2:57AM

Okay Now What's Wrong With This Picture

STRENGTHS:


• best companion on a desert island
  
• best dinner companion
  
• craziest
  
  WEAKNESSES:
  
  
• best to hang out with for a day
  
• best scientist
  

1:28AM

the central dilemma for those who aspire to socialization, public approbation, worldly success, popular esteem, and a clean soul.

I wish to fulfill my duty, but where is it, what is it? Here inclination comes in again and interprets the oracle. And the ultimate question is this: Does duty consist in obeying one's nature, even the best and most spiritual? or in conquering it?

Life, is it essentially the education of the mind and intelligence, or that of the will? And does will show itself in strength or in resignation? If the aim of life is to teach us renunciation, then welcome sickness, hindrances, sufferings of every kind! But if its aim is to produce the perfect man, then one must watch over one's integrity of mind and body. (To court trial is to tempt God. At bottom, the God of justice veils from me the God of love. I tremble instead of trusting.)

1:16AM

jiddu was only half-right when he depicted truth poignantly as 'a pathless land'... in reality there is no content to the truth whatever. (some people still, will make your ears bleed with their obstinate refusal to accept the certain impossibility of being lost.)

12:56AM

give me a number, any number
PREFERABLY YOURS

11:23PM

i think my posthumous aggregate contribution to world literature will be remembered as an irksome splotch of graffito that time and indifference and all the world couldn't outwash; the strange and compelling appeal to reason i command is that which muddied and transfigured my manner of expression--for my prose is heavy handed and distinctly wishy-washy naturally--essentially fortified to the equal attitude. (you can't neutralize the inherently neutral.)

do not forget
i am a connoisseurs of souls,
i have many split personalities
i indulge turn and turn about,
it would be exceedingly foolish of you
for taking any one as me.

i am not out there,
i am inside you,
and you know in your heart
that there is no Between Us
and never will be. so long as i'm alone,
i'm unequivocally alive.

for i am a free-floating universal,
pure idea. and i have engaged you,
an electrical storm; as we are carrying on
this silent, obscure dialogue of thought.

11:14PM

i just call it as i see it
and if you don't hear me calling it
it's either because you're deaf
or i'm blind
or maybe both
dead to the world.
or we're too far away, imaginary echoes
of each other;

and then the seeing is calling me, unbidden, as always. the roving gaze. but there are no predators, out there, no, only the ones i harbor in my breast.

11:07PM

this reincarnation was going reasonably well, right up into the double digits and then i started to flirt with death, figuratively and literally. eventually i got a toxic psychosis and now no one can talk to me because the CDC said i was contagious i guess. this little light of mine... i began learning how to bury myself from a very young age. one of the best ways i do this is with my unfailing loyalty to my once dear / forever dear estranged friendships.

10:45PM

dude, dizzy

chardonnay from south africa
many valiums ago,
i speedballed oxycodone
and smoked dope pensively.

(not mention the psychologically-charged atmosphere i'm in! can i get a fake whhhaaatttt?)

epilogue: then i came home and wrote this shitty entry.

eventually i died, when i got out alive.

nothing lives, nothing breathes
it's as if everything is as it seems
and i am a dissident and a demented martyr
for this decadent age, that i did not choose
but which chose me, and was game to please.
after the supreme empyreal manipulation
between the strokes of time and the cosmic ties
the heaving tide and seismic cry
as i died to society in my mind
i left it far behind, my bad blood,
my buddhahood too
i decide i really had to go to pieces
for anything to happen
but i guess i forgot
that nothing ever changes
around these parts
they once said i was going places
i replied, correcting, i was going to pieces
and meanwhile came and went, just like
then. just like now.

10:35PM - psa.

it's 10:30 PM, do you know where your brain is?

where is your brain
take care of your brain
where is your brain
take care of your
brain


where is your brain
take care of your brain
where is your brain
take care of your
brain


what a pain
it's insane


where is your brain
take care of your brain
where is your brain
take care of your
brain


what's a brain
they're so lame


where is your pain
take care of your pain
where is your brain
take care of your
brain


where is your brain
take comfort


What is Your Name?

the end.

