here's a series of short prose riffs I've been working on on and off for about two weeks. No need to read beginning to end, they're quite nonlinear haha just thought I'd post the whole movement so far in one post rather than in many posts over time.
Much of life I have made out now. There are few cold places left where the stone has been spared turning. I guess then there's nothing left to describe, besides the !@#$.
The assurance of true chaff that is indisputably chaff. No matter if I am ambivalent about this, no matter if there is a yet-to-be-found object-thought or thought-absolute to in one moment sway me further in the direction of some cosmic, invaluable point, this---the !@#$, the trash, detritus---presently, I describe.
A subject like this rings true to me. I have known this on an implicit level for some time. That is to say, a philosophical anaemia is there---in me, right?---is palpably there, yeah, sitting like mushrooms or growths of some kind and left to spread and burgeon from the dead chambers of myself and to center its birth and to nourish itself alone and disgusting in the knots of those deep deeps, bad with fluid and bile,---humid, odious, reeking. Etc.
Mine is a muse without a platform besides words that do not satisfy, do not wish to satisfy, because they do not know the subject of which they are unwitting orbitals.
However this muse is nearer to a presence than the weight I feel myself carry in even walking down the street. To deny myself the power of doing the thing only exacerbates the problem of what a true meaning is,---the problem being my own intellectual diet or rather a lack of food for thought at all.
My blood longs for iron; my heart beats slower by the day; my eyes roll; my organs shift, I sense it, from place to place within myself. A weak belly and a heart of trash to handle and direct to whatever purpose this tangle of viscera and loam.
Truly it is right to observe that I am reminded on these infinite days and nights that all loop beyond apotheosis and thus do not culminate---but rather complicate---truly, I am reminded of how very mortal I am but also I wonder if I happen to feel close to dying not because of a physical strain on a body far from connate with its head but rather because of some metaphysical omen or premonitory wheedling that my brain backs into and makes salient and tumorous.
But it is something spiritual as well. It is a sensing of the nonsense and of the teetering on nonsense all that attempts at transparent expression highlight and provoke.
I feel in such a way that I am in proximity with the void; whether what I speak of is the void in my character, pneuma, animus, etc. or some more cerebral, epistemological stick i' the ribs is beyond me and indeed not for me to know.
My mind is starving and has been, always, and to me now is left a wealth of !@#$ to siphon through and make into an order most unremarkable and perhaps debased. Chaff. That surreal analytic I have stuck to desperately in spite of the hunch that, like a broken clock, I am so far right only twice a day. Such patience with my own sense of logic was not easy to come by. A logic which in itself especially if or rather once I enter into it despises any name for its motion nor does it accept a reason for its reason.
Sad to say that the paucity and the teetering and breaching and overall state of flux of this limited universe of mine might just always need---sad---a nonsense-shivah or to put it another way a meaningless, nonsensical, contrived absolute that is yet an outlier and which for this reason is necessarily remote from human getting.
Such is, and was, all I have ever been obsessed in wresting to life---or at least to lively words---which by this string of endlessly circumnavigated argument in a dull pitch of internalization, conflict and rage shall be naught, and for naught but a---lively---collapse. Death. So then, let me remark on the death of chaff . . .
Shall I drown the silence with a jabbering and have no true thought be thought in this fey though disconsolate speechlessness, this drudging of---!@#$---chaff, of scrapings?
The lost ideas, the lost buzzings, the embellishments, yeah, those useless things---hah---well I do say, why ascribe richness to this if not to chain myself in covenant to the most unseen, gruelingly small microbe or atom of a relevance---?
That is---well, what of this train of thought? What of what I chase? Are these thoughts already much arrived at their destination and if so could it be that what I have been able to make out of events, experiences, harassments, trials---is a makeshift---to barely hold me up? !@#$ all. Why forever quiver my mouth before the utterance or devour these tired hands in an eternal !@#$ clonus?
Meaning is everywhere, though. Even if only to be recognized via anxiety and mental entrapment---yeah, it's there, it's there, in the atom, only, only in the smallest atom. And if I did not know this for a fact then I would not write these hideous, insignificant things.
"Am I really all the things that are outside of me?"
Dignity in words ironically is as dignified an ideal however an ideal is what it will remain and should remain. It is strange that for how futile it is to do there is not much in it. It seems to me to be an imaginative deluding. A prank.
