(no subject)
06.20.04
I want nothing more than write now but every sentence becomes nothing more than a perversion of the thought that produced it. The static within, near incessant now, makes coherence an act of tremendous will. Yesterday found me lightheaded and dizzy for no discernible reason, feeling as if the essential "I" was heading in a different direction from the physical self. That probably makes no sense, but in terms of intensity and effect, it was nothing I had ever felt before and I'm not sure what to make of it. I felt something like it earlier in the week, but I attributed that to a long day in the sun. Gone this morning, the feeling has begun to come back clearing every thought before it.
In the month since my last post, I have been struggling to make sense of too many things. Always the fatalist, I try my best to avoid the pitfalls of hope and desire; the irony is that of course, I can't and perhaps trying makes it impossible. I think Josh said it best: I do not like Ajfish's believe that humans should or can be another way or his melencholy that they can't or won't change. It slaps the buddhist in him in its face."[sic]. It goes far beyond melancholy dear friends - it's near blinding rage at the idiocy, lunacy and inefficiency that I confront everyday. I'm foolishly angry here. Stupidly angry at absurdity and the ultimate futility: trying. Caught between scorn and side splitting laughter at one of the tragic ironies of this American world; threat of violence is the only sure way to guarantee a peaceful and happy life. I'd like to say it's the same the world over, but I haven't seen the world over and can speak from my provincially narrow mind. I laugh because daily I fight the deep urge to "turn over desks" and casitgate the feckless and the vile with torrents of eloquent but self righteous brimstone.
Dear Josh as I said in my first response, you see the truth about me and you are not afraid to say it. Yes, I hope and I try. I'm smart enough to see the wrong but too dumb to accept it. Humanity is an animal with no apparent purpose, no ecological niche to fill or reason to exist and I pretend otherwise. In fact I want to believe the beneath this mass of failure and loathsome contradiction there is something good, something decent.
Josh, I am so sick of this Republic, this government of the mendacious, for the greedy, and of the powerful. Josh, you understand my revulsion at all things brutal and pointless. You understand that I am somewhat of a dreamer. My teen years found me somewhat delusional, believing that within *me* lay messianic power; yes picture me, the Jesus Manson kicking over this house of cards, a martyr anally crucified in a horrid prison, resurrected on television, a gray haired symbol of resistance against the all powerful. I've long since dropped the illusion that I am anything special. I recognize that it goes far beyond this Republic. I know that true change will not come along partisan lines or at the hands of the would be revolutionaries. No matter how the cards are arranged, a house of cards is a house of cards.
Too often, the response I receive to this line of thinking is "If you don't like it, leave it" or "Find somewhere better." I've never been certain if this sort of response is cynical malediction upon hope or the facile argument of the underdeveloped mind, but my primary response of course involves the hope of change. Too often I reveal my optimism. Too often I reveal that flaw of mine.
Where am I going here? Struggling for sensibility and reason, I imagine. Fighting myself as I feel the old urges to "be all I can be", the urge to abandon the temperate life and live to disrupt, to sting, to expose, to laugh. To spend all of tomorrow, the longest day, in the sun and in the warm sunset hours frolic with luscious dark haired nymphs, delighting in the poetry their teeth write upon my neck, the crimson pictures their fingernails draw upon the back, and most of all the song of their joyful laughter. Beyond sex and laughter, I want to walk. I love to walk. There is a good chance that I am one of the few people that you know that has literally worn the soles off of boots. The desire to be as I am: strong but shiftless, dedicated to idleness and irresponsibility, struggling to struggle.
Josh, more than anything I am doing battle and I am doing it too often. I started this unsure where to go and now I hope this reads not as a message of despair but instead a somewhat discursive paean to confusion and weariness. It occurs to me that "they" are not the problem, but indeed, I am. Josh, I'm afraid the squares, the petty shitheels, and those molochs preaching comfort through acquisition will assimilate me and I will go so quietly into that good night. Oh I fear envelopment in that personality decaying vapid sticky sweet high fructose corn syrup sentimentality that passes for integrity and goodness. If "they" don't, perhaps the contradictions and absurdity will finally corrode my vestigial sanity and I will find comfort in discourse with pigeons and palm trees. Maybe that is just the confusion speaking. I don't know that I've ever been "right" but I have begun to wonder if I begun to make the transition to undeniably "wrong."
Why am I addressing this to you, Josh?
Josh, do I have you confused with a metaphysically soothing version of Santa Claus? A slavic Tooth Fairy come to take away this rotten tooth o' mine?
My favorite line from that delightful little collection, "Le Mythe de Sisyphe" has always been, "Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined." How true it has been for me. But Josh, I think you're above this pseudo-intellectual lamentation, this all too myopic thinking. I think you might actually have answers.
