ain’t that the truth

Now i finally get the experience of waking up to gray skies through a small window. A room with walls that don’t fit together. A plaster house with roman glass. An exterior dyed with spilled fruit. Another house that jack built, and me inside with a sack of stones.

Nothing quite like feeling stuck in a rut with a sunset right in front of you. That’s how you don’t notice, or that’s how i don’t notice. Everything is beautiful from close enough or far enough, but when you manage just the right distance everything takes on the disgusting patina of waste and want.  And it’s then that things are easy to destroy, tear down, bulldoze through, ruin, etc, etc. And i sometimes pretend that it, destruction, is more useful than harmful. It helps to get some perspective on my more usual positive and lovey-dovey attitude. But it’s difficult knowing that, even now while tearing down the I-beams of my mentality,

Technorati Tags: life

It’s late and quodlibetor is extraordinarily tired and instead of doing the rational thing, he has spent the last three hours molding a life less lived, shaping something that is no more interesting for the effort. A life of pseudo-reality and pseudo-friendship. The distraction provided by this life totally engrosses him. Slowly but surely he becomes one with them, and even more slowly and even less surely he adopts the rough approximation of false skill common to these people. Soon he forgets about the real life that lies just on this side of the electrified screen. Totally engrossed, he moves forward into realms with so little imagination that all of their inhabitants have lost interest in any sign of creativity that is not immediately obvious and painful to the eye.

He laughs at an inside joke that will not be funny to anyone because it is invisible to everyone but himself. And then he watches as others delite in the same wearisome play. Soon he is overcome with ennui so overpowering that he must sit back, must breath, must break and the life once lived come from a source of near-certain death.
He notices something. The image before him is familiar. Attractive. It conjures memories of a heady perfume and a breeze so still one would want to call it listless except for the beauty in life and nature it conveys. So one calls it golden. He looks closer. The eyes are almost purple. Beauty. Pure beauty. Andsuch words! words to make his head spin. words to cut the veil from his eyes. And then… No. It can’t be. He knows this person. This is not what he was looking at. This, this person is ugly. Ugly and scarred and emotionally barren. And then his brave false world falls down and brings his false self with it. And he stands up and goes outside into the cold and watches the end.

Technorati Tags: boring, story

Earlier there was an earthquake. Not a big one. Not even two seconds long, nothing broke. But sometimes it feels good to be reminded that everything old, and stable, and really (truly) fundamental… is just as ridiculous and shaky as two flies fucking on top of your ice cream sandwich.
Sometimes i feel like the webs of interaction are physical forces holding me to one and only one line of action. Sometimes even thought.
Sometimes i feel the sense of what people are expecting from me, or of what i expect from myself, such as when i am supposed to laugh because it is funny. And it IS funny. And i see the humor. And i don’t laugh, and i don’t know why. I’m pretty sure it’s not because i’m humorless or joyless. Anyway, the point of this one is not exegesis. Not with my soul as text, anyway.

In the morning, when lying in bed just after waking, and the thought “this doesn’t actually exist, not in the way that i think it does, not really… i mean, this bed is less than 0.000000001% matter according to a classical model, and, fuck!.. forget about q.mechanics and don’t ever even consider learning about string theory’s metaphysical implications if you want to hang onto even a little shred of sanity. Nothing exists.” tries to manifest, tries to make itself more real than a unicorn. Neither of which have any relation to phenomenal reality. That’s just f.y.i.

First of all, fuck phenomenology. Yeah, it’s fine and life affirming and, in the end, really how we live. The point is that it’s a copout. Life, the universe, everything is so fundamentally Insane from our p.o.v. that suppression and voluntary ignorance is a worse fault than all the lies ever told over sex.
Second, fuck politics. In the general. Fuck self-serving assholes who don’t recognize that everything is always everything and something is always nothing. We’re stuck in a rut and obviously nobody knows how to get out. Eh. Mostly i’m surprised that so many people care and yet so little gets done. Really. I’m just plain out confused.
Third, and last, fuck voiceless ranting in the dark.

Mathematician Georg Cantor chose the hebrew letter aleph as his symbol for a specific type of infinity. Aside from the probable fact that the good greek letters were already taken i like to think that there was some flat out humor in him choosing the first hebrew letter (in the traditional numerical system of judeism and kabbalah it also represents the number 1). Aleph is also a silent consonant. Completely silent, like ‘y’ without the ‘yuh’ sound, or the ‘p’ in psychopomp. Just always silent.

Technorati Tags: life, philosophy

my dog is crying phlegm.

his breath comes in wheezes and he cannot stand.

every time i scratch his chest or back he starts to cough.

Technorati Tags: life

ridiculous term. i sit and i think and i am private. except that nothing that i think about is private.
“man is a social animal” -aristotle
even when living wholly for myself i desire other people. i don’t even know what purpose i serve anymore. i used to think that people who knew gradually became better people. i think that the opposite has become true, and almost the only thing that i care about (outside of pure pleasure-based pursuits) is being a good influence/helping people. i’m not sure if i can stand this semi-recent change in perspective. or reality. you know, whatever… fuckit.

Technorati Tags: boring, life