4:51PM

a provocative and thoughtful (if somewhat necessarily redundant) essay by john zerzan.
running on emptiness: the failure of symbolic thought.



"As Hegel said somewhere, to question language is to question being. It is very important, however, to resist such overstatements and see the distinction, for one thing, between the cultural importance of language and its inherent limitations. To hold that we and the world are but linguistic creations is just another way of saying how pervasive and controlling is symbolic culture. But Hegel's claim goes much too far, and George Herbert Mead's assertion (1934) that to have a mind one must have a language is similarly hyperbolic and false.

Language transforms meaning and communication but is not synonymous with them. Thought, as Vendler (1967) understood, is essentially independent of language. Studies of patients and others lacking all aspects of speech and language demonstrate that the intellect remains powerful even in the absence of those elements (Lecours and Joanette 1980; Donald 1991). The claim that language greatly facilitates thought is likewise questionable, inasmuch as formal experiments with children and adults have not demonstrated it (G. Cohen 1977). Language is clearly not a necessary condition for thinking (see Kertesz 1988, Jansons 1988).

Verbal communication is part of the movement away from a face-to-face social reality, making feasible physical separateness. The word always stands between people who wish to connect with each other, facilitating the diminution of what need not be spoken to be said. That we have declined from a non-linguistic state begins to appear a sane point of view. This intuition may lie behind George W. Morgan's 1968 judgment that Nothing, indeed, is more subject to depreciation and suspicion in our disenchanted world than the word.

[...]

The original sense of the word define is, from Latin, to limit or bring to an end. Language seems often to close an experience, not to help ourselves be open to experience. When we dream, what happens is not expressed in words, just as those in love communicate most deeply without verbal symbolizing. What has been advanced by language that has really advanced the human spirit? In 1976, von Glasersfeld wondered "whether, at some future time, it will still seem so obvious that language has enhanced the survival of life on this planet."

6:45AM - UPDATE;

the scariest shit i have ever seen in my life? believe it or not, right now the winner would have to be a 'social vision' in the innocent guise of a 47 minute BBC documentary on neuroscience, quantum computing, artilects and nanotech. watching it & knowing what i know was a nothing less than a life-changing experience (and i mean that Wholeheartedly & In-All-Honesty, with all the flair, dramatic capital, credibility etc. etc. i have left.)

edit: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=3MN4NJ36

5:24AM - news i heard in my brain as i choked on a miracle of life.

- YOU ARE SO DIFFERENT

FROM ME YOU -

ARE SO DIFFERENT - FROM ME

I AM SO DIFFERENT (FROM

me) -

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS ALL MEANS

OR IF THERE'S ANYONE LIVING OR

DEAD THAT DOES

5:01AM

"try to imagine..."

--anything else?

(I want to say No.)

4:19AM - dreams you don't wake up from.

nothing makes sense to me. can't overemphasize enough my direct intuition of a metaphysically inappropriate presence, or 'terrestrial impropriety'. on the face of the earth, on the face of it all, starring in my own dreams, reciting memories. sad spectacles. everything is so strangely and agonizingly inexplicable. i do not know what is real anymore. i loved her, if that's love -- i know i cancould never be with her; or maybe i was in love with a Quality, a savory Character Trait, something intangible that caused me to muse and reminisce and sent me into ecstasies of bliss. i don't even know. she contacted me for the first time spontaneously since at least 2005, at 5:56 PM two saturdays ago. she told me has somebody (she didn't mention whether female or male, curiously); confessed her mother died of alcoholism in november, bought a house, etc. she asked me then, what was up. and i was too panic-stricken and moved to attempt anything in the way of point-by-point / play-by-play impersonal in-depth analysis. i pressured for a phonecall and communication stopped. and now it's 4:45 in the morning and suddenly i lapse through the momentary exercises of all these years and i'm fourteen years old again. and i can't stop thinking about her. it's just as if i could never stop thinking about her. even though i don't know what i think, when i think of her.

