt for being.
Whatever movement I could think of takes this guilt for being and
transposes it to the enormous being of Kulchur, a nearly insurmountable
reign of something beyond us. The something-beyond fills us all with
bones, flesh, blood, but it is a Notion of this while we live that
shifts and aches to fit around this void, this damnable Kulchur-whore.
Therefore: discard the Kulchur-whore, discard the guilt. Find the
perspective of oneself to lead to oneself. Do not lead anything
anywhere but there. And most of all,

Notice what is nonlinear, as Im sure you do. Otherwise we would not
listen to Animal Collective. But that band has a deliberation that is
very much a science, an emotive power to me in being a relation of the
drama of myself in music. It is to go down the rabbit hole to make a
science of emotion however but as well there should be no sad, nor
happy. Such clarifiers muddy up how a person should feel about the
creative output of their age. Ah, thats it: discard the sad and
discard the happy. Save those for what you truly feel to need them for.
Id do well for anyone to see anything I write as sarcastic. Even the
epic shit. Its all a love letter to the life in words, anyway, and I
begrudge literature that, perhaps, and find myself sarcastic, at times,
in reading over the words without inflection. Ironically, sarcasm is
mostly inflection; lose that, and most anything can be. But thats
beside the point.

And sometimes we may force ourselves the vision itself. Alone. That is
as much a conundrum. We are not an epic generation. We are not a
generation that is anything but counting the days for the sake of some
ill hue of freedom. The discipline in the reaching of and for a vision
of course is in letting ones mind go and turning down whatever makes
us look up. Discard symbolism; discard anything but a literal
interpretation. Utmost simplicity is needed in understanding
Wordsworth, who is the mind of nature. To say simplicity of mind and
poetry in the same sentence might seem a dissimilar, but it is closely
adjunct to the prescience I see in Modern Man. Her strength is in a
longing for the simplicity of childhood as relating to the simplicity
gained in knowing so much to know. Whether a person thinks they know it
all is an obnoxious self-regard, also beside the point.

Simplicity of mind is the ultimatum. It is an apocalyptic ultimatum,
especially for a generation of youth, who see themselves asepic
beings. But it has always been for this that we apologize. There is a
sleepless, restless going to the ways of Literalism. For one must dig
way deep to find the simplicity in taking EVERYTHINGliterally and not
feeling confused. Literalism is the mind of the child. And the child
breathes that as its own epic standing. The hiddenness of the cage in
ones lungs, that is where the dissimilar feelings lie, and in the need
to immediately make sense of what we feel, we lose our sense to a pack
of dogs. To take things simply, literally, is no oblivion, though. And
to this, I leave the dallying wink for a confused, unutterable God to
misinterpret. There is no wisdom; there is only suffering. Whats new?
Nothing. The Earth has been around forever. And to say one is epic is
its own devaluation. To say that a denial of this is not ennui,
though, but a happy truth, happy used here as the only happiness Ill
give to. This happinesss that is the happiness of truth. Thats where
the movement is, in an intelligent appreciation of philosophical,
artistic, truths, as being the happiness they are. Dont be scared.
Its all fancy, anyway; that people are put off by philosophical
questions to me is yet another sadness.

And to this Ill conclude for now, besides to say that all emotions are
complex, and beyond words. So goes the movement of Literalism. An
ultimate complexity, simply felt in an epic transcendence that is
really us hearkening back to a time before a fall from grace meant
anything. It still doesnt. One cant combine who they are with who
they were without losing an ideal of time that is always recurrent
anyway: that we shed our layers by the moment, not the minute. No
negation, no ennui, no listlessness. Pure intensity is the simple
feeling here; it is the artistic swerve. And it is the ultimate sense,
to get us to a timeless reason, a time, when we do not look at our
watch; instead, are mesmerized. And this surely is no fancy, but for
the fancies of intellectceaseless, obstinate questioningtelling us
why we should feel such and such a way. Dont be scared, the
philosopher says of his abstraction; it is as much a reach inward as
out, and no posture.

[14] MISERERE. I

(Yeah I wanted to try a different style however I dont know if Ill
keep on with it. To be honest Im stuck in a creative drought these
days. I guess its better to stick with what I know how to write
anyway, Carol, but even thats hard. I value ideas, imaginative ones,
over everything else, though, and its hard when youre a writer and
this is your primary concern. You can feel, all to easily, like you are
not being true to yourself, especially, of course, if you yourself are
the embodiment of an imaginative idea already. Which nobody is, so I
guess the delineation between words and selfhood doesnt matter.
We have our lives as humans and experience things and whatnot. Recently
I live in a state of exasperation, mainly because these words, even
these words, are forcing themselves out of me. Its never been this
hard for me to write before.

Diction is interesting to me in particular. This might seem
contradictory but I feel like what is well-put, at least in my eyes, is
never well-put because of musicality but because of a feeling it
inspires based on some momentary idea I find in the unfolding of
whatever work of art. Which might be in the phrasing but most likely
the phrasing has its power in the idea. Diction needs the idea of what
it is foremost to be phrased uniquely or with grace. In the idea of
language: its vaulting, leaping, plummeting, a la Hart Crane: in this
is my materia poetica. A falling flat. And this can at times give way
to a musicality having nothing to do with the sounds of words at all.
What Ive tried to do in the past involves a sort of word-
consciousness attempting the same result, garrisoned byfascinating
enougha certain unchanging shape or feeling for a shape with which I
struggle to correspond either to a personal crisis or an affectation of
my identity. In other words, private quibbles I have with myself,
mostly anxiety provoking for being so meaningless. I see that in
myself: and it is of the poem I am to write. An affectation, but an
instantaneous feeling somewhere beforehand. Erpph)

Well Im sorry there.

MISERERE II.

(hey, just figured id share some thoughts with you. it gets lonely
here.

id have trouble mentioning it to you first i suppose because i figure i
assume too much of the understanding of a given person. but maybe you
relate to that way of being (?) maybe not. but like maybe i pick up
enough on you to say this without you feeling it burdensome.

dont think of them as any sort of heavy shit either, just wanting to
communicate.

i hope you understand the mercy of logic this way, as a dialogue or
dialectic that makes wild leaps between one point and another to
connect an unnamablebetweenand which is in need of them to reveal
it-self metaphorically.

the power is in the conclusion come to from the metaphor which is
indeed concrete, and therein lies the delicious paradox of what a
meaning is. but a meaning is as meaningful as applying an extra coat
of paint. in other words, it sucks.

it is also insufferably dual to assume, the vacillation between clear
and unclear has anything to do with two opposite points made: a
beautiful lostness, seen as a vile inhumanity, an unnamable.

the unnamable to me is a thing, a shape, that i can no longer brutalize
with simple rhetoric.

i used to relent the beauty of this mystery to beautiful words because
i knew the diction and music of language. i havent been as inspired
latelythe world has become sterile with doubt and the music is faint
in my ears. dissecting things does this, and psychologically speaking i
would, used to, transfer social anxiety sterile indeed, trivial
indeedto the anxiety of influence. look it up. its one of my favorite
books by harold bloom and explains perfectly not only the psychology of
the poet-as-ephebe (in laymans, beginner poet) but the gnosis or
swerving from a weird freudian truth one must needs use to escape from
trivia and bring to the light of language. psychological analysis is
sterile in this way, but people arent, and the light anxiety has
brought me in any form has always exuded in a transcendence or
reckoning of that privacy as being myself. i now see it as lamentable
that people assume my words are me, or i my words. they are a symbol,
and used for their significance in the face of private doubts, but are
no part at all of that privacy. like you said (sort of) guys dont
reveal nearly as much as they seem to about their minds.

whatever conclusion from this transference of what i view as trivial if
expressed plainly to anyone but a therapist, and the feeling of
escaping from what is as unique a part of me anyway if saved for me,
saves me from the concrete expression, and leads me into the realm of
an obscenely delicate mystery. this is revealing in many ways: the
simple is not so simple if shrouded by keeping private, if not
shrouded, and private, complex. but to speak plainly of freudian truths
in the public of friends is to lose what was special about them, that
they were veiled from ones immediate knowing for a reason, so that even
ones own private resonance that brought them to light, again, in the
eyes of anyone but a therapist, no longer resonates. for example: tell
a complete stranger, i like to fuck dogs! and it would be about the
same as keeping it to yourself. i assume you can see the ideal of a
stranger-personality as being resonant, so ill leave it at that, so
that, perhaps, maybe you know what to knot together for me, for
yourself. behind this hazard of ideas lies the patience to be confused
and not only that, makes us able to handle more confusion later on.

but the fruits of clarity are also understood capriciously and maybe
even without the need of eyes or pictures for eyes to make
meaningful. they are things and have no meaning besides that they
exist. acid makes us picture too much by giving existence a pulse.

but existence is nothing so strict as that. acid is limiting that way,
and thathehei know you can understand.

and usually clarity has little to do with something like a
comprehensive whole, hence the dialectic.

but this girl she sees me as way more eloquent than i am, like,
immediately eloquent, which doesnt happen. im a human dictionary, ill
give myself credit for that. but id rather be more aware of a mystery
that exceeds the amount of words in my arsenal. meaning has to take the
reigns somewhere. and the music of what is meaningful, i know now, is
in an undulation of silence that that fucking acid made too limitingly
consistent. music is like, contours, rhythms, a dance. it would be the
readier diversion for me to put words on a page than give meanings for
the air i breathe in addressing an unconscious atmosphere.

thats why self-talk never works for me. i have loads of self-talk
already on the page. why improve my confidence by making sure of the
thoughts in my head via that stupid shit. leave the peace at peace. ive
learned too well that making sure i say a full thought in my head in
words that i speak in my head is impossibly wearisome. i think in
feelings, i always have. ive tried to force myself to think in
statements but that was for her. of course that stems from the fear of
stepping on my words. i cant work them out in my head and say them
though. i dont rehearse. even alone, if i were to rehearse what i was
going to say to someone in the mirror, i would find itwellkind of
fake. of course, this is no normal mindset, and im aware people save
their fakery for themselves to hide. but maybe i, like her, feel like
hiding fakery is the more of a disgrace. The difference is that i cant
feel sincere alone. kind of a quandary.

well, im rambling on. might as well eat my hat.

you piece the dialectic together and most importantly you folly in its
midst. and in that folly lies the chance to make it the more beautiful
afterwards. this is the blessing of, like, timing, and picking up on
the temperature of the room. listening to reality.

it is also a blessing for me to feel like i am understood. but no one
gives me that much of that anymore. the unconscionable atavism of time
is that one sees it as constricting when in reality, in hanging out
with people, you must needs think on your feet, and this involves an
editing to suit perfection.

like, no one has all the answers and if i ever mention any of them to
people out of context its really an appreciation of silently taking
what meditations i can from like, human contact. the elephant in the
room is that of course i cant drive, dont have a job. i have the
freedom of being in love but that wanes without an ability of getting
outside of myself and loving others, and talking to them. i wish i
could do these things now but its not that simple. simply, i just need
a friend, so im somewhat awkwardly writing this, even tho we havent,
like, really spoken alone.

there is a way to make all this weirdness and abstraction suit a more
human context. after all, i assume as much about the individuality in
people as anyone can. enough to assume i dont know them. and ill figure
out the humanity of my relationship with myself for myself, as i must.
no burden. dont worry.

but too many apologies, i guess. for i take on too much of her need.
all my words want to do for her is help her have good dreams. perhaps
this faith is gone but i dont think it is forever. theres always time
to change.

because the other sees the mercy and has her own logic thats
staggeringly beautiful to me; i cannot help but share my thoughts on it
with her but i use myself as a referent so she always thinks im talking
about me. i guess this is my selfishness but ive gotten so used to
her thinking that all the thoughts in my head are negative that at
least if i fail to explain her i can at least leave whatever invisible
torture of what they mean to her for myself as gladness.

but on the other hand, if i actually do describe who this wonderful
girl is in my eyes, and use the referent, thats truly selfish. thats
selfish enough to not be confident in who i think she is. but such is
the fate of one eternally stepping on eggshells. i guess its always
been that way and maybe i can do one or the other justice in believing
in myself enough to just speak my mind and be immediately eloquent.
like, enough to set a chill vibe.

maybe youd understand better what ive been trying to share with her but
she sees my weirdnessuhmnot necessarily as a gift i give to her but
as a torturous burden. this is precisely why i have become ocd with my
words to the point of being dyslexic, which i suppose was my version of
trying to see the world through her eyes, however unconscious i was of
it at first.

i guess thats why i refuse her the ownership she should take of herself
that i can give her, remain with a need after the thought has passed
for her to take ownership of what i find beautiful.

and this need lingers until i start in with something not as crazy as
it appears, if i am given time and patience to explain; more than i
would have needed before, but im so worried about my word choice now
that i cant help but gulp down a perceived negativity in as simple a
word out of my mouth as hi.

in other words, no confidence, but beyond that. like, a totally
distorted confidence in myself, as though only in making others feel
shitty ... but which is horribly met at this point of missing the
invisible mark that is the mood of one who speaks his mind and whom is
met with immediate umbrage, and moreover this a way to totally
trivialize myself. like a retard. cutting off your nose to spite your
face, like a retard. the difference is im aware of this perpetual
mental trap and all the while am in it, no matter what i do. and now
all words have with them an invisible word that is i apologize.

its my burden of crazy tho, right? like, expecting that an interruption
by someone else need not involve an interruption of ones own thoughts.
and thats my empathy. i focus instead on what others have to say in the
moment i would have spoken my mind, but the need remains to, and it
blurs what the other person is saying anyway. so like, why even have a
need to speak your mind, right? if it just stifles you, that is, from
understanding others.

well: its because the stuff i used to say off the cuff was like,
immediate fun for all and me, and it helped me enter into other peoples
trains of thought to start them with a crazy meditative vibe, have
people take it wherever they wanted, like, to totally different
subjects, remarks on what i said, things they say, the own meditations
of people. and also joke around with them, which really inspires. a
powerful connection via the small things we do for eachother is more
awesome than immediately awesome epicness after all. but im stuck in
that lame k-hole at the moment.

and maybe i should come to a conclusion about what i said at the first,
you know? and which was inspired by the mirth in people, the mirth
inspired in turn by whatever crazy statement i made. maybe its even
just crazy for being mysterious or like, lyrical. like, i cant just
rely on straight up lonely inspiration; you need others.

like, everybody is an other, and as her best friend it would be a
blessing for me to try and tell her that im even-minded. because that
doesnt work if i tell her, obviously; she thinks im nuts. to tell
someone who thinks youre nuts that your nuts isnt necessarily the best
route to take, but i just like to riff and meditate.

but you know psychology, right? im aware i shouldve probably started
with something relatable to bring these ideas down to earth before i
went and offered them to some metaphysical place. transference after
all; the inspiration of feeling connected to one via experience rather
than knowledge firsthand, metaphysical epiphanies regarding oneself
secondhand.

my imago is a blank head. i cant insert an object into what seems
peaceful to me without one. imagoes to me were useful only as immediate
snapshots that change, but an imago usually is totally constant. thats
why its an imago. its unchanging so as to comfort the mind. like,
picture a walrus in your head and you see the briefest of outlines for
what a walrus looks like based on how often one has looked at walruses
or pictures of walruses. but how can one fixate comfort on a void?
well, i guess it starts with assuming there is nothing for one to fix
to in order to be peaceful. but people need that obvious picture, and i
cant give them that, just the dialectic. if you understand anything
throughout all this

ramble, i hope it is that i view this imageless dialectic as as simple
as any peacefulness, any concretion, any, like, fucking, normal way one
might picture a walrus. it is not epic at all, or heavy. just a
calmative. but i cant insert words into this void that is a peace to
me, because it is a frame that is the ultimate imago and which concedes
to none. again, just words, no heaviness. and once i do so then i can
be accepted by others, even for a moment.

thanks for being an involuntary outlet, by the way. no pressure to try
and read all this, its out there, scan it, return to it, forget about
it. or dont. really the real freudian truth of the moment was that i
felt the need to connect to someone.)

[15] Religion stokes the imagination precisely because it is its direct
antithesis, and gives us over to congratulating ourselves easily what
critical thinking would, in any case other than that it is
comparatively imaginative, be rather benign, honestly.
That's all.

[16] Thats just the way it is. Someone says this, when I ask, WHY
LIFE?

I am not content with that answer; so, then, I am not content,in the
present moment or perhaps sporadically throughout life, as the virtue
of every faculty presents itself likewise. Everything I see in the
immediacy of perceived bodily sensations, the incongruous emotion with
it, and the froggy, supple thoughts; everything I see or rather witness
eventually and from out the quicken and slack of this strategic diurnal
flame wreaking a new spasm that is the day of my body and that is the
night of my body tends to beggar an idea there be a sensible balm for
this or an idea to soothe this effusion of accompanied thoughts
fighting to clarify what might as well be just a mote in the retina.
But satisfy that way and one becomes complacent, fearfully complacent.
There are logical holes in sensory-perception, notoriously no link, at
times, between the moment the feeling is felt, and what is the motive
for whatever feeling in the moment, hastily filled in by more sensory-
perception; moreover, there would be no discontent if for me there was
perhaps a less palliative and more in my eyes realistic answer to be
informed about; that truly this being the abrupt and near-graceless way
it is, was enough of a complexity. The problem of WHY LIFE? is not an
equation to be solved but an equation ruminated upon: as to its
arbitrary necessity, as to its in being an equation having a solution
that would do away with the need for the equation. With such a naked
absurdity one might feel, the driving-towards is the balm, for an
intellectual, and a poetic truth. In this case, the only thing to do,
in my eyes, is remove context, and keep what is not, as being an answer
yet found, informative and complex, but as being the need for an
answer, is a propelling force and not enough. In other words, I am
discontented, because I have no predisposition to the philosophical
pain of enough or not enough as a quality in itself that creates
itself in the moment, that makes itself enough for the adequate
fullness in words, but not enough to make the naked absurdity emerge
from the lagoon: for she still is yet to speak her aquatic
wordlessness. Once the last shred of context, strewn into the garbage,
and the meandering equation up in smoke ... pardon the bromide, siren.
Perhaps then. Though a drive to further clarify in words, this
propelling ironically is a destruction of the nurtured thoughts that
would have led me to not proof but intellectual satisfaction with my
place along the rungs. Thats just the way it is, and scrutiny captures
my soul in its self-eating.

[17] I had been crying on the subway to work reading Kierkegaard,
sometimes standing, sometimes sitting. At first, I did not do much but
shed a few tears; after awhile, they started to pour. At this point,
indeed, it had been a little while and the science behind this I had
come to understand better. After a longer period people who had begun
to frequent the subway regularly at my predestined times took notice.
It was then I began to see the positive spectrum of the emotions of
persons, myself includedtranscendent feelingsas what I would like to
say was a movement of sorts, but, which was profoundly more like a
religion of sorts. Something to havefaith in, despite if it did not
at first please you, or evidence itself.

A musical movement is that way, I suppose: an eventual kin of the soul
and once that, a potential communicant: and thus by the souls patience
a thing easily identified, wherever transcendence lieth in commune with
the psyche so too will lieth the soul as a result. I do of course have
to point out what I mean by this, which I will, and say, to be the kin
of the soul is what is gained first, before one can learn to speak with
it, as opposed to how it usually goes, that one gets close in speaking
to one, and thereafter is their kin. This flip-side relies on that
there is the possibility at all of all having a soul, as a prerequisite
to living, yet they have the choice to ignore what is in them or indeed
live to approach it, which has with it the danger, I feel, of turning
the soul into nothing more than a conceptual sortilege, and amounts the
same. Moreover it is when one is up against the failure to perceive the
soul in them that it is decisively the closest, so strong is the fear
one has regarding its possible loss by not perceivingsince it cant be
known, possessed, there is always a chance of this in those voracious
ones who must know it all.

There is a chance even that people who wish to be this way might never
know that one thing in them most wonderful.

So fierce is the brightness of a souls light, almost a retribution, to
one without faith enough in its eternity to fill the gaps.
So then it is better if it is within a person either way, perception or
no: at least then there is no possibility of failing to have a soul but
more a failure to perceive it. And of course, this is all a faith, what
is eternal in a self, and unchanging. I have faith it exists. As only
faith as to what it means can feed this trajectory for what a soul
might be, without reducing it to a concept. I have faith, then, that I
am not ruining my owneternal selfin attempting to mark its beauteous
contradictions here.
. . . . . . . . . .
The religious aspect, though. Morality always frightened me, so I saw
in this something to be feared. Confusion pleased me; then, I saw
something in Kierkegaard. Something to figure out, and something to
weep over. Though I didnt know what, besides an infinite resignation
as to the fate of a soul as mine.

Ourselves. Thats where it comes from. The soul emanates from there and
goes back on itself deceivingly to there, as if no new information had
been found, and all a presumption. We are in despair over this
perpetual escape and return so as to will to be a self apart from it
though the soul, mine, consists of it. Consists not necessarily of this
pang but perhaps burgeons from this pang: to think each day we are
anew, and finding ourselves not. Older, in fact.

This despair is: the bane of a reaching-forth as equal to a settling
into oneself that amounts to at least more of a closeness with who one
is, though you implode. In either case movement is involved, as Pascal
said, complete rest is death. In either case, too, the condition is
hopeless; either you wallow in ignorance or realize a transitional
knowledge too obsessed with the beckoning of more to be had, to sit
down and be in your relief. I think this is what is called to suffer.
Either that, or a failure to see absorption of knowledge as involving
complacence rather than absurd amounts of restless searching for nearly
a half-year. Is it a mistake to explore an idea like this? Is it safe
to explore an idea like this, in words?

Well, the human race is an experiment, if taken in the context of how
many mistakes we make; how much one does not know; where the
demarcations lie, even, between one inspired soul and another. All is
experimental in a mind of thoughts who picks up the pencil; all is
convention, if one sees this is as anything but inspired by a different
sameness, that in words it would resonate. It is crucial that one picks
up the pencil once the connection is felt, at least, vaguely, if it
cant be made; because who we are will always resonate differently,
though the soul prevails as an oversoul, as all a soul. Mirrors.

. . . . . . . . . .
Im just a man who wants to detail beauty. All that is detached from
the present moment I feel now as that, too. What moments have connected
me thus to this are of no consequence to you, there, way out there in
your pessimism, Declaimer, though you might snigger at my primrose.
And yet there is one for you. Beautiful feeling, its all of them the
siphon through which pass all and everything. Its beside the point to
tell you why; you wouldnt understand. Needless to say theres been a
reconcilement or two. That I will remain with a job and without a
shower for awhile is no derangement of me, now, though. That I feel
most upright, that I feel, not for the first time, not for the last, is
apparent, is the beauty I wish to share, since times will come when
again beautiful feelings will betray me, and the existential hole will
open to its berths.

The solipsistic attitude is highly wearisome, anyway, if once you are
aware the world is full of symbols you do not immediately forget that
by each one the senses follow there are two or three that relate to
neither the mind or body. Moreover these outliers are relative to pure
reason.

So then basically everything is relative. Pure reason, though a
universal construct, thus, cannot be, since the wisdom of one to
another will always struggle to sync up with what one or another has to
communicate in relation to both the whole of what makes sense and what
makes sense to a given person. Individual knowledge however can be
shaken from its constraints by the introduction of some other form of
logic that though not as pure relies more on personal symbols than
external, universal ones. Pure reason remains despite this clause,
however; what doesnt is what is lost to the group, and given to the
individual.

So go the outliers: they ARE symbols, and yet symbols are only chaotic
depending on who is informed and who is not; at least, as to how one
goes about possessing themself and communicating what scraps have been
found, to others, before they fleet off. And yet the struggle to do
this only they can know, they, as in, each of us ourselves; and we
despair at the fact.

See the redundant clockwork here. For it is the reason that time only
brings but does not control. The external control is the redundancy,
like hands along a watch. The internal control is a fruition of
knowledge OVER time, not really regarding the spinning of the axis but
as to the nature of what is orbited. So then I as a person am a
severance of myself if I am become the clockwork; a man of reason, if I
give in to that redundancy as a peripheral form of control or rather
the conditions of pure reason rather than the purity of oneself in it
itself, around it but no part and thus no relevant thing but a
nonsensical person, as all persons are. We are not external; we ARE the
outliers to symbolic thinking, the literal symbols. This might seem
like a contradiction, and yet we do not think ourselves as the
definition of who we are. Rather we as people are the chaos that
through what colors our scope as well obfuscates pure reason from ever
really being understood besides as a bafflingly constant presence that
perhaps is more nonsensical, if it is, as what I get from more
psychologically removed philosophies, somewhat neither involving a
posteriori thinking but in the place of a priori thinking, and vice
versa. In other words, a tangle.

What we know, what the average person, rather, knows is right is right;
we know not how to ascribe a universal constant to this, the dwelling
here is a priori. But to ourselves we find through experiences, and
life and living it in its absurdly redundant way, the way through
external actions to make it so.

So then really it is a battle for balance, not morality, if the
experience of truth is unbiased and innate and therefore wordless. And
so then, philological essence is an in-itself, outside of reality,
since words, indeed, do hearken a truth that is to be conveyed, all the
time, by everyone, and that none can get at. If only by proxy do we
communicate, everyday, with words that are all of them limits, and
which prove all of us islands, sinking into the sea. But then again,
one might just call this a game of life.
. . . . . . . . . .
Im learning, however, that Kierkegaard isnt to be discussed; and yet
I can only read him and leap off an idea of his into my own WORLD
anyway. That certainly is a game, though one I invent. I guess I mean
to say, the implications are scary: that is: his philosophy of what is
unpossessed in all, to save itself for all, all, each of whom in turn
can never really possess it without losing a freedom either as to the
ability to be themself, if this one thing in themself cannot be
touched; or as to a threat to this soul in a self, located in a person,
still a part of themself, and which despairingly cannot enough contrive
the reason behind this threat in reality its more conscious
counterpart, enough to rid itself of perceiving a threat, that there is
something alien within; precisely because in this divide between soul
and self there exists a divide of consciousness, united in the psyche.

And the psyche, the half of consciousness there that is the more
conscious consciousness, further perceives something nonsensical in
this, that two opposing poles unite in one body and mind. I am here
presuming the psyche as an umbrella under which might fit the manners
of the mind, quantitatively. And I have no systematic philosophy as to
reading Kierkegaard but that of simultaneous reading and understanding;
you lose a layer of whatever idea in your head once you put down the
book, to write thoughts on what has been said so far, retain something
you wouldnt have, had you kept reading. But it is the understanding
one ponders over in a lifetime. In the same way I might speak of noble
Abraham sacrificing his best, like a parson: clenching his ass, and
sweating at the pulpit: and I would find a member of the congregation
to have killed his son soon thereafter. Discuss Kierkegaard and kill
his reasoning. The best I can do is approach it now, bewildered; and
likewise see my own best in the man as expressing a purest humility in
the face of a wrecked WORLD. Wrecked by love; wrecked by hate the same.
For, he does not test the boundaries; he speaks whats unable to be
spoken without the windfall of recognizing too much of this past its
usefulness. There is, subtle enough, a balance in him between word- and
self- consciousness. Ill do to see my own hero in his, and assurance
in the words that do not explain. Or else, betray the hidden fruits of
his multi-layered argument.


[18] MAHOOD-ROSE. or the Little Hand

I wrote a poem about bees. One of the first poems Id ever written, as
a sophomore in highschool, when who I was was starting to take shape,
though now that self seems hopelessly striated, as it then was, albeit
sans the clutter of mind that is at present a questionable resource for
poems. I had been reading William Carlos Williams, and in my study of
the American Idiom" I perchance saw an American Iamb. That is, its own
sonnet, his; the enjambments, the diminishing soothe of each line in
terza libre. For they go in a sweep to the right, as was the poem I
wrote you about the flowers. So then it goes on in such a way as to be
its own drama as well. Williams wanted to make of his style a bee-
sting, I always thought. That is, it is such to make one closest to the
person they wish to be yet while suffering the pain of abstractions.
That dramavia a surprise throughout this collageof something in the
enjambmentenjambment, being a breaking up of the thought and moreover,
in Williams, a use of spacethis is to me brilliant about him. The
surprises in life anger themselves into being in being this way.
I love you, and I hope that surprise remains not so striated, cut- up:
make it not a hole, make it the final space, make of it no use, make of
it the ultimate use, take the reigns the both of us, find the blossom
the greeny blossom, love, leave it no crime, leave it the sunlight
bereft in words to make of anything but as paper flowers. And be this
not confessions, for this paper heart, and be it not anything but that
of a hard won gain, to know I love thee.

