Désespoir
Write.... and a post will appear. I have so much I want to say, but no will to do so.
I want to talk about death, but that seed is still germinating. Perhaps in a later post. Likewise for work and calling.
I found myself at threshold of thirty today. On the steps of its front porch. Shit, I am getting old... uglier every day to boot. More cynical, more senile... more cenyle.
That which creeps along, creeps along.
I am leading myself into a despair... despair being a sublime state without hope... without hope, the road may clear. And in that, there is still hope, so I am not quite at despair yet, yet, yet. There is nothing until I die that way... but for something... that is still a hope. There can be nothing. Meh, it is a tricky circumstance.
Looking in the mirror; my muttonchops have now reached "full-fledged" status. I look like a lynx, or a wolf. Snaggle-toothed and bedraggled. Warwroughtten... tempered, wrought, rotten from war. So many wars, so much constancy in this. So few allies, so few to fight besides, losing faith in ideals. Faith lost, so long ago.
My oneiric wanderings... how long until that consumes me? Oneironaut. That realm... it too is its own odyssey, oddyssey... odd, I see. I find it hard to wake up. Wage war, wage war... so many subtle little fatalities, like butterflies falling, flitting, landing for the last time.
I have plans, I have action in mind. In mind. Poor Narcissus, he got such a bad wrap. So misunderstood, so badly placed in the devouring, consuming, labelling annals of psychology. Don't they know, is it not understood: Narcissus at no point ever fell in love with himself, he was not in love with himself, he did not despair for himself. Not himself... but his image. Narcissus stares into the pond after trying to capture his love and cries out:
""You trees," says he, "and thou surrounding grove,
Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lye
A youth so tortur'd, so perplex'd as I?
I, who before me see the charming fair,
Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there:
In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost:
And yet no bulwark'd town, nor distant coast,
Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between.
A shallow water hinders my embrace;
And yet the lovely mimick wears a face
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join
My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint,
Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
My charms an easy conquest have obtain'd
O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdain'd.
But why should I despair? I'm sure he burns
With equal flames, and languishes by turns.
When-e'er I stoop, he offers at a kiss,
And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his.
His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps,
He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps.
When e'er I speak, his moving lips appear
To utter something, which I cannot hear. "
-Ovid, Metamorphoses book III
Hmmmm, bad translation, though. I prefer Charles Boer.
Psychology... "words of the soul". Harumph, what a misnomer.
Actions in mind... yes, I have actions in mind. I have images for the future. I am even falling in love with them. But part of me is doubting, I am finding doubt, I am fearing: that tremendous gulf between thinking and doing.
How to gather the right inertia? How to kill the wrong one? What part of me must die with it? Narcissus may have an answer, he is well experienced in these matters.
Will I fantasize and speak about my future plans or will I actually do them? Now that doors are opening, now that there may just be a way to realize... oh but it is so frightening. But of course it is, it implies death. It implies a time in the underworld of despair.
To move is to kill. To act is to kill myself.
Speaking of allies in war... I spoke to Greta the other day for an extended period... thanks to a friend's magical cell phone. Yeah, this cell phone is like an RPG item. Seriously. One may talk and talk and talk and the bill goes to a mysterious somewhere, a mysterious somewhere that never fails to pay that cell's bill, though it has been active for more than eight months and has made calls to all over the globe... and when that friend calls the phone company to inquire about his status, they assure him that his account has been closed for eight months. So yes, happy-magical cell phone. My friend has christened it "El Immortal". (I am hoping that you non hispanophones need not a translation).
So yes, I talked to Greta for almost an hour and a part of me felt so refreshed. My Ally. My Dear. My Love. I am glad I have ample pictures of her and our hijinks. Lest people begin to believe that she is my imaginary friend. Ahhh, but in a sense she is my imagniary friend, she holds a piece of my soul in her hands... my imagination is ever with her.
I spent New Years with another dear friend of mine from a far away past. Carla. Known her for fifteen years. There were many, many years where we lost contact. Alas, she too holds a piece of my soul. 'Twas her husband that owns "El Immortal".
Ummm, yeah, sooooo, that's the post. Just a pointless rant, as always.