at least on the phone, i can hear the tense of your thoughts, can modulate my tone, can gainsay, can express some little shade of personality. here, this is just like chortling into a dark closet, or wailing into oblivion; something i don't much care for. but maybe it's safer these way. i write these little things when i'm deranged. i write more and less than i'll ever be able to discuss with anyone. anyway, but i write little notes to people i've wronged, or at least presumed i've wronged, correction, people i have loved dearly who have in my mind abandoned me. and i write entreaties, photographs of naked fear in the drag of a legitimate question, unanswerable prayers; i ab-react and i bury the product in a public place. oh god, so many graves for so many relationships. so many only dreams. old dreams and half dreams. borrowed dreams and lost dreams. dry dreams, cold dreams, lightning dreams. ("there's a draft in the attic-head.")

dear god, how much i've loved and how hard, i never considered. not a single one of them was undeserving, although i probably went about it wrong. that being the way with me and then and now. none of that really touches on the central concern that prompted me to pick up my pen, so to speak. or maybe it is. i'm lonely and broke, sick at heart and i can't sleep. i'm walking in another world. i always marveled, particularly on antidepressants, on how virtually the next day i'd be wandering in literally another world. still i've been trying to die, emotionally crucify myself on downers for years. i'm walking away from all that, but what, then, am i walking toward?

5:49AM

...and I had never wrote but to say I had never done anything, could never do anything and that in doing something I was doing nothing. My entire work was built and could only be built on this nothingness .... on this carnage, this fray of extinguished fires, of crystals and slaughter; one does nothing, one says nothing, but one suffers, one despairs and fights, yes I think that in reality one fights---will one appreciate, judge, or justify this combat? No.         Will it be given a name? not either         to name the battle is, perhaps, to kill the nothingness. But above all to stop life         one will never stop life.

                         --artaud, 1946.

1:14AM

to reiterate my core belief; 98% of human life is treacle, passion is distraction - background noise; all the supercilious drama and convincing palpitations are confined within your own impermeable skull - the sum and substance of the interior contents, moot. the soulstuff you identify with is ethereal, epiphenomenal exhaust - just another sheath to be pierced. a new god is just another word. what counts is to hone your focus, really concentrate on your immediate somatic surroundings and subject all Appearances to ruthless, thorough, and frequent reality-testing. since death lurks around every corner, threatening to rob us of all acquired wisdom and wherewithal, all that matters is to remain alert that nothing matters, except that we are here and it is now for just once; whatever happens on earth stays on earth and is ultimately of no account to any one. there are no everlasting witnesses.

( exhibit a: interview with charles manson )

regret nothing for life is short, nature is hostile and man is ridiculous.

12:41AM

good poetry is never harmless

problem. what is 'am i living a nightmare' but a
a liminal sensation masquerading as a formless question
that, once brought to the level of consciousness, and
inwardly articulated
is recognized as an image: a situation, and where
is there a situation that cannot be talked about? necessarily, a situation (wordbound problem)
is a symphony of phenomes with composite meaningful
phenomenological associations. in other words, a situation is
reducible to a linguistic notion, a proposition we can
subject to the scalpel of grammatical reason and arrive at
the popular fallacy:
"sticks and stones may break my bones
but mere words
will never hurt me."

neglecting the reality that many, many estimable people
have been eaten alive (literally, consumed)
by the power and dread of a persuasive, alien Idea.

i'm beginning to suspect that, if one is sufficiently adept and penetrating to grok sunyata, commit Lao-Tzu, Spinoza, Epictetus and Pyrrho to heart; that if one can heed the admonitions of La Rochefoucauld even while applying the maxims of Frankl -- if one can reconcile amor fati/eternal recurrence, MWI, & the probability power of the Omphalos hypothesis, only then does living a noble life become a real possibility.

9:42PM - psa

i'm going to be even more erratic and totally out of my fucking tree in the coming months, as i'm going to attempt coming off the benzos and the opiates cold-turkey (a bloody war, stay-tuned!). so i apologize in advance. and if i ask you i'm losing my mind, you just respond: that's right, andrew. yes you are. serves you right. first we break your heart, then we arrest your thoughts and starve them into demoralized silence.

8:29PM

all these confessions seem timeless, tireless. am i always like this? and what is this ? and when i say what i mean, do i even know what i mean? do i even know what i feel? do i even know what i feel about not knowing if i know how to feel? my only sense of identity resigns in the slum and slime of these internet lines.

8:16PM

DON'T TURN 22.