Who Cares A Lot?
This evening I read the diary of a fellow dazzler, who doesn't seem to know it, someone who communed with another with a seriously nasty of pretension - I imagine his teeth all rotten and bloody, and every time he'd talk it'd spray and stick to your glasses and would each splash would surprise you so much with it's offensiveness that by the time you find your rage, it's too late - and it seemed that there was a thin line because recognising the rantings of an idiot and someone blessed with imagination.
There is a girl who is a bit of a conundrum to my youthful mind. I've tried discussing this enigma to my muse, but it serves only to upset her, and I suppose it's my own stupid fault for being surprised. Like Narcissis, when one looks in a pool of water, one never sees himself, but someone else, and it's this misjudgment of perception which is getting my arse thoroughly kicked at present. The bugger of it is that unlike Narcissis, when I look into the pool of water, I know that it is myself, but still treat this reflection as if it were someone else. And, with the advent of Quantum Thinking, when I look into the pool, I see a myriad of possibilities - some more prominent than the rest. One of these is personified by a this damned girl, who seems like a bunch of anxities, thrown in a sack, anxities which propell the Ship, like Odysseus' Windbags. Windbag: quite the apropo metaphor, eh?
Well, anyway. The muse, of course, sees a different reflection, and she's probably a better judge - seeing not necessarily what she wants to see, but what peers out at her. And when she looks at this Other, Experience and Wisdom accumulated through Time's battery enhances the recall time of past circumstances, scenario's, archetypes... "ah, yes, I recognise this right away"... while I'm still trying to figure out what it all means. I can't accept any definition in the form of Information, can I? Where's the learning in that? I've got to find out for myself, encode it into my own language...
When I see this Girl, I am reminded of the times in which I claimed my destiny was Greatness; the frustrations to be had at desks staring at blank peices of paper cursing pens which didn't write themselves; wading through the quicksand of a greyscale world, full of people who represented the Personality of the world but who only seemed to understand about half of it... feeling isolated and alone but knowing full well what your destiny is, but having no idea how to get there except by throwing yourself headfirst through brick walls, being stubborn, knowing that you have more point and purpose than those who condemn you because of your accessibility. But I couldn't do it alone. Through sheer luck, I met people who were curious enough to gently combat my confusions, frustrations, angst, and turn them into a measure of productivity, gracefully catch me by the arm and spin me round on my heels again. And then one day I meet this Girl and she's seems fairly swell and she says I Want To Be A Writer! loud enough and passionatly enough and intelligently enough that I believe her, and eventually, am seduced by this. A fellow writer! I must claim this person! I cry, wringing my hands like a magician preparing to feast on a juicy new soul, heh heh... surprisingly enough it isn't particularly sexual, although I am a Young Male of Rutting Age and she's female and particularly experienced - I'm turned on more by the fact that this is a young mind, on the verge of something, like I was, right at the moulding temperature... well, she says she wants to be a writer, she's unhappy with cookie-cutter-culture, and while she's not exactly *great* she's not your regular fucking kOrNpHrEaK69 from OD... and hell! She admires me! How great it would be to be able to share writerly inspiration, to be able to run downstairs at two am and shake someone awake and say "read this read this, oh my god i've reached fucking satori!" and it's for art, I don't mind being woken up for that - she'd leap out of bed and read it and say "Bartleby, you're a fucking legend!" and I'd grin and run upstairs again and she'd be up all night, unable to get to sleep but dreaming anyway, and the next morning she'd walk in with a draft of something to which I'd frown hugely and thoughtfully, scratch my goatee and say "I don't think this character, Spinach, is particulary *believable*..." and do some inkscratching and editing which would end up inspiring me somehow and I'd go back to my computer screen and type endlessly away before she'd interrupt me, begging to read it, and the cycle would continue - it's just unfortuneate in this scenario that she's a *she* - I wouldn't care if she were a He, no difference would be made - as long as it were *someone with artistic passion* - and not in that namby pamby pretentious way, which crosses out 99% of the artistic community... what I'm describing here is obviously the Substitute; it should've been the Muse, always should've been, but's she's locked up in an inaccessible tower and I've got to shout at her from the other side of the moat - and she can't let her hair down, it doesn't reach - that'll take a couple of years yet, and I'm impatient - and it can't just be about her, I've got to meet others to play with, although she is my Choice and knows it; that even though I may go off and have various adventures and intimacies with others, she's the other Magnet, the pin, the Whatever: the First Question: One day, I'll walk outside, and the planet has inexplicably split in two: "Disaster, Disaster, Millions die, Communication severed, Things Taken for Granted Loss Irrevocably, Woe Mayhem Woe". Oh, I reply, is Delia allright? Or, more recently, "That film you wanted to see is on Saturday" "Alas! It shall have to be waived: I cannot forfeit my lady, nor would I want to!"
