[In corruptible things, fruit or men, there is a certain
sinister joy: the joy that such a fruit that lived fat and green now deflates,
too ripe in death for tasting.]
..?
1. [is the rational mind a sort of negative god where stays the
hand in the face of beauty? a thing making impossible I view in this case as
the hand staying itself, as judgments of reality might in all appearance be
something redundant. is the mind attached to this hand so vicious, as to
institute so blatant and substantial a limit, as of one denying himself the
beauty that is another face, or body, or reality?
but is there another, separate will involved? the impossible
denying entry is still able to be good will and appreciated such on the hand of
the possible. does it need a body, this will? is reality a vessel only
literally, that is, we view it as things around us that exist atop the same
earth’s crust; or is it a vessel in that it is conscious?
but then, rationality is limited to what is rational, not what
is beautiful, as in, the beautiful itself has no limitation to speak of. and
this though it is simple rules over the highest rational mind. the rational can
be beautiful, to note, however, if it conveys truth, reaches the intellect,
etc.
the beautiful exists as something fleet bc it is overpoweringly
constant. it is as much a presence and pate as anything conscious enough to
‘forbid.’ perhaps we tire of that realm as we tire of anything constant, and consciously
swim away from the drain.]
2. [There is nothing more powerful than the metaphor of The Toy.
Rilke’s puppet, or doll. We are in the grips today of an embellishing
reality, one that naturally flourishes beyond its distinct essentials. So
much the embellishment that the reality of things itself has become
indistinct from the flourish, and yet at least I myself keep the humility of
being-caught.
A certain level of artifice is in any progressive intellectual
state, that is, a state of useful thinking. In thinking anyone must throw out a
kind of notion of impending importance that is ruinous to the levity of
whatever you find.
What few realize is that this embellishing is precisely a cause
of the mechanism that perpetuates reality’s essentials. Upon the discovery of
the thing, one too must thrust, nay inject, a sense of the will-less, that on some
ethereal level humanity at large might appear as knowledgeable as the objects
of child’s play, their thoughts the much less.
This humility is the true grandiosity, yet arbitrarily used as a
platelet on which to build thinking, a false ground for discourse, especially if
the discovery is exactly the essential reality. But we can never know that.
Thus the error in thinking is too its brave symbol, as Pascal might renege to Christianity,
so the thinker reneges to limitation.
The mechanism, of course, being that all is artifice, and
meaning a meaning for the toys, not toys wishing to be men. The roads are misgivings,
partly for a sense of either/or.
People cannot look at themselves as puppets, even while
declaring this I cannot believe it.
Therefore we cannot connect to the essential reality of things,
which drives us to expand, find greatness, a scale out of tune with the great
symphony of playthings.]
3. [24 and already a shadow of his former self, young droll D.C
DeMarse climbed uphill, further on in life than he wished, in years, what a
blessing to be young and feel old, however: to have had the changing thing
happen at so impossible an age, that is, impossible to win, up against that obduration
of a changing thing, a certain bravery to it, to rage on in the face of nothing
to be angry about, the event dissolved past the last cascading spleen, and
foolishly, like a child, it is only predictable he continue on in his anger,
anger at the changing thing, or more because of it, causing more, and yet it
all stemming from that one thing disappeared, long ago dissolved, that memory,
that holyghost: yes, this change, or changing thing, what a mysterious
blessing.]
4. [It is one thing to breathe raw talent for the extent of your
life; it is one thing to start on an a priori basis as such, with all its preternatural
sense of space, organic rhythm, and crucial folly, that is, that so much is
based upon it, and which is not true about the foundation, corrupts it totally,
all that was written and thought in the realm of that functioning talent in the
meanwhile - and say, through your very folly, how you came to what first was an
immanent finesse, talent, grace, yes, would suffice.
Being wrong first and learning to do the thing right is
different from this because there was no raw talent to start. But starting with
raw talent and losing it, working towards where you had started, again, reveals
to this young loser a better understanding of why the finesse was finesse. To breathe
raw talent, of course, is to exist only in the finesse, eternally, and in this
know nothing of why - yet I would wager: if asked why, such a person would
still be able to give you an answer as good if not better, to why.]
