What is Dissolution?
June 11, 2007 | 6:38 PM
Is a location a state of mind? Does this locale, at this moment (a dark and dirty bar steps from that vortex of all insipidity, our nation's capitol) reflect dissolution in its patrons, engender it, exacerbate it? Does this state of location mean anything?
Is it a coincidence of congregation--those who seek to propitiate their demons through the maintenance of a parallel reality...location is a state of mind?
What affirms in fact that any failing has occurred?
"De-finite: a lack of physicality. Physicality: a lack of de-finition"
An end of ideal ideas, following the flood of illusions; broken by illusory precepts:perceived to have been...continuity creating itself.
Its cold again, on the streets where I reside: I’m soiled again, by the streets where I preside.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion:
Complex and Simple, Desire
May 20, 2007 | 3:54 PM
That memory, mine…now fading a bit, sometimes recalling, even to excruciating details. I never realized what excruciating meant, and maybe even now my understanding is lukewarm. A sense of nostalgia descends, even to the recollection of those baser events in my storied life. But that is the fundamental point, that my life is brimming with events, now crowding so close on my mind that I am stifled by the experience of experience.
Am I standing again in some dark German forest, but not alone? Am I leaning languidly against a medieval wall in some European backwater, or a modern industrial park in some awful American suburb, equally accompanied—at least for a space of time? Each time I gain a little loss, regain a little of what I never had, could never have, never wanted in the first place. Perhaps this is atrocious (to the grammar), but it rings true in the sensation of being, desiring, and remaining unsated—yet entirely aware of the hunger and the perniciousness. I am overjoyed that age robs me of the motivations that robbed me of youth.
Melancholy is strong, as I lie my head on the modern materials of my pillow, I am aware that a half century is approaching, and my brain revels in the delicious paranoia and mania that accompanies my unfiltered and sharply defined past. Such power I have, to drive my memory from point to point with abandon, to even enhance, or alter the reality according to whim, or choosing, or experiment. What might have been, what will be, and of course, what is…for who really truly cares for the present?
The learned truth? The more complexity I encounter and master, the more simplicity I desire.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
Happiness Continued
June 20, 2006 | 8:26 AM
I wonder at the increasing bandwidth of my neuroses. From a point of rapacious paranoia, to an overwhelming sense of rightness, my mind seems freed to span a panoply of sensations. Am I losing my mind?
It may be a simple onset of nostalgia--some segment of my lifespan has been reached where memories begin to fashion themselves, and exhibit their manifestations without plause.
Freedom is a frightening thing--the more absolute, the more frightening.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
Melancholia Alipnium Partanum
April 21, 2006 | 9:23 AM
I have reached an age where looking back on my life means many things. I recognize a stage where looking back isn't always the same as remembering, since there is now so much to remember that I don't always recall, or if I do, my recollections can be incomplete, or inaccurate.
As the title would suggest, though entirely coincidentally, there is a large breach in the mountainous terrain of my experience. It is no clean hyperbole that describes my adventures as a being, human. My life has been a series of ups and downs, some high and low, others barely perceived.
From 1988 through 1992 (with interruptions between) I lived in a small Bavarian town. Southern Germany is an interesting mixture of Alpine insanity (exacerbated by the presence of remaindered windstorms that blow off the Sahara and become trapped in vales and dales of the Alps) and German rationality. The rationality of Germans taken as a group is so fierce that it borders on irrationality, as I tend to find extremes of the psyche circular in their diagnosis and symptoma.
Being 17 in a prosy German town is an interesting thing. The safety of the streets was legendary. I say was. Back then I could leave my bicycle unchained anywhere and come back to it, one could walk anywhere at any time without the slightest care. By the time 1990 came along, with the inrush of Eastern Europeans, this all changed. Vandalism and robbery occured with exponential frequency, and people became suspicious and hateful (relative to my prior experience).