: Each in his own madness thereof, and all the mitigating Pain, mere
thralls, all the thralls, figurations, blessings

: As what death means for a generation, always will it be, until the
next one, perhaps a lovelier one, understanding without the frills. If
reading poetry has taught me anything, it is that death is wonderfully
immutable; once an ideal, a narrowness of mind, a changeling. An ideal
is left at that as no definition. The ideal is not that we rot in the
ground but that this is seen as anything less

than a blessing. It satisfies me, to be honest, to know, sort of, in
the back of my head, that I willjust plain die. Lack of consciousness
would be a splendor, the ultimate perspective to not ever be able to
turn back from. Rather than these pendulums of thought, in reality, the
sensation of doubt I feelakin to IVAN ILYICH and his greeting of death
past the fear, an immediate release, and eternal rest. Id leave that
as impossible to be unreachable, because unfathomable anyway.

: A priestly ramble for only those patient with timelessness becomes
priestly with applied words from the priest as anything but an
appreciation of what is.

: Dishonor the depth, feed the chasm, find its respite in the
excitement of words and meanings sans culture. THIS is the soul.

: I look at my watch, I abandon time to its concretion and my instinct
no longer wishes to remain a dullard. All of Beckett is this resentment
of animal thoughtlessness as not remnants but the whole thing. He knew
the beauty in this metaphor. I have no choice but to see it as a
degradation of the mind. And I stumble in this prospect, for putting
too much psychology in what is better left at absurdity meaning exactly
that. A mind too wearied but for the need for quickness despite,
outside of any standard, or future, or past. It is lifted from the now
in mere applicable insanities that in reality deploy their
senselessness to eras of men, rather than men as selves, of their own
moral sanities, lunatics the most. A trapped psyche is all of man, and
a need. Yet it need not be a derision of purity in guessing at what has
no choice to remain hidden. Solipsism.

: Leave the resentments for memory to unfold in humanity much the more
based in fear, of the reality of any mans brain: that all is critical.
And I am sure, I will have much the more frightening dream tonight, if
inspired by emotional distance as being a thing meant only as an
ultimatum. And meant to only be that.

: No placement here, in names for speechlessness but as a stoker for
the trivia, and no sort of mental apocalypse.

: So find beauty in the apocalypse. The nameless one discarded in
justice for the sake of what one has learned. An experience of
philosophy is no speech for the soul at all, but in its own figurative
beauty relays a balance beyond the expectations of the individual. In
this I find much in the way of a solipsistic nature. That is, in doing
it right. What is cast and what is shed in the cast

Lingeringly. The instinct longs to speak as it only knows how. At least
for one who has been consumed:

In poetry. But that I save for the true divergence where a souls
acceptance of her dullard as a capturing is much the more of an
eloquence than pure bereavement.

And it will know much the more, than whatever verbiage one could chance
on Mallarmes symbolisms, a roll of the die, a capture of grace in its
figuration, and figuration in timelessness, not the stoker. Grief of
one who knows insignificance significantly.

: An imagination must needs breath. It is not a dishonor to enjoy what
one does best, and not leave it up to bestial, forced imagery, in
reality, all of it, an image of feeling, not guilt. No guilt, yes, but
in a distant moral compass that soon becomes the search met with no
answer but an appreciation of what has always been an inherent sensual
nature. That is, one towards a place of practical rest. For no mind is
without a crutch. It must needs be one crutch though so as to only need
the one. Mix your drugs, mix your meanings, by seeing no morality in
what is truly a unity of the spirit in doing the right thing. To know
ones respitemine the sobering reality of an illuminated present, in
the moment of a morality of myself and really only for myself to know,
however, lies in knowing the welcomed silence of any crutch, not to
perceive too much as to its anticipation of a fabricated reality
regarded deficiencies of instinct that are grossly disorganized and
must remain so. Poetics, the frivolous expenditure of what should
remain frivolous anyway but in the speech of an eye.

: I dare say, beautiful meaning is worse than ugly nonsense, and the
only thing uglier than that is beautiful nonsense. The only thing more
nonsensical?Meaningat all.

: What we tell we already know, what we know, we already perceive.
There is no hidden self but that of one from a society built around
formulation, not honesty. Tell oneself alone that he is good, and he
sees his good as a reflection of a truth already known. Perceive it as
a question needing to be answered, and one only questions his need for
solitude, that is all.

Shuffling children. Spoken from bed, with friends, the agile swoon to
rest. Missive the dog; the cat a hand to hold from crawls, child on
child. What armless fiends in one on the bed room themselves, there,
there: it is there, it is in the finalities, the willing- places, the
gulf of more-to-be-had. And one in the corner shakes in the unlocking,
inculpable of jest, rheum for the fiends, child-forms for the woman,
dogged beside, thighs of a quiet sketch in zaftig. And comportment
leveling reality out in the static white

.

I should not backtrack in an attempt to find what I have lost, grope
for what felled sensation brought me to a concept whose worth depends
on its outline, at least. It would be better to have a pen and paper
always on hand. But one who is buried in a book with company is one who
leaves the thoughts of others to the wayside. I already do that too
much; better to leave my own there, and carry no pen and paper. I would
feed what is too hungry ... and which would fell the more had I all the
time to write all the thoughts, that is, if one atom or trace of
something unfounded escaped even that insensible expressive freedom,
made suddenly a

prison upon the escape. (This, this tangle of thorns, is for the birds
one of which I am disposed to make fly with my own wings, out of the
others: a gang of crows that peck and claw at me, my minds self,
beleaguered. This particular bird is more empathetic than the rest: the
genus is not specified, though she is clearly different: the yellow and
blue shades of her plumage reflect an interior vividness that one does
not see in the sleek, black feathers of the crows. She struts along the
outskirts of the horde, as they peck and claw.

She is a bird that cannot fly. The wings of the animal have somehow
been injured; perhaps from this unfortunate hindrance were spawned the
empathy she once had for me, regarding my own destruction by the horde.
I therefore decide to lend her my own wingsas I, and thus all of my
figurations go down, go downas an old man who drops when his cane is
kicked out. I am consumed by a horde, a gang of crows, and, she is
launched fast upwards suspended by the glide of a freedom that I never
would have known existed in my chest.

I, in turn, am left with my feet on the ground ... the crows disperse,
having no more to consume but my body. Thus, I become my body, only;
all external ideals procured from nothing, save the spaces of my own
head, suddenly seem chafed and enigmatical. Were they external all
along?

I remain alive only to watch from afar this bird, this frailty, span
the skyand I know that I have aided herthat I have freed her from
myself. That I have aided her and freed the both of us, by giving her
what I had needed, myself, to be truly free. But in my head I am truly
free.

Thus, I am contained within a pleasant kind of jail: left to walk the
EARTH and understand only the memory of my wings, while this bird flies
ahead of my perceivingan ecstasy of myself that I can only now observe
at a distance, and which could have been mine.)

.

WELL if I cannot find mental pains challenge enough to consider them as
things to get past at least I shall know physical ones the less
nebulouslike this pain my throatthe more of a challenge, if but for
the possibility of a triumph.

If I quit smoking bogiesthat is. And I will find comfort. And if I
find, being cast out by scoffers makes me anything less than as
expansiveas they, the cerebral and so then nebulous things of non-
inherent-once-noticed reactive physical states, whether of intimacy or
communicated thus, will too seem more triumphant if the win is more
about physical comfort. That is, to comfort the mind, and from thence
to proceed, in my eyes, at least towards an infinite, nearly
streamlined comfort that as of late I have chosen to see as placating.
This I see the more possible thus the better challenge.

How one carries himself should not be finicky and rely on how they are
seenpah! Needing immediate mental objectivity, pah!, which after all
involves placations or lies from others to inflate something already
quite witheredalong withan aesthetic to keep the gap closed between
one reason and another, which is subjectivein extremisand despite
that hopelessness, to know too the value of comfort given upleisure,
left in the hands of someone else, and for no other reason than to
love ...

This is mytabula rasa

Daily threats of purpose, if even In taking blame, renounce Always
their maker At the point of their apology Best to fleet off, and see
No purpose but in tender fear Of others coming, not hang on long
Enough to feed a lineage of rectifying atoms, Smaller, smaller by their
purpose, smaller By the one who sees them, holds them in a place
They cannot even see, crushes them, Fixes them With only recognizing as
little a lovely.

.

(instigations of cathedrals, famished kittens on the windowstep. and
the face drawn. heart laggard, breathing, breathing a stillness of
monument, stillness of breath, in the monument, in the breath, in the
vile beacon. breathing, and breathing well, and breathing, breathing.
and the minutes of life, and the buildings erected out of the minutes,
the minutes, a strangulation. and all yet still in the primordial dusk.
all in the maritime heartbeat, all in the wounds of the wombs of the
ship. but characters, they come, they come and leave, they leave.
characters of handsome, characters of naught, but handsome, the
lovelies, the shake with his churl. but who comes out,

who comes out that the night squandered? morals. dictions, induction of
too many too late, too late for the many. and there in the final
resting place of all that is the heart beats thrice for its lover on
the sill.)

.

(the only chasm i know has been in such a nice and darksome place. here
is this: that there is even and odd feelings betrays the nicety. what
caricature could i paint in my freedom: what muddiness in lefty, what
brightness in righty. theyve always been kind of weird to have as eyes
but i shouldve known long ago that i didn't even care. there was never
any care but in what i could but struggle to communicate, the it-elf in
a mind too focused on the brightness of too much failure. no screen is
this through what alleviates to sift. check your spelling. check your
spells, not spells, wit, people. cast no spell around. cast no
gratuity. fashion a label out of speaking and unwind. for the zzs i
catch could quickly turn into a hissing. dont rely on yourself that
there is nothing to that dark shadow cast on the bench. check the find
and know its knowledgeability. but really see no darksomeness in taking
things slow about the idea of one who feels words to be utterly useless
to me without music. that is my truth. and that is my secret. and
really everyone should just type whatever comes to mind whenever they
hear music on a speaker. and i breaks no chest, and i casts no spells,
and i schemes off the vibe in a way that he could only but notsee as
averting his eyes from god. but the speech of an eye left in the eye
doesnt make it right. whatever chasm i could chance to know is a
sonnet. and the purpose of a sonnet is in the couplets; the rigor of
recognizing strangeness in summing it up, in a way that defies the
sense of the stanza. the words previous, all but bleeding translucence
that sucks a shine already needing to sleep. as if i could. i couldst
never sleep again.)

.

And she, no priestess, human. And she no one, no muse. And she the muse
a circumference, only, only circumferences of muses, muses too many,
texts for nothing. Give it me, this cathedral of subjects, let me be
muse, let dedications be the made one, no part of thoughts, here:

[19] Existentialism has its tendencies within a system, which is why
the mantra goes: Existence precedes essence. The existence of the
system precedes whatever habits of thought that come along with
thinking on how life is on our shoulders only, so then the dialectic is
secondary to the purpose. That we tend towards, everybody does, towards
ownership. But few do so in light of what is observed with a subjective
eye. The subjective is no sort of practical material for the everyday
and yet the everyday is most suited to that familiar unreality. We
resonate with the subjective eye as people though it is indeed the
forgotten part that sifts off into nothingness. Those absurd monuments
are eroded but build back up, infinitely, which proves their absurd
conquest itself. Existentialism as a dialectic provides the metaphor
for temporality and also examines its function, which is exactly why it
is simultaneously complex and simple. Any body of work by an
existential is an phenomenological whole, a type of thinking that
strives to fit its book into the mind of the pastoral human dog, a
stray, chugging forth but few thoughts in him or her lend to knowing
why, besides to collect what information of use we can. Everyone is a
genius, and even if a certain ideology does not resonate with the given
dog, the truth of it is lain there. To understand a system as this
without its habits is to pass through time into all philosophies,
anyway; yet uniquely to understand the wealth of mire overfilling the
cup, the come- hithers of forgetfulness that precipitate Dasein, would
arm us well in the face of such a troubling, complex inhumanity as
void. It is the same as understanding the needfulness of thoughts to
understand the futility of a mind that struggles to keep so much in
place while being eroded. Our falling fruit is nothingness, and the
subjective eye to the great vacuity is a grand mistake; to us, a
logical humanity.

[20] If anything can be said of Pound it is his simultaneous rugged
sensibility and meticulous processes. Brash child of Whitman, Bloom
says of him. If I recall he said he found himself using similar
rhythms. No tolerance for saccharine shit either, which is
funny because Whitman is an intense positive capability. I suppose this
is why Pound grimaces as he carves the broken wood. Sun, moon, stars,
all of a whiteness. The science of this of course is the dichotomy, or
rather discontinuity, between his produced work as a separate ideal of
courage, grace, and the stylistic enterprise of the work itself, which
seems nastily scraped together. The effect is what is scientific about
it: being able to conjure emotions in somebody by the contrast. None of
that other stuff matters but that does: the correlating emotions to
language. I like your poetry because its different. No schmaltz.
Poetry as a philosophical exploration, in some cases a lyrical
breakthrough or abrupt epiphany, as if you live it. The incarnate now I
too know well and good. To be able to sit alongside the reader and say,
I live this with you, and when I wrote it I lived it tenfold ... it
just came out this way, and now it is here.

THE SCIENTISTS ARE IN TERROR, AND THE EUROPEAN MIND STOPS. Choose no
blindness, even if your thoughts are run and haggard.
Part Six : The Philosophic
Dame [3]

PROLOGUE : [If I am to concern myself with Death as a problem at all,
first of all, I have no choice but to involve language. Linguistics
convey, there is indeed a bricklayer because I have expressed a
bricklayer, but I might as well point to anywhere in my head when he
holds out his arm and says, Here. Here could be anywhere, was, until
I as I do mention that there is another bricklayer, and that Here. is
the center of his palm, and that it is a command the primary bricklayer
makes for the other to put a brick in his hand. Such an endless
abstraction of knowing a bricklayer solely, and his statement, as both
part and parcel, clear-cutbut, nonsensicallythat is, without a
connective resource between subject and statement for one grasp on to,
merely perceiving the two things; and at the same time to know such
perennial channels for possibility as we started withwhimpers to
lesser streamsin that imagination that has had sufficient context
given to them. What then is static by this? Surely, the subject of the
story. But even he we can either assert our imagination upon and fill
spaces, or leave as just a bricklayer, a character, a subject alone. So
then here, what is static is a double-edged sword, I feel, because it
involves elements that one may choose to pursue or pursue not.

Look at this in terms of Death, then: it is inevitable and a fact of
life. It is fixed in its position and imposition on humanity forever.
One then has to figure out which side is the one of endless direction,
and which one that of something static. The metaphysic of Death is open
to interpretation and we have many concrete statements about it though
we do not know what Death gives or takes away from us starting from
there. But on the other hand the everyday concept of Death is quite
static, though it permeates in the thinking head like a gas.

More than that, I believe that language has the capacity to explain not
only a united soul and body in Death, by their very elimination and
dysfunction, but that language is itself, conceptually, in all manner
of the words communicated, and most especially its limits, exactly its
own, finer Death. So then in an ontical sense each conversation, words
written, or words read is a destruction immanently and in being this
explains Death. This, that is, that words initiate destruction, of
course, is a supposition, and the threshold should well be known better
when we pass through it to somewhere else, viewing that gate but not
knowing where we are. In such a way, since language rules us, so should
the concept be the crux of what Death is. It is a limit that eats a
limit, and leaves the wordless soul. I used to have notions of
something beyond the concept, but as of now they seem ill-wrought and
plain, like an animal trying to be human, or a word explaining the word
that it is with the word that it is. Perhaps, in the way as our
mortally dead body is consumed, leaving the trace of an existence in
memory that words can drudge up but not replicate. In short, I feel the
conceptual limit of Death in dying is akin to the limited spectrum of
understanding regarding two communicating parties, whether words read
or spoken, and that if the soul is an impenetrable Absolute, it should
well exist more concretely as a concept than as any ontical reticence,
on which one has only a compulsion to speculate and that is all. The
unfathomable metaphysic of To Die.

And yet we should not fear death either whether what has been said
makes any difference to this end of ours or not. Because we will not be
aware that we had ever livedwe are not aware of the indeterminate
amount of time that had passed before we existed, either. We look on
the past, and all in the past that occurred before we became our own
occurrence, and we do not fear what we see, because we did not live in
the past, and so, do not relate to it. Maybe im stating the obvious,
but our brains are not equipped to perceive, accurately, what does not
relate to themwhether it be time, place, or, most importantly, in an
emotional sense. We are aware only of our lives, and everything else
requires taking conjecture as truthwhich, ultimately, means lying to
urself: truth we see only in what we are aware of.]

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[sometimes I wonder about unhealthy coping mechanisms. as in, wonder
how unhealthy they really are. self-hatred for example. gives you
something to struggle against, moreover youre totally realistic with
yourself, if it is not hyperbole or just venting. you could kick a
table over out of anger or because you think its a shitty table and
must die. I know from experience that I hate myself. I suppose it is
somewhat a transposition of the sickness I feel daily. today is a good
day because I took some pills. then of course theres the argument, I
hate that I hate that I hate myself, because it means I dont hate
myself. But I have at least thirty self-critical statements flog my
brain in a given moment sometimes (pardon the hyperbole). then you
dont know which end is up anymore. self-hatred makes me really good at
being ok with being wrong. as for what you said about being right in
the future, I was reminded of this:]

"The Fate of the ancients is nothing other than the conscious certainty
that all events are bound firmly together by the chain of causality and
thus occur with strict necessity, so that the future is already totally
fixed and precisely determined, and can no more be altered than the
past can."

Arthur Schopenhauer

In other words, a non-mystical, practical assumption of fate as merely
a thing like all things, if we observe the unity of the universe in our
given day, bound by causality. Indeed, we have no choice but to learn
from our mistakes, even if learning from the wrong action is the reason
we commit yet another wrong, but in the right. This seems massively
unfair to me, and it is as if the universe isnt listening but just
telling us to go about, boxed-in, towards our end. Wrong and right I
feel are based in a radical sort of anti-freedom, but the bounds are
always that it glue up into justice. That we have to choose, but that
this choice to the smallest atom of impact will revolve around
something nothing to do with what this fucking absurd art-house mobile
of a place this universe this cosmos is really all about, makes me want
to kick the legs out from under a million chairs

Anyway.

I believe I have come to a point of no return.

I am liable to alter till the end of time, if necessary, for the sake
that I might end as a more finished human. I would do anything to keep
this equilibrium of mine from losing balance and plummeting off the
tightropeto keep that adolescent imbecile, that unfeeling, petty
criminal in my brain from resurfacing. Id say, right now, that Im
only more mature in my despairit hasnt gone away, not at all. I need
help and, really, youre the only person I can turn to: even after all
this time, I still consider you a confidante and a sage. Sure, Ive
been angry at you, but even in such frustrated passions there was a
kernel of respect for you. It frustrates me that you do not know
thisanyway, Im emotionally starved. I hear the wind passing thru and
about my ribcage, which protrudes thru the skin like grotesque bars on
a cell. Im involved in a spiritual death, and I cant seem to free
myself from the eddy, which frequently manifests a stronger pull
towards the center of its blackness. So, Ive changed myselftried to
flee from what was so salient: those thick, saturated eyes: the eyes of
those from whom I have alienated myself: I have tried to rectify things
with fawning contritions, and the empty graces of empty, fawning
complimentssuch a strategy has gotten me less than nowhere. I like to
think you still understand, still value these feelings of mine as tho
they were your own, so Ill just sum it up like this: I am insanely
unhappy, even tho I have matured. In fact, maturation only sharpens the
knife that I will soon turn within myself, clarifying bleak realities
and solidifying unwanted habits, thru a sort of shortsighted sense of
assurance that comes with agethe assurance that what you are doing,
and how you are doing it, is rightbut is it? Does maturity deceive us
into thinking our actions sanctified by some swiftly unraveling moral
precept? I have lost a logical sense of doubt, regarding the will of my
life, and the doubt I do have is whether to continue living at allif
such a malignant force shall only take me places that I do not wish to
go, then why allow it to deign over my intensity, robbing me of breath,
as tho I were struck in the balls? Why allow the will of some cosmic
joker to splice my championed sense of morality into fragments that,
once deconstructed, are senseless and without origin? So, you see, one
perception of things, a more individualized perception of things, has
been replaced by an infinitely more confusing and frighteningly general
one, and I myself am left as a generality: a ghost, a snickering cohort
to the boss, expendable, and indifferent towards the blood of his own
bloodless vitality.

Old father, old artificer, keep me now and ever in good stead.

James Joyce

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

[1] I awoke once again to a dream. Theres atoms here. And lots of
cages rattling in unison. Each atom is stuck, wedged rather, between
the bars, affected for escape. The sound formed in numbers. 1, 2, 3, 4.
And all in the cracks, seams rather, of time lived here, all that time
could not explain lived here and it was an awful place but you know we
liked it and had come to know it well, some familiar sow says between
knits of space in the psych ward to her visitors, awaiting a reply of
some sense, or agreeing, between them all. But no one could explain
that. The man felt a gust of wind go up his nose and left his wife to
talk lovingly to her daughter, in hushed tones, which she did until the
man returned, and thereupon she considered her with soft, but
penetrating, glares, real glares, real glares out into the balls of
lead, the pupils, multiplying into numbers, forging glassy through
space, judging the shift of larynx, a giant mass, as slow in going as
any not timeless thing, but a thing perhaps less than time.

. . . . . . . . . .

[2] Any sense of balance requires a construction, which involves time
to become balance, like pupa from the chrysalis. Balance flowers into
balance, and what thrives at first must proceed with elements that do
not entirely. Therefore by this assumption it is easy to consider that
in a static state anything at all is imbalanced, and that perfection, a
knowledgeable result from instability, is something that needs time to
become so. Therefore, static states are entirely chaotic. But chaos
involves movement. It is the dubious nature of perfection, then, that
what involves time to be perfect, the arch of seconds to be, is
immovable. The discordant element is exactly the element that removes
time; that is, chaos. Therefore, perfection is an impossible
imaginative endeavor, and the end result of balance somewhere between
times moving forward and times removal, between growth and
limitation: a chaotic place, indeed.

. . . . . . . . . .

[3] I never know anymore
whether I write a lot or a little
stuff keeps coming out but I feel like I never write
I dont experience it like I used to
the tears
I cry outside of the office downstairs instead
Im crying right now
I need to do it everyday
Im gonna break down if I stay here

I suppose the elated, ecstatic, supra-real feeling kept me from being
truly sensible in words, but goddamn is writing a chore without the
high

the high I get now is in reading over pieces that are better than
before, just better generally, because of the lack of mania, more
level, shorter

usually when I just become wearied with a painful feeling, the poetry
of that immense tiredness, that infinite resignation to borrow from
Kierkegaard, was what brought me to a place of clarity and ecstasy

the painful feeling goes strikingly into bas relief in those moments,
detached yet clear, objective, its nature imprinted on my vision and
for this a recognizable image, though perhaps I see more in the
foreground

than the background

its better than seeing it all slightly blurred
to know the pain clear and set upon a blurred distance of acceptance or
daresay relief

as opposed to the agony and happiness becoming a noxious mixture, where
no origin is found because all is examined in equal resolution

Id rather lose condensed moments of clarity AND happiness for the sake
of longer moments of morbid clarity whose origins are in pain

because that does transfer some happiness to me.

in fact, more than clarity and happiness in a disappearing flash does,
for sure

its a bit of a paradox

you have to examine what the difference is between being happy with
life because of the good thing that happened, and being happy with what
you have ascertained as to the state of your misery in living. all the
bad things, recollected and put in their place, somehow lose their
power in the accurate observation; in an inaccurate one cause murderous
tumult in my head, a chain of doubts, an avalanche. so then it should
be clear, what I describe, this observation I value, doesnt happen
often, because it is based on retrospect. I need to have evidence so as
to stoke the observable change and observe it and know the steps taken
as improvements, or at the least actions that acquire a very much
existential leap of faith

. . . . . . . . . .

[4] Sick. Sick. Sick. I am, or not; sickness doesnt show its full face
to me ever, remains on the raiment, dives further in to poison these
already horrendous roots. Introspection dulled awhile ago, ran itself
out of fuel for more, kind of presents a delicate form of itself that I
expand to the areas of examination I would have conceived had I been
fueled. Strung out on thoughts in other words.

Funny how something should effect me to the bone yet itself be able to
hide itself. Pain is hypocritical, sickness is, hellish mentalities,
one thousand thoughts on the subtext of a conversation, maybe not even
with you. I am different from a schizophrenic because I do not
hallucinate verbiage. I believe that what people are actually saying
involves some atomic meaning for me, or some direction or judgment.
Things I can grasp on to, not much of them; so I trap myself in what I
already have: analysis.

Too burgeoning life, or just flowers of it: inaccurate symbolisms, hope
through diversion: tender beauty, or simple prettiness. Beauty a soft
clutch of something of a miraculous cynosure; the prettiness an
aesthetic, a delight sort of, a just dandy thing. Oh life, what you
gave me to do with what resides in me! Is it your fate to give despair
or mine to receive it? This little bud got nipped early but said it was
to get better and the more beautiful later, became inorganically
beautiful, an unhealthy beauty, not really beauty. More like something
that reminds me of the cold, fetid wetness of my guts. Tentacles.
Waste, growths, stench. A corpuscle of passion, or some creepy
languishing shit.

No the flowers spoilt. Perpetual becoming does that. No no. Well how
to start. Remove formality. Remove every sense. My time here is to
prove another persons view correct. Ill remain not understood. Dont
even focus anymore. Headaches all the time, fasting out of a comfort it
does to my belly. An empty belly and an empty mind. Dont feel like a
pissant so much. Felt all the time like I was about to faint; who could
eat like that? Or something. Something like escaping. Not dwelling, not
indulging misery. Escaping misery. But forever; misery is then the
flower I suppose. I imagine sometimes a dark cavern walled with tar
that gives under my feet, so that if I grab on I sink further, I stick.
But all I can do is propel away, not enter into. Happiness I have a
notion. Happiness tell me I am not to degrade, that still something
fills the petals. That I am not dead now, tell me that. That at least
that is my choice, to remove all choice forever. If I just have zero
consciousness thats a form of that I guess. I talked to a coworker
and I said Once its out I wont even realize I had ever done
anything. I think I was remarking on a joke he made that I was going
to write something really great. But I said in my head that it was like
death.

Once Im out of life life cancels. To me I become an perfected
absolute, surety, a manner of ignorance not ignorance, because there is
nothing that I ever could not have known or tried to. All would be me.
Just that. But not even me. Just nullity. Words squeeze this weak
flower. Bellicose fucker I am though. Not really. Internally yes
though. Internally I am mainly extant in a hell, which means not that
my life is bad, which would involve circumstances, things that have
happened. Mostly the pain I free me from by the minute and forget I
have freed me from so that it takes the first crack in the hull as an
open invitation back in (as I have forgotten, I do not recognize the
visage of this pain) is so recurrent a thing because it is in my head
and since I analyze and step back to escape as well I soon prove my
whole self a tragedy, a perpetual mess, a hole itself but conscious. So
then I am in the unique position of knowing my bad state and lamenting
that, on top of living the bad state itself. Sometimes the mire and
overflow of negative sensations overcome the WORLD on both sides of
this and I cannot discern whether I am in my hemisphere of known
natures of pain and subsequent lament or mere raw injurious passions
that claw at me forever and ever.

