(no subject)
Today I was meeting Wolfgang again in the evening. We had a long talk. I found a really good person in that guy, maybe we'll become friends. Some of our histories are similar, even. The being communists once, mental illness, having made mistakes. He's been a bit wiser than me. He also has less pride, it seems. I hope I'll meet him again.
Some other stuff. You won't find it interesting.
Right now I'm reading the "Chymian marrieg of Christian Rosenkreutz", one of the oldest rosicrucian writings. I start to feel very attracted to that order, maybe I'll join them. I know there are many rosicrucian groups, and not all of them would be the right place for me, but if I find a proper group I'll likely try myself with them. When I read that writing .. it's wonderful. So humorous and yet never without solidity. Additionally, the rosicrucians are a christian order. They do embrace other religions, but they recognize Jesus as God, and as the most important of all spiritual beings. The writing I'm reading is so lovely. The imagery is so strong, and I love the hero of the writing.
I was thinking about "IM" again this morning, the woman most of my older writings had been dedicated to more or less, and with whom I have "parted" some weeks ago. I mean, I can't really say we parted. She had gone away from me such a long time ago. Back then, when she left, there was an emptiness in me. Somehow, in the madness of mine back then, I didn't want to deal with that emptiness, instead I immediately filled it with mad assumptions. I dissipated myself in wishful thinking, hoping, mad attempts to reach her, so much stuff. I think sometimes she tried to reach me too, but when that was there I either didn't notice it or was too mad to respond in real. One of the things I try to keep in mind is that IM has a tough history, in one of her video poems she blames her mom for having made a monster out of her. She also says on her page that she has tons of mental issues .. except, ironically, schizophrenia. Sometimes I wish she would have schizo. Maybe we could relate better to each other. I once thought we had much in common, somehow, in the self. Maybe there wasn't that much at all. We never saw each other. We live very different lives. Our images of life are different. And the way we got together all these years ago wasn't a good way to bridge our differences. She had sent me that long email. I remember sitting in my flat at the laptop Jens had borrowed me and writing a sane reply and an insane one. If I had sent the sane one, maybe I'd still be a student and me and IM would just have exchanged a few letters. Maybe some sort of friendship. Maybe some sort of love .. not romantic love, but just feeling close in a way. This would have been so much better than all this weird stuff that at least I got instead. IM never replies to my emails anymore. I didn't get obsessive in the last months again and didn't bombard her with mails. Just a few over the year, maybe 10 altogether. Yet no answer to any of them.
I have asked myself very often why I kept doing this. Why did I continue thinking of this girl? Why did I make this so important to me? Why did I not see that this was all fruitless? That whatever there had been between me and IM, was long dead? One answer is the voices, especially during the time of my episodes. They were NOT the voices of other people, they were in my head, some sort of thoughts that had become loud, that became forceful. The problem was that I could never shake the usual immediate belief that these voices came from other people. Sometimes it even gave me a sort of relief to think so. At least that way I didn't have to see I was mad, mad and unable to get sane again. Better believing in a conspiracy that makes you mad, a conspiracy you may understand some day, than to think one has become ... one of those, you know, the obsessed ones, the creepy ones. Madness isn't a broken leg. If you know you're mad and think you can never get sane again, this is desperation. And, know what? IM on her page says that she doesn't care about people's desperation. Most likely I had become a nuisance. Some women enjoy insane people as a distraction, but once they get reminded that there is someone suffering in all his madness, then they loose interest. The negro has done his job of distraction, the negro can go.
One of the thoughts I sometimes had was that the soul of a human isn't his soul, that I am not my soul. That, in fact, what we know as us is just like a horse for the soul. What we labour for, the soul earns. We are meant to suffer, it doesn't bother God .. the soul is meant for happiness and to join God in eternal bliss. I would go to hell, my soul would go to heaven.