Words are little boxes. What is it in them to which the speaker could relate her terrible greatness? Perhaps dignity itself is a pretense however I like to think that there is something outstanding about the human race. It won’t be expressed and that is why it is outstanding; it won’t ever be expressed. So then it is the only certainty I know of when I think of how much things !@#$ change.
It is the only constant and it is the only thing that cannot exist. I haven’t read a lot of Nietzche but I know a few things and when the man said that "god is dead, god remains dead," I thought to myself that that statement mostly was important for what it suggests.
If god is dead then whatever it was, at the least, once was, and so then once was not dead.
How after all might something die if it did not once live? This is how I view the limits of words and this is how I recognize their concrete efforts to explain as quite ignoble. We are riding on the wake of a nonexistence or rather a nonsense so potent that it to this day plagues others upon hearing any sure statement made by someone else with a sense that that assurance is somewhat laughable, at least if one bothers to look deeper into the idea of words---language---as an approximate detailing of a world itself there approximately.
The only difference between the reality of expression and just reality is that expression is and can only be inaccurate and yet it attempts at clarity because at times we all have had clear heads and have felt transcendent things. Whereas reality by its nature---at least, to one who has had the pleasure of losing control and all sense of reason---is a thing that is palpably not what it is and which never possessed such a fantastical clarity as a mind might have in the moment indicated as truth.
But inaccurately expressing an inaccurate reality is not like fighting fire with fire and most importantly my perception and how I relate that perception to others---translate it---is not a mirror to represent that ever-pale, ever-tired countenance looking back---that penumbra---that inaccurate perspective.
Rather because expression itself stems from a source or absolute reality that is and must be questionable---obviously---what is wrought, viciously, from this void, is a thing that should by all accounts be itself slightly questionable.
Again, though, just because a person’s view of reality is equally as tenuous as reality itself---well---this does not mean that in their shared lack of a core definition they are the same and if so would not be discernable from one another. If what I saw was what I saw I would be what I saw and any ego or sense of self would dissipate immediately. In order for one to know thyself, it must happen that there is a difference between their own internal and external world.
The only thing, as I said, that is constant, is the lack of god, of an absolute; this void, truly, is our guiding light because it is eternal and is the only thing that really is what it is.
Absence instigates need, thus, my reactions to reality might change though what stirred them in my own conscious mind is forever the same. In other words, nothingness is god, god is nothing, god does not exist because nonexistence is the only absolute and, moreover, to speak bluntly, is the only thing I can think of that is both accurate and variable, static and dynamic, because how, quite literally, everything, every !@#$ thing, reacts to this eternal void---which, to say it again, will always be a different reaction, untrustworthy, tenuous, and most of all liable to change---is as important a part of the void as the void itself. And this system, this absurd system, sadly, is no joke, and is of course no greatness.
Ephemerality. Should I know exactly what I am talking about? When I was on blow every thought in my head lacked implication; so then every thought I had was what it was. There was nothing more to get because I couldn’t see beyond the thought I was having into the thought I would have had had I not been on blow. In a way it was like an intellectual stagnation. My brain lacked the ambition to go to a level it was uncomfortable in inhabiting and rather inhabited, stagnated, within whatever concept or series of ideas uncomfortably.
Uncomfortable, because this was not how it usually was. Things weren’t that simple. There was always more to an idea than I could immediately fathom. The true hell is to be in a place like this but in-between one idea, concept, and another. So that one, I, is, am in the midst of confusion, and, frighteningly, the WORLD becomes confusion, because the fugue is the fugue is the fugue and there is no longer a need to understand and shape a thought.
The thought itself does not present to you, me, more that it could be and is rather, as I said, what it is. So in other words, the abstract becomes concrete. Imagine an animal, any animal, suddenly blessed with a knowledge of its existence but not an understanding of what that entails. Give any animal an ability to be aware of abstract things without an ability to understand abstract things and find that animal eternally tortured.
This is hell because your, my, mind, at points like these is in a most abstract place and yet, unlike abstraction, how you, I, perceive it is very much concrete, is in no need of expanding into something more illuminating,---which, ironically, would involve a sort of concept-futurity or hope for clarity or at the least reconcilement that could only come in embracing the blur of thoughts and lighting up that fugue via more fugue.
