Personal impressions will always distort rational judgement. The ability to look back on mistakes makes them appear all the more atrocious, by virtue of their irrationality when put into perspective. Yet how soon we forget, and allow ourselves to repeat the irrationality that yesterday was horrifying.
placid, like a winter-frozen pond my scalp draws eyes voracious views are my reward for lack of hair interesting, how populations are fond of well presented guise spacious pews in the house of the lord oh. do beware rancid thoughts are held as bond under hair, how nice... however can it be the word for which y'all care strands thin and long compete to raise their consciousness above y'alls do you also dare? as a scream is a sound so too silence and if you only would be so aware of the meaning of profound meaninglessness you might've fool'd me
July 1997, Miami, Florida
Having stood in the Atlantic, with salt waves rolling me about, and the soft sand infiltrating my toes.
To be masturbating with slow deliberation, until, with the lights of south beach shining forth, I ejaculate my doomed sperm into the vastness of the ocean--their half-progenerative quality lost in its polluted hugeness.
And what if I had procreated therewith? Would the offspring of any human female have had any better fare?
Sadly I have come home from a very difficult day (week, life, whatever) at work, and can't devote the attention this deserves...again. The same story last week, life, whatever--until I have no more weeks, lives, whatever to live, to think, to respond.
...be that as it may, I think that part of the problem of communication is time, and weblogs are severely limiting in terms of the time involved in properly explaining a concept. As has been so graciously pointed-out, a reading of my weblog only gives a "very speculative reading," and I have to lament that selfsame limitation; that in writing a blog I am unable to give the comprehensive idea of what it is I am thinking. The parallel is ranting, which is so well served by this medium, in that each rant in given its category, its comments (rating) and other e-bayesque apocrypha.
Don't ask me how e-bay got in there, likely as a result of the 'americana commercialis nervosa' that I discerned.
So for all these words, I haven't said anything, for which I apologize. By way of making amends, I will continue to augment my periodic ranting with transcribed writings from my past(s).
"I'm sure your work would sell more readily at Cyber if it were blatantly sexual. I appreciate the fact that it's not. Have you tried getting a showing at Fusebox? Perhaps you could draw some penises or vaginas under a pseudonym?"
--too true, but in keeping with my artistic personality, I would rather not sell anything than sell anything that wasn't mine, in the metaphysical sense...
An exegesis of interest in the affairs of my blogging colleagues has once again diverted me from my avowed intention of writing 'timeless' pieces on the philosophy and acrimony of art.
Now I wax philosophical, and remain acrimonious, but treat on day-to-day matters.
Jimbo has gotten laid, how wonderful. Fitz is jealous of single people (a sick jealousy indeed, as when satiated, it proves most dissatisfying). This is an 'inside' comment, and no one will get it, so don't be disturbed my its apparent apocryphicality [spell check]...[spell +12, armour +14]...LOL
So it snows, and I rant--this weather get's me down, which the delightful sunshine of the weekend had so nicely salved...now is roughshod-ly rasped by these delicate watery flakes. White flakes--sounds like a description of Strom Thurmond--too bad they didn't have crystal methamphetamine back then, it could have kept the white trash occupied in things other than politics.
Why do I hate Germans so much? Probably because I love them so much. Such an idiosynchratic people, rather monolithic, yet perversely diverse. Ich vermisse meine deutsche experimente so sehr, wurde das ich zurueckreisen konnte...
We all know about the French...they are self-righteous, with a historical precedent of being the most 'fill-in-the-blank' alive. And again, that's why we love them. Too bad Julius Caesar didn't give them the Dacian treatment--but then we would have to suffer Bulgarian materialism and arrogance. Power is the only ethic that means anything. If you are not stronger than your opponent, it makes no difference who is right, your opponent will effect justice. War is wrong, immediate and total annihilation is right. Or some such thing...poor sorry people, our liberals want you intact, so they can have package holidays and watch your poverty from an air-conditioned motorcoach, and eat your food for pennies of their own money.
With mind open, the unfortunate ability of sensing the surrounding space--either enhanced, or expanded--admits these specious examples of myself. These others, who by their similarity might be simulacra, might remind me of that which I hate in myself.
Sitting here in this streetside cafe, mind open; I hearken to the words chains binding the thoughts patterns of these simulacra into sentience, and the dullardry given vent thereby begs the question--is there relief?
Who will speak the words that my ears wish to hear? And what feelings are aired thereby...obsession, perversion, lust, boredom, greed, pain, regret, need
Let us discuss not the difficulty, but the places we can go to forget--the things we can drink for oblivion, the clothes we wear to obscure, the conversations we have had to drown out, the drugs we use in search...of...what? Do we search out the question? Do we ask whether or not a question should be asked? Is the perception of a problem defeated by a victory for arrogance?