5. [so I ask did what is permanent as to consciousness become so
by distillation or a mere need to clean up. in one case, the aim is purity. in another
case the only aim is to make room in the mind’s house for its furniture. or
maybe it is not purity but what is left, the remainder. but in both cases the
aim is aesthetic, though any remainder is bound to represent, as in any case of
simple long division, something from the start not fitted to its method of
organization or solving. I suppose there is a problem in both cases: there is a
problem to solve.
so I posit, if any of this is true, the need for order is the
presage of something conscious, borne from its reaction to clutter, chaos, et
al. morality is the psyche’s janitor - the mind’s house, that is - and is just
as permanent a desire as any more cosmic places what I have said might bring
one to.]
6. [method of philosophy whereby the flaying of my own metaphors
to their bare flaws, in revealing them, that I strongly communicate the problem
that is the topic at hand, that is, nakedness, that bareness, bare forms are
flaws, or that is where, or under where, hehe, they are. that is the skin can
be there but what is under the skin is where the flaws pulse. but where is the
problem in that concept, and why, after all, is it a problem? there can be bare
beauties withal small chests, even; I’m an ass man anyway.
I guess you can begin where you begin and everything upon going
forth has to fall into that. but where you begin can be from anywhere; but it must
be from. you can start something in medias res sure but that is the place it is
from, moreover not a bit of the drama nor is a motive left uninformed. chaos
can represent chaos and you can go wherever you decide but a theme is a theme
because it lingers. I began this draft as something a little different than it
turned out to be, after all.]
7. [not only is the regular seen wrongly as lazy and
close-minded, since after all it is the more consistently observed and so, more
easily absorbed, more even than the news of a given day, over the day; but the
irregular is not even hard to find, there is a place everyone knows to go to
find the arbitrary, the odd, the quirky; there is as known and clearly accessed
a place for the inaccessible as our daily truths. the difference: the inaccessible
just wears the mask of being hard to find. some meme probably already has
explained the latest meta-irony, telling us how to feel about something like
“Faith Hilling” - in other words the function of the irregular is regular, and
the regular is belonging to nobody, is just some symbol for tactless non-value.
the daily drudge is for the populist, and is relatable enough to alienate the
demographic it applies to, who then are left with a few things that compute, a
few that “don’t not compute” [The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, ibid]
8. [And the depth of feeling is no melody anymore. It is shadow
of melody; as if this too could be for none else a holy thing! Yet people take
the—transcendent spaces—for granted, have, and this happens until they are undone,
and one goes deep into the visions to find where no depth was, goes between the
visions, told and told—goes off to some better beckoning, untold, as if to find
something there the better than what was given, by oneself to oneself plainly.
But no existential OTHER has paid, no GOD has: I have paid, yes, already, for
the dismissal of myself and those depths: and I have my sufferance gained at
that which life has named namelessness. And I hear now from the abstractions of
my father all of that bushy self’s—head—beneath the hair, with his throat of
rust. I have heard his voice give, and shake, shifting a lump out his big
throat to hack his failing voice—outwards—yes, yes, and up, up, until the
volume of it goes all but silent upon entrance into that something better—another
tremendous indifference, no doubt—a denial—indifference, a particular, a one to
make any indignant and well the more furious telling of proof seem but the
sparse recollection of one to this harmfully vast cosmos—yes—a vast cosmos with
a meaning more tremendous—taunting one, we, us—than he who goes off shouting at
it—that is—at what is no chimaera to endlessly trump the brain but a nothing,
which as nothing will be nothing, and yet will always form one’s shape from its
own nullity—damnable tarnation, tuneless, and yet as if it were there, and you
not. And thus perhaps to one’s detriment, the nothing of a cosmos too big for
any throat to swallow will end up begging a shadow or two to fit that with the humanity
of a person, to fit, yes, into one’s perception of themselves that portrait of
nothing they thought they and they alone painted, all flourish, all stroke
them, all in the frame them. And this nothing a thing with one’s, our, shouting
at it, for relevance!, relevance!, only made as if to be tremendous as MAN, and
merely a mirror in a closet—chosen by us, as to whether it remain behind the
door or lighted once creaked open by MAN, letting in his own beatitude as lamp.