Makes me feel even more at a loss. I am indeed a trivial creature if it
has been so long and I still renew my getting of my psychosomatic
tendencies, physical, mental. Thoughts hurt to me because each one I
ask to regurgitate itself until clear for what it is; and if this does
not happen, torment awaits. I am always always at precipice. So fragile
is this condition of me for I tend towards despair as if I wanted it
but do not control the tendency just assume flatly that I must want it
if I feel it so obsessively.

I am a divining rod for it. An insignificant orbital of all hellish
things. Cursed somewhat and without reason, least a reason I can
decipher. My life is a massive forgetting of daily-occurring trauma and
this has made my thoughts into a poor shape for arguments especially
off the cuff.

It is so bad, that is, this sick rose or something of life, that if one
were to inhabit my head during a situation meant to be fun they would
find instead a complete gaping maw of hell saturating them immediately.
What the worse part is: I can experience something completely hellish
in my head for hours and hours, lacerating my mind, and afterwards say
to myself I had fun. The closest I can get to sociable amiable times
is, I felt like I was going to die again for a few hours. It was a fun.
And truly, to me, it would have been. For happiness is dead. Mine is.
Dead and buried. Perhaps that is why my interior is barraged and dug
up. Because I am looking for a gravesite in which to lay any sort of
positive sensation to rest.

It is too mangled now; to hold on to this mutant, this nauseatingly
sweet and progressively weaker yet still burgeoning flower, always
promising an end to the overwrought spiels of life, is just making my
happiness die an insanely trivial and inorganic, unnatural death. But I
treasure any form of this odd emotion. So then, the only way to kill
the thing is to kill the wit that treasures it. Drugs sufficed but not
long; too much suffering there too. So then, there must be an end to
me. It must happen. Perhaps if let go of, I can have an inverted sort
of happiness that involves an appreciation of its loss as being
connected to the loss of feeling as though going through the dull
meaningless round. A bit like un-unhappiness. The nullity as any do,
reflects us rattled back to our tending state, but in such a way as to
carry with it the idea of what had been there before the nullity. So in
other words, remove the ugly, fat, garish, dead flower of happiness.
Then, inhabit the null domain there; it will lead you back to where you
began in pain, but you will think you are happy.

It is a deception of course but death as I said deceives us into
thinking life had never been. Possibly. Remove both poles, and I wonder
what would happen. Most likely, a chaotic vacillation that absorbed
nothing of any of what it changed into because such infinite prolixity
does not garner enough of time even to get bearings held, enough time
to get perspective and place even one of the elements in a frame. Fix
it. I cannot fix myself even. So how can I fix chaos? Sensitivity is
another form of it. The idea that things might change in your
disposition not by the day or week but every thirty seconds. My hat got
blown off long ago trying to lasso a single passing negative. I live in
blindness. Or am blind to life but see death. I have had many deathly
sensations, visitations, pallors. I believe in something that perhaps
is inconsequential if fully known: that the absence of conscious
unhappiness can lead one to be happy. But all thats too late for beans
now.

. . . . . . . . . .

[5] the leap of faith
it is the essence of radical choice
turn your head and find god staring at you
just dont murder Isaac
see
I understand what you are saying
it is a dialectic

in the same way one might say the farther removed from reality we are
the higher we get, more elated, like a drug

the more connected we are to reality, well, this should make us happy
you apply the reverse in both cases

do not do what you have and the opposite will happen
connecting to reality we are merely ok, maybe even feel bored

shooting horse and seeing clouds brings the addict closer to death
though he feels his zen

but the world is not a duality, and in fact is more a moral
hermeneutics than anything else, as in, discussing of the meaning of
life, that it is a moral standing

you can rely on your sense of right and wrong and it will lead you
through and into hurtful places

but see it conducts an endless possibility in the positive
just not right now

keep swerving away from mistakes and nothing, everything will come of
it

nothing at first, eventually everything

I seem to will mistakes

honestly speaking it is somewhat an unconscious desire for me to ruin
myself so that I can feel something other than tedium, can lift myself
up

but its just circumstance

there is no judge and we have no excuse because this is a godless world
dude

but that is the utmost emancipation to me

because it means there exists no duality in terms of how we feel, our
sensuous world, there is no divining rod as to how to feel the best

but that there is a primitive schematic for this outside of ourselves,
that perhaps never even resonates or makes us happy

its our interior morality

what I found was right did not sing to me and in fact I thought I was
deluding myself, committing to a fantasy

that if I saw things clearer, saw my wreckage clearer, I would truly
see not this really imaginary buffer that stopped me from throwing
myself off a bridge or something

but think about those you care for
or those whom care for you
even if it feels wrong

because our interior morality isnt what feels wrong it is what happens
when we take the general, unspecified, undisturbed truth for what it is

it is what the soul does based on what it observes on the outside,
wishing plaintively to mimic it

why morality is so skewed is the result of an endless division, a
philosophical one

when really I can connect to reality by sticking to what I do and
living through the duldrums and bullshit and pain

because what Ive learned from an ascetic viewpoint is that patience is
a virtue, and instant nirvana a thing for druggies, and the arc of life
the entire span of the earth, the crust of the earth dipping into the
horizon, nearly flat, nearly imperceptibly an arc, barely

in concreto, things will get better, dualism is better for a morality
which itself though good for a discussion of life, a concept, is not
life, is not the world, nor inhabits the ontico-ontological sense of
being; and emotions that lead us to harm ourselves are completely
random and baseless, I feel

if you apply the right/wrong enigma to an emotional platelet of course
everything will be deconstructed, destroyed

the body is foremost, without it we are nothing. it is the only
instance where the servant rules the master, which dialectically again
is a reversal that makes sense

. . . . . . . . . .

[6] Faith involves the failure of what is given faith in to concede to
the ends of the faithful. I suppose I mark the object of faith as
something sentient here, as if it had its positive purpose and could
choose to deliver it. But it need not be. For example: I can have
faith, the ball I feel in my chest sometimes is not cancer but a
psychosomatic manifestation of anxiety or some such. I can put my faith
in the idea of my wellbeing, that I will not die young. But faiths
value is precisely in that, at times, we are sadly mistaken. So apply
this to something with the choice to give back. Would it? Obviously not
always. What elements would the faithful have that got them whatever
sort of positive purpose as I mentioned? Surely, an element of
uncertainty. Not feeling that it is enough to have faith of redemption
is its contradiction, speaking on religion especially. Which is why
there are tools and texts to lead one down the path that perhaps are
difficult to apply as ones overarching dicta. But to me faith involves
something with no choice to give back, it simply is or is not the
truth. I feel we should shape our own scruples, over time, without
expecting anything. That is a true moral, unreligious life. Expecting
nothing to come of it. Christianity institutes the aim and itself
cannot verify its worth in following. But this is a separate case of
faith. It is putting oneself outside of reality by means of adhering to
something that clearly influences ones reality, for the sake of
something that has as much to do with reality as, objectively, a horse
to the cart. One eventually forgets why they are scrupulous, with an
end in mind that does not suit itself to be fathomed in this life.

. . . . . . . . . .

[7] our mind is the source to us, always, so well find a way to
perpetuate a general discomfort into some massive anxious thought,
well pin the feeling there

so be like
Im so depressed. ok, wait,
Ive been drinking coffee all day
I didnt sleep much
hmmm

maybe theres a reason outside of the circumstances in my life or my
internal world

that I feel shitty
haha
kind of a bad example but you get it
cuz what I do
is say, I feel shitty, must be thinking of something shitty
but usually its just straight body

thats something I would wish to say to you that I think is the only
piece of wisdom I can really say I possess

divide mind and body

fuck people who say connect mind and body, because thats something
that happens completely sans will

and will runs life, a taskmaster with a whip, unfortunately.
99 percent of the time you will struggle to link the two and fail and
place all of both in one or the other

which throws you off

when we give up our will, then we can talk about that rarity of mind-
body unity, an impossible feat

but dont push nirvana
its impossible to achieve once it is the goal

. . . . . . . . . .

[7] True thinking arises where no words can, which makes perfect sense,
if we merely consider that epiphanies often are sensation-based. Ergo
one smaller string of words, we see things, including the words
themselves, clearer and perhaps bolder through a resulting elevated
state, nearly sometimes make entrance to where the sensory experience
gives the words a quality they in other cases might not have possessed.
But this, of course, overrides the pure and simple meaning for the
sentence itself, such as I need to quit my job or I need to get my
life together.

. . . . . . . . . .

[8] Of what I am not disposed to speak, as much a child his philosophy.
It is there. But there is no aptitude to explain, if you are young:
what comes from this particular training of mine is merely reflection
in repeated strikes upon my head. It strikes me dull because it has
come enough. I speak that privacy as an adult who does not understand
his much more prolific child.

It is once found as my meaning in life is to do something that
ironically releases from my mouth to explain it as more than revealing
myself a novice in the face of that unconquerable but observable
universe.

It moreover welcomes as deft an answer as I could give, as that image
is for me, and yet I cannot ever.

It is having the wrong dream, if that is it is observed at all.

Such is the epic gravity of a failure to find the words, if indeed the
aim is reflection, that is, becoming yourself what you see, that you
cannot ever, because of course not only is what is seen not yourself,
but, more than that, it cannot reflect back, knows only itself, a
privacy. It is this very privacy I crave and yet my will to find the
words opens me up to communicate with it. Perhaps the greatest
perceivable irony would be that this dream, this ideal, cannot reflect
back because it does not lack this venerable complication, to borrow
the phrase from poet Wallace Stevens. Can perceive me, and itself
remains speechless.

In this case, it is perhaps interesting to say, the only deduction to
be made is that there is some being inside my head, with the power to
look for words, and the power to understand the inadequacy not of words
at all but that they themselves cannot find them, looking upon this
shaggy, alien pate, as he himself writes her an ambiguous profile.

I was once a child after all.

. . . . . . . . . .

[9] feeling dead
forever basically
i get it
but i couldnt know that the social standards would trump me
and in a figurative mind

to leave your body in the ground is no sort of source for a heart that
still beats

the social standards of suicide
are fucked up
peace
is nothing frigid
and i have felt frigid
with this broken spine
so i know how it feels haha
suicide is no moral problem at all
fuck camus for being so damn smart and thinking it was
or rather it was no problem for morals to know
i just know that my back hurts, my head hurts, my chest hurts
physically

what my eyes see in that upon looking inward was a nice little fantasy
for me to feel relieved

that people assuming morals thought they could ascribe to the ultimate
morality of ending ones life

which is always for the sake of god
like no matter what yo
do you feel me on this?
and i feel you too
quite literally
and that this sensation was seen as fabricated,
that i connect with everyone, was a ghastly untruth,
and i know that no because im talking to you for the first time

" "

im sorry for that pain
that i gave you
and that the world has
and maybe im being too honest.

but thats no matter for morality to make us feel alienated by
because at least me, dan

demarse

i am speaking for him
he wants himself to know
that there are two placements of guilt always
and that we as people unravel them out of control

makes us lose our spines

respond, if you desire
if you have any thoughts
im aware i can be somewhat grand

and some of them,
are what Id picture to be
what listlessness would sound
like. i know,
how can you picture a sound?
i suppose thats poetry
for you. i dont want to say,
be happy in the same way
i would hate if someone said,
its all in your head.
well, no shit it is. that, uh,
dont help for beans. and maybe,
its just the voice of angry
boredom wrapped up, not in itself,
but in its anger at
the senselessness of triviality,
that the focus between
lyrical mundane
and lyrical cosmic is
an irritating blur. thats
what i get sometimes. strike out
into the world and find it flat,
no matter what Copernicus says.
emotional heliocentrism is
not for those who have been
cast to the birds, but for
celebrations a-wing, like whitman
and stevens: what have i,
except it comes from the sun?
what have you, or me, but
what comes
from the center of our chest,
beating out more arrhythmia,
because, not that you are
contrarian as a choice, but
as a person, like me.
enough to go contrary to a hearts
beating. enough,
that it is bad for your health.
but then,
maybe i only speak of myself
and leave the sun as sun,
and myself a grinding ore
from the volcanic upsurge,
which, uh, is just as contrary
as any questioning of power,
as any denial
of a selfs wonderful power
in bits of pieces
that we write from hovels,
sweating like dour monks.

. . . . . . . . . .

[10] The soul is seemingly sacred, but what if it holds equal value
with anything else, and what if the true lasting value is in
transience, that things do not last? Then of course you get a million
sacred moments that still go by the qualification of being rare, but
eternal only in the mechanism of erasure itself, not what is erased.
What is erased has a gruff character to it, a doomed salute to time is
in each of these momentary shards, this life I view behind my glass,
the things that happen. By mutability we see not only that nothing
lasts but mutability, but that that which disappears after a time is
beautiful and the more well-regarded, separate in not being eternal,
united in the eternal ideal we merely reach for, as if it were an
obligation, something impossible to occur.

mortally injured ropethrower
Zarathustra goes to him
ropethrower beseeches his God to be saved
speaks of hell and heaven

and Zarathustra says, in so many words as I do not have the book in
front of me

"God is long dead, there is no heaven and hell, and the soul dies
before the body, so really you have naught to lose."

the key
is the idea of the soul dying before the body
that stuck with me
because what more reassuring thing to say to a dead man:
"your soul is already there
and so thus will your body.

it is a statement to me, that besides the deftness in perceiving and
saying something that both nullifies a mans last, desperate pleas and
lifts the man himself above them

but it is a statement to me
on what we consider hallowed

I sometimes envisage trinity church, by where I work, as a huge finger
an elaborate index finger pointing upwards

Nietzsche says, forget what is above

let the earth itself move you, for in it is there more possibility to
not only feel the deeper what you consider sacred, but completely turn
the idea of sacred towards moot

so goes the problem!

that there are things we feel are sacred in the first place, so then we
start with this load to bear, and hopefully somewhere along the line
reevaluate what we should truly consider eternal, special, important,
untouchable, holy, that perhaps we can find it everywhere in every
fucking thing

his absurdity of course is that the sacred things are that precisely
because they are rare, but indeed the sacred is a most common thing, I
feel; the true sacred

. . . . . . . . . .

[11] The lingual limits of plasticity. Moreover making things akin
clearly to what they are not, beyond negation, because it is not
asserted. Not something is something that its not, but, more
surreal, a contradiction of a previous statement, and a snowballing of
that, almost a ripple of sense, not to explain, but as a causal sort of
thing. That the mind as it writes a poem might notice the contradiction
and base the words after on the vague feeling of something wrong
which happens frequently in this. Moreover, the most amazing aspect:
that it is unconscious. Only recently have I discovered my avalanche of
lies at the beginning of a poem, and the unconscious sensing of their
wrongness after, reflected in the words themselves.

. . . . . . . . . .

[12] Ezra Pound. Thomas Stearns Eliot. Pound: the gruff, natural child
of Whitman, as opposed to those masters of formalism. Im not asking
you to attempt a shape, but to make your strings aware of the
fragmentary subject-matter. this is definitely the cracked ball of
crystal, to borrow a pound-utterance. but can you yourself lift it?
thats all that matters. the next step is letting others know you can.
thats what i mean. poetry that is conscious of itself and what it
does. a dialectical explanation of the dialect, which perhaps is more
than a parnassian surface. delve into what eliot did in the quartets:
an examining of immortality, as a way to be that. i say these things
because i wish to challenge you. nothing less. if it were that this
poem did not strike me, i wouldve said nothing. and maybe i still have
yet to say anything at all. but hopefully we dreamers can elucidate the
dream, not just speak it. that is how the universal understanding is
gotten: through an expression of the universal, by ways of the
personal: to express the intimate areas of all people, not just
ourselves, but through ourselves. keep it up. keep it up, and there is
hope yet, yes, for the conceptual whole piece.

. . . . . . . . . .

[13] Religion stokes the imagination precisely because it is its direct
antithesis, and gives us over to congratulating ourselves easily what
critical thinking would in any case other than that whatever thinking
is comparatively imaginative, be rather benign, honestly.

. . . . . . . . . .

[14] it is a philosophical knot to untangle to doubt awareness, a
harder one than a merely second-nature awareness of doubt, which is
easy, yes, instinctual enough to lead nowhere, and which depends upon
awareness as an active state, almost a dynamo, a perpetual motion.Turn
this perpetual motion into an urgency, an exigent thing that must be
found, and one finds nothing, and treasures doubt as the active state
instead of the awareness. Foundation or no foundation, that is the
question.

. . . . . . . . . .

[15] I catch it as I can
it starts with the positive

a positive appropriation of a negative. for example, not saying I am
sapped, but recognizing the value of saying I am not going to say I am
sapped, as opposed to using it as an apology, so then I accomplish the
goal here

Ive wanted to dig deep with you
get my mind whirring again

and I can do that, still, I just have recently realized I have put
around a decade into getting on paper what I must

you caught me at a point in life somewhat akin to Leopardis Noia
between the energy we give to suffering and the energy we take from it,
when that place is not filled, la Noia steps in

I am in stasis, mind at neutral, my life is ok, so I cant give
energies to suffering because I do not, but its bad enough to not be
refreshed by a suffering that is nonexistent, its suffering if by that
you mean it is perhaps stagnant, but not guttural suffering, as like
grieving, or experiencing a loss

my life has always been attached to polarities, however much I condemn
them in my writing

so then I provide an explanation for why I am drained, sapped, and this
all is an apology then that I hope to transcend, in examination of it,
to my senses gratitude

I do not merely say it over and over

but I suppose thats why things like la Noia exist, as a way to reenter
a thoughtstream if you are outside of it and unable to think clearly

Beckett examines the void like no one else, and for this he is the
oldest, an extremely conscious latecomer

he makes up for it by examining the causa prima, completely outside of
it of course

the modern sense of futility is there
you should pick up his short works, theyre brilliant, enough in
themselves to denote a sure saint of literature

few saints there are in the western world
lots of sinners

Shelley was a kind disposition, Byron said of him that everyone was a
beast in comparison

Beckett and Joyce used to sit in silence at table and drink. They hated
talking about literature, which I think is quite saintly, considering
we do this, quite funny

But Sam Beckett, his is a deluge back to beginnings, things start to
turn backward, have no choice, after him

except what I consider to be the next step in experimental letters
that has not yet been

moderns were an affect of fragmentariness, similar to post-renaissance
Augustan writers like Pope, who were obsessed with dulness, as if to
say,

The great beacon has gone out, the time is done, thought is again dull!

Romanticism was the great beacon
the second great beacon

the subjectivity of the poet became the poets subject, Wordsworths
Tintern Abbey speaks to this

from what I can grasp that void-presence is there, exclaiming shadows
at every turn in the path

a representation of the shadowy mind, a symbol for this, which is high
Romantic

. . . . . . . . . .

[16] the sublime is not necessarily found in natural imagery. nor is it
remarking on the splendors of nature. it is rather thenatureof
imagination, as well as it is what psychic questions emerge in
examining the mind of this supreme nature, through the lens of the
memory of an experience or human event. and all of it embodiedmost
importantlyin searching for the limitations these have, what will go
answered or not, and whether there is synchronicity to both the
ignorances and illuminations; perhaps lamenting the limits, if the
limits are not reached, and clarity dissuaded; perhaps standing agog at
that ledge that looms over into the impossible. looking over the
precipice, into a far-and-wide most definitely not our own, we become
humbled, and nature as a force and beneficiary to our insignificant,
local needs, brings us closer to a humility that IS necessary in
understanding ourselves. however the sublime is an art of remaining
cognizant of the pangs of limitations, and not just remarking on ones
own happy majesty in viewing the mountains in comparison. it is not
merely a nature-poem and mightnt have a thing to do with any natural
image.

this is why i think, after all, that the sublime is not outdated but
that its stereotype is, as it should be; its inaccurate. the sublime
is in tons of contemporary poetrythough it is rare, as it has always
been. it is the mind turning onto itself or evenpreying on itselfto
borrow from Byrons own description of his Don Juan. nature can be an
element but is not a prerequisite to a poems being sublime. the
subjective nature is sublime for its intimations of higher dwellings,
ascension of the stair to wisdom; or the self-reflective nature, that
puts the crisis to his or her identity, makes a forgiveness but not a
resolution; open ends, truncation, is sublime, as is surrealism, I
believe: the ideal of a breaking-apart of something into shattered,
brilliant bits of small glass, barely discernible, whiting-out the
direction and mode of transport and leaving a trail of imagery on a
loose weave, stranded in Flatbush at three AM. Thats sublime too, and
a great fogging-up for the mind to use to understand its limits.
Reflections on the soul with a concrete hero, too, are sublime, like
Keats Hyperion, but there the content isthe limitationsof the poetic
identity, his complaint that such is too-stringently defined, by the
large Goddess at her throne, Moneta, while Saturn sleeps at the busstop
waiting. So use it well; the sublime lives, because it doesnt die,
always farther off but never disappearing.

. . . . . . . . . .

[17] The terror of sublimity is the other end of sublimity, outside of
the pastoral. Sublime terror at not knowing whether you stand before
the intellectual precipice or have fallen out of fact already into the
luminous grey nothing. It amounts to a doubting of awareness, even
meaning, in Romantic lit especially. That we must chase after the sun
is true. But we shouldnt burn our faces off. Poets like Eliot take it
one step further, make it a declaration, that we have fallen, yet why
lament the vanished power of the usual reign? His world is a repetitive
stagnating, either way, and if we are drawn to our personal, fearful
hells as a matter of the human disposition, why not rejoice in the
fall, if at the least it is sure? That is the difference between
moderns and romantics: romantics rely on the distorted and thinly
measured world of the senses, know this, and say, We doubt our place.
Moderns know their place, know it is wretched, call it wretched. Either
way, humility is involved, though whether it is more humble to have an
ephemeral sense of meaning, or know the meaning you have to be as bad
as any hell, still does not answer to what state our senses can take
us: over, or beyond? The giant sublime blinding grand seen fitfully, or
fear seen truthfully, that is, at least, within its limits, and maybe
without sense at all. Either notion inspires terror, so I remit to the
mechanism of mind that makes us peek down into the void, from a cliff,
attempting to fall out of the five senses, and grasp the coattails, an
attendant lord. Terror of insignificance; ensnared in that, once found
or terror of doubting anything to be found. Which is worse


. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

"The characteristic mark of minds of the first rank is the immediacy of
all their judgments. Everything they produce is the result of thinking
for themselves and already in the way it is spoken everywhere announces
itself as such. He who truly thinks for himself is like a monarch, in
that he recognizes no one over him. His judgments, like the decisions
of a monarch, arise directly from his own absolute power. He no more
accepts authorities than a monarch does orders, and he acknowledges the
validity of nothing he has not himself confirmed."

Arthur Schopenhauer

Nonetheless, one must come to the conclusion that what they think and
believe will be a boundary. One has to. Or else infinitely spiral. The
virtue of intellect is in what we keep however, and that is important
to consider regarding this particular fragment. We read if even we do
not possess the same mood as what we are reading, and position our
minds accordingly to see it from our view. Likely enough, our view, our
personal view, is the only reliable and necessary boundary we need
account for. Im learning now that there will be things I must work to
position my mind to fit, but this comes from reaching a sort of outside
humility regarding my own thought process. Innately, I see what I
think, and maybe learn something else, but as it always will be,
innately, I have a platelet I myself have made for thinking things
through. Those special books, like this one, Schopenhauers
posthumously-published essays, have got me to the point where I do
recognize my own thought-monarchy as both a box I am in and an
unbelievable tool. Work is to be done to understand how bound I really
am by my own conceptualization of the World, but this is also to use
the word again a virtue: that I have put in time and effort and still
do to affix myself to these questions of German philosophy, rather than
affix the philosophy to my own views. Its a slippery slope, but then,
this is what it is to think for yourself: place your own bounds. The
humility of knowing the bounds is an extra utility that can help or
hurt, but mostly help. The great mind must figure out things for
himself, including the World of Schopenhauer. What conclusions he comes
to must be for his benefit alone to be truly useful to others. For I
too feel the way you do. I dont express my intelligence in company,
barely ever, or if I do my heart pounds with excitement for what I must
have long ago discovered, and I lose my chance once again to convey it
in speech. But Matthew, I do think for myself, and do feel like the
smartest guy in the room. I am the monarch of thought, and anything
presented to me, any idea another gives me, must pass through from
their boundary over to mine, between which is a distance we can only
hope to pass through halfway, as a whole translation.

And that the will is evil. This to me is similar to willful doubt, and
this in fact might pass for an analytic judgement [to use Kantian
jargon, of which I am still a novice, so forgive me there] of
intellect; it is in some perspectives redundant. That the will itself
is doubt because it is a tendency to doubt, it is easy; the will is
what is easiest, the unnatural refusal of the easiest a will-less and
therefore experiential wisdom. That is to say, something like a spasm
in our leg, that this is doubt, and proceeds from there to make us
anxious, which we will to feel, asking, as much willfully, why our leg
had spasmed, and pursuing after this restless analysis of that; and
awareness of the source, if we find it, a ruin to dwell on, and though
perhaps a sort of clarity a poison in large doses. In a similar way,
one might call all this an objectification of doubt for the good use as
like an objectification of the boundaries of ones particular
reasoning, as a way to truly perceive through appreciation of and
subsequent humility in the face of what is not fully known, what is.

Establishment LSD [for the
Blockheads]

There are those who shine. There are those who cower from the shine.
But either way, those who shine will not be able to be happily
perceived. And those who cower away are just as foolhardy. Why, after
all, make a brightness, the ultimate brightness, unobservable? Why
create, after all, a boulder too heavy for GOD to lift? The question
is, who makes the boulder? That is the true divisive thought, because
in some way you separate the flesh and stone. Flesh is as cold as
stone, can be as cold. So why shudder at that, why shudder at the
inhuman things, when they are as wondrous, if not more, than the human?
The only answer is to be found in why we shudder. Perhaps because
stones, boulders, are heavy, are cold. A boulder is the colder thing.
That is, after all, what makes heaviness shine. However, what is more
massive than flesh? What heaviness could I ever prefer, besides the
weight of my own body? Who cares if my own thoughts are cold enough to
shine forever? Who cares if they are inhuman, and what could happen if,
by chance, by change, with time, they became the more, the more human
way, the shine and shudder working in lightning-sync? It is somewhat
similar to the way someone might trivialize meaning. To be trivial is
never to shine, but it can help you get to a place where brightness
reigns. A stone can be trivial, if only because it is not alive, and
things alive carry meaning the most; as in, that is, meaning, the only
one possible, most. And what is to have more than one name? To be
called many things? I should rather be called a man. But now we are
making GOD shudder with frivolous wordplay, and whatever a stone might
be, whatever flesh is at the moment, has nothing at all to do with
wordplay, though wordplay might help you on the road to meaning
highest. After all, life is quite the game we play at transcendence,
and who would dare to start with being transcended? That totally takes
away the point of the game. And the game is trivial. We start at
trivial places, not unlike primitive ones. And however man might
evolve, mentally or physically, need not rely at all on triviality. But
this is itself negated by the a priori fact of knowing the end of the
game a win or lose. That, ironically, is the farce. That it needs to be
a game at all, flesh versus stone, is quite meaningless. And sometimes,
to be honest, you need not practice to turn stone into flesh, and you
need only transcend by knowing the win out of your control, however the
path you carve out to transcend; ultimately any end of a game is a
farce. And a scheme.

Ever heard of the expression, he was an open book? We all have. Its
a common phrase, and everybody understands it. And this is somewhat
like having one word for all words. Using slang. Playing games. But
there is a point when (or where, or what have you) you decide to give a
meaning to whatever idiom. And to give an immediate meaning requires no
practice, it need only involve an acceptance of a blueprint, an
ultimate one, for the sense to be made. This blueprint is a crazy fog
to wade through, though. An expression known universally is quite a
blueprint, but perhaps it is to say more for such a thing to be
expressed and known immediately. Almost like, the magic word, which
is itself an idiom. Those common things we say are reassuring, but we
should not rely on them as much more than beacons leading us from a to
b. To make sense immediately however, to truly do it, is to do it but
once. And how could one drag out a moment but by manipulating time this
way? By, in so many words, making a moment last forever? Such, after
all, is, in a human way at least, how one can squeeze all the meaning
they can out of a moment. By bending time to suit the meaning, which at
times involves shrinking down time to a moment. At times that is all
you need to connect a to b. But at least the relevance is appreciated
more then, even if you do it at a time less relevant. It is appreciated
and squeezed like juice into a pitcher.