The Conundrum is, essentially, a bit of a diaspora from Then and Now. Wisdom, a second skin layer which builds upon the skin like a shield as one moves through Life, has mysteriously altered over the years, and now I'm not so sure of the worthiness of this candidate. Her desire is still true; at least, this is what her words say, but something makes me uneasy... she condemns the life she embraces... renounces the passion in which she indulges... and I wonder if this is just a Youthful Error. I've been known to make these myself at times, and am making them right now. While I'm fed up with the conversational despair of my colleagues, do I leave them for more tropickal waters? Do I not indulge in similar orgies of Stupidity Gathering and Renouncing? Am I that desperate for kinship? Probably. "Babylon, the Scarlet Whore/I'll infiltrate your gratitude..." She fucks like a dog and a tennis ball... she drinks like an ungainly white girl to fall into the hulking, beatlebrowed desires of skinny grunting white boys with arses halfway round their knees - no doubt to make room for the leap of escape their atrophied brains would make away from the heady mix of alcohol and rap music and marijuana and being forced to conjur up images of naked girl after naked goddamn girl... "tits! cunt! arse! the same formula, over and over again, doesn't it *tire* you, goddamnit!" it screams out into the last little shred of subconciousness they have left... they imagine their Mothers, turn green, put themselves away and throw the magazine over the couch... before it packs up it's nerve endings and makes a bid for freedom out the backdoor... *and she complains about it*. Is it because she is too young to see other possibilities, or too unimaginative? I don't know. The kicker is probably "Can I change her?" And that's what I want to know, that's what I want the Muse to tell me because she's the wisest person I know. Well, I guess I've got her answer. Her question is probably "Why does he care?" and that I'm not too sure about. Empathy, I think. Wanting to put back what has been given to me. Is it up to me? Oh, probably not. As I say, I am confused. This is somebody I wish to help, and do all the ley lines point to unhappy conclusions? I don't know. I just don't know. What I do know is that this is causing the Muse some pain, and therefore, must be crushed! Righteously! Precious as the Earth and just as Pantheistic, it is something to be nurtured, and something important above All Other Things. If only the Muse was manifest; personified; in my pants - not locked up in that dark and unscalable tower all the way over There.
There is a girl who is a bit of a conundrum to my youthful mind. I've tried discussing this enigma to my muse, but it serves only to upset her, and I suppose it's my own stupid fault for being surprised. Like Narcissis, when one looks in a pool of water, one never sees himself, but someone else, and it's this misjudgment of perception which is getting my arse thoroughly kicked at present. The bugger of it is that unlike Narcissis, when I look into the pool of water, I know that it is myself, but still treat this reflection as if it were someone else. And, with the advent of Quantum Thinking, when I look into the pool, I see a myriad of possibilities - some more prominent than the rest. One of these is personified by a this damned girl, who seems like a bunch of anxities, thrown in a sack, anxities which propell the Ship, like Odysseus' Windbags. Windbag: quite the apropo metaphor, eh?
Well, anyway. The muse, of course, sees a different reflection, and she's probably a better judge - seeing not necessarily what she wants to see, but what peers out at her. And when she looks at this Other, Experience and Wisdom accumulated through Time's battery enhances the recall time of past circumstances, scenario's, archetypes... "ah, yes, I recognise this right away"... while I'm still trying to figure out what it all means. I can't accept any definition in the form of Information, can I? Where's the learning in that? I've got to find out for myself, encode it into my own language...