Traffic always was a serious issue in Garmisch-Partenkirchen--nominally populated by around 30,000 people, Garmisch-Partenkirchen (or Garmisch) grew to around 300,000 on any given snowy day. I am not exaggerating. This crowd would send the atmosphere to a frenetic pace, with cappucino joints hopping and shopping popping with bustling Omas and Opas selling their boiled wool underwear and other fun-filled crafts. For someone as suggestible as myself, it was a great opportunity to people watch, and to drive like a madman through the pedestrianised zone on my bike. Mind you the Fuessgangerzone was a new contrivance, where earlier the paved cowpath simply split into two obverse one-way "streets."
The changes in Garmisch were pretty amazing when you consider that on my arrival it was essentially a cow-town (not in the stockyards sense, but in the pastures and shpeherds sense) with a ski-slope and a couple of hotels. By the time I left there were condo developments, and discos, and high-speed rail connexions. I recall riding from town for five minutes or so and being in the fields, with towers of manure and flowers everywhere--the kind of green that makes you expect to see some swiss-miss jump up from the flowers and being then seventeen, in my mind she'd have a lusty look in her eye and a picnic blanket open nearby...
I would ride the trails into the mountains...Garmisch is enclosed on two sides by mountain ranges, each designated as a national park. I'd ride until my butt ached, and I'd inevitably find myself in some surprising hamlet under the granite mountains with names like Hammersau, Grainau, and Murnau. I think the "Au" refers to a field or some such thing. Basically it is a pastoral existence for a young man, if perhaps a bit lonely and not a great place for someone with my particular bents of mind. That's why it came as such a great pleasure to learn that my schooling (or what was left of it) was to be done in Munich--a great metropole about 101km to the North, and boasting all the sins and suasions of the mind and flesh that a young man could possibly dream of (and many undreamt of).
This treatment is not of Munich, though. Munich is an amazing and marvellous city, and still holds my heart in thrall, but Garmisch-Partenkirchen is the town of my teen ages, the healthy and vigorous "ort" of my orientation and the benchmark of happy times to follow, by which so many fall short (inexplicably short to those who don't have the perception of experience). I suppose I've just touched on something defensive in myself--I am a bit raw that people think I am negative. And people do...I have been at odds with people who can't understand the vehemence of my observations, and I feel sorry that they are drwan into my subliminal melancholy, for they haven't seen the godly land of the Loisach valley, with its fairytale villages, its green fields...they haven't experienced the pleasure of ruined castles found suddenly while biking through the unspoiled pine forests. For my compatriots its a life of highway rest-stops, strip malls, of Americana gone wild, of sins of the flesh and mortification of the mind carried to conditions that would have a satanic figure blushing and exclaiming "why didn't I think of that?"
There are so many memories flooding in on me, how do I share them? How do I keep from being judgemental when I feel judged unfairly? My test comes at the price of having known something delicious, but personal.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
Now
April 10, 2006 | 7:47 AM
Music: Bach - Harpsichord Concertos
Artist: Chagall
Food: Toasted soybeans
Sex: O Sole Mio
Smell: Wet soil and mold spores
Touch: Warm carpet (not that, you fiend)
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
To the West
October 6, 2005 | 9:13 AM
The only thing that seems to occur less often than making an entry in this blog is actually having something to say, but...I seldom do, despite always saying things.
This is the golden season of San Francisco, when the fogs turn sparkling and the breezes have a freshness that speaks of thousands of kilometers of nothingness to the west.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
Mrs. Rakestraw, or, How I Lost My Virginity
August 10, 2004 | 10:02 AM
There are those who would kill bunnies to see me write this, and then again, there are those who begin blog entries with the words: "There are those." So who is the bigger criminal?
My past is filled with a variety of experiences that I think few people would find believable--few would even understand what it means to attend fifty elementary schools, and live a hundred different places--and lives. I don't intend to wax prosaic on my life and who I am, rather, I will tell you about Mrs. Rakestraw, my second-grade teacher.
I didn't go to a school that had a teacher for each class--even in second grade we moved from room to room (or in some cases we stayed put and the teachers chaged). Our school was part of an educational complex in the Steglitz neighborhood of Berlin--this is 1979, the height of the cold war. My father was a translator for the trains that plied the corridors between Berlin-West and West Germany. Our school was made up of all grades, and a Volkshochschule, which is the rough equivalent of continuing education.