This is a question, however, that requires to be said in the form of a
period, or some manner of punctuation. A period of time can be a
punctuation much in the same way common parlance puncuates reality. It
gives us not only something to look at but towards. And this has
nothing to do with wordplay or any game. What it is, in fact, is being
patient with sense, and not idiotically rejoicing whenever sense feeds
you.

Because there is an ultimate sense and an ultimate expression for
sense, however momentary it is. A punctuation is, after all, momentary;
and periods, points, are spherical. A point itself, like a period at
the end of a sentence, might be a circle, but it possesses the same (or
a similar) shape. And to shape a moment, itself, is to punctuate it.
And this cannot be at all without a minute or two in the fog. A stone,
in its way, can be a period, or at least represent a period of time, an
ancient period; can be itself a living symbol for what the EARTH was.
And flesh can burn, and you can wound flesh, and therein lies a frailty
that is a difference. Because who could think they could make sense
without foggying up a bit? And a stone can be a clouded symbol; it
doesnt even think at all. It is a stone. And it is worse than
senseless.

Flesh might be a weaker reality, a physical planet; or it might be the
flesh all humans wear. But it can be wounded unlike stone and has
respect for what can control its pain. Wordplay itself can be painful
because it involves a form of slang, which by nature cannot be what it
is outright. Slang inspires; the trivial inspires one to be freed from
the trivial circumstance or connection or symbol which brought it to
mind. I would say, really, that slang is redundant, even, and serves
the same purpose as any puncuation. And loose connections are, too, a
form of slang. They do not mean much, though. All they are are fearful
repetitions, which are agreeable, of course. But this is only because
they agree with all of it, all of sense, and do not realize that a part
of sense must be killed in order to make do with a better course of
action, because to continue rather than chasten logic is ultimately to
give credence to some irretrievable moment that is of course
irretreivable because it is a moment of infinite acceptance. It has
nothing to do with an acceptance of an infinite moment, and this is
ridiculous.

To make reality ridiculous is almost like slang. Especially if someone
is an open book. But you get somewhere not so ridiculous if only in
the undulation of logic, rather than the piecing together of logic.
And this is redundant as shit. Its giving too much credence to the
fogginess that sense might make out of something so very nonsensical as
the infinite; also it is redundant as hell. It is, really, making the
times one is held in stasis times of one being in hell. And wordplay is
hellish, because it lends to something that is most definitely not a
game, but not an awfully serious situation either. Because, well, GOD
has it covered. And maybe thats the point. Id like to think that GOD
just shat out a box that was the WORLD, but boxes are not spherical.
Stones are round. And heavy. And flesh can be heavy. It can be the
stone GOD has made too heavy to lift. And, indeed, to give more
credence to an intellectual stone than the fancies of human nature is
to totally deflower what it means to be human.

But what if you could make an intellectual stone the proper punctuation
for a moment? It need not be the flesh-beings that walk on this giant,
lush period; the thoughts they think will never be bigger than this
giant eden they live on, thinking of dark things and wishing they would
happen. Darkness is all about us anyway; space is the darkest thing
ever. And for empty space to enter the minds of men is on par with
completely fucking up the universe; that is, if men believe enough in
their power to influence anything outside themselves at all, well, what
better place to start than on a giant period, a punctuation mark. A
slang expression. EARTH, however, is no slang. It is all that is. It
might help new sentences get started, but flesh-beings, beings of the
flesh, will never be happy with sense enough to let it be a punctuation
mark. It must move on from there. But then, well, you would be shitting
on GOD, wouldnt you, if you found out its plan. It would be like GOD
taking the shit of his life, which is something!

Slang can be slang and stone can be stone and flesh can be flesh though
and it can all exist together and nobody has to do anything but feel
that moment of brightness and not cower, not perceive something
threatening and try to kill it, but rather see it as what it was and
totally move alongside it. For man to be GOD, he cannot ever be on a
higher plane, but maybe, just maybe, he can approach a plane that is
close to the GOD plane without deflowering anything and without
tarnishing anything, and it might be GODs own fear of what it has shat
out that ends up being the weakness; in that, it gives more credence to
slang. Slang I read in the great philosophers and poets; I read that
slang, and see GOD as an open book, which might hurt GOD enough to not
give a shit anymore. But its always wordplay, and never anything more.
Beings of the flesh make art; GOD has made the universe; but what
exactly has made EARTH? In my opinion, something of which to be
extremely afeared, if it has made it possible for flesh to become
stone, and for humans to punctuate their own moments themselves.

But it is not to be afeared, as long as we see the open book. We must
see it all though. In a moment. And that comes upon noticing that it
has no end, because the end doesnt involve words at all. Language need
not involve words either; communication need only be an endless
commerce between flesh and stone, between a thicker, though more
ancient and colder, thoughtless heaviness and a thought of the flesh.
And for a universally acknowledged connotation to inhabit a total
denotation is not cold or hot, not felt as a coldness and in need of
being cowered away from, afeared of its power (which is after all a
narcissism on both sides, anyway) nor is the shine bright enough to be
really that overwhelming, which of course is a mutual comprehension
between worlds of thought understood as slang. And giving slang more
meaning than it is meant to communicate is only a thing controlled by
context. And context is, of course, controlled by time. And I know
absolute shit about engineering and physics, but I know that time is
relative. And time is a relative. A crazy, out of control relative. A
fogginess through which we see the light, and that keeps beings of the
flesh from cowering. You need that veil, but also you need the light.
You need to percieve the light and not get scared, and maybe thats as
simple as giving way too much meaning to the light. But the fog is a
lie too. It distorts a proper merging of the intellectual stone and the
freedom of flesh. But it at least causes the flesh to search for more.

The more light you give beings of the flesh, however, the more
insatiable they get for it, and perhaps then it is too late to have
crazy three-dimensional eloquence. And this of course is a side-effect
of living in a WORLD bound by time. Time changes circumstances that
create new contexts of relevance, but one might confuse something as
more meaningful than it is simply because they do not know how many
planes of thought they are thinking on and how many are a sham, in
their own head. To know all the planes is the same as knowing
everything, but its also the same as knowing all planes of thought to
correspond with a similar relevance, which is a horror exactly because
it robs reality of art.

Art is discernment, and it is also a form of slang that helps an
intellectual stone and the freedom of flesh come together.

And the best artists never think they are manipulating reality, which
is how to wrangle any power of making reality art, precisely because
art is the most beautiful lie, and lies, if more beautiful than truth,
can usurp truth. And what is GOD but the one word you hear all the
time? And what is always heard if not the truth? Things, indeed, most
commonplace, and real, and pleasant. And they can really be pleasant if
you have faith, and wait, which is a crazy side-effect of time, of
being patient. And in that way you can wrangle the face behind the
book. And its a cool face, but its just wordplay. Its just slang. You
need more to read than just what separates what you read, separates
thoughts, separates planes of reality. You need substance. But you need
to build up to substance. And stone needs to build up to flesh, and the
flesh needs to be freed so that it can know both the name of what it
has created of its thoughts and most of all know that such a thing is,
has the possibility to be, ferocious, and out of control. This happens
precisely when the artistry of man thinks it can infringe on the
artistry of reality. Reality, after all, has no purpose, needs none;
the magic then is needing no reality. And maybe, if there are only
thirty two plotlines under the sun, well, then, why not destroy the
sun? Because who can go beyond the sun? Whatever light that flesh might
be burnt by is nothing compared to the crazy intricacy of knowing a
thing beyond the sun, an ultimate plotline, an ultimate story. And its
not even that the sun is that bright; after all, there are bigger ones
in the universe. But there are bigger universes in the mind of GOD, and
bigger GODS who realize there is no mind at all. That to have a mind is
itself to be put in a box. The box can also be a container for an eden,
but at the moment, at least in my WORLD of crazy planes of thought
right now, the box that is my mind I cannot see as leading to my own
freedom. And maybe any sort of creator, sustainer, what have you, or
the idea of such, is like a mental box. And a box is somewhat like a
brain. And a brain can be the ultimate prison. You can go down further,
to atomic levels, and still be doubtful of how small your sense of
context is shrinking to. However there is no macrocosm just as there is
no microcosm. Words, all words, are little boxes, little brains. And to
have a creator is to feel small, especially if what brought time to
life and made crazy odd, weird, artful, undulating planes of thought
possible is something like a crazy nullity of acceptance.

Perhaps the flesh feels the nullity of the stone. And perhaps having a
blueprint for reality is about as realistic as waving a wand and
charming someone. But something like the blueprint to reality is like
the key to truth, and thats maybe not so crazy a power to whoever has
the key, but to make all who dont turn away, almost out of disrespect,
disrespects what could shine properly if seen clearly. And that can
only be had by seeing it all at once, in a moment. Reading someone
like a book. Of course because, a moment is all you need for the
ultimate meaning for the ultimate meaning to go in reverse and back to
that primitive, stone-like meaning. And maybe people were not meant to
put a meaning as heavy as GOD in words as heavy as it, and maybe to
read someone and see all of them at once is to truly see their face.

And I know a truth and that is that anything beyond the sun, any
ultimate plotline, is both bright and wonderful, ridiculous and
serious; and most importantly, not hungry at all. Truth is not beauty,
beauty is not truth, no no; beauty is relished beauty, it is
experienced beauty, it is beauty observed, and perhaps that is all that
humans have wanted to do with their philosophy and their poetry and
whatnot. Only observe the brighter parts through the fog, and remark.
And this has nothing to do with truth if we cannot see the brightness
for what it is; that is, a thing to be confined by containers of any
kind. Whether you speak of a letter, a word, a sentence, a book, you
speak the one meaning. And thats some sexy-ass slang, baby. And sexy
things need to be free in order to work their magic.

And I would never, for any reason, think a word made flesh to be sexier
than the flesh itself. But to rant and rant is the nature of humankind;
and humankind is by nature made to want an end. Like a punctuation. A
punctuation is crazy sensible, and its like a reprieve between musical
movements. It is, indeed, a sort of breathing in and out. And if GOD
allows us anything it is that blueprint; we as people who think turn
flesh to stone end up only ruining ourselves by adding to a wonderful
music we are able to hear all the time. The familiarity of an eden, the
commonness of eden, the beautiful baseness of an eden for real. And
that is just the love that whatever container for thought gives us,
whether it be a brain punctuated by a body, a body like the earth
punctuated by the still less real bodies, within still less real
brains. And to explain it anymore than that would be redudant and
almost scary.

But I take solace, at least in the somewhat perceivable fact that if
the end is always tending towards an end I myself can trust, a sexy
blowout supernova of an end, then why add anything? Goodnight, folks.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Where to start? Well, when do we ever. I guess youd need a sort of
combination. Like, for a padlock. And that can be as simple as being
punctual. But that in itself is a negation isnt it, really? Because to
punctuate is to start. It can stand for a period of time or a place in
some context hinted at being the final context. But there we are, we
these silly mind games fuse the context dont we? And its all Greek to
me, which I suppose is correct, if only in the idiom it stands for,
which is to put an idiom to good use. And thats an awesome mind game
and an awesome way to stand for something, because it makes a symbol at
first most alien quite universal. The trouble, after all, is knowing
when to stop. But picking up hints to get to that final place of sense,
as the sense goes on being made, will be evermore difficult and quite
hard to explain. And this makes Dan DeMarse uneasy. I dont know about
all you, but figurative mania is at the least a deception. It is quite
hard to sustain, indeed, because the point made first will forever be
trivial, we think, if it ends in triviality. The only way to sustain
sense, after all, in the end, is to turn the volume up on meaning a
bit, but not let it go full blast. And thats definitely an aspect of
wisdom but it is also an aspect of fear. Dan DeMarse, being a human
being on this planet, surely does not wish to tempt whatever darkness
might come from even the most inconceivable piece of music. But music
after all is the most concievable thing on the planet, because it
really is a universal language. It is the only instance where
figurative mania can work. People hear their thoughts most of the time,
and I suppose every human being on the planet could hear every thought
in their head all the time, but this is inconceivable and a most
wearisome thing to do. Because, to be honest, most people only hear the
thoughts that are words in their heads. This is not hearing everything
though. Everything mostly comes to me as a lo-fi buzzing, and I should
thank GOD that it least is able to lend me that breadcrumb. The trouble
really starts when you start to hear the buzzing though, making sense
of it does not necessarily come first. And this can be as simple as
changing words, at first; or at least, changing your comprehension of
what a word can be. A word can be an experience, but experience is not
the answer in the same way no intuitive knowledge is the answer. But,
yeah, even in beginning to explain a wordlessness so cunning is out of
my own control, which is why it has always been received in my ears as
a buzzing anyway. I suppose such a thing is a coping mechanism only in
that I ascribe meaning to the buzzing by actually perceiving that I
hear anything at all. Most other people do not dare hear confusion,
even in static, and why I could never feel truly like a lifeblood for
any sort of harrowing personality, because by giving confusion a name,
even by accident, I squander what I could have groped for all my life.
That is, instead of being born to buzz only, rather than live a life
without distractions such as codified meanings found, obviously, later
on in life. This is why the static in my head is a defense mechanism,
and it is precisely that I hear and have heard the static for so long
that I know longer can take a void in logic, even if it is a
metaphysical one. Logic, though, is dehumanizing, so why ascribe that
meaning for who I am? Because I love the static. It makes me free; it
is my food and drink. And to be a living metaphor is the greatest joke
of all, which is why for so long I have let the buzzing be only that.
Because there came with that void in logic between thoughts spoken in
my head and not spoken at all a different breed of thought, bound only
to tempt one; not to conjure, but to stir one to make sense simply to
not feel so mentally tired. Thats the greatest trick or joke or
whatever that any abyss can play. Because it makes you even more tired
the more you make sense of it. So then, if I could do anything for
myself it is to make that abyss disappear. A conjuring trick, perhaps,
but at least it is my own brain assuring myself and not everybodys
reality in a different way. The problem again begins once I let people
into the laughably twisted maze of my own sense of context. That I
could not do, not even for those I love. And love is no breadcrumb
leading me to a higher reasoning now, which is totally one way to snipe
off some meaninglessness. But it still doesnt do it for me, because
its still just one insignificant meaningless killed, and there are
others who might see more meaning in that destruction than I could
know. Every day the world turns its back on itself, and all because it
cannot make sense of an idiom. That is all I speak of, really; a brief
death. And to think that death is brief, in one context, can be
comforting, and in another can be quite the distortion if take it
there. Because maybe death is the briefest of moments, and that moment
can stretch towards time but never wrangle time, which is the point. To
make a moment mean anything more than it is can, too, be destructive,
if put in a grander context that in the moment feels reliable. Because,
well, instantaneous things follow no narrative. If one has a good
enough memory they might be able to carry that moment on until it fits
some retardedly stretched-thin context, but this is the exact trick of
anything that might care to tempt you. Tempters, though, are guides, of
course, because they let you in on the plan by showing both how loosely
woven an acknowledged reality is in comparison to an unacknowledged
reality that is merely a breadcrumb. To be human is, to repeat, to
punctuate, however, and this can never be done in a moment, can it? You
would need a sense of reality that has to dive into meaningless idioms
before coming to some more serene conclusion. Serenity is what I
ultimately wish to speak of, but who is to say I can? Maybe it is just
me mangling my own sense of things again. But the great thing about an
abyss is that it keeps human beings from making that sense out of their
own menagerie of reasoning, of course, because, well, humans die. And
no individual can say they have figured everything out not only because
no one human knows every damn thing about planet earth but because we
die. Our own mortality reminds us of being human and gives that
dignity, which of course feeds the abyss of death. But whatever creator
of all this buzzing in my ears does not want the buzzing to be
dignified, of course, because it was created by what was beyond it. And
GOD is the ultimate firecrotch. However, GOD, too, I feel, wouldnt
understand the power of what it has created, and of course it is this
grimness that transcends both any void in logic and any human death.
The problem lies in a percieved death of logic that in itself only GOD
can know. But GOD need not be bummed about it, any more than it already
is, by kicking around its creations like a dog. The approbation of my
dog would forsake me saith Emily dickinson. And she was right. Because
she, like whatever creator, knew being human first. And so then, it is
almost a kick in the nads to forever know that what you created in your
image would try to trump you. And to trump someone, as well, is to
tempt them to trump you, and thats the mistake of whatever idea is
created in ones head and spoken, whether in conversation or on the
page. Because it is human nature to bicker and bicker and bicker over
who is making the most sense, and this is the ultimate negation,
because, after all, no sense is to be made, not a jot, and meaning can
be found only in being extensively intricate. But there is no mind like
that, not even the best mind can do that. So we assign numbers to
meaning, you see. Make a metaphor ever simpler by presenting it in the
form of a mathematical equation. That, too, is a form of buzzing, and a
void of a kind. Mathematics is not as scary though its implications
can be evermore real; but they are one in the same, I realize now. The
only difference is in the story either/or tells. It is the same story,
of course, and it is a story of an ultimate saneness that I personally
find in reading poetry, which is a way to charm. But it is also a way
to tempt, that is, if the poet gets sucked into whatever core
meaninglessness to be destroyed. If I ever wanted to do anything it
would be to be a charming man. Charming people entertain, like the
French, and they can drink up beauty because they see its wonder. Irish
people drink because their wives wont stop having babies and bitching
them out. Europeans, in general, have a very strange day-to-day life.
But what would I know, Im an American, and I only care about stuffing
my face and watching television. And all these repetitive idioms are
similar not only in that they fit a general understanding of human
simplicity but because they are all racist as hell. An idiom totally
devalues meaning by shrinking down a human understanding what should be
a real circle. Not a sphere, those dont exist; a circle. A circle that
is the ultimate sphere, the ultimate miscommunication, because, after
all, at this point, I am drunk off my words, and cannot stop. Sometimes
when somebody gets drunk they can think they see a ghost when they do
not; perhaps, even, convincing themselves they are hallucinating. But
now we are talking about the ghost of a creator, and that is a volume
too high, for now, for me to explain. But at least GOD can say
goodnight to the ghost. The ghost is no such GOD, or void, or human. It
is a veil, a screen, and perhaps you have to listen closer to hear the
buzzing.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You know whats psychopathic? Splitting things into categories. Of
course, to split things up, divide various points made and to be made
is to create energetically, but it does not create energy. Thoughts do
not create energy; though a thought I might have might get me excited
to pursue it further. And still, they are passing thoughts. After all,
the hydrogen bomb was merely the splitting of an atom. But what could
molecular energy do if it were stockpiled in someones head until a
certain mangling of words? But time cannot divide space. The only thing
that could divide an empty space is a letter. A pissed off letter sent
from your mom, perhaps. Some times things can make things flood into
view, but its all noise, really. A noise, though, can be a crazy sonic
boom, and this has nothing to do with time. To rid oneself of that
momentary prison is to hear clearer the music behind the noise. A
mother can yap and yap. But if she sends you somewhere with a letter
for the world, that could say something. And that starts the
realization that mammy and pappy arent pissed off at all, theyre just
fucking us. We are our own mothers and fathers, and whether I speak
figuratively of the mind in a way of begetting has no effect at all on
the reality of procreation. Because each individual on the planet, if
they have never been a mother or a father, at least have been raised by
a mother and a father. And the realest letter a person can send to
outer space is one that explains how we fuck eachother, which,
coincidentally, has nothing to do with fucking but making love. Because
people only make babies, and thats quite an odd question to answer
why. It might just fuck with space and time, if only in how we ride
eachother. And we do not see an individual if we let logic ride us. But
this is not making love, its rape. Its rape to think that making
babies and perpetuating the world is anything more than humans getting
down with the party whatever creator made for them. It is something
more to make intellectual babies, but it amounts to the same thing if
you let your brain give too much power to the people in them. Because,
in my opinion, we funny little beings that romp and play and screw
eachother can only make physical babies, and to give an intellect the
power to do that is a syllogism. And its a tricky syllogism, a nearly
impossible one to avoid, because it is deceptive, and makes too much
sense out of empty space. Of course, whatever creator would think we
were psychopathic in figuring out a formula to explain a void in logic,
because things that create things have trouble knowing their ultimate
path. But maybe its GOD telling us were crazy to come up with all
these customs on the planet anyway, and doesnt understand the one
thing that all humans do, which is make love. Im pretty sure if you
are a person and havent at least had a tender romantic moment once or
twice, you would feel insanely alone and out of place. And maybe if
youre born crazy you can search for the ultimate sanity, which, after
all, lies in tender moments. But to me, Dan DeMarse, the most tender
moment can be the love you make with the love of your life, in bed, and
thats as far away from anything negative as I could hope to dream up.
So why muddy the love that earth gives with syllogisms? After all,
people like to use their brains to form thoughts, but no person is ever
just a thought. They are a person. And maybe the thought of love is
different from other thoughts. Maybe its a feeling, and maybe those
who create things make syllogisms out of feelings. Separate one and the
other, and of course GOD ceases to finger bang the shit out of the
world. And feelings are never questionable, however much one may
question how they feel, and however far a human may mangle logic in his
or her own head, at least the given person knows it is all in their
head. Feelings are the realest thoughts ever, because, after all, they
are not thoughts at all. And to correspond a name to a feeling may seem
out of place, but, as always, feelings come first on planet earth, and
maybe human beings like to think about feelings as a token of
appreciation for the mamas and the papas, out there. Because my father
and mother bore me, and made me exist so that I could feel. And that no
amount of logic can take away, no plurality of names. A void is a
singular plurality only in that it does not make sense, and confuses
expressions that could have gone or not gone away, therefore robbing
meaning of any expression whatsoever. This is the ultimate sexy-time to
me, but is not tender. In fact, I find the idea of it quite abrasive,
nearly brutal. People are born tender and pink, and I suppose it
saddens mothers and fathers to know that their offspring will not be
tender and pink forever. But what parents dont know is when to let go
of the concept of innocence, especially once a child is born from them
it is almost like a reminder of their own eventual fall from grace. But
parents will always hold close the pictures of their child at younger
ages, that tender child they thought they knew. We look to our own
parents to see how the past can help a new generation of youth, but the
present generation, even culturally, can never be the same as time goes
on. To pay too much attention to my own parents reminiscences gets me
in trouble, especially if I get to the point where I would want to be
like them. I find my parents pictures and stories and see little bits
of time, but of course these are just pictures and stories that old
people tell. Its a comforting prospect, after all, to leave some
evidence of your existence. But to take a new picture forever is GODs
job to do, and GOD has it covered, because GOD has neither a capacity
to understand the extent of the timeless pain of something immortal,
and maybe humans need to forget about their own evidences, and remember
their mortality. Because mortality is the ultimate dream, and it, too
is the ultimate reassurance to be reminded that we are mortal, of flesh
and bone. So, sometimes, we take pictures, just to be comforted later
on.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Any establishment is bound to manipulate with feeble tools. But I
always remember to myself that they are feeble, but convincing. That is
why it is a manipulation. After all, there is no magical voicebox that
listens to everything we say and watches everything we do. People seem,
however, to give more power to the writing on the wall than on the
page. But the page is good, its at the least a realer thing in its
being made of fucking paper. Ahermmm, speaking, speaking, what do you
mean, sir, by page and paper? Well, I suppose it at times feels more
natural to write longhand than on any device. But thats just me. And
its reassuring, because any writing on the wall is nothing more than a
reflection of what might have been written, already, in a book. Once
you put whatever fucked up nonsense you saw down somewhere, as in,
write it down, it becomes a diary. Once you see the reflection the
diary gets shit on the walls, and your private life is basically over.
Assurance is riskier, after all, because it is a stretch that need not
be a stretch of time, nor a timewarp. In fact, most folks would have
other folks believe that time could move in any direction but forward.
And it is after all poppycock to assume that it could move any other
way but forward. But people take drugs to remember their own party days
as much as to tap some invisible wellspring of anguish. Whereas the
anguishing in this idea of a non-manipulative sense of time is the
ultimate sanity to me, because it helps people to forget that people
can only go back in time metaphorically. And this need not be a nudge
in the ribs for something more than it is, which is that of course I,
Dan DeMarse, takes pictures, keeps relics. And my family has tons of
relics that signify a point in time they remember in their own lives.
But when folks put more faith in time as being endless they put faith
as well in the artistry of time to forget itself so that the minutes
move on. Of course, minutes, the minutes move on in a life, and it is
absurd to think they move up and down, and this is the essence of most
any duality. To think that to move up and down is the same as being
human, which of course is to wiggle around and dance to hippie music
and not give a fuck. That to writhe about on the floor after being
bitch-slapped by some nutjob-televangelist grants people some ability
is ludicrous, but people will always be comforted by the questionable
reality, that is, regarding whether whatever sort of metaphor and its
impact on people later on, even seconds after some honky pretending to
be a representative (or whatever officious term you prefer) of the
creator of anything hits you with his five-fisted metaphor. Backhanded
perhaps, but now Im getting ahead of myself. That is, in that it
involves a reflection at all, at least a brief one. And that is
backhanded, that music might be as equally influenced by the past or
future; which is why young pricks will never understand their parents,
who probably listened to what their own parents thought was bullshit on
the radio. The problem is when you stretch whatever idea to and past
its limits, and thats naughty, but at least the bullshit doesnt get
flushed down the toilet either (excuse the idiom). After all, in giving
a more-than-due relevance to metaphors as being anything but what they
stand for, you express it or write it down, or speak it to someone with
words out of your mouth. And I like that idea because it is a bit
wonky, but doesnt take things too far either. The way I ground myself
is, after all, at times, not providing enough information for my mind
to prey on. Experienced humanly, this can appear to one or another
individual as static, but that envisioning of a metaphor as such goes
beyond a more honest meaning. As in, as I said, there truly is no sound
to make besides various degrees of onomatopoeia, and perhaps when I,
when Dan DeMarse, uses the word static he means only a soundless sound
that either can be ignored and felt in a more human silence, or
typified and thus (sort of, at least in my own head) destroyed. But I
as a person, I am in no fear of my own mental apocalypse, because,
after all, there is no such apocalypse anyway, and Im pretty damn sure
I will remain sane throughout my whole life. Apocalyptic things are the
worst meanings ever because they nudge in, force themselves into the
club so they can dance on the dance floor. Psshhhawwww. But apocalypses
arent fucking fun at all, and the way Id see instinct might be the
same relevance people give to the id anyway, as in, people needing to
be crazy to be understood. If there was any power at all in punctuating
a moment, it will lie plaintively, serenely, and lit by the dust of
science and progress. Ahhh, sheesh, you know, if folks knew too much
about how to wrangle insanity to justify sense in the sanest way, wed
all just sit in the corner disdainfully watching everybody else whos
already fucked up on drugs and shit flail around. And its a downer to
put sense into going numb, but theres sense in using drugs to go numb
too. Any word with the slightest connotation of doom, we think, gives
itself up to an ending of the doom, because individuals are lonely, and
just wanna grouse on everybodys good time. In its way, most likely,
whatever negative connotation might ring like a sentence, but need not
be the sentence, and really is as plaintive and honest as any
denotation. Sometimes it gets more vibrant for Dan DeMarse; and
sometimes I need to sleep to feel little bits of it properly. Dan
DeMarse is Dan fucking DeMarse though, and that analytic-particular I
leave for what you will. Ill leave it for the blockheads to feel so
they can go way beyond their blocky heads; maybe even in looking up,
people might see what there is to chase after. However, there needs to
remain intact some redundant balance, and perhaps that is where
establishments of any kind come in. Government, church, state, what
should I know about these things? After all, Dan DeMarse, if he hates
anything, is surety. Feeling like you know whats going on. And I could
try and explain things in some weird-ass-analytic-particular forever
but that would do no good, because the nature of any establishment is
to rationalize. But there are certain rationalizations I would keep, if
only to preserve the agelessness of man. No man can restart the sun,
nor make the world last forever in darkness. But at least Dan DeMarse
is content to know for sure that he can see the writing on the wall and
not be scared. At least who I am can be known in apoplexy rather than
in apocalyptic crotch-rot. Because we all writhe around, and in the
same way a supernova created the sun, in that way will another
supernova somewhere else create another earth, the same earth. And to
me this is comforting. Because at least whatever created this two-step
process knows that humans will always feel alone amidst a wealth of
darkness. It is a wealth because it is exactly what it means to say,
and any artist longs to say what he means. Artists, too, feel alone,
but have an ability as well to feel alone in a din of the pleading of
people for wanting what is not more than two steps. The poetry Dan
DeMarse likes to read is usually in couplets, anyway, and this of
course is the best way to zip up any random sonnet you care to mention.
But a poetry of truth has a one-step that leads to another one-step. If
folks gave random shit more credence than that they would be deluding
themselves, and start to think others could hear their thoughts. And
there is a word for this, and it is called insanity. Saneness I take
with no idiom or cultural more (and this is, as it is always, Dan
DeMarse speaking for Dan DeMarse), but rather imagine my own insanity
and, to myself, rob whatever instigated writing on the wall of an
ability to reflect anything but what it truly is. And this, to me, is
like putting a mirror in the dark. Because, of course, you
dunderheads!, nothing exists, at all, until it is a thing in a place
where it cannot reflect. Like, for example, a bright, blue ball amidst
a vacuum, and only responsible because of a vacuum anyway. Because a
vacuum took away the light of this planet, if only in appearing in a
place where a mirror might be ill at ease. That is, if mirrors could
talk, if they could think (on planet earth, that is) that would be not
only the most absurdly unreal end to anything but the most reassuring.
Because, after all, nobody can wake the dead. Words are little
conjuring tricks, and one might as well say this as say what comes,
that it is after all the same (as in, most bombastically, outrageously
unrealistic) to waken an inanimate object to a thinking life on planet
earth as describe a metaphor as what it was meant to be before it was
heard with words out of any mouth, any loudspeaker, any irrelevant
symbol meant only to reflect and not truly be. And this,

