diatribe
Profundity is the bastard stepchild of absurdity.
Archive for the ‘ fiction ’ Category
Profundity is the bastard stepchild of absurdity.
alright, so i’m sitting here wallowing in my own desire to use language in a manner completely uncharacteristic of said language and i think to myself, maybe i should write something? share this with the world? what’s the point? i asked myself in a conspiratorial whisper. it’s not like anybody ever understands me anyway, and do you even care if they do? well, not at moments like this, at moments like this all that i want to to say something. preferrably something with as little sense as possible so that the others can look at it and see whatever they want to see. like a fresh drop of molten wax, so wet and hot that every gaze leaves its impression. yes, sorta like that except not quite so sexual. you’ve got a dirty mind. only because of how much i like my sex to be dirty. anyway, that’s completely beside the point. oh yeah? you’re now claiming to have a point? of course! i always have a point, it’s just that i love the word “obfuscation” so much that i have to hide it just to get that word accross. man, foucault’s got nothing on you. hah, did you see they way nobody laughed at that? that’s because reference to the french doesn’t work in today’s political climate. says who? says johhhhhhhn kerry! you just said it like that ‘cus you liked “baseketball” and want to be as funny as trey parker. did not. did too. alright fine, but that’s fine, isn’t it? i mean trey parker is a really funny guy: are you saying that christian’s are wrong because they want to be like jesus? no, i’m saying christians are wrong because they want to kill women to stop them from killing babies, also for almost 1500 years of horrible, horrible oppression. that’s not christians, that’s christianity. no it’s not, it’s not christianity, it’s fucking christians, you think an ideological structure has ever commited any acts? haven’t you read marx? ideological superstructures are what create acts, the same way that thought creates acts. that’s a fine thing for someone who just referred to foucault to say. hey! you’re the one who just referred to foucault. that’s what i said.
c’mon, that sentence is fucking Awesome!!! tell me you see it? huh? tell me? apparently attributable to fuller, but i haven’t taken the time to research it yet (i came across it in the illuminatus! trilogy). if nobody says anything i’m going to go off on a rant about it… so for pity’s sake, tell me that you get it.
Boy goes to school.
Boy meets girl.
Boy loses girl.
Boy buys a camera.
Boy likes sunsets and trees.
Boy burns photos.
Boy likes trees.
Boy likes silhouettes.
Boy meets girl.
Girl likes clouds behind the trees, and wonders why the pictures are so dark.
i sat down, and thought i had something to say just about when these dogs started playing and barking and crying and barking and running and jumping and barking and growling. It figures. it seems like every time i have something i want to say i manage to drown it out in meaningless trivialities. Words without purpose and sentences un-aimed. just shots in the dark. well, shots at the light, anyway. i write everything i care about in one sitting, usually one draft. but i speak like i write, which means that there’s a lot of shit that needs to be deleted before you hear it, and a lot of shit that you never hear because i forget it before i finish my sentence. everything seems so obvious until you realize that nothing is in fact perfect (even me… i am continuouslyamazed by this) and that actually Doing those things which you desire is damn near impossible. Or a piece of cake. actually, i’m pretty sure it’s neither.
in case you can’t tell, i still can’t figure out what i want to say, or to whom.
brandon hasn’t had any luck foregoing the search for permanence in a sea of change.
postscript: this was not written in one sitting, or one draft. take that as you will.
as of now i bore myself. [apparently i don't know how to have fun either]
i went to the bathroom to take a piss, and upon lifting the toilet i released a fly from his ignoble imprisonment. as soon as that happened i felt a great sense of peace and well-being, like i had finally done something good and worthwhile. it was at that point that i realized i have serious issues which i really, really need to work out
ok, you know that feeling, where you have to go to the bathroom, but you’re ok because you’re on your way home and it’ll be a little while, but you know you can make it. but then you get near your house and you realize that you’re going to be able to go soon, and all of a sudden you can’t hold it any more, and you need to go RIGHT NOW!!! … ? well, love’s kinda like that. apparently. [time has passed and i didn't get relief... i'm not exactly sure what the amorous equivalent of pissing your pants is]
i think i would liketo write a book about (or set in, technically) a dystopia where knowledge is valued as the highest good (the way brave new world valued happiness and used science to maintain it, and 1984 valued power and used propaganda to maintain it). i’m not sure what the means used to procure and maintain knowledge should be… i would like to work meditation in somehow, since it too (as a technology) can succumb to the distortions (w?) of man’s psyche. we don’t seem to have a real equivalent/replacement for the old gods (psychology/science/industrialization) that were worshipped at the beginning of the last century… computers are coming in, but they change a little too quickly for them to make good sci-fi, they might have stabilized by the time i get around to writing the book (although i doubt it, there aren’t any real predictions for a slowing of the growth of their computing power, just a couple of doomsday theory-esque claims made by a few on the outskirts of the scientific community). and computers do deal pretty closely with knowledge… it might be interesting to see if i could write that kind of book without getting into any serious epistemology or metaphysics (stick purely to political/humanistic concerns and topics)… maybe… i could see that creating a world where an interesting story could take place.