Mrs. Rakestraw was some sort of expatriate's wife...I don't remember much about about Mr. Rakestraw, except that he was one of those sleek, clean-cut fellows--even at that age I had the notion that that sort of appearance meant English. Poor, poor Mrs. Rakestraw teaching second-grade in Berlin, alongside Frau Buehler, the corpulent dominatrix who taught us our German songs while wearing knee-high black leather boots, and Frau Hanka, the unfortunate spinster with Syphillitic wrinkles and a propensity for baking things in play-ovens during our mathematics lessons.
Our instruction was in German, but Mrs. Rakestraw, for some odd reason saw fit to teach in English--this is long before immersion was a style of teaching, I think she just couldn't speak German. As I say, we didn't have a 'teacher,' but rather moved in high-school style from class to class, but Mrs. Rakestraw sticks in my mind because it seemed like I was always in one of her classes, be it English, or Religion (yes, German ciricula includes Religion as a course), or even, heaven forbid, History (Geschichte).
As you can guess, German history classes are a bit awkward, and even at a young age, one is impressed at how an entire century 'disappears' from the lessons. Not that we weren't taught about the third Reich--Mrs. Rakestraw took especial glee in explaining the vagaries of German humans (somehow they weren't the same as British humans) to us in graphic detail--something that set ones' appetite a little askew, even for one of Frau Hanka's blueberry corn-cakes.
In rambling on, I've forgotten to describe this paragon of matronly virtues...
...Mrs. Rakstraw was pale, with flaxen hair, straight and longish, with a propensity to flowery one-piece dresses. She had a peering expression, and though I don't remember her wearing glasses, I m almost certain they might have helped. She had a severe manner, and was very into the whole German schools thing of assigned seats and homework books with the suubjects pre-printed on their covers.
To say I resented Mrs. Rakestraw would be a misnomer. At six I wasn't yet old enough to make a distinction between girls and boys--more on that later! But I did have a sense that she didn't like me very much, and so by extension, I didn't like her very much.
Not that it frothed to the surface. I am, and always have been, a happy soul, and not into bad feelings--so as long as the illusion of friendship could be maintained, I assumed friendship.
Mrs. Rakestraw taught English. In a German school, English is similar to taking Spanish in an American school--fun, and in some ways necessary, but nobody takes it seriously. Mrs. Rakestraw took it seriously. We (the class) did not. Let us say we were at odds, especially where homework is concerned--I never did mine. I was too busy finding out what made girls and boys different. I don't remember her name, but there was a girl that used to hide under the staircase with me and hold my penis. She would show me her little pussy, and we would put them together--I even (though I didn't get erections) was able to get it into her, so I can say I lost my virginity technically at six.
Mrs. Rakestraw caught us one day...
...Looking back, I guess Mrs. Rakestraw didn't get much of that kind of thing in her own life--and with the high-school next door, I'm sure the idea of hiding under the stairs and finding out what made boys and girls different had probably occured to her before. She was displeased, and yet fascinated--I could see that. And looking back, I guess her Ken-doll equipped (British) husband likely never explained to her what made boys and girls different.
I was regularly getting 4's and 5's on my assignments (the equivalent of D's and F's), so something must be wrong with me! She assigned me to the school psychiatrist.
The school psychiatrist is another German tendency. The school doesn't require a parent's permission to do it, and the only way a parent can prevent it, is to remove their child from that school--a real no-no in German life.
Not only did I not get to play touchy-feely with the girl anymore, but I got to sit and chat with another serious (and nice) lady, who asked me lots of interesting questions (interesting because they were about my feelings and wants). I got candy and toys after each session, and was able to skip a lot of Frau Buhler's singing classes--a true joy to those disinclined to sing "Eine Schwarze Katze." I was given paper and paints and asked to paint, but here's the funny part, the only colours were blue and black--so what does a person paint? Stormy skies. What does a psychiatrist think when his/her patient paints stormy skies?