.
.
I want to talk about death, but that seed is still germinating. Perhaps in a later post. Likewise for work and calling.
I found myself at threshold of thirty today. On the steps of its front porch. Shit, I am getting old... uglier every day to boot. More cynical, more senile... more cenyle.
That which creeps along, creeps along.
I am leading myself into a despair... despair being a sublime state without hope... without hope, the road may clear. And in that, there is still hope, so I am not quite at despair yet, yet, yet. There is nothing until I die that way... but for something... that is still a hope. There can be nothing. Meh, it is a tricky circumstance.
Looking in the mirror; my muttonchops have now reached "full-fledged" status. I look like a lynx, or a wolf. Snaggle-toothed and bedraggled. Warwroughtten... tempered, wrought, rotten from war. So many wars, so much constancy in this. So few allies, so few to fight besides, losing faith in ideals. Faith lost, so long ago.
My oneiric wanderings... how long until that consumes me? Oneironaut. That realm... it too is its own odyssey, oddyssey... odd, I see. I find it hard to wake up. Wage war, wage war... so many subtle little fatalities, like butterflies falling, flitting, landing for the last time.
I have plans, I have action in mind. In mind. Poor Narcissus, he got such a bad wrap. So misunderstood, so badly placed in the devouring, consuming, labelling annals of psychology. Don't they know, is it not understood: Narcissus at no point ever fell in love with himself, he was not in love with himself, he did not despair for himself. Not himself... but his image. Narcissus stares into the pond after trying to capture his love and cries out:
""You trees," says he, "and thou surrounding grove,
Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lye
A youth so tortur'd, so perplex'd as I?
I, who before me see the charming fair,
Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there:
In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost:
And yet no bulwark'd town, nor distant coast,
Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between.
A shallow water hinders my embrace;
And yet the lovely mimick wears a face
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join
My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint,
Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
My charms an easy conquest have obtain'd
O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdain'd.
But why should I despair? I'm sure he burns
With equal flames, and languishes by turns.
When-e'er I stoop, he offers at a kiss,
And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his.
His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps,
He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps.
When e'er I speak, his moving lips appear
To utter something, which I cannot hear. "
-Ovid, Metamorphoses book III
Hmmmm, bad translation, though. I prefer Charles Boer.
Psychology... "words of the soul". Harumph, what a misnomer.
Actions in mind... yes, I have actions in mind. I have images for the future. I am even falling in love with them. But part of me is doubting, I am finding doubt, I am fearing: that tremendous gulf between thinking and doing.
How to gather the right inertia? How to kill the wrong one? What part of me must die with it? Narcissus may have an answer, he is well experienced in these matters.
Will I fantasize and speak about my future plans or will I actually do them? Now that doors are opening, now that there may just be a way to realize... oh but it is so frightening. But of course it is, it implies death. It implies a time in the underworld of despair.
To move is to kill. To act is to kill myself.
Speaking of allies in war... I spoke to Greta the other day for an extended period... thanks to a friend's magical cell phone. Yeah, this cell phone is like an RPG item. Seriously. One may talk and talk and talk and the bill goes to a mysterious somewhere, a mysterious somewhere that never fails to pay that cell's bill, though it has been active for more than eight months and has made calls to all over the globe... and when that friend calls the phone company to inquire about his status, they assure him that his account has been closed for eight months. So yes, happy-magical cell phone. My friend has christened it "El Immortal". (I am hoping that you non hispanophones need not a translation).
So yes, I talked to Greta for almost an hour and a part of me felt so refreshed. My Ally. My Dear. My Love. I am glad I have ample pictures of her and our hijinks. Lest people begin to believe that she is my imaginary friend. Ahhh, but in a sense she is my imagniary friend, she holds a piece of my soul in her hands... my imagination is ever with her.
I spent New Years with another dear friend of mine from a far away past. Carla. Known her for fifteen years. There were many, many years where we lost contact. Alas, she too holds a piece of my soul. 'Twas her husband that owns "El Immortal".
Ummm, yeah, sooooo, that's the post. Just a pointless rant, as always.
.
.