Such thoughts are depressing. I'm trying hard to overcome them. I have met a couple of young people in religiously induced fears. Many of them, mostly the boys, tried to counter this by thinking of themselves as a fallen angel. They write poetry on how the world is hell. They try to distract themselves, often with drugs, or with ventures into erotics. I never had much sympathy for this. Mostly because I tried to imagine this for myself, and found it ridiculous to even try. Pathetic. My God died a cruel death, just to let us know that he did it for us. And I should be so pathetic to put on a clowns mask and cry black tears of sadness because I'm not given a candy life. I never honestly blamed God for my schizophrenia, although sometimes I think the schizophrenia has been the result of an evil spirit which God sent to me to punish me for my arrogance and pride. My mother doesn't blame God for her cancer. The problem of evil only concerns me as far as it concerns other people's suffering, kids dying, people having to live in abhorrent conditions. I was always one of those which are quick to forgive. At least that's what I always tried and mostly succeeded in. Actually it was usually that I just ignored my anger or whatever it was that in other people prevents them from forgiving others. One of the things I had to learn was not to forgive so easily anymore. And, most of all, not to expect something in return for my forgiveness, if I gave it easily. People are a tricky bunch. Some want to be met with force ... as long as you don't do that they don't respect you. Just like some women who prefer quick rough sex over long loving sex. This may be contrary to popular oppinion, but women aren't quite as cuddly as they are depictured in movies. There is a lot of psychology involved in handling a woman, most of them anyway.
I have a young malaysian girlfriend, I mean female friend. She is very realistic. Sometimes I am close to joining her in her oppinion that love doesn't exist, or that, at the very least, it is a very risky investment. If she had been me, she would have thought twice before opening up to IM the way I did in reality. I found love in christianity. Not always, and not with anyone, not with any christian, but sometimes. Though, when I think about it, I could call these incidents also moments of truth, moments of honesty, moments of sympathy, care, joy, empathy. But love? What is love? Is it *only* feeling butterflies in the stomach like I did with IM? Is it the warmth of heart that sometimes, oh so rarely, crops up in you and signifies a mature nonsexual caring loving? I really don't quite know anymore. Is love the feeling, or is the feeling merely a symptom of love, loving being something else entirely, something we cannot ever hope to comprehend? When Christ hung on the cross, would he say I don't feel love anymore because of the pain, I go now, I don't know what I talked about, goodbye earthlings?
I guess instead of seeking love I would be wiser to lead myself by knowing the difference between what is shameful and what is not, what is ridiculous and what is not, what is irrational and what is not. One of the things I wonder about sometimes is that I really dislike the english word, "love". I much prefer the german word, "Liebe". Just the way it is spoken. Maybe it has to do with my memories. I still see Monique in that night all these years ago, telling me what she understood as "Liebe", and pronouncing each word carefully and tenderly, with a voice like thick wine, not rough, but not angelic either, red, but not glossy. About three or four years ago I asked myself if I should seek Monique again. Just see what she's doing, tell her about my life, simply ask her for help. I wouldn't ask for her love again. Just that I would need her to think all of this through with me, so that I may understand it at last and most importantly overcome it. I've tried to talk about this with other people. Yet when it comes down to it, most couldn't help but to admit they couldn't understand. My friend Jens tried to help me a bit when it all started in 2000/2001, sent me a song from Die Fantastischen Vier, but I was too mad back then and so bent on following what I saw as God back then. Ironically, what I had back then, at least since about january 2001, was a kind of sick joy. I was exuberant. I thought Christ would come soon, big miracles would happen, we'd all be saved, life would be wonderful for anyone. I have a hard time making sense of the self I had back then. December 2000 had been pretty much a month of pain and hurt. This fearing that IM or whomever I thought I'd love there at thecry.com had killed herself, or was thinking to do so. Not fearing as in worrying, fearing as in experiencing it. I couldn't rationalize away the fear, it was so strong and compulsive that I didn't even try.
Sometimes I like to think IM wrote about it, in an article of hers, "Limosna". She describes a person there, in a cage. She smells urine and shit. She tried to help, but no way. Was that really me? Was all I felt, the deep things, all nothing? Sure I was immature. Sure I needed correction. Sure I was mad. But was I ... that worthless? Not valuable enough for an internet acquaintance, I guess.
Sometime ago, on a forum, someone told me that your best friends in life are your own two legs. This may not be entirely true, for some people it is possible to find friendships that have more love than romances.
Anyway, I feel like I am whining now. I feel like this weird psycho self in me crops up again, the childguy that sits in the dark and still begs IM to pay attention, to do something about it. I know I must get away from this. It feels too ridiculous, it hurts to think of it, and it hurts even more to think that this guy is really me. Should I see this guy as me? Just to start where I had left? To connect myself again, to myself? Was the Daniel I lived otherwise, the Daniel I acted, an ideal Daniel, a lie?
One of the things why I gave up on that stuff between IM and me was because I finally saw that I simply didn't want her in my life anymore. I still want to understand what is going on, but for my own benefit. I want to know what has to go, so that I can have a good relationship with someone else, someone of my own choosing. Maybe the silence between me and IM .. was the best I could hope for. That the breakup was as definite as it had been. Fuck the dreams. Fuck seeing her in the shower with a knife. Fuck seeing her smile inwardly when she pours down a drink after tongue kissing some guy in the dark and writhing like a snake. What's in it for me? Has some of the writers of the past written about these things? I never recall a writing about this situation.