Ah yes, and then about this time I was learning what makes boys and boys different--namely their penises grow in different ways, shapes, and colours. There were the germans, with their funny skin, and the token mixed-race boy, with his black penis, and the french kids, with their bumps that pass for penises in frogland, and me, with my membrane showing out...we'd play after school in the wood fortress our parents had built us so we wouldn't get into trouble. Twenty-five neighborhood boys all with their pants down...and me in the middle--that's where I happened to be when the neighbor's parents caught us. Guess who got blamed? The kid with the bad grades and psychological problems had done it, had made everyone behave badly.
There were punishments all around...The mayor of Berlin, Dietrich Stobbe, came to my psychological session and admonished me, saying they would kick my family out if I didn't behave! Talk about overkill, I was seething. In English class we were doing vocabulary, and were learning to use words in sentences. One of the words was 'kill.' I wrote the sentence: "I'm going to kill you Mrs. Rakestraw."
Okay. We all know how it is now that Rethuglicans and Osama have taken over the world, right? Well, let's just say a similar issue came ot be briefly in the capital of capitalism that day in 1979. I had just truned seven, and we had to celebrate my birthday in East Berlin, because of the neighborhood issues. The psychiatrist (they were called psychologists back then) recommended that I not be admitted to school, and Mrs. Rakestraw refused to allow me near her. I was, I think, a little bewildered. Suffice it to say I look back with some confusion even now--perhaps as a block. I was at home for quite a period, and one day, in the afternoon, I hear calling and chanting.
Our street was called 'Am Hegewinkel' and abutted the Grunwald forest--a sort of Central Park for Berlin. Often there would be parties and walks in the woods, so noises were not uncommon, but in this case the noise was coming towards us. I looked out the window--and what should I see but all the neighbor kids and some of their parents in a 'parade' with a burning thing on a stick--which I now realize was my effigy. Seven years old and pilloried! I was being burnt in effigy.
I don't remember anything after that point--a few sparse hints of memory, but I do recall being on a private two-car train and speeding to West Germany. What the hell, I ask myself today, was it all about? Was all this me, or some carma I have--and those who know me will recognize that I have a very strong, wierd carma.
Things smoothed over--I remember we met with the Burgermeister (Mayor) again, and moved into a downtown apartment in a complex called Schlangenbader (Snakes Baths). It was way cool--yellow steel and right over the roadway. Things were looking up, but my memory fails me these days with so much between then and now, some of which I will try in my rambling, incoherent way, to share with you, dear reader.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (3)
An Untainted Daily Stint
April 27, 2004 | 3:10 AM
The summer weather has arrived without apology in the bay. The days are ebullient and comforting, like a polyester straitjacket, and the evening are soft and rustling, like a rapist before the act.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
Mission Accomplished, without Rewards
February 26, 2004 | 1:12 AM
Another mission in Washington, and my rounds are punctuated by impacts to my bumper, the cold winds of February Washington, and the expectations of a beneficent spring. I seek employment, and needing it is the death knell to the karma of finding it. The inverse relationship between need and opportunity impinges on my consciousness in a way that leaves me frustrated and exhausted.
It is odd that someone with my caliber of skills and intellect am always seemingly on the fringe of society, and that my abilities are nowhere welcomed, perforce some viewpoint I miss, or some factor as yet alien to my awareness.
Am I to be left beggared by my consciousness, a penury of the mundane, for the purpose of gratifying an inherently misanthropic race? Is my position something that gratifies the society that demands my utmost loyalty to all of its manifestations?
When I have reached the lowest point, will I have lost every thing, and then find some pathetic ear to whine my trouble into謡ho will subsequently place me in some more servile position than my darkest imaginings, where I might slowly and ineffectively replace my losses over a full tenth of my allotted lifespan?
Waiting, waiting, waiting�I forgot the demeaning nature of waiting, and being made to wait, for no other reason than for its own sake. What of the system?
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
The Origin of Tradition
February 1, 2004 | 4:16 AM
A bitterly cold, sunshiny day broke in Durham this AM. After a dinner of especial magnificence, and wines of comet quality, I feel slightly groggy, but inspired, and even am working on a new watercolour work. Harry has met and played with a neighbor dog, and sleeps soundly after his exertions and excitements. I find myself making more coffee, and a car cleaned well from the salted roads--life slips into a new normalcy.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
As Hard As The Bitten Snow
January 26, 2004 | 10:52 AM
The drizzle of invisible ice has capped the snow with a clearcoat of watery illusions. Even at midnight the light is adequate for most endeavours, even insomnia. Sitting in the picture window I muse on my years, and the times I've seen this panorama. The oddity, the physical imbalance stems from the circumstances of viewing; whether sleeping in a phonebooth, or a four-star hotel, or this day and age, in a small southern city in the second millenium after humanity told goodness to take a running jump.