A victory for arrogance: Conversely a defeat for the ethos of the human, for a human must remind himself (through others) of his common humanity--these questionable facets. A dearth of--of whatever.
Must this be a plethora then of something other? Where I have been; who with; under what circumstance; what was my condition; why fucking that person made me validated
Sitting in this sterilised cafeteria, I know what the pigs think of when the trough is filled. I watch the expectant faces, and see them once they have been filled. Where does the inspiration lie? Why can I not see the spirit of man in here, where so many men are assembled?
Plain Jane is the word for these men, whose flamboyant suits tell of banker's receipts and tax evasion. The chatter is of nations needing to be harnessed to the yoke of bureaucracy, but good bureaucracy--that which maintains the public order, or least enough to allow quiet holidays in bungalows on the edge of impoverished worlds.
Do we choose our servitude? Feeling as though I chose wrongly, I scan the halls for those who hint at similar mistakes, and do not see evidence of such. There is contentment here, a sense of doing things worthwhile, of value to society. The egoism of the upper echelons is the prop on which the upper echelon supports its mania. The sense of intelligence is biased by a culture of self-servitude, where intelligence is created by the shaping of reality to suit itself--new languages, new methodology, new beliefs, all created to support those who already attribute themselves with these measures.
What understanding is there, with all the interpreters and documents in the world, when people are so foreign? Not foreign in terms of nationality, but foreign in that they are people outside the organization? Let's lustrate the paper, the triplicate forms and memoranda, the 'lingua banca,' the huddled conferences--specifically excluding the nations being discussed. I am no pseudo-hippie run-amok child with a can of spray-paint and new dreadlocks, but there is something sinister in this food hall.
Maybe there's something to it?
A pro-global viewpoint, not to be confused with pro-globalist
Protest the meetings, why?
What is it that these protesters fear? I have yet to come across anything resembling a coherent argument against something defined. They are here every year, at the time of the meetings between the IMF and the WorldBank. Perhaps it is symbolic of something sinister that one never hears of these agencies, except when a country is on the brink of bankruptcy. Bretton Woods is a United Nations conceptualisation; do the protesters feel the UN to be equally sinister? It was the idea of stability that brought about the IMF.
And what of globalism? These young suburbanites feel strongly about so many things; though not strongly enough to make political change a grassroots movement; not they, who would rather parade around the capital city with flags of rogue states, burning the flag of their homeland in favour of some nation headed by the dictator of an ignorant and violent people. These young people claim a fight against racism;which leads them to focus on white men (is that not racist). These young people claim a war on poverty as if giving a pittance to the crack addict makes their hearts swell with the pride of their 'philanthropy.'
I ask them, "what is wrong with globalism?" "What does this nebulous term mean?"
Why is it bad to have a community of global proportions? To my mind it seems that the benefits of leaving the nation-state system are going to be great in the final result. Why am I meant to renounce the rewards of industrialisation so that suburban children can renounce Wal-Mart?
Will these riches biches lose the museum cultures they have come depend upon for diversion from the horrid reality their inherited mindsets have allowed to dominate those of us who do not seek domination--and therefore remain victims of those who blame themselves for their dominance, and accept no responsibility therefore.
The people who renounce tolerance of the intolerant are intolerant, the illiberal liberality of the liberal is not liberal. The injustices of the fighters of injustice is not just. The contradictory paradoxes of the paradox-inclined are not trustworthy simply because they are paradoxical.
If you feel the weight of modern society to be crushing you, reach for your Juvenal.
What does one do when one's thoughts turn to randomality, or when they go out of the framework of any rationalization common to the common thought-process? Where does the person who would inscribe their thoughts find a method of making them 'etched in stone?' Thus creating the means whereby any commoner will find common ground in a common thought.
The terrorism of fighting for your beliefs; it may just be possible in that the consolidation of power has driven anyone not privy to our society to fight it with means which do not bestow honour on the employer.
Sport-Vehicles, driven quickly to the mall, do not comply with their image as presented by the vendors.
Cigarettes, advertised with out-of-doors spaces, and independent faces.
And a night spent in the fierce throes of memory, of those liaisons throughout life where ecstasy is given and received for no reason other than to experience ecstasy.
And I, as some wizened detritus of humanity, make so bold as to confound voluptuousness with poesie, shamelessly.
Thinking that I, standing in that park, my member in the mouth of some anonymous man, am somehow privy to a thing grander than common pleasure, because I need make no effort for it? Or am free to decide when I wish it, where, and from whom?