I want nothing more than write now but every sentence becomes nothing more than a perversion of the thought that produced it. The static within, near incessant now, makes coherence an act of tremendous will. Yesterday found me lightheaded and dizzy for no discernible reason, feeling as if the essential "I" was heading in a different direction from the physical self. That probably makes no sense, but in terms of intensity and effect, it was nothing I had ever felt before and I'm not sure what to make of it. I felt something like it earlier in the week, but I attributed that to a long day in the sun. Gone this morning, the feeling has begun to come back clearing every thought before it.
In the month since my last post, I have been struggling to make sense of too many things. Always the fatalist, I try my best to avoid the pitfalls of hope and desire; the irony is that of course, I can't and perhaps trying makes it impossible. I think Josh said it best: I do not like Ajfish's believe that humans should or can be another way or his melencholy that they can't or won't change. It slaps the buddhist in him in its face."[sic]. It goes far beyond melancholy dear friends - it's near blinding rage at the idiocy, lunacy and inefficiency that I confront everyday. I'm foolishly angry here. Stupidly angry at absurdity and the ultimate futility: trying. Caught between scorn and side splitting laughter at one of the tragic ironies of this American world; threat of violence is the only sure way to guarantee a peaceful and happy life. I'd like to say it's the same the world over, but I haven't seen the world over and can speak from my provincially narrow mind. I laugh because daily I fight the deep urge to "turn over desks" and casitgate the feckless and the vile with torrents of eloquent but self righteous brimstone.
Dear Josh as I said in my first response, you see the truth about me and you are not afraid to say it. Yes, I hope and I try. I'm smart enough to see the wrong but too dumb to accept it. Humanity is an animal with no apparent purpose, no ecological niche to fill or reason to exist and I pretend otherwise. In fact I want to believe the beneath this mass of failure and loathsome contradiction there is something good, something decent.
Josh, I am so sick of this Republic, this government of the mendacious, for the greedy, and of the powerful. Josh, you understand my revulsion at all things brutal and pointless. You understand that I am somewhat of a dreamer. My teen years found me somewhat delusional, believing that within *me* lay messianic power; yes picture me, the Jesus Manson kicking over this house of cards, a martyr anally crucified in a horrid prison, resurrected on television, a gray haired symbol of resistance against the all powerful. I've long since dropped the illusion that I am anything special. I recognize that it goes far beyond this Republic. I know that true change will not come along partisan lines or at the hands of the would be revolutionaries. No matter how the cards are arranged, a house of cards is a house of cards.
Too often, the response I receive to this line of thinking is "If you don't like it, leave it" or "Find somewhere better." I've never been certain if this sort of response is cynical malediction upon hope or the facile argument of the underdeveloped mind, but my primary response of course involves the hope of change. Too often I reveal my optimism. Too often I reveal that flaw of mine.
Where am I going here? Struggling for sensibility and reason, I imagine. Fighting myself as I feel the old urges to "be all I can be", the urge to abandon the temperate life and live to disrupt, to sting, to expose, to laugh. To spend all of tomorrow, the longest day, in the sun and in the warm sunset hours frolic with luscious dark haired nymphs, delighting in the poetry their teeth write upon my neck, the crimson pictures their fingernails draw upon the back, and most of all the song of their joyful laughter. Beyond sex and laughter, I want to walk. I love to walk. There is a good chance that I am one of the few people that you know that has literally worn the soles off of boots. The desire to be as I am: strong but shiftless, dedicated to idleness and irresponsibility, struggling to struggle.
Josh, more than anything I am doing battle and I am doing it too often. I started this unsure where to go and now I hope this reads not as a message of despair but instead a somewhat discursive paean to confusion and weariness. It occurs to me that "they" are not the problem, but indeed, I am. Josh, I'm afraid the squares, the petty shitheels, and those molochs preaching comfort through acquisition will assimilate me and I will go so quietly into that good night. Oh I fear envelopment in that personality decaying vapid sticky sweet high fructose corn syrup sentimentality that passes for integrity and goodness. If "they" don't, perhaps the contradictions and absurdity will finally corrode my vestigial sanity and I will find comfort in discourse with pigeons and palm trees. Maybe that is just the confusion speaking. I don't know that I've ever been "right" but I have begun to wonder if I begun to make the transition to undeniably "wrong."
Why am I addressing this to you, Josh?
Josh, do I have you confused with a metaphysically soothing version of Santa Claus? A slavic Tooth Fairy come to take away this rotten tooth o' mine?
My favorite line from that delightful little collection, "Le Mythe de Sisyphe" has always been, "Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined." How true it has been for me. But Josh, I think you're above this pseudo-intellectual lamentation, this all too myopic thinking. I think you might actually have answers.