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Ranting in Time and Place
September 5, 2003 | 3:47 AM
ranting recombined with a sense of time and place
Here, at the end of all things. At least here, without the finality of all things, but indeed at the end of this thing.
What is this thing? A thing without constraints of time, but rather, a thing constrained only by the constraints set upon it by the ability to encompass it.
The thing幼onstrained, is the thing without constraints. The constraint is of the imagination庸or in reality no thing has a limit, but only our ability to compass a thing.
And here, this city walled in by the imagination of its inhabitants, that beastly public of the saying耀aid by one to whom the concept of the limit of imagination was alien. Yet he, in seeing no limit to his imagination, was less limited due to his ignorance, for he set no bounds upon his though consciously, but depended upon natural limitations to inflict themselves.
What pathos more pathetic than that epileptic sympathy with thine own people. Thinking them to share your empathy in their similarity, you neglect the inherent discrepancy because they are familiar. Thinking a thing to be true for you, you erred in finding it true for those who look akin to you too.
Nice packaging exclaims the package-queen. In the world of the superficial, there are those who embrace the superfice as a thing in granite. And granite it may be, but granite is composed of other things not so obvious, and it is used as an edifice to cover some other artifice.
Everything.Too high, too far, too much. A soul bound by gravity, less than that of the earth on which we reside. A weight of burden for some, pressure for others, and even compression for others.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
The Time Machine
September 5, 2003 | 3:45 AM
In pondering what if we could redress our mistakes? And, having made them, would we view them as mistakes if they could be corrected? Or, having corrected, would the concept of the mistake disappear, whereby to be replaced? Would it be replaced by a sense of infallibility, or by an absence of conscience? Would the presumption that wrongs could be undone lead to a lack of will to avoid mistakes?
What of time-travel in its purest sense--the ability to move between eras? What effect would this have on whomever should transit time? Would knowledge somehow be rounded by what is lost and gained, to fill a 'temporal totality?' Or would the will to know weaken with the presumption that a thing unknown could be found-out by the employment of time travel? And it seems that if such were the case, the will would disappear, knowing the apathetic nature of humanity. Apathy may or may not be endemic to humanity, but may be part of the 'time' in which we find ourselves in a particular generation--I in mine, for example. The sense of decadence is hard to ignore, and may be blamed on the advances in technology of the last century. Having striven, industrial humanity takes time to reap the 'rewards' and to regroup its energy for the next spring.
Could we jump into the next spring using device, rather than being limited to our own particular generation, what impetus might arise to prod us individually to excel? We could see a new enlightenment without ever needing take part, and seeing it so, would not feel personal responsibility to make it so.
So much for one aspect of the future, but what of the past? In reshaping the past, would we obviate the perceived ills of the present? Or would that only engender ills of the future, unrecognized by the denizens of the present, and perhaps 'fixed' by the generations of the future, who, going into the past, alter it in such a way that it leaves our present with the same totality--and repeating this action continuously until it ceases to 'actually' take place.
What of the past would need be changed? What would it suffice the present, to no longer be the present, through the alteration of the factors that lead it to be what it is? And if one went into the past to affect the present, it would need remain the same, in that the past is solidly the past, and therefore the present is what it is irrespective of the amount and severity of the time-traveling amendment-makers.
Control is hard to abdicate if it is perceived to lead to insecurity. If the mistake of the present leads to insecurity of the future, is it not better to work toward amending each 'present' than to seek to repair the past fault? It seems to me that inaction is more to blame for a thing being perceived to require amendment, and the benefit of the occurrence is lost on those who will not remember it--the true time-travel is memory, and history (the memory of others, to the point of all humanity). History then remains the most important study of mankind.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
Time Is A Measure of Progression
September 5, 2003 | 3:44 AM
It gives form to things past, present, and future. As a method of calculating the relationship between events, time serves as the functional codex whereby a standard is established and maintained. The definition of time is a construct of ephemeral quality, in that the measure and perception thereof depends as much on the attention of the perceiver as on the actual progress of the reality.