It shall not go gravely:












The Primitive And The Clear [flaws on
purpose]

It seems to me that nothing can be broken down, and remain complex. If
a complex idea is broken down to its parts, those parts in themselves
will be simple, and string together to form a nuanced thought. At the
same time, those parts can be broken down to infinitely simpler parts,
and so on. By this logic, one is inclined to notice how, if something
can be broken into infinite pieceswell, then, could those pieces, too,
arrange into an infinite sum? Thus it seems to me that simplicity lies
where the thought is either fully deconstructed or fully formed as a
whole; because, in both cases, one would be dealing with something
unable to be broken down or added toand from this, one finds that
clarity lies in the physical, which indeed can be physically broken
down to atomsand yet, as opposed to thought, all that is physical will
mostly have no loose ends. After all, do I add more to my body that is
not, at least, a temporary addition? The perfection of nature is such
that a physical body can only exist as a whole, even if it is in
pieces. But we can add more to the thought if we choose, and in so
doing, we defile the unity with a meaningless addendum that itself
could only be given purpose if we include yet another addendum to
elucidate it, and fill the gaps.
.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

PREFACE 1 : [Who says a poet really speaks of anyone, makes the pronoun
too human. he, her, we, you, I: these are all interesting quests for
the identity. How could one truly say they see all of these, at the
least, in themselves only? I surely dont, thats inhumanbut poetry
does. He lives in poetry who interrupts the fickle correspondence
between any manner of earthly name-giving, gender-giving, and any
manner of earthly meaning to be found there, but not the sublime. For
it is all the names, all the names are all the names, at least, for one
who wishes to enjoy the sublime. You see that exterior mindset apart
from an interior code, once you lose the ability to free your mind to
all possible strummed beats this liminal plectrum has on the wire, and
permits for me, that I can read and feel. If passion can come from the
feeling, the feeling is never wasted, nor is the point: that the only
fruitful way, Ive found, to experience a poem is by not dissecting it
at all. Frivolous to do so, and frivolous more for me to see Shelleys
Alastor as nothing less than the most exquisite wrinkling and blooming,
of vines and flowers, at the very point of universal knowledge to die
off into a vast chasm. And whether this has any reference to Crane and
his vaulting or turning on the phrase, a slighter panoramais forgiven,
because he sees New York so nicely. Personification, still a fiction,
the hims and hers not written are people, those written, arent.]

PREFACE 2 : [Something that has no beginning or end can then only have
a beginning, at least if we are to say that the thing without a
beginning or end can even exist, in the first place. Taking this into
account, things that exist must begin in order to existas it is that
Time perhaps moves forward, and there is a correlation between forward
movement and the movement of beginning to end, rather than end to
beginningone cannot start with an end, because in order for something
to end it must first begin. This is a preposterous assumption, but I
will make it anyway, as it seems to conform best with this train of
thought, shapeless profundities, whichever you prefer.

Again, this is assuming that the Infinitea thing with no beginning or
endis something that exists, as a physicality. Or, even as an Idea.

Infinite Birth: eternal newness; no new things areit only seems like
new things are.

Imagine it. It's amazing to think about. An eternal innocence. An
eternal phase of supposed vastness in the WORLD. For the beginning of
something implies, thru causality, the beginning of something wholly
new to come. This is only an implication; all that isassuming that all
that is is able to be conscioushas deceived itselfbelieving that more
is yet to discoverin constructing this elaborate facade, this
embryonic sense of infinite utility, it only seems that more is yet to
discover.

Simply the fact that it cannot be discovered provides infinite fodder
for growth. A hole unable to be closed up. We manufacture myth, and
awkwardly fit it in. To what?

NOTE: why is movement needed, in order to keep existence from tearing
at the seams?

Blake: there is a void outside of existence that when entered into
englobes itself and becomes a womb. In other words, there is a
Nothingness outside of existence, that only is allegedly nothingness in
how it is not a part of anything else in the universethis void, this
nothingnessif a physicality, if a part of existence were to enter this
void, which does not contain any of what enters itthat physicality
would become GOD. For, GOD is no part of the universe, and exists as
itself, for itself, and thus is beyond anybodys comprehension, since
it exists outside of existence and thus, negates all EARTHly
platitudes. For all intents and purposes, GOD is of this substance; the
substance of a void.

Take into mind that void and nothingness are not necessarily those
things, sometimes.]

It is not naming to understand something better, but rather
naming what we all already know: what is as what it is: beyond, beyond,
beyond fathoming.
If we did not know what we could not fathom, would we then just
never fathom anything, not one single thing?
To reiterate. Because it is beyond fathoming, or understanding,
it is therefore a void in knowledge, which is a concretion and not one
that we as a species 'chalk up' to, as if to 'throw in the towel'.
It's one of the few things in this WORLD that is simultaneously
static and dynamic, because it expresses exactly in its name the truth
of an earthly perception of it without showing us the details of what
'it' is.
Because it is impossible to understand, it is concrete, the name
is the beyond, the unnamable, the impossible. As any impossible thing,
in this case what is static and dynamic, might be so, so is that
impossible thing then justly able to be dissected: perhaps to infinity:
but it does not go that far. Eventually in examining THE BEYOND enough
we find ourselves no longer there; to have taken our head out of the
clouds and come to a subject more earthly. How sublimely backwards! And
yet it is this link that I have always wished to explain: what brings
one down from the matters of heaven, to earth.
And what reductive dialogue is this, between the cosmos and
humanity? How can one venture towards the possible, starting with the
impossible, if, as a name for and the source of all we shall never
know, it is---and perhaps I am being hyperbolic, but I don't think so--
-it is, yes, that one extraordinarily static, unwavering, most outside
layer, and for all circumferences therein an as extraordinary mystery?
If existence precedes essence, surely whatever is impossible
exists; if existence comes first, the corporeal, well, then, it is this
ontico-ontological (or a wordless, neutral definition for being; being,
as untarnished by definition, sourceless as to the most acute
finger-pointer, and therefore purely defined outside of definition)
that is destroyed in giving names at all.
And that's why what's impossible is impossible. These battles for
what is moral, or GOD, or self, it's all really an argument about words
and meanings, and all swift on this goddamned carousel of language. We
have no choice but to start with words to express ideas, after all.
My conception of GOD is then: the finite source, outside of the
infinite. It is necessary to consider this opposing force as regards an
all-encompassing thing. An infinite perspective is infinite; therefore
the finite must be considered, but it must be as something anomalously
apart, therefore upholding the structure, makeup of what is a very much
deliriously true infinity, with a very much anomalous finitude.
Reasonably, the universe cannot be simultaneously finite and infinite,
if we consider the universe as a whole. There is a division involved, a
very clean one. An infinite object, to me, describes it best: for
example, a mind. The mind, even the mind of an animal, to an extent,
transcends as a matter of course. It is a physical object given
sentience and moreover awareness. This is called life, and in the
context of the universe is a microcosm for the mind of something that
is neither GOD nor universe, but a container for life. Consider this
hypothetical, then: that EARTH is the only source of awareness
throughout the entirety of the cosmos. What a clean division that is!
Then it is, if we consider clean divisions, even if their
combination be messy and/or stridently wrought in the words here, that
either the finite source is a thing long dead or merely was always
nothingness. Sentience is not nothingness; it is infinite. The stone is
nothingness, and without. Is GOD nothingness? I believe so. And the
mind is infinite. Just as the planet is a container for minds, the
universe, it may be seen, is a container for infinitude. But then, I
name too much.
One mind is not infinite, at least not in the way I believe you
are suggesting, you might say.
To which I answer: It is mechanically, otherwise a mind would be
like a stone. Looked at simply, awareness of what is going on, needs,
desires, etc. is an infinity in itself, simply because it is a physical
thing that is capable of doing this: a brain.
Moreover, thoughts, needs, desires, are most elusive, ephemeral,
until given action. Ephemeral. The action is the substance and a direct
result of our physical being! Heidegger: the essence of the corporeal,
everydayness, what have you.

So you might say to that: There are limits to transcendence.

And as to limits of transcendence. Precisely. See the context.
That in the large scheme, a universe is somewhat similar to a brain.
The limits humanly, a circumference as to a sort of epistemological
grasping-towards with the actions we commit to. The limits universally,
the arbitrary establishment of a concrete, finite nothingness, outside
of everything. In my eyes, what is a universal perspective has no
choice but to split infinitude and finitude, whereas the human
perspective combines these, because we are limited to thinking thoughts
with our brains. Taken literally, an idea of infinity cannot be finite,
yet must encompass this. Therefore, if its true, finitude must be
apart, yet an intrinsic part, in order for what is boundless to be
boundless. This is different from merely perceiving a difference by
contrast, I think. It implies moreover an underlying need for infinite
possibility, so then, there is an arbitrary insertion of nothingness,
not as a juxtaposition to help demarcate, but as quite literally a way
to balance these opposing natures in favor of the one that is more
important. The mind is the combination of the corporeal, a brain, and a
use for it that is boundless and moreover very much elusive.
Physicality and the Ghost, the Barely there, because not, until action
offers us an approximate detailing, but not a precise detailing.
Moreover, if we are to look at GOD as being a unified
consciousness, then it would seem that GOD does much in dividing
itself; it would seem also that it should take a divine compassion to
imbue us with intellect and feeling and emotion, when, in order to do
so, and in considering that we are all a part of GOD, if this be true
well: to give the fragments of itself as persuasive a depth of thought
as to us it itself has to it would require a unified consciousness of
immense complexity, complexity enough to view itself as whole with the
same vividness as the parts of that whole. Moreover, there is
compassion in thishumans are not compassionate towards their own
brains, and the thoughts that are unheard remain as drones, without
character or detail, like stem cells; and yet then, perhaps it is this
very flaw that might ascertain as well the fizzles in the reasoning of
an Absolute.
But, that would mean we each of us are the physical embodiment of
a thought, just one, at least in terms of its circumferential nature,
how it works. OR in other words, a miniature GOD-brain, but not a
smaller one.
In any case, the idea of GOD reflecting on itself in the same way
that we may reflect on ourselves, this function, proves a compassion of
GOD towards its parts: it could just as well remain conscious of only
itself, and not bother to bless the smaller shapes of its dream with an
individual consciousness, much less a body: a personage, whom just
might be as powerful in regards to a psychical realm as the vastness
from which such small things are conceived. Indeed, we are dealt the
same cards as the whole itself, the only difference between, is volume,
not complexity, and perhaps not even depth.
Of course you must know, by the way: the beyond is an abstract
subject precisely because it is an unfathomable concretion. We do not
know it, yet give it a name, not because we do not know it and so then
must find it out, but because that is the definition of what it is;
this is separate, really, from what purely limited thoughts might drive
a blind naming of something, as to breach it, and understand it. The
unfathomable, the beyond, it is no give and take, nor does any
consequence or reward come from naming it those things.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

What if the unseen was not so insignificant regarding the senses,
but was itself the most obvious seen thing, larger than life, because
life? As it is; so then we ascribe eternity and mystery to what is
above us, almost as a form of projecting, indeed, in a literal sense,
this is what it is. Projecting upwards, from our footing, as if to
suddenly fly off, unrestrained.
Yes, we cannot experience a birds eye, and suffice with the
worms, calling it the same. To me, this injects permanently into a
human sense of all things a familiarity with the subjective aspect. One
speaks of the subjective, and the other listens and perceives their own
visage of SOUL.
Because, well, nobody can breathe in a vacuum, and we are too
small to see all of the huge. Much less experience each, if any,
multifaceted facet.
So we research our smallness inevitably, feverishly research,
yes, because we are that. What is Earthly too is what has the
capability to be found: that is, the makeup of what is in front of us,
is us, that we frame informatively albeit quite haphazardly based upon
what wonders might be seen through powerful telescopes.
A subatomic particle, broken down to the least iota of mass. This
is what I see and indeed very unscientifically as the GOD particle, and
of such a nature as to warp time and space back to its beginnings, so
that we might see! And yet what if there was a subatomic particle, that
was the size of the sun? Is that not possible? We as humans, are bound
gravitationally by the Earthly and the seen, and are chained to our own
gradations as to what is small and big. So then, we have no choice but
to microscopically turn inward, dont we, if it, to us, if it is big as
the sun, is too a thing unable to be tested because unable to fit in
the context of this human gradation? Such is I believe the nature of
art, or beauty, or human thoughts: that it combines this eternity of
what is an unknowable big picture, with a microscopic, reductive
philosophy of simplicity, and calls it, all of it, human. And yet
almost because there is no other more just cause for it.
One says as I do of these things that they are human, because
there has been no other motive for them detected, for thought, for
beauty, for meaning; in a way, it is an encompassing of all this, it is
fitting it into the GOD in human beings, but as a means of resignation,
since we cannot know, and thus default to what is most amazing that can
be perceived, which ironically if out of resignation is a reducing of
that: humankind. And this is humility. That is that one has constructed
a way to default, to taper, knowledgeably, and so then at the least
come to a realized sense of limits to the power of being alive and
conscious, two of the most phenomenal things there can be, perceivably.
Ones incredible humility in being alive is knowing that any sort
of specificity or definition of the soul will spark an unbelievably
mysterious idea, enough to uplift the soul's mystery in pride of it;
and that yet, the ontical, wordless physicality and phenomena of being
and origin, the purest rawness of this, is a thing for science only to
unveil
Tho, what i say is wrong, i say it to mechanically push things
forward, to get us over the hump. So then if i speak of things as if i
knew they were true, it is not that i know this, it is more that i must
express every idea in my head in order to fully create myself . . .
and, more importantly, to leave the reader with one less falsity.
Moreover, if-
-one reads closely, one finds that in those moments when i sound
assured, i am not assured, and the sense i make is brought somewhere
terrifying--in how, merely thru words, one can be perceivable, correct,
or confident, or sincere, even . . . when what u say could be something
very dangerous. i not only attempt to show the irony everywhere in the
presumptuous nature of thought in general--which, after all, must
stumble over itself, every once in awhile, in order to average things
out in favor of success--but i am saying, to express it in a more
positive vein, that i am hurling ideas against a wall, just to see what
sticks, just to see how seriously i can traverse between the primitive
and the clear. Making mistakes so that others wont make them. In other
words, i see it as tho every thought anyone could have, whether it be
new or old, important or unimportant, with or without a consequence--
each thought is a step forward, if even only to be proven wrong, or
destroyed: it would give us all a new perspective on the flimsiness of
any doctrine: the idea of TRUTH, being, at times, better, if it is
impossible to attain or formulate, in words or thoughts or even
feelings.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

GOD-IT: I realize now, the only it I have known ever has been the
it of GOD. If I believe nothing else I believe in creator / sustainer
/ what have you, rather than something that amounts to metaphysical
poetry, as an abnormal platelet for people to see the wonder in
themselves. Give power to the cosmos instead as unfathomable and
sexless. Cannot stress that enough. Simply put a denial of this ideal I
see as the only fathomable one to me; that is, a comfort in feeling
sane for what should have remained a fear without an identity at all.
An ultimate, personal meaning is for the namelessness, and if I can
learn to separate namelessness from its paradoxical and outdated
ideal, I will have become the most human that I can be. Simply put, I
have clogged my head forever with thoughts onGODtoo much to perceive
anything but an it to be manipulated by theory. It has always
inspired my imagination; moreover, there is a science there that is
always of the words I see as diction. The unfathomable is my only
Bible, and will always be. Whatever moral quandary I associated with
hurting those around me, or thoughts on the loveliness of this theory
of GOD I know I still have, as I am embedded in it enough to feel its
truth alwayswere only moral quandaries as regards what I i.e. him, did
to her, i.e. mutual love.

Ascribe a sex to anything unfathomable and find that you are way too
broad. I referred, to this end, my own personal comfort in the hopes
that by givingnamelessnessall my pronouns, except the one I valued
much in the it that I left for myself to feel, knowing well, better,
a sexless creator, than one that makes way too much of what it is and
leaves nothing of its dreams for what it wants to be, for people to
have as their ownin naming what I believe should remain sexless. Add a
sex to the diety and you destroy it via mere religious fears of
whiplash.

Men and women are hims and hers. Any god I could hope to perceive is
not human, if but for the respect for those men and women. That I
aspired to make the head of god as any sort of relatable muse besides
the namelessness i have always needed it to be was and has been what
has haunted me. But a personal GOD that one refers to as an it is an
utmost token of respect, if the diagram be totally conceived in the
head already, which it always has been. No one can beckon GOD, not any
system of prayer.

Why? Oh, you. Acid inserted the moral You into my mind, maybe to my
detriment. This picture of that Rift in the Void so long refused via a
religion of assumptions that only in this generation have the
possibility to be overcome, in remaining vicious towards that fucking
voodoo.

In my opinion it is way too moral to think humans are that way, way
too horrible to conceive of humankind as being a vast pain of
unutterables and confusion it cannot escape from. Acid made the voice
of this stranger-god of sorts way too concrete by having it be a
literal voice, as in, a crazily imaginative interior voice, and not
ever literal voices in my head ever. Deny this craziness and see the
retro of societal standards of crazy.

I hope you have perspective enough on my thought process and a
devotion thereof to seeaddressing it-GODthat that has been my sole
spiritual and somewhat theoretical issue since I dropped bombs months
ago. a devaluing of my ambition to prove a prouder god in removing
its humanizing form. Whether you are able to see the devotion to a
museless idol as being no sort of muse, as needing no muse but the
crazy mysteries of time and space and the universe.if you think id
need time to figure myself back into a no-human man or womanwellno,
no god, its fine, let this concretion settle, just a psychic hiccup in
my head, i deferred from a grotesque noisiness, to something far more
theoretical and worsened and contrived. no god can ever hear us:
because all the answers blend, in freaky waves.

The diction has always been the honesty and passion I saw in an
ultimate expanse and virgin growth of something far the more, that
humans would dishonor themselves and their own purity in relating the
unfathomable to something human. Religionhas the possibility to be
both redeeming and a grotesque, awful misconduct. As to the worth
people see in themselves, who put faith in rituals that empower belief.
And that is the humanity for any addict of reliable comfort, one who is
strong enough to believe anything, if it be restricted to daily
rituals. my daily prayersare ciggies and coffee personally. Anything
to stoke the spirit, thats the spirit of the wideness of the universe.

Thats the wonder of a thing ceaseless in flux. And more than
anything, I refuse reliable comfort and always have, and always will,
regarding anything that doesnt kill me. But if I see one succumb to
drugs for a similar sport, I know where it leads in ones morality, if
they have any belief at all in the sustained rhetoric of even the word
god that is a perceived wisdom only because it has been accepted for
thousands of years. Thousands of years, that is nothing to the
nothingness, and Christianity has to be the most furiously squeezed out
diatribe i have ever refused to listen to. Too much meaning in too
little space, that is a matter of a compression of words, not lives.
Its a matter of forming a thought, not a person. My god of thoughts is
more one that is and was meant to be totally apart from Dan. I like the
distance I name by calling it unfathomable because thats the
ultimate scope anyway. I know unfathomable pain, but not the
unfathomable pain of everything leading to grief in having no sure way
to lead the universe, just myself and my identity.

Who I am or who anybody is that I have ever relegated to thoughts on
the page has really never had anything to do with them, which I like
better anyway, because I know the endlessness of grief as applied only
to my short timeline, not an infinite one. Ill feel the rest of death
like everyone else, and thats my heaven. Lack of consciousness.
Whatevergod-thingthat acid wanted me to see was nauseating banal, and
I focused more on indulging the pain of it in indulging what to me acid
had made a sitcom: a somewhat wry, crotchety creatorin the attempt to
connect the identity of me to the identity of namelessness which I see
as no part.

Beckett put much holy trivia in the diction of namelessness as to the
emptiness of human life, but this works as an metaphor and nothing
more. I see somewhat in How It Is a new birth in perpetuity that
whatever IT could only ever not know of creating.

And this indifference to the beauty and perhaps lascivious fascination
with trivia for the sake of an outdated atom of morals given to man
long ago, proves in my eyes that there is an unconscious empathy the
universe would have at all in what is a mere hunger for fascinating
thoughts that explain ITself. Morality made creator / sustainer / what
have you a falsely human concept in assuming it stopped there. Time
provides the measurement of value similarly, not morals.

Whatever GOD there is I feel would have little problem then with loose
ends communicated unconsciously, this ambivalence and chaos as no
eventuality but merely on a larger scaleso as to savesomethingfrom
somethingwould become the more of an empathy in a paradigm of
inexplicable relations that are the ultimate sonic boom thru the noise
of icy cold space and nothingness.

No dignity here for humans though. Its either good or bad, how
limiting. And I am bound by that as well, the need to rectify so as to
make peace with an ultimate fear. That the GOD that is is death. As in,
the rest of death, without the rest of remaining an it in peace for
humans to be blissfully unaware of so that they can give their alms to
a You in GOD that in the blink of an infinite eye means nothing but
is left if only for the sake of keeping the deity warm, not this
sincere, blue sphere of imperfection. So I say to this IT: take the
compliment of your ineffability whom I, this dan of sorts, give you, as
being my own version of empathizing with the more humanly moral alm-
giving, just a diff way to pay respects. Loose ends are the utmost
sublimity, and finished work, for a time when I know all the burrs in
my head enough to get past every one of those millions of them.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

I speak of no GOD at all really. None that any could experience. It
should as well be an inverse-GOD. But we have no name for that outside
of Satan, and bedlam, mayhem, murder, rape, are things not what I speak
either. The farthest thing from Christianity is a GOD that does not
exist, after all. And something that has the power to not exist, is to
me the most beautiful thought.

Therefore GOD is a beautiful thought, my GOD is beautiful thoughts.

Or it is the trundle I put all my crazy ideas into, so that they might
be somewhere effable, compact, there.

Domesticate the deity.

After all, the only possible way to truly move peoples minds these
days is to re-evaluate GOD. Not to be crude, not to outrage, but to
produce something that people would at first dismiss, eventually accept
and respect. Id like to say, crudity is pass. Controversy is nearly
dead in the old sense. Were peevish little antiphons, contrarians, we
Millennials, and not too broadly swept away anymore, much less
persuaded to check ourselves and our values. But the only possible way
to be controversial these days is to re-evaluate GOD. You piss off the
atheists because youre dealing with GOD; you piss off the religious
because youre re-evaluating GOD. But the rationalists will appreciate
what this young, restless horse has to say. One day. Hopefully. I am no
slave; I am no prophet, besides to spew my bullshit; I am no devout
person, except to the honor and ideal in keeping beat with my own
particular drum. And all I wish is for people to see.

It is rather easy to apprehend the whole view of my theory: that The
Absolute indeed does not exist; that The Absolute solely does not
exist, even if the imagination were said to exist and could imagine The
Absolute; that in being this singular void in reason, The Absolute
proliferates every aspect of the WORLD with tidy clues as to its image,
as if the WORLD were in conscious, mechanistic pursuit, while ignoring
what rolls on the wheel, itself. It could be said to exist otherwise,
if we consider its absence to be a kind of presence. The mind itself
folds readily to accept the gap in the imagination that is faith, which
as a stretch of the imagination is exactly unimaginable. I suppose in
this way it is somewhat of a punishment to willfully give our heads
less credit, when if we should believe other things that is all we need
do. It is precisely a stretch of the imagination because it involves no
use of the imagination. As such we should believe the existence not
necessarily of a Christian GOD per se but something that is GOD, is
conceptually the adequate organization: this demiurge of vacancy,
existing as itself, for itself, for naught else, and that yet
influences all that is around it. Any discussion of GOD however aught
to be allegorical, somewhat. Such is the only impossible thing, or a
mind, so best robe it in metaphorical distance. After all, the clues
are left everywhere anyway. The way we as minds can nonetheless become
aware that what we imagine we cannot take away from The Absolutewhich
is something different than what is imaginableand yet cannot know what
we cannot take away. This loop is the same loop used in a great many
logical pursuits throughout the dayknowing we are not able to know,
but not knowing what we do not know, knowing what we are able to know,
and knowing what we do knowand is also a candid reminder of limits.
There are always stronger shoulders on which to rest ones assumptions.
For there is a united mechanism in this that proves a conscious
pattern, that is, the synapse that has decided to remain disconnected
for all eternity. The one faltering step in the conquest of last
possibility.

For, there is no other side.

We encompass ourselves with ourselves, and logically add a berth or two
to explain this inexplicable cranial chart.

For of course, something so anxiously self-eating could never be self-
perpetuating! So then GOD is. For all our masochistic tendencies
though, its a pretty damn beautiful cranial chart, without all the
intoned, latinate strum-and-drang.

You should consider, if you had passed to another side at all, to then
consider yourself, and all the species, damned, if living wasnt
enough.

Life is more than the afterlife could ever be.

Religion is an expression, and a botched one at that, of the brains
tormented struggle to think. We consider thought alone to be debased,
add GOD and suddenly the thought is there, exists, in your head. The
mind goes in a strange loop that we cannot consider worthy unless we
ascribe some greater concretion to its redundant cogs.

Solipsism. Something exists outside of us that adds to this unreality.
The notion we have of this is evidence enough that something greater is
there, but at the same time we should not find it out in pursuit of it,
but find it out in pursuit of a thought that might exist the more, if
only we as people did not give in to this fucking spleen, this
weakness, this ennui of living without a precious idol to give the loop
a cause. Inhabit the loop, find what is lain outside of the loop.
Search for what is outside the loop and never understand what you find.
Making the cognitions of mind a GOD would be enough to understand that
you have found something, understand what it is. But religion is for
those who do not know how to look yet painfully understand it cannot be
found, who become by this humility what is found, that is, GOD. Think
and think. Sort of like Heisenbergs uncertainty principle. Become GOD
nonsensically through the humility behind faith; or understand GOD as
ones mind, but never be a member of the party, of a theism.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

and Im not being corny
in fact I am being tirelessly earnest
I had a vision
one night
and the following week or so after that vision I cannot recall
because it was so affecting, crumbling, emotionally

during this vision, was your state of mind one of fear, respect,
hatred, love or whatever?

because really there are only two questions one can start on before
exploring god: 1 is there a god 2 has he spoken

it was the single most frightening night of my life
Blaise Pascal said,
and I quote
"In writing down my thought, it sometimes escapes me. But this makes me
remember my weakness, that I constantly forget. This is as instructive
to me as my forgotten thought. For I strive only to know my
nothingness."