This strange sensation of the tickling tongue as some validation of the persona I have created--apart from society. What symbolism, this?
And being so separate, I stand now at the copy machine, and create three times the reportage that any one person will read, and nothing that will ever improve the lot of anyone, save perhaps the paper manufacturer's shareholders, though they too bear the cost, though they know it not. What commonality, this.
First of all it is portable. If it is something I am able to carry from café to café, then it must be simpler tools. Usually markers, pencils, pigment liners et cetera. The paper is small.
Secondly it must be smaller, because café tables are small, and being inconspicuous is part of the semantic. Also I find peace in intricacy.
Thirdly the café in many places is the focal point of relaxation and non-professional interaction. People unwind at the café, people go there to talk; to eat, drink and be merry. I sit in a corner and observe, and eavesdrop, and occasionally take part or am included, but the hours I spend there are hours watching a familiar rhythm. What I draw in cafés can be looked at as an amalgam of the noise, the smoke, the smells, and the rhythm of the café--and therefore of life.
Do I go too far in supposition-land? Is this a crazy premise? Or is the success of American mercantilism due in some measure to the reliance and appeal of packaged products, neat and persistent.
Cappuccino is insufficient, since the quantity of milk in a well-made one is less. But let the milk be skim, lest the muddled mind be exacerbated by the fat content of real milk. Let the drink be hot; somehow reflecting the activity of neural transmitters in the activity of its heated particles. Fresh beans are important to fresh thoughts. Grind them only when they are needed; so that pertinence is maintained. The brewing of the espresso should be timing-wise perfect, just as the turn of phrase. The addition of espresso to the milk should be as perfect and measured as the addition of commentary to a discussion.
Restraint in adding spice is the mark of the rational mind, so too cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom should be held with a tight fist;ready to be added in an instant of indecision or apparent lack of flavour (pertinence).
Let us move on to the packaging of thoughts. We all know of media: books, films, internet sites; but what of the coffee drink? The cup is a means of reflecting the contents--finer porcelain, finer coffee translates to finer thoughts? If a discussion is held while drink from Styrofoam, does it have less validity than one argued over china? And "java-jackets" are the new advertising milieu, liken them (unconsciously) to those foil wrappings on texts that draw our attention to the contents. And if they advertise a separate product? Like a thoughts encapsulated in a pamphlet, but meant to direct the reader in a purely other direction than the apparent intent.
Is it not obvious that they will be obsequious until power is assured, thereupon, ruthless?
Truth is as it does, and I wonder at those who appear not to be able to discern truth, even when it is most obvious--in the doing.
So I spent the day walking from Dupont Circle, through Pennsylvania Avenue, to Chinatown--stopped in to watch rugby (Ireland whopped the Franks), thence to Union Station, down to the Mall and on past the Lincoln Memorial up the river to Georgetown, and back via M Street.
Quite a cross section of humanity confronted me, and some weren't in such a bad mood. It is so very depressing, such oblivious oblivion...
Different classes, but the same dismal limitation, who can see past themselves?
...and again, and again. I am strangely susceptible to my environment, in a way that carries no logical weight. What does it profit me, to allow this paltry existence to gratify, to console, to mock, and to debase my persona?
What resides in my mind, that inhibits thought while inhabiting the thought-center...am I my own parasite?
One day of sun in the last thirty--how about that? What's so bad about my grammar anyway? I wish I had no need to make money, to suffer the ridiculous barbs and needs of these people who hold sway over me, and are not deserving...what arrogance, this. And this planet, controlled as it by people with small dicks...Why aren't we the people more suspicious of our leaders? People who lead, not by mandate, but by psychosis--ones we are too afraid of to deny them what they desire, what power? And we sit in self-derision and watch television, haiku!
Dating, is a funny word for this unreasonable fascination we men seem to have with self-destruction.
As if it weren't bad enough that we have to figure our selves out, but we are desperately seeking someone else who needs to figure themselves out.
The secret to success is boundless and manic egoism. Make someone love you, and care nothing for it--it is the penultimate timeless bond, the ultimate being slavery.
Be not interested, lest you be taken for too interested. The artistry is in the 'aloofistry' (sounds like a fetish involving bath sponges and rubber gloves...)
I guess if I don't write enough, I am danger of being presumed uninteresting.
I guess...I write, enough.
Enough.
I am wearing a neck-halter today, in respect to those who have purchased me. The modern ethos is slavish, is it not? I console myself that the quality of the slavery is excellent, and goes well with red wines.
I want to convey something to you, dear reader, but I know not what it is...