When I see this Girl, I am reminded of the times in which I claimed my destiny was Greatness; the frustrations to be had at desks staring at blank peices of paper cursing pens which didn't write themselves; wading through the quicksand of a greyscale world, full of people who represented the Personality of the world but who only seemed to understand about half of it... feeling isolated and alone but knowing full well what your destiny is, but having no idea how to get there except by throwing yourself headfirst through brick walls, being stubborn, knowing that you have more point and purpose than those who condemn you because of your accessibility. But I couldn't do it alone. Through sheer luck, I met people who were curious enough to gently combat my confusions, frustrations, angst, and turn them into a measure of productivity, gracefully catch me by the arm and spin me round on my heels again. And then one day I meet this Girl and she's seems fairly swell and she says I Want To Be A Writer! loud enough and passionatly enough and intelligently enough that I believe her, and eventually, am seduced by this. A fellow writer! I must claim this person! I cry, wringing my hands like a magician preparing to feast on a juicy new soul, heh heh... surprisingly enough it isn't particularly sexual, although I am a Young Male of Rutting Age and she's female and particularly experienced - I'm turned on more by the fact that this is a young mind, on the verge of something, like I was, right at the moulding temperature... well, she says she wants to be a writer, she's unhappy with cookie-cutter-culture, and while she's not exactly *great* she's not your regular fucking kOrNpHrEaK69 from OD... and hell! She admires me! How great it would be to be able to share writerly inspiration, to be able to run downstairs at two am and shake someone awake and say "read this read this, oh my god i've reached fucking satori!" and it's for art, I don't mind being woken up for that - she'd leap out of bed and read it and say "Bartleby, you're a fucking legend!" and I'd grin and run upstairs again and she'd be up all night, unable to get to sleep but dreaming anyway, and the next morning she'd walk in with a draft of something to which I'd frown hugely and thoughtfully, scratch my goatee and say "I don't think this character, Spinach, is particulary *believable*..." and do some inkscratching and editing which would end up inspiring me somehow and I'd go back to my computer screen and type endlessly away before she'd interrupt me, begging to read it, and the cycle would continue - it's just unfortuneate in this scenario that she's a *she* - I wouldn't care if she were a He, no difference would be made - as long as it were *someone with artistic passion* - and not in that namby pamby pretentious way, which crosses out 99% of the artistic community... what I'm describing here is obviously the Substitute; it should've been the Muse, always should've been, but's she's locked up in an inaccessible tower and I've got to shout at her from the other side of the moat - and she can't let her hair down, it doesn't reach - that'll take a couple of years yet, and I'm impatient - and it can't just be about her, I've got to meet others to play with, although she is my Choice and knows it; that even though I may go off and have various adventures and intimacies with others, she's the other Magnet, the pin, the Whatever: the First Question: One day, I'll walk outside, and the planet has inexplicably split in two: "Disaster, Disaster, Millions die, Communication severed, Things Taken for Granted Loss Irrevocably, Woe Mayhem Woe". Oh, I reply, is Delia allright? Or, more recently, "That film you wanted to see is on Saturday" "Alas! It shall have to be waived: I cannot forfeit my lady, nor would I want to!"
The Conundrum is, essentially, a bit of a diaspora from Then and Now. Wisdom, a second skin layer which builds upon the skin like a shield as one moves through Life, has mysteriously altered over the years, and now I'm not so sure of the worthiness of this candidate. Her desire is still true; at least, this is what her words say, but something makes me uneasy... she condemns the life she embraces... renounces the passion in which she indulges... and I wonder if this is just a Youthful Error. I've been known to make these myself at times, and am making them right now. While I'm fed up with the conversational despair of my colleagues, do I leave them for more tropickal waters? Do I not indulge in similar orgies of Stupidity Gathering and Renouncing? Am I that desperate for kinship? Probably. "Babylon, the Scarlet Whore/I'll infiltrate your gratitude..." She fucks like a dog and a tennis ball... she drinks like an ungainly white girl to fall into the hulking, beatlebrowed desires of skinny grunting white boys with arses halfway round their knees - no doubt to make room for the leap of escape their atrophied brains would make away from the heady mix of alcohol and rap music and marijuana and being forced to conjur up images of naked girl after naked goddamn girl... "tits! cunt! arse! the same formula, over and over again, doesn't it *tire* you, goddamnit!" it screams out into the last little shred of subconciousness they have left... they imagine their Mothers, turn green, put themselves away and throw the magazine over the couch... before it packs up it's nerve endings and makes a bid for freedom out the backdoor... *and she complains about it*. Is it because she is too young to see other possibilities, or too unimaginative? I don't know. The kicker is probably "Can I change her?" And that's what I want to know, that's what I want the Muse to tell me because she's the wisest person I know. Well, I guess I've got her answer. Her question is probably "Why does he care?" and that I'm not too sure about. Empathy, I think. Wanting to put back what has been given to me. Is it up to me? Oh, probably not. As I say, I am confused. This is somebody I wish to help, and do all the ley lines point to unhappy conclusions? I don't know. I just don't know. What I do know is that this is causing the Muse some pain, and therefore, must be crushed! Righteously! Precious as the Earth and just as Pantheistic, it is something to be nurtured, and something important above All Other Things. If only the Muse was manifest; personified; in my pants - not locked up in that dark and unscalable tower all the way over There.