But this is more to be a type of mirror, a vortex, to reflect—one—and his own
hidden spirals—a gullet of a mirror, yes—to swallow one’s, all our pleas for
meaning: at least let there be some human in the shadows we perceive, though,
for once, yes, instead of the monster we, yes, we, not one, for one speaks for
all this time—that we—that we perceive as indifference, an indifferent vacuum,
a goddamned spiral, yes, yes, without a gesture to indicate its fierce round.
Without a face or movement but the face we give: in looking in: or the movement
of our limbs within its frame—and, and, and—yet, this in reality is no monster
for us to perceive, no, no: it is a stoker, a hungry one, to blindly feel for
some daft meaning there, the great void that is in our own hearts: nearly an ultimatum,
it becomes—though, it is one—yes, yes, in its way—this form of a portrait, a
mimicry not us but harmful as any dissatisfaction, any end to things past
oblivion, the song of chaff remaining without end, as obituary and crypt both for
our soul—collectively—as creatures on this petty marble, and for the soul of
one of us as individuals, and which, both combined, prove naught but a mockery
of what should be a veritable difference between them, yet made the same if
seen in the same mirror of void—moreover, as portrait, as art, rather than the
mimicry any void should remain as.
And the dreamed gospel dreamed dead as offal gone trashed now as
like some rotund, black mass and now yes now a gathering in the bowels and shot
up all frivolous up the larynx flung comically out and way out the fucking maw
like a fucking desperado to the forgotten parts of the ground yes the parts
dirt and stuff layer over and will yes yes and they will forever, yes yes yes
as one whom as a person in his state of denying the gifts of self—each and
every one, each precious gift—and, I speak in this manner of being, for myself,
merely, this time—I, yes I, I will deny each layer as heresy, as an answer to
conundrum, thus, not conundrum, thus, obscene, a rejection of years of layers,
of events, of pitch and moment, of experience, all rejected—and more brutally
benign than ever.
Because it is, this nothing, it is, well, it is dead to begin
with if dissatisfied—if one sees the cosmos—sees the infinite, and feels an
indifference, a posteriori, that is, as time passes, as experiences pass by on
the loft wake of times and events, each one a shape, a shadow, a coarse
beckoning to fill in where the shape meets shadow, that is. And this, any
burthen of self that could hope to release is this, and would be this, rather
than relent to the answer of a conundrum his own as meaning any meaning at all
in the face of disgust and void. And left only a—meandering, a stupefaction—piled
like a mass of sorts throughout the gut’s mixture as shapes, shapes of
intensity and longing, yes, choking one in his very throat and to bleed and let
bleed until there is no GOD but mere devil to make—to use a coinage of
DANTE’s—a trumpet of his ass, at one and his own force of a self that anyway
denies itself, at least, to say again, if up against an ultimate denial of
meaning that is—ultimatum. I see it as that lump swallowed in him now and now
left there, in the gut to stale and die—and, and, and—for the listeners to doze
off at and at the service of no space in church but for some obscene and very
much the more warped judgment of self—that is, this devil, this devil of
scoffers, judgers, yes, seen the truer form of one’s reality, existential
OTHERs, denials, stilly
inconspicuous, heretical, carefully, disdainfully heretical, in
each, every pronouncement—and all, all but the shape of a scoff, one whom
during the service is to openly lift his haunches in response, and fart on the
pew.
It is become mere shadow in the mind of a one as me whom never
himself will till the end of his time on this unit—this device of GOD,
shuttling who knows from whence—this to put it plainly planet, will shoo off
into some newer conundrum, thinking it better, the better one, better conundrum.
It is and we are all however on a lump of mass hacked out from this father of lights,
his head, the shaggier, hairier. And it is the fate of us to have been hacked
out of that prolific monster of self into fragments of the equation, whole
parts only whole by the measure of our limbs and torso together made.
And this EARTH if self belies the layers of each denial, each
denial of self, until he whom is denied is left encrusted, a bane without
witness, living out his disbelief in those measures life takes to be a whole
mind, to make its own self own in a man.
What these things have meant now pass, like shapes, this time, not
shadows, at least, they are no more that than any depth could solidify. So off
I go into the reckless, more reckless than before. I am become a mangling of
parts to admit some whole both absurd and ultimately the only self left, upon
the plucking of layers to refuse and begotten anxiety.]