It is difficult to establish a certainty where time is concerned, being a thing noticed or ignored, and having separate effects accordingly. If the measure of time is unattended, it continues regardless, but the continuation ceases to have meaning in the same way that attended progress does.
There remains the question of lack of progress, or regressbut these conditions seemingly remain theoretical, in our perceptive natures. There remains additionally the difference between personal recognition of time and the recognition of time by groups of increasing numbers of persona.
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This Is Not A Ninja Turtle
August 25, 2003 | 3:18 AM
Consider the pride this man might have had in life--the arrogance. Consider him now...is it worth it?
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Friday, I'm in Love, Saturday, I'm Looking for a New Love...
August 22, 2003 | 9:07 AM
Another Friday is here...do I begin it with a rant? Of course there are all too many I can conjure to fill up bandwidth, but I am exhausted already...I digress, but did you know that part of this algorhythm that comprises male tendencies assumes the use of contractions to be largely that, a male tendency?
In a groggy stupour I trundle down the hallway steps with over-filled bags of clothes from so many season's ago that Don will recommend them as next year's fashions. Garbage filled, I have to sit in the house and wait 'till dawn, because I can't sleep or I'll over-sleep.But it is galling too, after a while.
All in a morning's work, now I am beat-down, and it is only 10.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (3)
My Junior Year, 1994-1995
July 18, 2003 | 4:32 PM
This small prospectus on the background of your not-so-formidable artist/host will hopefully give some insight into his motivations…if not, it is with some purpose that he might assist you in fulfilling whatever motivation brought you here.
This section treats of the years between moving to the US in the Summer of 1994, and moving to Kassel in Summer, 1995. There have been so many transitions, that I don’t always remember all of them, so what looks like inconsistency, is, in fact, gaps in my memory. With time this sketch will be amended to a point of near accuracy.
Currently I reside in Washington DC, "our" nation’s capital, and unarguably the vortex of the world’s political influence.
Why Washington? I moved here first in 1994. I was looking for a place to continue my education (coming from smaller universities in Germany) and in looking through the climate and social data available in the little library in Garmisch-Partenkirchen (the little town I then resided in), I decided that Washington would be a judicious choice, it had good air connexions with Europe, a moderate climate, was inexpensive relative to New York, and the University of Maryland (UMD) would accept the preponderance of my completed coursework, meaning less time at university.
It was a fateful decision, and I’ve never gotten over the culture shock. Having spent a long time living in Europe, it was difficult to come to a country like the US, with its violent populace,
its ‘car culture,’ and its racial problems. Also DC is an ugly city. Uglier in that in 1994 I took an apartment in the Seven Springs Village Apartments, a towering block on the beltway near UMD. I had no intention of having a car, and no money if I did intend it. So, stuck in suburbia, I whiled away the time as a prisoner, learning to watch television and simply exist.In my studies I did well enough, and by 1995 (a year later) I had worked my way into the running for a scholarship. The benefit of this was that I would study in Germany, and return to the US only to receive my degree. In this same time period I moved to a nicer apartment in Silver Spring, the ‘Alexander House.’ The Alexander House was right on the Metropolitan railway station at Silver Spring, so things were looking up, but by this time I must admit to some mental irregularities.
I was not only insecure about my position in society—becoming aware that my life choices were not going to be profitable, and my distaste for American culture was having a resounding effect on my ability to move amongst Americans. It is incredible to me that anyone should have withstood the strains of my acid personality, but I guess I must have offered some redeeming qualities. On the flip-side I shared a liking for similar cultural offerings; electronic music, art-house films, La Madeleine, and abstract art. I think I could have been much better as a friend, than any deeper involvement would otherwise preclude.
So at any rate I lived in a great apartment, I was mobile again, and things had a future, but I was miserable. To this day I have no idea what the underlying issues were, though I would hazard a guess that much of it had to do with my immaturity.