The U.S. Supreme court basically defined obscenity by saying “i know it when i see it” … jury’s are supposed to decide if things are obscene by saying whether something offends the standards of their community. that’s how it is decided if pornographers should go to jail or not. i finally found a real definition for obscenity, and i couldn’t be happier: “the concept of the obscene is identical with the concept of those actions, representations, works, or states which display an exercise of bodily or personal function which in certain circumstances constitutes an abuse of that function, as dictated by standards in which one has invested self-esteem, so that the supposed abuse of function is regarded as a demeaning object of self-contempt and self-disgust” -David J. Richards. It’s obviously still subjective, but at least it is significantly more clear and precise than “does that offend you?”.
for some reason i’ve taken to editing my profile onlywhen incredibly tired or diseased or in some other way in some alternate state of mind. i’m not sure whether this provides you, the viewer, with a greater or a lesser image of my psyche. (also, i think i prefer loggging my thoughts in a manner which does not involve random stranger’s ability to read them) [in other words, that's the end of this particular blog]
one day, when i’m in a band, it might be called:
interstellar sea-eel surgery (in spanish) [dark art rock]
with side project: underwater eel surgery (in bed) [space rock/mainly i thought the name was funny]
jesus saves [black metal/grindcore i'm not sure]
with side project: godhater [meshuggah inspired eno-esque ambience]
delusion of permanence [emo]
first album: “debut album in stores now”
brandmanagement [arty pop-punk, because the idea is ridiculous]
solipsistic narcissism [self-indulgent/misc] …
MC squared [jungle MC, possibly hip hop... but i think it makes more sense as jungle]
first album: “i’m heavy”
…
we are what we do. not even, we are what other people think we do. to them. to those other people, those people that we care about (usually) and who we (usually) want to care about us, it’s what they think we’ve done that matters. but i never really know what you think of me. and neither do you. i have had a million thoughts that none of you will ever know. i have seen a million beautiful sights, and a million ugly ones. everything essentially alone, because we are what we know. the more you know me, the more you are me. spiritual union can come from knowledge. even the most radically un-philosophical buddhist would agree that the enlightened are united to all of us through shared knowledge. the blatant fact of our disociation from each other frustrates me. i know i will never truly understand you. i might understand most of you, maybe we will share unspeakable thoughts for a few brief moments, we might come as close as it is possible for two different groupings of psychosis and stability to be, but you will never know me. Most people never get beyond crude charicatures, the greatest have perhaps achieved an understanding of one another bordering on monet’s appreciation for his environment. everything is built from those random pieces of insight we shape from half-noticed gestures, partially-understood actions, reinterpreted conversations.
when i was five or six i wanted to be the best spy in america, because i was sure that he would know the most about what was really going on in the world. i went through the various political offices after that and eventually decided that i wanted to be a scientist. eventually i lost my appetite for science, it’s interesting to be sure, but i don’t care and really, i never did. the only things that have ever really mattered to me are people, and you are probably the most confusing entity in existence. i don’t care about the machinations of those who think that they’re in power, i don’t care about how this whole fucking universe is put together or where it comes from or where it’s going. i don’t really care about any of the toys science has made for my consumption. hell, i only care about consumerism insofar as it makes people stupid. they’re all just avenues of distraction. bright lights and bushy tails. cat food and psychosis. i think that i don’t want to be alone, but i don’t know what that means. i know that there has got to be something better than what we’ve got right now, …. well, probably anyway.
I don’t know who i am. i don’t mean that as some pseudo-psychological bullshit, i mean it as pseudo-philosophical bullshit. i don’t know which part of me is important. i don’t know if the things that i don’t say would be better said, or the things i say better left unsaid. I don’t know if i have ever done the right thing. But more importantly, i don’t think i have ever expressed my thoughts in a meaningful way. Completely aside from my ego’s desire to be understood, this makes me feel terrifyingly alone. I’m not bitching about nobody understanding me…