In a way, the advice of my family and friends to let go seems pretty good now. It's impossible to reach something this way. To get somewhere. I used to think the advice was empty. I rather sat down and continued in my sadness and madness. Instead, I should have listened to them and put all of this behind me much earlier. And one thing I know, if I would have had clarity earlier I would have done so. No one demanded this suffering from me. God himself told me one night, "You shall not suffer". He also said "Trust in the devil. He will bring her down." I mean, wasn't I mad? Why believing that I as a theist should count on an atheist for understanding, care, some sort of loyalty? There is so much hate between theists and atheists.
This hate and conflict was one of the reasons why back then I wanted to go a third path. A path of my own. Only .. we all go a path of our own. We have to. We may choose this religion or that philosophy, but we end up with ourselves, at least most of the time.
I wrote a poem once at thecry, about having cried about this all. She wrote me back and told me about hating to loose me in her memory. I mean, why didn't I see? There was never some care from her when I suffered. Only .. look what happens, again you loose your strength and become unmemorable. That's what pursuing atheism with zeal, nietzscheanian atheism for that matter, can make out of a person.
So, instead of ever going back to that girl, I need to develop the friendships to the people I know, to those that give me their respect and friendliness before I even have to plead for it. Who love to spend time with me. Who inspire me to make better art than I ever did when I was so obsessed with IM.
I spoke with my austrian friend Manuela about one of the guys that had been present at thecry back then. A strange guy with the nick Denso. Manuela had quarrelled with that guy for quite a while, but she always liked him for some reason. Eventually she made a site about Denso. Showed him how much she thought about him. After that, she said, anything changed. She became accepted, and he and her became buddies. I have thought about making such a site for IM, sort of showing myself that what I felt was real. I've seen so many things. The golden cross, and her cap hanging on it. The woman I saw that snuffs cocaine, in haste, wanting to keep up with something.
I'm loosing touch now. All of this is .. depressing, and it makes me nervous. Maybe I am best adviced sort of "burying" all this. Seeking out Monique would be a good idea. I remember being in bed with her, and listening to her worries. One of them had been, to become forgotten by anyone.
Some other stuff. You won't find it interesting.
Right now I'm reading the "Chymian marrieg of Christian Rosenkreutz", one of the oldest rosicrucian writings. I start to feel very attracted to that order, maybe I'll join them. I know there are many rosicrucian groups, and not all of them would be the right place for me, but if I find a proper group I'll likely try myself with them. When I read that writing .. it's wonderful. So humorous and yet never without solidity. Additionally, the rosicrucians are a christian order. They do embrace other religions, but they recognize Jesus as God, and as the most important of all spiritual beings. The writing I'm reading is so lovely. The imagery is so strong, and I love the hero of the writing.
I was thinking about "IM" again this morning, the woman most of my older writings had been dedicated to more or less, and with whom I have "parted" some weeks ago. I mean, I can't really say we parted. She had gone away from me such a long time ago. Back then, when she left, there was an emptiness in me. Somehow, in the madness of mine back then, I didn't want to deal with that emptiness, instead I immediately filled it with mad assumptions. I dissipated myself in wishful thinking, hoping, mad attempts to reach her, so much stuff. I think sometimes she tried to reach me too, but when that was there I either didn't notice it or was too mad to respond in real. One of the things I try to keep in mind is that IM has a tough history, in one of her video poems she blames her mom for having made a monster out of her. She also says on her page that she has tons of mental issues .. except, ironically, schizophrenia. Sometimes I wish she would have schizo. Maybe we could relate better to each other. I once thought we had much in common, somehow, in the self. Maybe there wasn't that much at all. We never saw each other. We live very different lives. Our images of life are different. And the way we got together all these years ago wasn't a good way to bridge our differences. She had sent me that long email. I remember sitting in my flat at the laptop Jens had borrowed me and writing a sane reply and an insane one. If I had sent the sane one, maybe I'd still be a student and me and IM would just have exchanged a few letters. Maybe some sort of friendship. Maybe some sort of love .. not romantic love, but just feeling close in a way. This would have been so much better than all this weird stuff that at least I got instead. IM never replies to my emails anymore. I didn't get obsessive in the last months again and didn't bombard her with mails. Just a few over the year, maybe 10 altogether. Yet no answer to any of them.