In June of 1995 I was notified that I had a Studienplatz im Fach Germanistik und Kunstgeschichte an der Universitaet Bremen which thrilled me to no end. I was leaving the fucking hole of the US, and I would be able to make some split with my damaged associations, which I resented because I knew I couldn’t undo the damage I had done.
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Weekender, and such.
June 28, 2003 | 7:35 AM
I could tell it was the weekend. When the light that filters through the windows is what I term 'pestilential gray,' I know that Saturday has indeed arrived. First it was Ashcrofts code pink on the weekends, now it is simply rain, or the threat.
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Currency, Urgency
June 24, 2003 | 6:18 AM
It has come to my attention that some of my readers take each entry as a 'snapshot' of my current state of mind, especially those very few entries that deal with sex.
This is not [always] the case.
I have a large number of old writings in journals, scraps, and other media that I post from time to time if I come across them and feel they might be amusing. I know its possible to 'backdate' items, but they would be lost in the archives, then...
...regards.
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I Will Choose My Reality
June 12, 2003 | 8:24 AM
If I choose it, it is real.
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How Deep, The Rabbit Hole
June 12, 2003 | 8:23 AM
How goes...just how deep does the rabbit hole go? First I have to ask myself, how is a rabbit hole going anywhere...What is a rabbit hole, which rabbit hole are we talking about, i.e. is the rabbit hole I'm talking about the same one you're talking about? Or, is the rabbit hole you describe to me, the same one I am imagining?
Now here comes the difficult part: why is a rabbit hole moving, what motivates it? Whence came it, wither will it? If you show me how deep it goes, and it goes deeper than what you saw, will what I see be the same as what you meant me to see.
If the rabbit hole is 'going' deeper, it is active, and maybe has some influence on what 'it' wants 'us' to see.
(maybe everything in this trite little essay will be in "quotes," italics, and (parenthesis))
What happens if I take the blue pill, and still see 'just how far deep the rabbit hole goes?' What happens if the red pill is cut-down with too much benzine? Have you shown me something, or will I endure the belief that I have seen 'The Truth,' when in fact I have been deluded again...?
...or will I become lost in paranoid disbelief of all the realities, and move through matrices endlessly, frying my miniscule brain and ending-up a vegetable?
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What a Different Day Makes
May 3, 2003 | 10:05 AM
The great thing about free-time, is that one is perfectly free to plan a whole range of activities, and then casually ignore them all.
What a day to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (2)
Day Off
May 2, 2003 | 8:18 AM
I've decided to take the day off, partly to prepare for the upcoming exhibition (May) at Café Luna, and partly to take a breather from all life's little annoyances.
My concern and wishes for speedy recovery go to the Turkish people affected by the recent earthquake.
I am using the new iTunes(4) which can seemingly compress much faster than the old version, though I have to say that after testing thoroughly, the AAC format the nazis at Apple are pushing, I find it to be insufficicient in quality. They push it hard, saying it is so great and all, but I seem to sense that they want it standard so they can control what we do--it allows only a limited number of file-transfers, and only plays (for now) on specifically enabled devices. Additionally you can only download from Apple's new music store in AAC, and at 128kbps at that, which, as a consistent user of 320kbps MP3, I find fascist.
The system isn't too bad, one pays 99¢ for all calls over 20 minutes, and just 7¢ a minute after that, oh wait, different marketing scheme--one pays 99¢ for a song, which is cool, though being party with major music labels means that any music that is cool is unavailable, though Britney and Eminem are readily available like a whore at 6am on Mass Ave.
My choices? Right now I have Bebel Gilberto, Anouar Brahem, Sarah Vaughn, and Pachelbel. I think mainstream aint got shit on me, motherfuckers.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (1)
Forgetting What is Timeless
February 14, 2003 | 9:25 AM
I have been guilty of what ranks high on my own personal list of sin, the sin of attaching myself to issues of one-time, one-situation. Issues I have attached myself to recently have no long-term significance, nor do they, their resolution, or their causes, have any bearing on the well-being of humanity as an emotional and logical entity.
perma-link | suffusions of delusion: (0)
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