I suppose, in this context, it was indeed a learning experience, as
there is very little, regarding the pantomime of that massive,
celestial feeling I can directly recall

hmmm

however
that does not mean I have not racked my brains for years

and scrounged some pieces
I need to tell someone this

Ive told it to people before, but not in a way that felt satisfactory
ever. Ill start at the beginning:

this was the winter of 2009
January

I had spent that summer in and out of psych wards and rehabs after an
impulsive spill to the ground from three stories at the finish of my
old High Schools graduation ceremony

Summer 08
fractured my spine in three places

I was in the process of recuperating from that when I got home, and for
awhile hung out with an ex-friend, lets call him J.

I smoked weed on the sly with him even though I was in outpatient
rehab. obviously I passed one drug test out of all in that whole 2-
month stint

my ex, then the love of my life, had broken it off that september 08.
came to visit in November, last time I saw her was in January 09, she
kissed my neck as the subway rushed in, walked into the car, that was
that

so
all of these elements were swimming in me

I got fucked up on Robitussin and told my mom I hated her and was
moving out, one miserable car ride. eventually I did neither, but the
tension

kept resurfacing and Id leave for Js.
she of course had instigated a lot of it

just general peevish name calling but from your mother its not so
petty to be called a loser

so on one particularly brutal night
I left for Js

I was prescribed a drug called Provigil for focus because I was being
homeschooled

I threw a chair across a room at the high school I had been transferred
to after I got kicked out of boarding school for uh certain things

and never walked in again
so I was homeschooled instead, eked by barely
I have a high school diploma, barely
so I took these drugs
I took a fuckload of them on this particularly brutal night
this is what they prescribe narcolepsy patients to keep them awake
and is also used for focus
and I went to Js to smoke some bud
Now, as for what followed
I had thought of GOD before
spiritually, psychologically; and in terms of the devout
it was mostly a mystery

but that night solidified nearly every philosophical belief regarding
reason, thought, the mind, and most especially GOD Ive had since and
is why it is somewhat of a recurring theme in my writings

so J and I got to talking
he mentioned what I thought GOD was, I said I didnt know.

we walked back to his house after some light words thrown here and
there

somewhat somber, hushed
he went to bed
I went to his kitchen

as we had been walking from the stairwell outside his place through the
door, even in that time, I could feel the cogs turning fiercer than
they ever had

I feverishly grabbed a pen and sat at the table
and took a few stacks of newspapers
and started to record something, anything

I sat down at like 9 at night, when I finally stood up to walk around
it was 7 in the morning

It seemed the more I wrote the deeper I entered this girth, this vacuum
and indeed in my minds eye I began to formulate a howling void
and at one point throughout it felt like time had stopped

BUT
and this is the interesting part
there were two images that repeated themselves
that kept going through my head
besides the void, which at one point felt like a presence in itself
that I could see but not see at once

like it was no where to be found but I could see it, as if my minds
eye ran a crisp, clear film that I could view in my head as I viewed
what was around me

BUT
there were two images as I said
one simply, a watch ticking

a watch that seemed to possess some condensed, indifferent power. and
when I saw that in my head, I could see it, unlike the void, and unlike
the void it did not permeate the senses or meld so drastically with my
environment

it was something I could picture, in other words, an image, as opposed
to a living view in what I viewed that was not that, or to say it
clearer, a massive paradox

and with every second
of that ticking watch
I felt myself uh degrade? maybe. or I felt the heft of minutes,
something apart from the air I was breathing

time
was a huge player in my thoughts
the second image is more difficult to explain but more dynamic to
picture

heres what I wrote about it once:

"a vase on a table, falling onto the floor and shattering into infinite
pieces, and arranging from the floor back onto the table. if such an
object were to break into infinite pieces, would that not mean it would
arrange back together infinitely, and thus never be fully fixed? taking
into account that something like this could actually happen: are the
pieces themselves infinite in number, or is it only their number that
extends infinitely, something like a durational infinite; and time,
then, for it allconceptuallyto be possible, possibly extend the same?
is the motion of the vase only possible in that it must fix itself but
only fix itself by in a way instigating an anomaly wherein the vase
magically returns to being whole, leaving forever a piece un-fixed-
back? the question is: would the vase ever be fixed? if it could, then
that motion would stop, time would; the vase would be a static object;
time would be canceled. if not, that would mean that there would be an
eternal flaw in the vase, that must never be fixed; or the vase solely
would be fixed in becoming whole yet by so doing abandoning even the
smallest flit in the thread of reason behind this metaphorical,
infinite vase. if reason however does not govern the universe, if
that is the universe possesses no scrap of awareness enough to reason
or value order, which if it did, it would, well, then, no problem not a
problem is a problem. in order for the motion of the vase to continue
being motion, in a ceaseless, futile effortfor a durationto summon
together all the pieces, therefore, there must be a will, somewhere,
for order and reason. and if the universe is as complexly knit as it
appears to be, we can assume there is some order to things, however
inherent and deep. it is my job to awkwardly fit in my own mythy
explanationinto the place of that eternal flawand appear to bring the
vase back to an infinite static and motionless and timeless whole."

speaking rhetorically, and perhaps in a somewhat truncated manner, this
blue vase became the crux of a lot of writing after that

infinite degradation
I examined each piece of the vase
almost like fractals

so vase is symbolic but not in any likeness to the image you saw?

no
it was the image
I saw

ok cool. go on

I saw a blue vase fall to the floor in my head, and reform magically.
the universe became to me an infinite object
whole
time became satanic
the change in the state of the vase
resulted in the introduction of time
stirred the vase off the table, to pieces

and GOD to me was twofold, both the anomalous force that put it back
together, abandoning reason, and the missing piece, which perhaps,
being the only piece left, if only for its absence, was some power
higher than GOD, perhaps the universe, or perhaps the void was
something else entirely

it implied that the universe was in an endless degrading and reforming.
the absolute became after that a void an impossible nothing
and that I began to associate with GOD
the only thing that does not exist

if for example
everything that ever has and will be has happened already

GOD to me became the indelible point on the chart, the one unrepeated
instance.

because in being an infinite object, GOD was.
it existed to me as itself, for itself, and for none else, and in order
to remain that it voided itself to maintain its unity

so GOD indeed is dead, for the sake of everything that exists, which
would not exist if we did not have some manner of juxtaposing
nothingness, the way a hole is defined by the dirt surrounding it.

the beautiful thing is
everything strives to penetrate it

it is impenetrable because it is missing. the theory here is, conscious
minds would not exist had the universe not fractured apart,

like a dead vase.
so in a way it is the utmost uniquity, that is, to not exist

have you thought about the vase as merely a representation of something
contained / or something meant to contain something else& being as it
was in a state of infinite repair (never fully fixed if broken) that,
perhaps, this vase would then contain this howling void and or the
clock which stirred the vase off the table / breaking the vase. you
said that time seemed to stop, though it was there constantly as one of
the images. that time seamed up in evil.

time indeed seemed evil
seemed uh

which had to do with the idea that time fractured apart the universe,
that is my theory, idea

it is not that it compromised liminal perfection
it is that liminal perfection moved to a different sphere

right. the universe, although being infinite, could not contain time

on the contrary
time could not contain the infinite.
hence the infinite degradation instituted by its passage

but it is not degradation because once all things returned to the state
of an infinite object of matter

time would be done
and the vase would be fixed
so rhetorically it is infinite bc it never ends strictly, if time is
truly endless

I guess the true way to describe the intensity of the feeling uh was
that time was given a speed, for me

and I dont mean perceptual speed
like time seeming to move slower
or faster
it was like
entering infinity
because everything was relevant and everything was noticed.
it was like entering time, as if it could be driven, or no, as if it
was a physical thing that moved

as opposed to how it is generally seen

which is concrete regarding how we spend our day, but way more abstract
when we consider its workings to not be in line with that at all, at
the core

time to me became an overbearing, usurping power

that could not handle the girth of the universe, but that yet was
strong enough to break it

& you interpreted this as seeing God?

it is really an ultimate mythos for the question behind the boulder too
heavy question, now that I ponder more

I believe to this day I saw something
I believe I somehow bled myself through cracks in time or something and
saw the eternal void of GOD, or something I ascribed GOD rather

maybe not literally, but in a sense of the psyche, I had never been
more imaginative

and really, imagination is the true man

so I believe at the least I was let in to a cosmic secret that I will
never fully know and will be duty bound to try and explain for the rest
of my life.

& do you subscribe to the idea of the soul?

Im working on it

ha ha ha

to bring it all back
I did not keep the newspapers, lost them somehow
but I filled up eight pages

mean, just you saying imagination is the true man / just wondering if
the soul plays into this concept with you

significance became so molecular as to change with a different use of a
letter uh uhh hm um uh

definitely
I wish you could see the newspapers
because its ahh kind of freaky

me too

but I did transcribe them
before I lost them
in no particular order

don't try to read it all, it don't make much sense

"Jerks of contemplation amidst void each. love is a sin but sins are
integral to the conceptual histories intent is the it of it too
beautiful for me pain the damage for that is nothing one day by
metaphor to little the throb of pain, just a little bit of perfection
discover is that that speaking is everything, and have us switching our
going through this healthy of hellish continuation there is a battle
always between the god has is not laughing humans only power against
the sun that will forever for of believe the most important possible
cycle syncope what causes mistakes they exist now so what the future is
peaceful more the clearer minds will arise from reliance on a past
consistency have not read yet ONE word of truth the intent of novelty
if one loses the vanity of fear the closest we can come in terms of
immediate appraisal of words the difference must mean an inconclusive
faith PURPOSE we can only contradict for so long before pocket: pocket:
there happens if we dont know the true unifying answer for a long time
why not there happens possibility of spherical infinite mass sinners
and saints both degrees what is the simplest interpretation applying to
the conceptual universe I AM literalism I believe there must be other
forms perfrection means no time anymore means it that only saw far can
I open every change is a failure one of the things that are theology is
appraisal of words if one loses the vanity of fear possible cycle
syncope the only sporadic I will know of thing all of it fragmented the
when satan he am probably right GOD he is the satan who is the would be
support to describe the the nothing is there there I believe what we
need to do is free chains of the them the whole what I know when in my
most in a world with no dependency time is an unreachable evil there is
no god always satan is something would I repeat there is the transmit
of attemtped connection I like of a world fashioned out of pure truth
of course warp to genius void is increating with the answers have we it
of the void I think that the purpose of life is to overcome the
individual in the priocess of think a chair into a table my GOD is the
only god if a following of many causes WE ARE IN WALLS one of the
importance in here that I a state of perfection was of everything
existing in the long and old vintage barely of my my white I by
following there is maintaining a skeptical by simple logic time exists
for people because we all feeling one day by metaphor a thing a thing
was logic of things that he wield the a thing was he knew on the
structure a thing was slow immediate irony most is the neutral on
failed experiments it however all began I know as something never until
doubtful towards the swallow of my weakness and I SOMETHING the
conceptual when you go today will believe too much in my own self
perahps I know thrut that is of spiritual a higher that of ownership we
are the criticism I am a fool most imortant will be no discover is that
that speaking quite literally is everything and have us switching our
going through this healthy of hellish continuation perhaps one day
there will be no thought has, will, wont, doubt of walls was created
there always between a dichomety what everything is a perpetuating the
serious nature of blood by which these little priests should have been
the our unbelievers will be TO IN ORDER I is no such inside the WORLD
is truly a circle able to nothing before new is was it is such of
inside even after the crink of all of the it god of both something we
are the smallest and not of evolved some if no times motion mere create
and it there must by in the crink and I notice that the of butfor you
perhaps would have split the impossible WE are the smallest and not of
evolved some if a following of many causes destruction love THERE WILL
BE A LIFE THAT SHALL LEAD AFTERWARDS the reason it is attempting to
quantify the milage between of thunders between what is to me have
thought all this through one million different SATAN did give us the
decision the gift of depth if I didnt know myself because of human
frailty to move, a sin that to existence is needed and if moving
stumble onto these things applying to the conceptual universe the
spirit what if everyone all developed can HAVE and fed him a religion
to venom themselves then is there a unity in proper and nurtured Him so
that I would retain the structure to feel a religion to themselves
nothing the struggle NOTHING decisions I want so that people may stomp
on me what universe in each letter of the alphant alphabet the
difference must mean an inconclusive faith if one loses the vanity of
fear open up the mind this and everything the inclusion of everything
what causes mistakes they exist now, did not before, so that the future
is peaceful more the clearer minds will arise from reliance on past
consistency evolution is change from one thing to another nothing
before new is was it such of inside knows with fright much fright and
also not also what is entirely convincing that slefdeprecateed he
yourself but in the all the absence think we must in a way even the
founder of idiots the thing much the iotal flints destruction comes
from the instruction of linear conceptual Notion of a thing and in time
exists and does not KNOWLEDGE A COLOSSAL FATE I know there is no god,
all way,s, I have let nothingness overtake
Only wind is heard, rushing shrilly."

dont try to read it all, as I said.
it doesnt make sense
but I suppose it is as instructive to me as my forgotten thought

but would it be even possible for you to simply sate your view of GOD
in a few sentences? I notice that you often use GOD in all caps / Im
wondering if that is in reference to the Christian GOD because of
scripture or if you just chose to type it that way for the word god
to stand out in the written medium

not at all
it is not a Christian GOD
that I believe in
but
I have infinite respect for the power of faith and those who are
religious

I just think, besides to domestic the word, I just am fascinated with
how to take its meaning. it really is the true word

and I often say that its a myth
mythology
that what I believe about it is
which is true
its my mythology
and a testament to the imagination

in fact in that slurry of words I could find out more about GOD than
any actual definition

right. & myth does not mean false as it seems a lot of the people these
day believe

exactly
it can be a representation
I do believe in my myth
I think its a consternating question, what GOD is
and Ill keep peering at it from different angles

Im not an atheist but then again Im not an agnostic either, Im a
storyteller

Im the mind

actually Christian history is referred to as myth & that is absolutely
correct / but a lot of Baptists would get in a rage if heard it
referred to as myth but due to ignorance

yeah
I didnt know that, fascinating

i have experienced this first hand btw
talk about a blind rage ha ha
im not shitting on the Baptists btw

well I hope you take something from what Ive relayed to you
because there really is no way to describe how it felt
I never will again
like ever

I can imagine

if I did Id go mad
Id never come back
I barely did last time

I'm grateful for u telling me about this

I dont remember when I started being actually conscious again
well yeah
it influenced my work
everything after that is related
back to that, somehow
most things

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

Dear GOD,

dont worry dad, im fine, great actually. im aware what i sent seems a
bit manic. but im working more with---anagrams---anagrammatic
meaning---and i hope you can see i use this word as an all-purpose one
to stoke inspiration, mainly.

it is the same as dickinson does with her 'circumference' you see. read
her poetry, and find that word in a lot of it:

that is to say, a word-

-as assuming the character of what meaning is at large, and not what it
is specifically. i am also aware that what meaning is specifically has
little to do with anything unreal; it has to do with information: time,
place, what you do. things once appearing in my mind-snobbery as
abdications. but meaning at large, being the only unreal, is meaning
not so large if it is broad, like a statement, larger in the form of a
word. this compression of mind to make a word resonate like a poem---
whether it be 'anagram' or 'circumference---is to me actually very un-
manic lol,

though what i sent you is of course the insensible blueprint for this
sensible place. think of it as more like a symbol than a blueprint
actually. a general one for a multi-layered cosmos, directed by as
general a---feeling---for the massive unreality of that, without the
smallness of its dissection being possible. how else could a feeling be
magnificent to a human, if not by the mental trap everybody gets into
of 'picturing' it; picturing it, as unutterable when it is, as opposed
to knowing it as unutterable at the start and so then not needing the
picture. but the atoms beg us on, the small things noticed do, but only
a comprehensive argument can make the transcendent picture, which
anyway involves any emptying of the mind enough to lose the argument
and beg serenity. the---these atoms are red herrings, though, and so
small as to be destroyed upon the looking out of those eyes upon them,
once open. each indicator of this giant 'will' would seem the more
massively understood in the mind of a man, who is a thing so small,

but that's another story. it's atomic will, it's specification, its
grand network of 'everything-connected' are things we human fragments
cannot get all of. it is mania, dad, to think we can. that's what mania
is, and that's what no one has ever understood, dad. that i suite
efforts that seem socially nonsensical toward improving my art to
beginnings not ends. one does not start with what they have concluded;
if they see in my miniature baby-steps towards a testable grounds on
which to rest---transcendence---as anything more than care towards an
ideal these days seen as frivolously immediate---if they do not see
this care---they have little idea for what nonsense is, then. this
ideal of transcendence. and of so very fragile a machinery. might as
well have me write them an inane, clunky, effortful end, if people are
to disrespect the build of art like this that is as being a thing built
out of gladness a thing though as an outline as a blueprint as
breadcrumbs and not in touch with what personae lose out in the mind.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

and yet none of that. It is testing an hypothesis. it is, in a very un-
manically comprehensive way, being a scientist---a philosopher with a
dialectic---doing the work.

this impatience i have come to have with people isnt the same as one---
at least, in my eyes---people have regarding the gratitude of
experiencing true daemonic force. that is the manic thing, dad.

it is a manic sickness on the world, impatience, instant gratification,
and is such as to make me blank out my own mind.

and i see why people would feel threatened by clear moments that are
not so that is if they are alone and naked in front of society's closed
eyes. enough of a front it is, any feeling of one's back being
observed. see, i have nothing to do with entertainment, or media, or
boxes. i put on clothes in front of those eyes, and wait for them to
open and see me braver to see it. because that blanking-out of the tv
watcher is at least readily comforting by one who has felt the pain of
life, has felt observed, self-conscious, even when alone, and now gives
in to the sickness of his malice at this by turning on the tv. i know
this burn tenfold in the face of---others---but do not feel it when i
am alone at all. peaceful solitude met me then, and now i see more that
it can be so easily tainted by the sense of an unknown observer.

but that sense is the unknown observer and is a red herring that takes
way more possible destruction on its hands than it readily knows. it is
a curse and prison, but most people know the prison. one like myself
wouldn't know that anymore. one like myself would say, i find that the
more serious threat is complacence, if we say we are in prison after
all this would be the right perspective to wean; so what if i say i am
building forever, so long as people who blindly and hurtfully assume i
am crazy know how long they will have to wait.

give a sandcastle to the kid, have him kick it. ask him to build it as
you did--that is---as with each grain of sand, and they will complain
that it will take forever. but with the sands of thought, you don't
shape the sands of thought, dad. you pick up each grain. and you're
fined with boredom,

so long as another has the blackness of nothing to complain of about of
it. then you'd have to listen to how much power outage occurs when a
lightbulb goes on in your head. perhaps,

they will turn their back on me then. when they are---bored---of me
responding to a boredom they assume i feel with them but to them
pretend not to: to save

some factotum of the lord: as I have no occupation, just facts. i dont.
i dont get bored. i just feel the pain of others' boredom

with life, as pain is a causeless hurry in one place, towards the gleam
of one's chains. what exactly is the socially acceptable worry in this,
if in the hereafter there are none? well, i guess, there is too much
assume that comes; especially, the idea of something coming. of course,
no symbols for a build, no apparent build. but i will feel relieved,
and finally be in peace to write something, then.


i understand this perspective dad.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

it is so that at least i will not spend my time in the efforts of
anxiety towards and with bated breath the end of something masterful.

but blankness as a vacating of the brain is different from serenity,
which is utterly aware.

especially for someone so diseased as i, who must remain unhappy, if i
am unhappy with the thoughts in my head.

these have before and in an insanely manic way, made due with what
clunkiness is there, having to relate my---fear---yet again without my
control, to obnoxiously impatient people,

who receive it scratching their heads, as one coming away from a poor-
logic--- and then. well, i see my logic as poor in a mind.

because of this. in forcing what i know is inside myself. and such is
the nature of any anxiety that is, wresting one from what is the most
comfortable prospect of the future for the sake of being 'contrarian'
to others, but---and sadly, this is my fate, dad---really in a way that
involves a nearly instinctual response for something intuitive, be it
socially or personally comfortable, simply because one did not trust
one's head enough---ever!---to think their intuitions more founded than
any of the other useless, 'manic' ones.

lately, synecdoche, new york has been incubating in my mind, hence the
circumscription of 'awareness' around itself. the brackets and
narrator's narrator---these become apparent as a similar blueprint for
meaning at large. as portrayal of a multi-layered cosmos, if you will
allow. ill always step on my toes, go by anagrams and
signifiers---but i have the choice to carry them with me or leave them
at their worth. perhaps i am more ready for this, seeing as i am sane.

Love, Dan

.

quathe quality of; as being

Qua sky. isnt clarifying it as the sky one is dreaming of here its
saying that as being one is sky, that sky is being, though that isnt
really a proper way to use the term, which is philosophical, more a way
to make statements into arguments than itself an ends for argument.
What is a proper thing, really, but inflection? Strokes of some solid
feeling, there, beyond velleity and impermanence, enough that would
have snubbed itsfrequently appliedmeaning off the face of the earth,
and yet precisely because to say Qua sky. as a qualitative statement
is just plain acrimonious, at least, without a comma.
But to ask, Qua the sky? almost as an exclamation, is not.
Whatever works better as a question, itself, is missing something
either in clarity or information, however.
And yet for both to work, I would need to add a punctuation mark, one
a question. The other, As being, sky. There is a missingness even
to this, that I do not add the subject transposed, one to their sky.

Suchs the dream.

The ultimate missingness of course is that it is a sentence fragment
either way. Even Qua The Sky? seems as though to be put on a banner or
news headline: standing alone, that is; though in the context I was
using it, it was an extension itself or punctuation of the sentence
before. A banner: brief, idiomatic, not really too sensible. Qua Sky?
is not something to put on a banner, though idiomatic, memorable, it is
more sensible as a question than as a qualitative statement. It is a
question to ask about the dream.
What is it to dream? Is the dream as being dream filled with clouds?
As being sky? Who knows:
.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

EPILOGUE 1 : [I start with the infinite, work my way backwards, for,
the infinite encompasses all, and, logically, denies all. It is what I
speak of an eliminating, a division of things into different things--it
exists as a whole entity, and yet a whole without a beginning, an end.
How can this be? I have thought obsessively about this paradox, and one
particular theory I have is that in order for such a contradiction to
exist, it must be provided with an endless series of corollaries: each
corollary more diminutive than the last, until the infinite is shrunk
down properly to fit the segregated pieces of the EARTH. In other
words, the segregation is superficial, puny, really, compared to any
meaningful depth as GOD, while the bigger things remain as one. But,
how can something be-

-simultaneously whole and divided? Because the divisions do not
actually exist. It is a matter of dimensions: let us say, for example,
that you see two people talking from far away. At a distance, the space
between the two people seems less, until you stand far enough away as
to see them both mesh together in a blur. I am describing this in terms
of sight, but I think that it is applicable to the universe. There is
no space between things, really, besides what we can perceive in the
microcosm, on EARTH.

But I still have not explained how the infinite can exist as a whole
entity, without a beginning or end. If something is whole, it needs to
have a perimeter. Unless, however, it is a fragment of some greater
summation. In relative terms, a fragment implies more ground to be
covered, more to be done. Perhaps the universe is an immense fragment,
without a whole from which it was rent.

Perhaps: the fragment is the-
-whole, and in being perpetually unfinished will expand into merely a
larger fragment, but never a whole. This would sustain the idea that a
whole, at one point, did exist--but, was finite, and removed from the
equation, so as to provoke the infinite into being. Thus it would seem
that the infinite is a fragment of itself that strives to expand back
into what it once was, and again become whole.

Let us say a vase falls to the floor, and shatters into infinite
pieces, and reassembles itself on its own--returning to its original
place. In order for the amount of pieces to be infinite, they must be
eternally shattering into smaller and smaller pieces, and reforming
those pieces simultaneously and, also, infinitely. If it is eternally
shattering and eternally reforming, it will never fully return to a
whole, since the repair would continuously be struggling to compensate
for the damage. So, then, it would be a fragment. Because these two
forces are equal--to me, at least--no real change in the structure of
the vase is possible. Thus, it remains what it is, and the only changes
that exist are insanely minute, and superficial--the vase is so huge
and vast that one part might be shattering, while another part, far
away, is being repaired--giving the illusion, in each opposing force,
that such a force is the only force there is, since no other can be
readily seen from the point of view of the piece that is being fixed to
another, or the piece that is splitting into still smaller fragments.

But what caused the vase to fall to the floor, and, more importantly,
what caused it to magically rebuild itself???? This is where I believe
the concepts of GOD and TIME come into play: TIME the provocative

force that caused the-
-vase to fall and divide, and GOD the anomalous force that magically
forms the vase back together. For, TIME separates all things into
beginnings and ends that are only there--in relation to our own
perceiving; GOD attempts unity and promotes growth in being an equal
and opposite force against the fragmenting of all things into smaller
and smaller pieces, each more diminutive than the last.

Such is what goes on within this blue vase, on the table. For
everything that exists is constantly shattering and and rebuilding into
matter, and what we end up seeing is a whole that is not there.

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

The unreal mind: a hole, surrounded by the brain, struggling to be
closed up; until it is, and we are dead.

The universe: a hole unable to be closed up. A mind surrounded by a
hole; in that it is exponentially more massive than what surrounds it.
And, more relevant: a leak in the ship, that, tho it is, in area,
smaller than the ship, would still cause it to sink.

The infinite: unmoving; the absence of motion and TIME. By creating
finite barriers, it becomes necessary for all that exists to have been
created, rather than purely to have existed and to exist. The infinite
disproves time this way, which is and engenders motion. It is not
infinite if it moves, for to move implies space not yet reached--the
infinite, by definition, encompasses all.

How, then, is the universe expanding, if expanding involves movement?

Because: it contracts at the same speed. Between these two
opposite forces--forever pulling and pushing, one against the
other--lies the movement, and yet the universe itself does not move.
This is why things move in circles . . . they have nowhere to go.

Considering that patterns exist in the universe, it makes sense that it
is still; rather than volatile, in constant motion.

If this is true, then why does movement exist anyway, if it serves no
purpose to the higher universe--if we assume the universe is still?

Because: it preserves the infinite in this creating an antithesis to
itself--thereby making it infinite, in a way that causes the least
amount of damage--and yet, movement is at the root of all damage that
can occur. The fact that flaws on a human level exist means we live by
a flawed system--thus, the greater systems, too, are not quite right,
at the very least. So, then, the greater system may be infinite, if the
infinite is flawed. What was the cause of it? Some rending apart of the
heavens, so that the sky opened up, revealing the silent and
cacophonous gape of TIME . . .

If one were to never move for their entire life, and develop an
unhealthy mind and/or body, that would scarce disprove my point; since
an ill body must be in motion in order to become ill, and in the mind
it is the same. Even if we do not move, our organs move, and conspire
against us with disease and deformity.

The infinite is flawed in that it needs an antithesis in order to be
infinite; thus, it does not exist, if we are to look at the universe
as, logically speaking, flawless. But, if it does not exist, then it
does; since by all accounts of logic, if it is all-encompassing, it
must then encompass

An opposite of what it is. Perhaps, the-
-universe is the opposite without the original--not nothing, but a lack
of everything. Camus talks of sin without GOD--strong relationship of
the absurd to this.