I have asked myself very often why I kept doing this. Why did I continue thinking of this girl? Why did I make this so important to me? Why did I not see that this was all fruitless? That whatever there had been between me and IM, was long dead? One answer is the voices, especially during the time of my episodes. They were NOT the voices of other people, they were in my head, some sort of thoughts that had become loud, that became forceful. The problem was that I could never shake the usual immediate belief that these voices came from other people. Sometimes it even gave me a sort of relief to think so. At least that way I didn't have to see I was mad, mad and unable to get sane again. Better believing in a conspiracy that makes you mad, a conspiracy you may understand some day, than to think one has become ... one of those, you know, the obsessed ones, the creepy ones. Madness isn't a broken leg. If you know you're mad and think you can never get sane again, this is desperation. And, know what? IM on her page says that she doesn't care about people's desperation. Most likely I had become a nuisance. Some women enjoy insane people as a distraction, but once they get reminded that there is someone suffering in all his madness, then they loose interest. The negro has done his job of distraction, the negro can go.
One of the thoughts I sometimes had was that the soul of a human isn't his soul, that I am not my soul. That, in fact, what we know as us is just like a horse for the soul. What we labour for, the soul earns. We are meant to suffer, it doesn't bother God .. the soul is meant for happiness and to join God in eternal bliss. I would go to hell, my soul would go to heaven.
Such thoughts are depressing. I'm trying hard to overcome them. I have met a couple of young people in religiously induced fears. Many of them, mostly the boys, tried to counter this by thinking of themselves as a fallen angel. They write poetry on how the world is hell. They try to distract themselves, often with drugs, or with ventures into erotics. I never had much sympathy for this. Mostly because I tried to imagine this for myself, and found it ridiculous to even try. Pathetic. My God died a cruel death, just to let us know that he did it for us. And I should be so pathetic to put on a clowns mask and cry black tears of sadness because I'm not given a candy life. I never honestly blamed God for my schizophrenia, although sometimes I think the schizophrenia has been the result of an evil spirit which God sent to me to punish me for my arrogance and pride. My mother doesn't blame God for her cancer. The problem of evil only concerns me as far as it concerns other people's suffering, kids dying, people having to live in abhorrent conditions. I was always one of those which are quick to forgive. At least that's what I always tried and mostly succeeded in. Actually it was usually that I just ignored my anger or whatever it was that in other people prevents them from forgiving others. One of the things I had to learn was not to forgive so easily anymore. And, most of all, not to expect something in return for my forgiveness, if I gave it easily. People are a tricky bunch. Some want to be met with force ... as long as you don't do that they don't respect you. Just like some women who prefer quick rough sex over long loving sex. This may be contrary to popular oppinion, but women aren't quite as cuddly as they are depictured in movies. There is a lot of psychology involved in handling a woman, most of them anyway.
I have a young malaysian girlfriend, I mean female friend. She is very realistic. Sometimes I am close to joining her in her oppinion that love doesn't exist, or that, at the very least, it is a very risky investment. If she had been me, she would have thought twice before opening up to IM the way I did in reality. I found love in christianity. Not always, and not with anyone, not with any christian, but sometimes. Though, when I think about it, I could call these incidents also moments of truth, moments of honesty, moments of sympathy, care, joy, empathy. But love? What is love? Is it *only* feeling butterflies in the stomach like I did with IM? Is it the warmth of heart that sometimes, oh so rarely, crops up in you and signifies a mature nonsexual caring loving? I really don't quite know anymore. Is love the feeling, or is the feeling merely a symptom of love, loving being something else entirely, something we cannot ever hope to comprehend? When Christ hung on the cross, would he say I don't feel love anymore because of the pain, I go now, I don't know what I talked about, goodbye earthlings?