9. [these days i havent been so—prolific—ive had to get back to
my roots in a rootless void outside of all—thats when i do my best work that is
when inside of that—a mere period of aloneness with myself i have missed—all these
people telling me to get real i thought the way was to rid myself of that
serenity but its not if anything being within what is outside of all has made
me more in tune with that magnificent godhead whom rooted in all pitch and
moment of conundrums and contradictions and whatnot at the least releases me
from them in my mind that at least for now lives silently and pure and people
wont understand contradictions in their own mind all i have of my mind is that
its a shame and a disgrace to deny that unique way of thinking in myself in an
attempt to—normalize—the greatest contradiction is that i wished to change
first—so as to be normal—the very thing no one saw also the very thing that made
me feel unity and purity in aloneness my solitude my space my sanity of course
a mind of contradictions would deny its only sanity as a way to keep normal and
i feel abashed that i allowed this trick to go on to the point when i enjoyed not
but barely anything—and i suppose depression plays a role in ones sanity
however much it depresses and slows one down its different for me in that i had
both the depression as a garbler of the cogs that turned furiously rather than
a slower of the cogs to the point of at least a fixity however horribly a pain
at least i would have a place in my head to feel the pain rather than—know—the
pain of senselessness ceaselessly people normally dont experience mania and depression
at once she says as i speak to her of this—the key is perspective—which writing
gave but i had stopped doing even that as the depression had knotted all these
thoughts in a mess that mania struggled to make a balance out of—practical analogy—four
fucking car pile up—metaphysical analogy—both ultimate ends of the emotional
spectrum buzzing beyond hurt and the thoughts all of them hurrying away without
the emotional perspective perhaps with a bit of their own chaos even these two
ends—mania depression—meeting only in that i felt them at the same time without
a connection between them via thoughts that as i said scrambled away—scrambled—thought
has always been the emotional rationale for most people but for awhile and
perhaps still this hasnt been the case its like—you feel—then you say i feel
this—because—i lost the because i suppose which eh i guess was gods cruel joke
saying—you like absurd shit so much? voids? reasonless gestures? well here you
are!—at least i can say i have wisdom now as to what absurdity—truly—fucking is
the predicament of a lost—because—that we replace with a moral postulate which
to me amounts to a—just because—that though moral is in no way fucking at
all—hahaha—just.]
10. [It is a purely modern concept to suffuse the celebratory
with the stark the raving and the mad
Affirmative statements don’t have to be said with a smile and
bright looks
We mix feelings and what we suppose enough to see in our mind’s
eye is always a giant questionmark
The grandness of it, the blank force if you will, is enough in
that aggressively silent image
- - Like a collection of the unsaid
But it’s not said either. The problem is rectification
We as a gen have to go by where our elders had pointed out the
sinkholes in life, but time presents new sinkholes not necessarily dependent on
the cultural topography of the former gen, but totally dependent on the sway of
the times, and that each moment is unique I’d chance to guess is the best sort
of simple metaphysical truth that anyone can understand
- - Totally / An unsaid duty to explore the application / of gen
to gen, aesthetics & new breathing / new wagers
The unsaid is a mix of the possible to be said and the arbitrary
preexistence of approximately said that, because it is figured later on, is to remain
only a weakened essence of the thought on life then; but more complete for the
time had by each gen to formulate the previous zeitgeist
Perhaps these days a way or a key even to unlock the present one
But this is folly as we realize before death that we cannot
reserve a final say to thoughts on the age we live in
Yet we know that sinkhole best, better than anyone else ever
will, anyone in the future
The problem is rectification, or rather a need to complete some
abstract cycle
Which presupposes furtherance of life
Psychologically
The awareness of life’s infallibility is a greater balm than we
know
But if this were the final age spoken for nothing but the age…
That, that would complete the cycle, whether it is actually completed
or not, time’s end would complete everything by proxy anyway
The specter of perpetuum mobile lends to the idea of a concrete
reality, in us, simply by the continual process of life that hangs over our
eyes as a metaphor or imagery for that perennial quality
But it is as something less
That’s the question mark.]