Contradiction is an artifice: I believe the universe needs no
doublemeaning, no antithesis. By this logic, one comes to the
conclusion that the universe, if it is perfect, cannot be infinite,
must be

finite--but that is pretty hard to imagine: if it is finite, if it has
a beginning and end, what lies beyond the enceinte? It is not what lies
beyond but between that is important, and what is between is what one
could possibly know as The Infinite. Pulling
And pushing. In other words, the universe is
Expanding into areas already reached.

The universe is both infinite and finite; these opposites are united in
a way that no human being could possibly, or ever, fathom. Thus, I
marry them myself, in my own way, as for all my ignorance a testament
and satire. I AM THE CRADLE OF THE FOSSIL TAKE HEED YE WEARY THINGS


Thought: a deplorable vacuum

.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .

And as for nonsense, chaos-as-order, it is an environment away
from control: thats entropy, thats darwinian mutation. The only
compulsion is the need for control on the huge: I sometimes feel as if
I were under the delusion that theres some sort of relation to what
serves the individual here. Now, of course, Im all for helping the
community by means of helping yourself, which is a common thread in
one's moral life and an Emersonian sensibility. But its different to
attempt to be of the same fabric as a community, a nation, a world, a
space. Its impossible.
That one in understanding the nature of the huge is understanding
and serving themselves is the delusion here, and why I think haphazard
algorithms as like this one, say, are foolish applied to a large
template. As for the small, we each have our own cerebral ecosystem to
feed and reinforce: the respective natures of the reinforcements, in my
opinion, lie at the core as a matter of bad universal morals. Even the
statement is, really: the nature of [blank]well, the need to see
patterns in or understand the nature of anything seems to me nothing
more than an attempt to control on the huge, so as, as I said, to serve
oneself, and control the path of ones individual wellbeing. But this
eats up the SOUL.]

EPILOGUE 2 : [A change in the wind. I feel it blow but from where?
Things, they
shrink. They shrink; they grow and grow. Feel this, feel
close to this,

if you must. But must you? And can you? No, no, I do not want to be
doubtful. No, I want to hush this. Whisper it. Leave it distant and
make it closer. Because at times I lose the beat of my heart in your
own. In your heart, that is, in your own heart. There is science and
there is art, and there is the art of science and the science of art.
And these things silence one another. They are there, but they are too
deep for tears. Not thwarted, perhaps cautious. But honest feeling is
there, there; it is in the wind, it is in the new wind. For years and
years and years and years, no comfort. No comfort, and greyness, and
all grey, all of it, grey. And all of it sweeping in rhythms down the
very route I traveled and have traveled. The wild, weird chaos, the
chaos in air that moves, has moved, will movewill be moving. It will
light up the sky and it will crumble, and you, you and I, we, we will,
no doubt, watch it crumble and burn, watch the bright ugliness reign,
live wretchedly, feel wrongly, and destroy ourselves into a rebirth.
For, we realize, what it is that is destroyed we had not needed, had
needed to get rid of and yet were hopelessly attached to, yes; and
considering our mutual loneliness, this is near-impossible. It is a
near-impossible thing to get rid of if it makes us, the both of us, not
so lonely, that is. Nathless we will watch that burden burn up
well one day well look upon it, well be fascinated, because we
will be watching what had ruled us, equivalently. And once that frail
piece of ourselves is ashes, first embers, once the ague, once the
shutter of spines, the breaking of spines; once there is nothing left
we will realize that that was what connected us both, and though we
will no longer love each other in that way we will love each other in
an immenser, profounder way than anyone, especially us, you, I, could
have known, because we both had worked together to destroy the thing we
despisedthe thing, the core issue, the core, unbelievable pain, the
plague, that death blacker than merely deathabout ourselves. Most
importantly we will see thisnakedlyin the other and somehow not
worry, nor even see anything bad. And it is this that we will
appreciate, and it is this weight lifted that will get the both of us
to know the brightest parts, pieces, of ourselvesconnect, perhaps,
two, found, perhaps, on the floor of our minds, littered with pieces,
more pieces, to connectand yesthat, despite, it is no matter,
because they all would fit, any would fit with

any]

If one gets the feeling that they have thought the same
thoughts while experiencing the same things, before, during, and after
the experience of such thingsthat is one aspect, and it is called deja
vu. But if one thinks to themselves: I have felt and seen all this
before, even though I have not; on top of this, the perception of these
things as familiar is itself a familiar perception that seems repeated
well, then, what to say of the experience? I am talking of course about
a certain type of deja vu, whereby one might not feel so strongly that
the things that one is doing have been done alreadybut that the
feeling of deja vu, in itself, as I have said, is something that seems
familiar. In other words, it is as tho I had dreamed that I had dreamed
of thinking of specific things while experiencing specific things. What
sense is one resorting to, when all that is familiar about a situation
is not expressed in the fact that it seems familiar, but in the fact
that one had dreamed that it was familiar? Can one place such confusion
in the same class as deja vu, or can we get to a pointbetween the
factual memory, and the imaginary replication of the past, in the
presentcan we get to a point, where lies proof, in the concept of
fortune-telling? Is there a point, to be exact, where the apocryphal
nature, what is behind things, is revealed to be concretea string of
concrete influences that travel between the two poles of the margin of
time?

And if such a thing is concrete, why, then, should the future remain
unknown? Because I do not know a stranger on the street, tho she
possesses the summit of herself, and all her knowledge, which in turn
is concretebecause there is a limit to it. Thus, whatever is limited
is, in turn, concrete.

The idea of an endless staircase remains an enigmauntil it ends, and
all the steps are either understood as going upwards or downwards; each
step is seen, and understood, clearly, as I ascend, or descend. It is
futile, as of now, to know of such limits, as I ascend, or descend,
howeverby the charity of my own egoI devote myself to the conquest,
and hope it leads me, at the least, to inception, or to death: to a
beginning or an end, both structured by a religion of barriers. That
statement appears superfluous: one might as well just use the word
religion to describe thissince religion in itself implies a
near-violent system of barriers.

And, yet, religion, and the barriers, by extension, are manufactured,
whereas the limits of the universe seem wholly organic, and thus,
wholly mindless of what they areif this is so, how can the limits of
the universe be limits, without an awareness of the existence of such
limits? For limits must be recognized, consciously, it seems, in order
to be limits: if everything was mindless, everything in turn would be
infinite. Beginnings and ends can only exist, it seems, if such an
awareness exists, within whatever anonymous vessel we may speak
of that has the capacity to end, or begin.

The vessel must be awareso that, henceforward, the limits can be
properly recognized, and reachedand the vessel, left either

to stagnate, forever, in a reciprocal pause, or
return to the nothingness of its beginning. In other words,
mindlessness expresses the infinite by reflecting all and absorbing
nothingconsciousness absorbs all and reflects nothing but what it is,
and this is called the human ego, and, this ego is as destructive as
religion. It is a religion of the self, and the self should not be made
concrete, nor should it be sanctified, nor should it be holy.

I would rather step down or up the stairs, foreverand know neither a
beginning nor an endthan come to a place where I cannot move.
Such is the mission of the ego; which, in being itself limitedand in
being comforted by witnessing such an idea replicated externallywould
find solace in knowing whether Its ruined vessel had arrived at the
beginning or the end of the staircase. And I should just as well be
nobody than compromise the endlessness of myself, by wangling out of
nothing the poor makeshift of a personality that attempts, without
satisfying, to make sense of this strange and beautiful endlessness.

EXPERIMENT A PRIORI : I lose my keys; I search for them for over twenty
minutes, growing more and more agitated as time passes without success.
I find themthey had been sitting in plain view on top of one of the
drawers in my closet.

So we find that forgetfulness is merely the mind thinking that it knows
all that could be known about a problem, and still being unable to
solve it. I say that we think we know all that we can because if we did
not think this and if the mind at its basest condition saw something
lacking it would fill in the gaps and I would have remembered where I
had lost my keys however the only way that it could be solved was by
looking for them as I had no memory of where they were and so had to
rely on persistence: I looked, over and over again, in the same places,
in different places, for my goddamn keys, and could not find them: this
persistence is only due to the fact that I did not immediately attain
positive results. Something went missing in my head, and yet I thought
it all there. For we think, always, and think that what is in our minds
is the only thing, and thus seemingly everything. If this were not
true, we would be thinking of everything at once, which is impossible.
I say it is impossible to think of everything and yet SEEMINGLY think
of everything because in order to possess an idea in our minds or even
a passing thought we must first and almost as a consecration relate it
to our perception of reality, so as to be conscious of it. That is the
glass we see through into the passing thought. Our perception of
reality is immediate then only by the time one is conscious of it. In
the conscious thought lies the swiftness of its arrival, though the
problem is slow to be solved. If the thought or reminiscence were not
immediate we then would be waiting for reality to start existing in our
heads, looking forever through the glass seeing nothing, straining to,
instead of existing intrinsically within reality and as it: that is, as
a part of nature, reality, without a build: a summit of itself. In the
time we think of a certain thing, that thing is all we think of. We are
literally possessed with that thought or idea wholly, until we are
possessed, again wholly, and immediately, by yet another. Each thought
is as was said the summit of itself, and cannot languish, and this is
known as intuition, or the innate PERCEIVING of TRUTH in something and
which can often be accurate and which is not learned except with time
more might be gained, as the wishful themes of experience reveal our
inherent notions of reality correct or incorrect. However, we find out,
eventually, that we must, well, LEARN from external resources as well,
and not rely wholly on what we feel to be true, perceive as true. When
this philosophy of intuition does not pan out in real life, we realize,
immediately, that there is much that we are not thinking of, and
infinitely many locations in which I could have lost my keys, if they
are places that I had not thought of, or which were not in my mind at
the present moment. Because something else was. Each one of these
places was a possible location for my keys to be; this made no
difference, as I realized that the only way I could find my keys was to
look for them. Since I placed my keys somewhere before I had lost them,
that somewhere was still in my headin other words, it is not the
keys but my memory of where I put them, that goes missing. In other
words, my search for keys in itself is the thematic experience that,
like any experience out of themeventuallywill educate me. In this
case, as regards where they were; more importantly, regarding where my
thought of where they were was, in my head, which I could not have
uncovered without the experience of this search. Quite literally, I
could not rely on intuition, because my brain was not functioning
properly. There were missing pieces. After all, one could truly vibrate
the inherent expectations of mind forever, and 'sense' the location,
and once they go there find nothing. Intuition thus is not
recollection, as it is inherent this should be obvious.

Indeed, upon finding my keys I was not satisfied: I did not fully
realize, I had been searching for GODand still amthat missing piece I
forgot to remember. I spoke of sour leaves in the back of her car one
time. The time we spent beforehand had been put to little use. I
believed in traceable objectives, objectives rooted in a practical sort
of somewhere that could always be explained. She believed in useless
motion, and chaos. We spoke of these things and other things as well as
she drove stick. The only time I massaged the nape of her neck was when
she was driving. In this case, nothing changed about the situation,
but, it was a lofty, considered statement that brought us to the topic
of sour leaves. I spoke of sour leaves in the back of her car while I
was fucking her and between breaths concluded that any leaf is a sour
leaf and that to call it something else would be absurd and she
listened and also she was looking somewhere else while she was
listening and so I thought that she wasnt listening and so I said
should we walk on the beach. In the nighttime the beach lit up under
the gentle bask of the moon, the gentle moon, and soon, it was all that
I could stand to not be inside of her once again, so that, once again,
I could reveal to her the problem of my own sour leaves, mingled with
hers, those leaves that dangle and fall, those leaves that live in the
mind, and sour.







The Rules For The Process [an
edifying dogma]

[NOTA : Dickinson: her go-to word was circumference. Wallace Stevens
had the afflatusinspiration, the will to create.

"The afflatus" moves, for me, personally, between translation into
beauty and clarity, and mediocrity and muddled shapes. A circle with
stages: in each stage of this circle, there are small developments in
the quickness of motion between the false words and clear words; both
of which, in time, will perhaps become less false, but never true
insofar as my words will always contain insincerity and falsehood.
THEORY: The history of art revolves in the same fashion as the personal
history of the afflatus of the artist. In other words, the history of
art will adhere to the pattern mentioned above: moving in circles that,
thru the centrifugal force of the spirit, will stray from the axis; and
yet, slowly, improvebut only between long stages of mediocrity. I
think we are, as of now, at the final stage of this crucial impotence;
this wane that is the harbinger of artistic evolution. Harold Bloom.
Let us take up arms against daemon, and provoke covering cherub to
immaterial life.]

[NOTA : Torture a few words into existence, can get no further. Then
try again, hoping to assume enough equilibrium to fill up so much
lateral space. Mind begins to froth in the large wake of an idea not
fully understood. I grab notions from a whirlwind. Particles of knowing
and they are illformed and incomplete yet all I have is them. Wish to
concentrate on one idea in particular yet not shall ever reach my tones
beyond the cliff and get to walking air. The leakage of this music
collects in a jar next to my bed. In my bed I sleep and think of all
sorts of things.

The racket in my brain is seemingly unending until it upending every
platitude leaves me with the suspicion that I am deluding myself.]

Create
A blank page then pick out some of your want and give it to the page.

After you have done this, you may involve one, or a
succession of metaphors.
And be sure to string at least two of them together,
if you choose the succession.
To be met at the beginning at the end. Or, separated
at the beginning, then brought
Together at the end by stepping on the stones of those other
waterlogged ideasyou decide not to pursue the spectrum fullyto be
honest, the purest things are found when that particular

magnitude is out of one sublime thing made and used
to the height of its potential. Nothing
More to be added nothing more to be
Done. Yet by the end of the rhapsodic
You feel the whole of life resume in being, exalted,
Untranslatable though existed, and now that
As something else entirely, another form,
Another heisting the touchable in form
Kafka made for us the inferno
Beckett made for us the purgatorio
How shall we create the paradiso?

We are unsatisfied. Thats clear. Woefully unsatisfied. The
Fact of this alone, however
Is not enough to warrant something like, a poignancy in the works
To us, there are many parts to this
Grey rainbow spooling from the desiccated mouths
Of our ideas; numerous,
legitimate
Difficulties in these ideas. How can you and I expect
To understand the WORLD without having
Read Plato? We are corrupted. Those colors are more vibrant
By their ebb into grey, the ebb is what
Makes it. Up at the end of the
Rainbow, is a mountain
That rises up out the must of metaphysics
For us to place a piano
And listen to it ring like a flute.
And ends us with the despair of being unsatisfied
We are unable, unable. This pisses
Us offblaming each other, pounding pulpit
Before the bailiff can escort usshoving our shoulders
Back behind our backs, and cuffing us like
Criminals, as destitute of mind
Criminals have no intellectual interests
Beauty is difficult
Shit and religion stinking in Venice
Usura
Argument of the cantos based upon anti-Semitism
Continuance of the falsity that
Smokes us to shallow cinders
Ah, shit the spite of all this shoegazing can
Prove the hole deeper into our argument,
You will not let it, very brave of you man
But I want this all to be, please,
Over with it, go on nowtake this
Fruit basket, go on to my cute little shack
I will meet us there and make some chamomile
And live skinny as sparrows
Besides, our argument IS the hole anywaysa wreckage
Do we need a license to do this? Tears drown me within chest.
You comfort me,
You snake.

Ask the question first dammitwait for an answer
We soon become, less alert, in our searching
While we wait for change to warp us
Into weak pictures of what we had been,
Androgynous monkeys, eyeless, with black diodes
Tweaking the poles the throbbing poles of our temples

We drift off beneath the loom of a big pine right as
the answer comes to us in full

The EARTH shakes, the entire WORLD runs a vibration a spasm
Deep into the spotty faith we had waited for, were waiting
To surrender to, and then everything is a film, a facsimile,
A lost carnage of spacereality gone fetid
The colors drain from the WORLD first, and everything
Becomes white, this fearful quietus will span across the
Center of things
And snow begins to crowd
The surface of this sad sad mountain we have climbed the sad mountain.
Just as easily fall
Through
The experience of the meaning

By the seeming of profound truth the profound truth
of the situation, which is
Problematic. Not by any known foraging could we extricate

From the symptoms of meaning things dotting these
precious lines that lead
To the white baldness of the mountain. It was our destination,
Remember? By thinking the truth

Is profound at all, we are robbed of the full power of sight,
However do not go fully blind. The idea dissolves
And we struggle,
As the sharpness ebbs. To pick smaller answers from the flotsam do
thatso that is how my strange humanity has reduced everything

I bet yours has, too, but I never know,
Because you never speak to me anymore.
We connect the pieces where they should not go. We put together
Our own lacking truth. However, we believe enough
In the power of individual thought
So as to make it that the truth we have
Contrived, it seems not to be lacking. We believe enough in the
fecundity of the imagination of

human thought and hands, capable hands and put-able minds. The snow
falls and soon suffocates you and me. Neither of us is sure whether our
lungs have collapsed and then and and and we know then the long stretch
of time for us to travel upwards, it has led us to be desperate
to search again, back to the point beginning when the answer to us was
back to being vast like the gutted sky it was vast once and we strive
to prove that which is wrong wrong and vast and create

our own universe based on flimsy precepts that are sustained only by
the individual strength, viewed in self and self alone. We have become
a GOD, but a GOD of our own reality. This procedure will be the pattern
repeated by all members of the EARTH, at the same timesuch a thing
must happen. Such a thing shall happen, in the end. After a night of
heavy drinking, we come to the conclusion: one must assume there was
and is a

step not taken into account. We jabber on, about how it came to bewe
must say to ourselves that something existed, or was, before that. In
order to define infinity as accurately as we define the nose on our
facewe, in desperation, define something beyond infinity. That is what
it

means after all. If we were to apprehend an ultimatum,
What would we do if we could not
Find the answer???? Are we returning to
A static, and intangible

State, or degrading into dynamic concreteness? If we were returning to
something intangible,

well then THE RIFTso-calledthat we keep talking aboutit would have
been nonsensical,and useless. Which is why it must existthe fact that
everything is possible in our minds of puny universes of mindsby this
we say, useless anomalies must be dealt with. Prying out something from
nothing is the basic idea. But the basic idea, what has become of
it???? It is lost in front of

our faces. I talked long and hard into the night with you, about loss:
you told me that everything is a science, thus, you said, steps should
be taken towards achieving an hypothesis, steps should
be taken and we shall one day wrangle this mystery like dumb cattle.
The answer to the meaning of

Life, hypothetically speakingsince
We know no other way to
Speak, besides in evil splinters
Of perforated reasonthe answer was created
By nonsenseI do not understand
The vermillion kerchief spooking out the front
Pocket of the ostentatious man.
I am not meant to understand the meaning of lifethe answer.
Doom shakes the perimeters of this house.
We will just get a page in
Before going to bed
We just woke up; how then, can we be dead?
I have a listless body in my head.
The tests are all the same
Always an insignificant
Yet slightly uncomfortable scheme to alter
By ways of mutilating this silly environment
For our own precious sakes
We have traveled here, from far off
Distorting the WORLD along the way. As we
Step off the train I wink one eye
At you you do not wink back at me
The troubled practice of this arbitration this
Backdoor clidex between
The ugly externals, and internal sublimes
We are dumber
Than Rimbaud. After a season of school
Filling his notebooks made
Made him to see his own HELL, and began
To drink wine, with
Verlaine, after sending him his stuff. Allegation of rape
Followed the tryst. He gave up what
We now pursue before the age when we had started
To get it right and yet all the peaceful junctures are
Familiar to you and I
As though we had lived in a place not familiar,
And scribbling page after page, offered up a
Stance, in relation to it, a token of the place,
As though in presumptuous riddles made it
What it really was. It were in some feline pacing
Of the steps towards dainty theories, brought us around
In another ghostlier era, that both of us had
Experienced the splendor of unmarked graves
Waiting for the bodies to translate themselves
Giving face to this stone cross aged long as life
Keener symphonies, lost deceits
It seems we have been in this place before
Or will do so in that era of the future
More tangible than any other minute
Of the presentbut even nonsense
Unexplained, is good. It adds mystery
And gives our notion the substance of a dream.
To remove the social parlances and norms and meanings
Of the external WORLD the internal
WORLD as well becomes void as a result of this.
Some present inconsistencies and discomforts
Of this WORLD, I understand, they will stay that
Way well into life I hope this not to be true.
Although,
One is not meant to find life at the base. I would think the
Questions we could not find, would reveal themselves at the nearing
end of life so that the only
reason for our lack of response to them would be due to death

Cutting us out before
We had the chance to
Figure them out. We are stuck. Anyone who involves some form of static
Impression is stuck, in a way. Why must you and I, be so sensitive and
selfconscious

personally, I am afraid to liveyou fear death and thus are as callow
as I I know there is a thing
out there not yet donewe are giddy with expectation grieving

The day it comes. We grab our hearts
Before they have the chance to pause,
Only in the case of myself this bad muscle jumps

Out through abnormal ribs, our ribs construed together through the gaps
and the muscle gallops along past us both, rudelywithout obeisance.
Must clear head. Corrupted
Symbols. The more sense we make the more it shall flow. Must have
Adequate dispersal of chaos
And order.


The editing process to me was and is still sacred.

The true shape is found; the old, attempted shape is cast off. And yet,
as regards what the poem had wanted to be in its beginning stages:
well, that urge, the urge a poem has to return again to the energy
behind its original motive, encapsulate what inspired it in the first
placethat is, be what it had initially started as beingpervades
nonetheless throughout the new work; and the spats of that urgency
ripple forth still further into the really new work.

It is this wedgethis residual-rippling forththat creates
discontinuity. That is, the content of what is written is very much
unlike the style. What I want to say, struggling, at war with, almost,
how I ultimately say it. One tries, in the first drafts, to match the
two; one finds out later that something of either/or must be sacrificed
in order to make a good poem. That is, content, style: one has to
choose. At least, to a point.

Pascal maintained that eloquence should fluctuate and that excessive or
continuous eloquencein speech or written downsadly, inevitably,
wearies those listening, looking, reading. The speaker as such in his
or her failure to keep the attention of his or her audience is in the
eyes of that audience all but completely denuded, laid bare, stripped
to the ghastly truth of their own intellectual limitations. A lifes
knowledge, to be forever cultivatedyeson the periphery. How
terrifying! The man seems to have in mind an audience whom together are
to be swept off with you or dragged along. But, nonetheless: grandeur
must be abandoned to be appreciated.

Hmm. I suppose I take this to mean that excessive eloquence most likely
reflects an idea as tiresome and as long-winded as its description;
that variations in writing, even from clear to unclear, provide to
freshen up ones thoughts, regarding the perspective of those
listening, looking, reading. A continuous eloquence seems to me
detrimental, of course, if one in absorbing what is said is left to
eddy with the speaker down a continuum of an endless, monotonous, near-
hermetic balance between the idea presented and whatever stylistic
ideal it conforms to. So then, a fugue in writing, or rather a point of
aporia, is quite necessary if the writer, especially one like me, is to
truly get his or her point across.

This is highly ironic, yes, but also quite wonderful. It is true, good
English is a must, as is thought-provoking subject matter; however, at
least in my mind, these two things at times are very much
irreconcilable, even in violent conflict. The thoughts of people are
not so bare as to require a flounce and yet a sort of cognitive music
regarding whatever piece of writing one might speak of has the
possibility to better canvas a feeling, yes, the feeling of
speechlessnessthe wordless, pictorial, though ultimately fragmented
splendor of lifethe sides of the divine, that iswhat it is that rages
around the beautywith words, words that by their own immanent limits
could not explain splendor as this without sacrificing something of
either comprehensibility or tone. I am speaking mainly of words that in
a literal sense do not say much specifically but rather cascade, flee,
circle round the core with a curiosity whelming like a buoy.

In a broad sense words, words of this nature, convey something of what
is sublimeof what is, indeed, evermore about to be. Via a pattern of
thoughts that repeat themselves endlessly, something strange begins to
happen. That is, a voice arises, shadowyspeaking for what the words
themselves fail to say, over and over again. This perpetual failing
says more however than what could have been made significant and clear
if stated once. In an inverted, paradoxical wayI guess I want to make
eloquence dithyrambicsay a point beyond words, with words that speak
for the beyond, in attempting, forever, forever attempting, and falling
short. In this way, perhaps, the beyond is reached, but reached in
reaching, and is then not really a beyond at all; rather, ends up
amounting to hopelessly manufactured, ersatz-eternities. A replication
of how the infinite feels rather than a description of what it is. But,
perhaps I fail at this, as well,

and so then, most of what I speak of is garbage; the nothingness of
psychic trash.

But confusion is O.K. because it helps us go on; it helps us prize
ourselves when whatever caused it is sufficiently deciphered and
rectified, by us. In such a way perhaps I say more about sense in the
continual expiation of sense by that which, at first, I (lets be
honest, who else could these words defend?) failed to explainmake a
meaning out ofa sense that is, indeed, redeemed infinitely, expiated,
through varying contexts wherein the image, even the word, in question,
might find significance. Like Donne, mine is an attemptdaft, foolish,
hopelessto describe the invisible: a hopelessly, beautifully futile
undertaking.

Regarding my way of writing you could say that I freely converse with
myself through descant andat times, subsequently following a poem
expressed in one particular veinpalinode, or a recantation of
something worked through in that previous poemdescant being kind of
similar, but applied to the whole of one piece, rather; to put it
simply in the words of Stevens, an and yet, and yet, and yet. Each
poem is a conversation, a conversation I am having with myself, really;
vacillating between point and counter-point and most of all never
really sure besides what I learn from how sense might fail me and thus
in failing reinforce a skepticism already merciless to the point of
absolute nihilism, destruction, aporia,literally, beyond words or
not knowing truly where to begin as regards the argument at hand.

I do this, at times to the point of mental exhaustion; and then I give
up. This intellectual povertysomewhat akin to Stevensusually ends
with me hurling out, throwing in negationsalmost a white flagsaying I
do not, will not, cannot. I believe it has poetic value but also
contains some very true stuff. I mean, in terms of sense, logic, as
these things might relate to reality: well, the only way I can see an
elliptical, informal logic as this as what it is, I must see itas an
outsideras a concept, which negates the very in-itselfness of what I
am conceiving, perceiving. That is, if I must, must observe logic as
such in order to give it meaning. So, then, it cannot exist in itself.
I mean,

the only way to find truth, really, is to lose control, live for awhile
in the fugue; and when you do, youll discover that whatever control
you had was needed in order to make what you find comprehensible, in
order to give it that value. Its a roundabout way of saying that the
reality we cannot see is realer than the reality we can see, and, yet,
tragically, we cannot see it without losing a sense of control, we
cannot see it at all. This very fact makes the reality we perceive more
fathomable, realer than that realer reality it is impossible to
decipher. Because its all we see, it might not mean its all there is,
but at least in our minds veritable fucking eye we can understand it.
This may sound convoluted, but negations often are.

Since we are on the topic of reality it seems suitable to mention how
perceptions of it as this relate to art, which, to mespeaking
generally, anywayis reality. Reality, with meaning. But the nature of
this meaning is at least partly disparate from whatever it expresses.
It relents to fix towards a mystery ofimpossible, unwieldy
strangenessultimately, as much an affectation as the will or rather
perpetual drive to perpetually grasp. In this way the strangeness of
art seems different from reality because the meaning behind a piece of
art ends up being more important than the reality it depicts, or lack
thereof. In reality, the only thing that is important is reality,
because it is not lacking; art is lacking, because it is not realityit
is an imitation, and so then must convey something beyond itself.
Equivocalness is needed in order for one to rightly portray, in art, a
reality that is not equivocal.

In other words, meaning is a necessary angel. A brightness of the sun
we cannot look at straight; a distortion that, paradoxically,
clarifies. Meaning itself, especially in art, is a symbol, as it is an
expression; without symbols, art is seen to us as something
manufactured and ersatz and unnatural andultimately, nonsensical.

No artistic expression yet has held enough weight to be meaninglessnor
is it possible for expression as such to be meaninglessas it is that
the sense of our mindsthough skewed, when mapped out, expressed, in a
painting or poemwill always, with enough time and patience, be
deciphered in the corners of that painting or poem. Even if the
expression is merely a symbol for meaninglessness.