I guess instead of seeking love I would be wiser to lead myself by knowing the difference between what is shameful and what is not, what is ridiculous and what is not, what is irrational and what is not. One of the things I wonder about sometimes is that I really dislike the english word, "love". I much prefer the german word, "Liebe". Just the way it is spoken. Maybe it has to do with my memories. I still see Monique in that night all these years ago, telling me what she understood as "Liebe", and pronouncing each word carefully and tenderly, with a voice like thick wine, not rough, but not angelic either, red, but not glossy. About three or four years ago I asked myself if I should seek Monique again. Just see what she's doing, tell her about my life, simply ask her for help. I wouldn't ask for her love again. Just that I would need her to think all of this through with me, so that I may understand it at last and most importantly overcome it. I've tried to talk about this with other people. Yet when it comes down to it, most couldn't help but to admit they couldn't understand. My friend Jens tried to help me a bit when it all started in 2000/2001, sent me a song from Die Fantastischen Vier, but I was too mad back then and so bent on following what I saw as God back then. Ironically, what I had back then, at least since about january 2001, was a kind of sick joy. I was exuberant. I thought Christ would come soon, big miracles would happen, we'd all be saved, life would be wonderful for anyone. I have a hard time making sense of the self I had back then. December 2000 had been pretty much a month of pain and hurt. This fearing that IM or whomever I thought I'd love there at thecry.com had killed herself, or was thinking to do so. Not fearing as in worrying, fearing as in experiencing it. I couldn't rationalize away the fear, it was so strong and compulsive that I didn't even try.
Sometimes I like to think IM wrote about it, in an article of hers, "Limosna". She describes a person there, in a cage. She smells urine and shit. She tried to help, but no way. Was that really me? Was all I felt, the deep things, all nothing? Sure I was immature. Sure I needed correction. Sure I was mad. But was I ... that worthless? Not valuable enough for an internet acquaintance, I guess.
Sometime ago, on a forum, someone told me that your best friends in life are your own two legs. This may not be entirely true, for some people it is possible to find friendships that have more love than romances.
Anyway, I feel like I am whining now. I feel like this weird psycho self in me crops up again, the childguy that sits in the dark and still begs IM to pay attention, to do something about it. I know I must get away from this. It feels too ridiculous, it hurts to think of it, and it hurts even more to think that this guy is really me. Should I see this guy as me? Just to start where I had left? To connect myself again, to myself? Was the Daniel I lived otherwise, the Daniel I acted, an ideal Daniel, a lie?
One of the things why I gave up on that stuff between IM and me was because I finally saw that I simply didn't want her in my life anymore. I still want to understand what is going on, but for my own benefit. I want to know what has to go, so that I can have a good relationship with someone else, someone of my own choosing. Maybe the silence between me and IM .. was the best I could hope for. That the breakup was as definite as it had been. Fuck the dreams. Fuck seeing her in the shower with a knife. Fuck seeing her smile inwardly when she pours down a drink after tongue kissing some guy in the dark and writhing like a snake. What's in it for me? Has some of the writers of the past written about these things? I never recall a writing about this situation.
In a way, the advice of my family and friends to let go seems pretty good now. It's impossible to reach something this way. To get somewhere. I used to think the advice was empty. I rather sat down and continued in my sadness and madness. Instead, I should have listened to them and put all of this behind me much earlier. And one thing I know, if I would have had clarity earlier I would have done so. No one demanded this suffering from me. God himself told me one night, "You shall not suffer". He also said "Trust in the devil. He will bring her down." I mean, wasn't I mad? Why believing that I as a theist should count on an atheist for understanding, care, some sort of loyalty? There is so much hate between theists and atheists.
This hate and conflict was one of the reasons why back then I wanted to go a third path. A path of my own. Only .. we all go a path of our own. We have to. We may choose this religion or that philosophy, but we end up with ourselves, at least most of the time.
I wrote a poem once at thecry, about having cried about this all. She wrote me back and told me about hating to loose me in her memory. I mean, why didn't I see? There was never some care from her when I suffered. Only .. look what happens, again you loose your strength and become unmemorable. That's what pursuing atheism with zeal, nietzscheanian atheism for that matter, can make out of a person.
So, instead of ever going back to that girl, I need to develop the friendships to the people I know, to those that give me their respect and friendliness before I even have to plead for it. Who love to spend time with me. Who inspire me to make better art than I ever did when I was so obsessed with IM.
I spoke with my austrian friend Manuela about one of the guys that had been present at thecry back then. A strange guy with the nick Denso. Manuela had quarrelled with that guy for quite a while, but she always liked him for some reason. Eventually she made a site about Denso. Showed him how much she thought about him. After that, she said, anything changed. She became accepted, and he and her became buddies. I have thought about making such a site for IM, sort of showing myself that what I felt was real. I've seen so many things. The golden cross, and her cap hanging on it. The woman I saw that snuffs cocaine, in haste, wanting to keep up with something.
I'm loosing touch now. All of this is .. depressing, and it makes me nervous. Maybe I am best adviced sort of "burying" all this. Seeking out Monique would be a good idea. I remember being in bed with her, and listening to her worries. One of them had been, to become forgotten by anyone.