That in its way is a meaning, a distortion.

Just as reality itself is strong enough in our minds to not need a
reason for existenceis represented by that crucial, simple, atomic
factour being-in-the-WORLDis evidence of our existence simply because
we exist in itart, then, is too weak a force to go on, for very long,
without symbols. Nothing lives in fiction besides the observed symbol,
and characters sprouted from the mind rather than the womb. Sad, that
we are unable to reconcile meaning with realityas it is that, perhaps,
they are unified, the same thingsin the same way we cannot have
meaning and reality exist as the same thing in a piece of art without
the piece losing something valuable. They must be separate, in order to
be meaningful. In simple terms, art is not realityis, indeed, a defect
of the imagination, an obscure bubbling in the swamp. The fact of this
is depressing as helland yet, in keeping with the good graces of
absurdity, I remain hopeful. But to what purpose?

Good logic is no sort of human concept. T.S. Eliot talked of a
substitute for sense, but to me if there is a possibility for no
sense, there is no possibility for true sense, besides in what we are
able to garner from context and an appropriation of norms to suit our
measureless imagination. My work is the process of a moving forth from
one axis to another, and back; an exhaling and inhaling; the duality of
good and bad. As such, there comes time and time again over the course
of a poem when the subject seems hurtling on the stride of its own,
blank inertia; in order to truly escape one axis and be drawn into
another, there must, there should be times of nonsense and absurdity,
times between subjects as between stations on a radiolate at night
yawling fuzz-bits and guttural mentioning into the dark of the night.
Such is a poem of the night;

as puzzling and oblique and, ultimately, merciful. And this concept of
a dispositional axis is a concept of life as much as of literature.
Forever will we move on and gain speed, and yet we know not towards
what, or for what reason; will know only the rapture of the escape from
the gravity of an object bigger than our subjects could allow for
description. Out of a hunger for that feeling of rebirth and eventual
slavery by yet another object too big to be settled in a succinct and
fitting order.

I must, as a result of all this, to say itfinallyclearly, find out
which element is more applicable, regarding making a contiguous, linear
shape out of what I have just spent time typing out or scribbling down.
In other words, I must ask the question: style, content: whats,
ultimately, easier for me to disregard, in order to rise the other out
of obscure, troubling depths; in order to manufacture grace? Words
themselves are creations, manufactured; so then one has no choice but
to beautify from an origin quite far from a wordless, senseless
realitybeyond sense, beyond wordsan origin that is in this case to be
reflected on but obviously not grasped. The poet must choose the easier
path towards a shape; it is why good poets write with ease. It is why a
good poem is graceful, graceful with ease, captivating in the very
fluid way it presents, processes, destroys or transcends itself.

If one forces a shape, the shape feels forced. If one, a poet, that is,
writes something and adheres, struggles to adhere, to what was
contiguous and linear about a poem in its beginning stageswellthat
poet will find himself deeper into abstruseness. Obscurity.

The poet, after all, is as obscure as his wordshe goes off all errant
he bogs in the moil of an elliptical, damnable cursethe darkest shades
of reasona way of the WORLD that wants too much to make sense of what
is no longer sensible. This, I believe, is why discontinuity is so
important. Even great poets have ended up talking about something else:
Miltons Lycidas darkly speculates on its authors own premature fate;
at first it is an elegy for the early death of an esoteric Latinate
scholar named Edward King. Lines Written in a Country Churchyard at its
start focuses more on imagery and the sensory things of the countryside
which a retired Thomas Gray saw sweep out before him; by the end of the
poem he speaks more on the nature of poetic immortalitythe image
turning, suddenly, towards gravestonesand the poem, being high
Romantic, loses focus and is redeemed by that very hesitance on the
brink of naming oneself immortal. This hesitance is a strength. Its a
phenomenon in poetry that recurs, again and again.

Its fascinating: so, yeah: AHEM!:

[NOTA : Style: Pascal: Words differently arranged have a different
meaning, and meanings differently arranged have different effects. Let
no one say that I have said nothing new; the arrangement of the subject
is new.

To insert a difficult word into a simple sentence is to give that
sentence power; a sentence made out of difficult word robs that
sentence of power. However, employing simple words to describe a
complex idea will make the sentence powerfuleven so, it would behoove
one to use difficult words sparingly, for these words contain the most
power, when placed alone, among simple words. The true sin is to
describe the trivial using only difficult words, and there is no remedy
to this.

However, to describe the universe using only difficult words reveals a
kind of irony, in that the author is blurring the lines of
understanding purposefully, and proves the cursory nature of his
subject. Nonetheless, such overt difficulty can blindside the reader,
and irony cannot be sustained in the style of the words for very long
before becoming stale. Rilke. Irony can be overused.]
...ACK,

The only way that one could use a single word without it being
irrelevant and meaningless is if it is a response to another, or more;
moreover, this only works in conversation. For example: if I were to
write a piece comprised of one word, without a title, what meaning
wouldcouldit have? None, unless a title were to elaborate on some
manner of idea. So, then, a word itself is meaningful only as a
response to another word, in the conveyance of another idea. In terms
of conversation, each thing a person says is a piece, a whole in
itselfand, yet, it is a response. So then conversation differs from
the written word, in that it is spoken straight from the mouth of one
person, even though both, in some way, are a reaction. A piece of
writing does not maintain this unity between one and another, because
it must start off as a reaction to itself; in other words, as a
reaction to nothing. This is why poetic and prose pieces must,
somewheres, at least, involve a beginning, middle, and end, I believe:
it must build its own microcosm, so as to respond to another microcosm,
within a larger ideal: an ultimate macrocosm that, thru the contrast of
utilizing smaller subjects as a way to get to it, can only imply a
larger idealunreachedbecause it is veiled over by the very mechanisms
it needs to be what it is: the symbolic, the metaphorical. Taking this
into account, it might seem an interesting idea to express oneself in
the barest, most terse, logical senseand, yet, thru this, have what
your describing, as content, be indirect: a fusion, yes, of reasoning
with the obscure.

To get back to what I was saying before: a piece of writing does not
share with conversation the same dignity, the same humanness: as it is
that we, as human, physical bodies, are a wholeness that can only be
compromised thru death, or, insanity, so, then, our thoughts, and the
ideas grown from them, represent that wholeness of our physical selves,
that is, when they are acting as a communicant. A conversation between
two people, then, would be a whole responding to a whole, if only
because the fact we say it rather than write it down strips away a
sense of meaning that is not needed, but that is if it were written.

This is due to the fact that life is whole, complete, and yet mainly
nonsensical and nonlinear, at least, as a rule of thumb.

. . . . . .

So,

In needing to adhere to structure, somewhatat least, in order to be an
affecting piecethe written word inherently possesses more value than
the spoken wordin conversationor, even merely stated around others,
who in turn will reactif only by hearing itand therein lies the
difference: words written down have the ability to not be readwords
spoken by one human wholeness around other wholenesses will incite a
reaction, simply because they are able to be heardeven those words we
speak to ourselves, in solitude, we ourselves will hear.

The written word has less value at the foundations, because it contains
less humanity, less reality, in this way. Because it is a reaction to
nothing, not a reaction to life.

Unlike realityunlike conversationsthe words written down, each after
each in a piece, are not fleeting, and can be returned to at ones
whim, however. They want their subtleties to be heard in the silence of
the mind. So, then, I instead devote myself to the content of what I
say, and make thatin its passagedigressive, as a way to display this
fleetingness, so that one may read it over and over again and see
something different out of the same words, in the same way one might
have the same conversation with another using different words, and so
then prove the lack of staying power of communication in general, a
power only to be removed thru the situation at hand: that is, whatever
situation of an individuals realityeach to eachthat passes on to
another, and is forgotten, and this is the communication of life: a
power of fleetingness, made the more thru our disdain for remembering
the things that others wish us to know, enuff, to repeat such things
over and over again. Is this a mess of subjects to you? Or-

-is the subject messy, as it was meant to be?

[NOTA : Well uh the balm is good logic; there is no great logic but
in one who is being dismissive. The air of sarcasm knows the limits of
a mans mind as well as the code-in-airs that must be maintained, not
bluntly, for his sake. So then let me err in judgment here if it is to
actualize and dissuade myself from sarcasm, in thinking I know anything
at all.

One commits to respect the heavens in a mans mind in both honoring
reasonableness by stating it as the plan and by remembering to taper
his own epistle in the recognizing of few real nether-reaches beyond
their general loci. For this is the code of any atavistic, kabalistic,
primordial sense of a self in the mind, outside, on the porch, reading
to oneself in the winter. The greatness in logic lies not in this exact
application of relation-via-image but in the practical morning they
envision, outside of what is in the words. As for the good logic of the
practical, wellthat, clear language and reason have in kind however.
This disconnect movesmystically, in degrees of the Spirit, from day,
to day, respectfully dwelling. The balm, of course, the dialogue of
humours, is in the proper good of both; not their connection. That is
why there can be no connection between clear language and reason
besides a degree of wealth in what stokes the bodys life, and the life
of that Spirit. Greatness is for thecreation itselfto imbue us with a
manner as good, who look up and feel wonder towards that which is all
the more unquantifiable than us, so that an ego our own might be
disturbed enough to mystify, not magnify; this is no loose manner to
have as a psychology of heavens, but, there it is, proliferating
enough, enough graciously, without sidestepping the proper good.

And this too is not to be lost in a mere as mere as hairstring. That
fame of all peoples questioningwill not by the law of the word,
greatness, be disturbed enough out of this logical coquette, neither to
be made nonsensical, nor will this jezebel particularly forge her as
anything more than her.

Logic will know this precipice, you see. The tangent, a murder of crows
along the while, with its own Spirit. Its own unexplained neutral. That
is the day. It is, the ultimate tangent. It is reborn and dead. The
crows they run across the horizon, disappear in a poise. The day poises
such, the going of the season; that which shrug themselves off their
brush leaves with no need for stitch, and unless the wings of a flock
break at once so too human lungs could never uproot the slightest twig.
Wing might loosen the thistle, but does not betray the pine, the oak.
Nonsense cannot make natures silentness nor her space. And if it goes
that we are foolish for disrupting that silence with proliferating
thought or analysis, we as people should as well dishonor the last or
even least degree of thesoulwithin men and women, a different grace
than that which Hegels mind commits to see. Truth: that it is no
gordian knot, and hast its own silence deep in itself. Both wagers of
the Spirit suffice here, and yet waking life presents our own knots to
unravel, perhaps capriciously, perhaps, illogically. So we make good
with the day, its barriers, our waking hours a chance to reacquaint
ourselves with a reality somewhat malleable and to despite remain
scrupulousthroughoutthat is if that beautiful round of silence goes
once again from retreat, and we remember our dreams, in the face of
nonsense: a disreputable place where the empirical good and mystic
great might either combine, or collide.

For example, how could it be possible for human lungs to blow down a
tree? Surely a manner of inhuman respiration. But could this be a
matter of evolution? But these are manners of imagination, the
immaterial sway of materials called the mind. Spirit too works in this
immaterial. It, it is the waxing breath, the ultimate inhuman
respiration exactly human, for that ultimate seen between the stars.
Though logic applied here works incongruously, if met too much beyond
the respect it deserves. One might lay down whatever brief subject,
itself, and have it not be a manner of something but most of it.
Whatever brief subject of birds, immaterial, still yet august, sane.
Apply this to reason with dreams, then:

That is: that a phenomenological essence or imagery could conclude the
Spirit of the brain, by its very absence, and give clarity to the
inspired; and the circulatory system of the inspired, run on a simple
realism, innately complex. That limits can be recognized and
transcended not by ignoring them and remaining cerebrally defunct but
by leaving their highest prick of the ear for the rushes of the body to
listen to and thus communicate as realism to the perceived jail of the
brain with at the least a body outside of that to do its will. It of
course is somewhat a matter ofphysiognomyhere, but not so much more
than that could a body in flight, at least my own, do, without the
restless heat of exploration sans ideals, and with only one. The
Spiritof logic, found in a mind unreal: perhaps rallying its dues out
of blood pressure: and held in the weight of a stone heavier than God.
For what is the weight of a thought?

Of course a mind stands inert in its limits, on a spine directing it
forth. But the mind transcends its own static weight; it is the
ultimate manner for the synapse of hydrogen, or the trembling atom
within a purity,a concept of the season, rich with life, distracted by
the crows across. I feel the weight of my own atom; it is not harassed
too much, nor solely for wisdom. Spirit to me remains bevel regarding
any sort of give and take.

Too hard, or too sore. One deliberates the nonsense: could the manner
of lungs outweigh the matter? An unlivable one, perhaps, who lives too
frequently, takes too many breaths in, not enough out? Surely, the
World would need this statement in each breath, this atom that gets the
birds traveling up out of our throats, and the only murder, in a
letting of too much of our beauty by the letting of this neutral day-
space, as if it were blood, and the mistake more cacophonous, that is,
if dreams involve the psychology as to this. For that is the code: one
of breaths: in, out. And one does not say he moves on to a specific,
other subject. A humble artifice, perhaps. Elliptical. But it is; to
bring eyes and their understanding along in the pace. But the subject
of the Spirit is nothing at all. The Spirit once wrangled in a man
dismisses rhetoric like any gracious perception of nothing, beforehand
seemingly applicable to whatever the Spirit was only because the man
had been blind to what it was. And instead, he acquires the carefullest
wordage for this purpose of clarity. A connector, however enfeebled
between the time I have slept and wake up againbeing the use of a code
as mere but no hairstring, as in the case it was used.

A powerful appendage to the body as to effect the Spirit, in my
opinion, will always be the most creative one, and it will always be
the body itself communicating, the hands, the physiognomy, the case
here. This work, towards the great logicor Absolute, more a matter for
the hairstrings. But the pure good is for logic to sway. It shall not
uproot itself, or maybe a little, if caught breathless to gape in the
thistle and choke. However, what to say? Careful wordage is no great
connector between the Spirit of a logical mind and the unreal mind
itself within our waking, human moments. Those precipitate our nature
as being like nature.

An argument to make the mind sing must needs the mystic great indeed
but apart from logic and laws, so as to combine in thesoul of one, or
anotheras the pure good of one theory that at the least is. Thesoul
is not to me the Spirit that Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel describes
similarly, as regards what I have read and understood of his
Phenomenology.

The psychology of its making fascinates, in the fact his book could
have been written in one fell swoop of a neuron, or rather seems to be
a headily even mass of shapeshifting egos, disguising the thoughts. But
as for these remindersImake them: they are to sync those roaming
eyes, namely, across connectors of the jargon of an ideal my own. I am
not Hegel. And connectors they are but a signal for one to use to
clarify a bit of knowledge in the waking day; and imagine in the
placement of wordage somewhat properly, in the longrun, in dreams.

A blunt way is no proper one for logic; best then to dismiss the
rhetoric and argument-making. If onethat is, such as G.W. Hegel can
have the serenity of mind to map out his thought to a proper
conclusion, in a Spirit of degrees. The dialectic, it lies in the
degrees; the psychology, in the absence whereby degrees can more
properly present themselves, perhaps, just maybe, in a tangent of
crows. I might see the jezebel of nonsense, and yet too will I see
those birds clearly in the light of day, yes, an eternal recurrence, a
stop and lifting off of a moreshapensoul, not Spirit, that is, in the
private clarities of men and women. Those recur like angels at the turn
of the sun, and will to shoot away from tangents of any sort. Ask not
where the Spirit is where. And the night brings sleep.

.. . . .. . .. .. . . . . .. . . .. . . .. .

Loftiness, written in the stern terse of truth, so as to make resonate
an empowering feeling and dissect it; what the writer is trying to
convey is different from what the writer tries to make a serious point
out of in this case. Loftiness is an utmost beauty, as a reflective
measure, but is not the best way as an outline for an philosophical
argument, nor as a buffer to soothe the gaps.

It walks the line of an elevated feeling along what it means
and yet is apart from thatotherideal of the philosopher:
that is, to make complete sense. However if the written word
should always make sense, in some aspect, so should loftiness

resonate beautifully nonsensically along with what is any lofty truth,
as any truth is. Between what is mysticalwhat is conveyedand
nonsensicalan attempt to make an immediate point of what should remain
to be conveyedis a fine line made bare thereof, and to its detriment
aporiaa forgetting in the sweep of surprising language what point
there is. Blindness.

Let us say that nonsense is beautiful, though it not resonate, the
feeling doesnt. Well then I should say for the mystic Emerson that the
truth of the matter overrides the lofty matter that is words on a page.

An philosophical argument comes slightly short, as always, as regards
to meter-making. No feeling is bare; the obvious is what sort of ugly
nonsense I cannot decipher, and moreover is not logical.

It is on par with one kept in a liminal state denying their own heaven.
The sensible argument is: things can be broken down. But to what? There
isfuckingnaughtin the line of reasoning that explains to the end of
itself anyway. Such a thing betrays a swerve far away into a feeling
more subjective than whatever point of aporia, which relies on the
given reader to know.

But think of this: somethingsubjectiveenough to seem alien to all the
readers, and, objectively, thus, a consistent unity of nonsense, that
is, if the bafflements a cause of the same sensation, that is,
feeling.

(Feeling is nonsensical)

It could be merely that the reader is thrust into a newformof logic,
a logic of an ideal aesthetic, not tautological gabber! And beyond
which the last meaning found remains not the only one, but along with
the others. Aporia then in this state where it is necessary becomes a
psychological remembrance of something beforewhateverevent of a
meaninglessness its own, that is, if the event when the argument was
lost lends to the argument at hand, and continues, in this unity.

Is such an idea lofty? Trite? I would do well to say that reason here
objectively accounts for the dialectic and struggles to discern the
atomic fact.

Whereof nobody can speak. At least I can quote Wittgenstein on that.

Perhaps then it is a dishonor. The dialectic: to fill in gaps, but also
to create new ones. The trouble lies in when one should remember the
gap and the use of the gap. At what point is one purely speaking
logically, without an aesthetic verve? Without reflection on what has
passed on to another idea, a reader is left anxious. What is read
becomes itself in flowering only to be deconstructed and torn apart.
But this is why poetry is useful. Poetry is the reflective state imbued
with imagery as relates to sensation: feeling: the five senses, really;
or perhaps one receives a sensation from words not necessarily
describing sensations

And how these coalesce to form a moment of reality is what instigates
the memory enough to restrain the atomic fact. Memory is key, that is,
to foregoing that ugly lapse when a reader is lost, if, that is, the
reflection is rewarding.

The atomic fact, as Wittgensteinexplainsit, is a Notion of the coming
of this aporia. It is by which all of a human perception of the words
on a page might atrophy andlapseinto forgetting what had been
learned. All of it. That is, until the next unreflective moment, that
starts one on a streak of understanding none of it at all, as they read
on.

Ugly nonsense is like beautiful nonsense once a reader gets in this way
and that statement besides running up the same perverselytautological
delta leaves beauty as a range from thence to ugliness merely. If it is
seen as that, it is that. Because nonsense is unreasonable and holds no
truth it is subject to mean whatever it wants. And yet these matters of
ugly or beautifullend neither one to the mystical or metaphysical
aspect of something that resonates, if there be no truth in it. The
beautiful is meaningless if whatever statement on it therein holds
nothing to reflect on. Truth. These words take in their stride at the
least a giant leap in logic, if self-imposed for so long as to be
unconscious, because argument-making is not meter-making. Such are the
beefs I have with my own writing, this log, this soul.

Logical arguments made in poetry are examples, to me, of the
superfluity of argument-making in any case, because it becomes in the
form of uh ah of a poem a thing to catch up to. In the essay where the
sweeping statement hits hard, it is up to the sweeping statement, at
times, to hit hard enough to last, be memorable, throughout a banality
if even seen from the perspective of aporiathat at least in poetry can
be filled with beautiful language and some meaning in a reflection or
two perhaps apart from the task at handnegationsbut, again, at least
knowledgeably abstract negations, surprising ones. After all, nonsense
can reflect a beauty (The gold tree is blue) but then, well,

in that case, nothing is nonsensical, really. That is, if nothing is
useless. The only true nonsense is flat verbiage made to explain
something extensively stale.

Aesthetics, what is beautiful, is lain in what is the ideal though, and
not forgettable. The ideal will always take one to a blurrier place. A
place where they must be carefulnot tosidestepthe line of
comprehension, between one understood point, and another, that might
not make enough sense to juxtapose, but perhaps as an element of
reflection in surprisepoetically remarking on logical boundariesmight
be enough to walk along with the blur, though not as it.

The unique conundrum here is that one cannot inhabit the void that is
present in any philosophical debate: the atomic fact, that it reflects
the debate in ones cerebellum. That we are chained, somehow, to
rebelling against our liminal space, that is, being alive, on earth. To
propose that one has separated from thatwould, to make another
figuration, well, it would be like disconnecting the spine from the
skull.

.. . . .. . .. .. . . . . .. . . .. . . .. .

Tie ankles round my feet as I trip on the stairs,

Art is the making, not the selling for magnificence, but neither its
illness nor strength could I have let to the mire. The devoted artist
does not deny his need to achieve something. What then, of what is
achieved? Get it together in a place as a universe unto itself and
there is much suffering in that, that the piece ends and you have lived
it, that that is that for the creation. At this point it is for others
to enjoy or bastardize and malign. At this point of completing what is
infinite, what remains to linger: that is the question. Leave it apart,
placeless; theres suffering there, too, however beautiful the concept
outside its adaptation, that is, how it is conveyed between forms that
one still lusts for more than that conceptual. And yet here, one shows
the other a taste for his verve, that in the concept mayest lie all the
feeling. For one who lives for the perfect, classical shape it can
appear deathly. That is, to give in to the head, and deny the gut. Deny
what is meant to be together, and youre freed from ever completing
anything, and live infinitely, though not immortally, in the moment of
your fleetingness. I will let it all to the mire then, and devote my
life to waste, and this is not magnificent, and this is not a movement,
nor a measured response, nor a judgment: this is not art, but rest. The
rest of a one too tired to find sleep, too caught in the sleep of
restlessness. The classical shape is dead for those in youth; it
springs forth, alive, in what comes later. Ever-early candor, Wallace
Stevens called it, and relative to the August sense of one already too
perceptive a dunce, I doubt any of my opinions will hold merit,
especially because I dont believe in any of them. The WORLD is
nihilistic, these days, and what inspires is no more a matter for the
history books as it is a matter of Kulchur at present. however, I will
trust in the concept of greatness, and find something in mere
friendship instead. Those ties, I would have bind me, though by now I
am afeared of becoming the shot doe. And those ties I will not
resurrect, despite this broken left ankle. Because theyre always
there, and youth is. And life is, in an immense nihilism, the thing
that has the power to devolve or empower. LIFE IN THE BERMS. That is,
living in peace with what is on the outside,what burning on the
inside, a wonderfully belligerent stoker, outside of oneself, looking
in on what has been blasted apart of you in others who have done the
same of themselves, to themselves an overt masochism, to oneself, an
apology, wailing at the berms, enclosures, a supernatural enceinte, but
not without hope. Understanding. Peace.

.. . . .. . .. .. . . . . .. . . .. . . .. .

the true contemporary spirit is in rejecting life for art, in my
opinion. throwing aside any discussion, pure devotion

for hundreds of years people have weighed the two in their hands

Wordsworths Intimations Ode is the perfect example regarding any
address of the worth in life versus the worth in words, which he
transposes rather brilliantly to a question both of the conceptual
value of lost innocence for a writer as well as this in relation to
gained wisdom in understanding finally what has been lost on human
terms

maturity via experience

it is not denying experience at all to say that art usurps life.
experience enforces itself, despite our locks and keys

experience ekes through and reality does

but fodder for the main spree of words comes all independent from
anything figured out of reality and is rather inward and emotional, and
in this Wordsworth was on to something

it is a hankering for the stillness of intensity, sweaty hands, dirt
smeared into the iris

so what slows us down as artists then?

thwartedness. ahhh

that we have come to a moral syllogism, that there are unknown rules as
to feeling well with oneself that give us their pain when they are
rejected out of our ignorance of them, or randomly if we have shifted
ourselves, our senses, our psyches, into the pure consent, well, we
will feel mostly baffled, but good, senselessly good

but mostly they give us their pain. ahhh these rules we ourselves have
instated

if this, then this

not that we should not feel anguish at having done wrong

but to apply this to everything leavens ones emotional sphere into
something more like a gordian knot, an endless series of ghostly,
knotted pathways

and we at times make the right turn absently and find some petty truth
that we remain in morbid chase to see more of. as if there were

but mostly we balk, consciously, based on circumstances. which is why I
say if writing and poetry are havens they should have nothing to do
with this hideous solipsism. life for what it is, shruggingly

if I have given up my life for this, so be it, and the immanent
desperation in having that knowledge will make me the more rugged and
angry and willful, in all the best ways of those things

.. . . .. . .. .. . . . . .. . . .. . . .. .

And so it goes that all feeling comes to this and from it, this low
sensing in my deep heart, this fight or struggle perhaps to figure out
what is real. Of course, I know, all of it is real. All of it is
relevant. My experience with you has been illuminating not only in how
I react to you but in how I react to that. What, really, I am at
present struggling to do is not figure out what I already know but to
shake the innate sense of doubt that must accompany closeness of any
kind. What reveals itself in time does matter however there are things
about me that are ingrained and these ingrained things are what break
me. I cant begin to fit this into anything. I dont think you can
either. But Im giving it a shot because a part of me hopes I can feel
comfortable around people again. Theres some writing by Dickinson: she
writes of a loaded gun that has stood before her life, always.

I didnt know what she meant when I first read the poem but I think I
know now. Its the judge. The gun tells you, or else" without telling
you what

to do to keep from being shot. And the crazy thing is you start to
wonder not whether the gun is loaded but rather live in fear of it
going off. But it never goes off; the gun never goes off, it just
threatens to. The problem with me at least is that its impossible to
gain perspective with time. Each moment is a crystallized edge. Each
moment whines in my ear as I think of what it is, slowly knowing it as
not that, if only because upon observation what had been true changes.

Kind of like, atoms in a particle accelerator, or the human psyche. The
judge is always there because it cannot stick that the judge is not

there at all; rather, there is an ambiguous threat about living that
defies explanation because I have no sense of time. In a way this is
like insanity: in a strange way: its like, instead of doing something
and expecting the same result youre waiting, expecting, something to
happen to you that never does, and wont, and yet the threat is

perpetual and does not learn from this inaction to be comforted because
at the end of the day, well, randomness reigns, and yet I should

realize too that chaos can sway in the direction of something positive
with equal consistency as it could in the direction of something

negative. Why, then, fear that one will happen more than you desire the
other to? Why think that destruction is more valid? If the universe is

a long, fat strip of entropy, then I should feel indifferent as to what
fortunes or misfortunes befall me, should not worry about being judged,
nor threatened, nor loved. I should only say that life is beautiful

because it is, not because I like the idea. And so then too should I
say that love is the thing itself and needs no time to build because it
is already built, like nature, like infinity; what takes time is to

know for a fact that feelings, comforting feelings, can be
permanentthat destruction is not a necessary thing, or rather that

nothing is necessary, even, but that life can feel good forever, or
for at least awhile. Such a scenario is as likely to happen as the
position of one in a life of perpetual hell. Shits capricious, but
that only means we can take it in whatever direction we want, and if we
want the good feeling to stay, it can stay. It can be permanent.
Everything is possible, anything; fuck it, I might even be saying too
much but I just thought Id write this note anyway, as a way to help
myself know that I can trust you, that you wont judge me, and maybe
then the idea of a blossoming could become what is more familiar to me
than pangs of fucking thanatos and dystopia. Thats all I need time
for; not to figure out the reality of my feelings, I know that; but to
register them, to accept that life can be so very unreal, that I dont
need to fully know anything, because I know enough; I feel enough, and
thats more than Ive ever felt at all.