Perhaps one way to do it is to follow confusion with deeper confusion that by contrast illuminates or rather highlights the spots of clarity in whatever preceding concept. But this cannot happen if your yakked out, because, of course, one’s, my, train of thought simplifies into whatever inhabits my mind at the time and there is no blurry ideal of transcendence to slouch towards, no implication to clarify, no future for the thought. In a way, blow can rob a mind of poetics, can leave a train of thought as no such train, as hopeless and meagre, as a lapse drudged to lifeless !@#$ life.
Odd figures---perhaps ten or twenty---grouped restless, witless on the broad margent of that river stand in their odd way and click out noises which come out the dry flue of their throats as like somewhat tortured sounds or sounds tortured to life---wrested uglily to life.
The odd figures or things stand in the slew of the jetsam come wading off that river’s endlessness. Their made sound is communicative of a threat however what it is these blue vagaries know of that is threatening is not to be determined. The clicking is yet rather wild with the freedom of peace, of knowing peace. That river flows like glass to a big place in the distance not to be perceived which is why like glass it does not seem to move.
Things dive in there and go hitting off the sides. Things hit off the sides and ricochet madly until entering a crack in the glass. In entering the murk of that static pool, that river, whatever had ricocheted will go way down to the bottom of it. And what stands there on the margent feeling the lapping of the sand and then dives into a river yet unmoving and gross if taken in to mean the dynamism of all rivers and confluences will go off into the disappearing thickness of it and never return.
There is a line of men or to say it more accurately figures whom one of this world gets the feeling of knowing well and yet they are unapproachable as one’s noon-shadow shed on the ground is them and yet not them. Each man takes his place among the stones and each man is a figure and each stone smooth and tonsil-like very much reminiscent of graves.
One out of them crawls through the stones and shapes an arroyo in the mud to drink from. And then as though that were arbiter of some change in the universe the stoic day goes laughing into the pure margins of that firmament beyond the dam, dwelt like a red, flagrant kiss grown smaller with another day’s hissing out and then darkness. But the night comes too and more are found to people the shadows come against the bush, more men to dig in the mud and tend to thirst and die finally and for all time between the stones.
I have felt something of chaos in the wind. But if I knew once if at all what possessed air to move I do not know now.
This is an airless place. Compressed, damp. What I thought I understood is understood and yet it is so much blankness against pale void. And yet nature is no poverty it is I who lack the words. If there were such a thing as life I would only too easily ascribe meaning to the air I breathe.
Wind changes direction though and so then I do not have much to say besides that I would rather be or you know exist in a vacuum if only for the sake of perspective. If only for the sake of knowing that I need air to move and change and need to feel this motion and its ever-altering velocities.
To be hermetically sealed is to be safe indeed however I am become more obsessed in the chaos as of late and like to express such things in a mannered way so that I may at least see this contrast in airless language, if I cannot be robbed of wind.
There is beauty perhaps somewhere in this negative and spartan world and it is still to eke out in full back towards an equally full opposite-as-peace that will assuredly be gotten insofar as it can be redeemed by the ardor of a thing gone, presently chased; presently, to be chased, presently to wear the soles of one’s two feet---brittle with callus.
And it is in the world, it could only be possible in this world that what one sees as numb agitation or perhaps a static fit of the brain renders itself clearer if in a poetic way.
And sadly and abruptly and briefly exposing its frailties, this beautiful listlessness---as one speaks of it---runs off, and one is left unfeeling.
And so one starts to chase it, madly, so as to return to a place, any place,---any source from whence this weak or to say it better, gentle theme of listlessness had contrived itself forward and on to be made senseless and insignificant by the caprice and buckling of one's---own---personal sphere of repetitious !@#$ emotions.
This lassitude, ennui---whatever you would like to call it, it is, has, will rule.
Because, simply, one has let it rule so long and has roused to life so much of it that it seems kind of that one has altered in the face of some bafflement---like receiving wind---her own passions, pale and stricken by the curse of that wind; that rather one has become the one who now knows he cannot, will not, let such a thing depart, for fear of the ugliness it might have shrouded for all that time,---for fear, yes, of what had dwindled once one had let that listlessness be the whole of themself.
So, then, one stays on with it, like an irritating lover of some time, and whom with some time loses a shade to her oddity and in a snap of fingers is instead all the reciprocated had desired, if only because the love given is consistently returned---down both streets---though once as alien a reaction to the blusters of a windy brain as no reaction at all or maybe a parallel expectedness forever bouncing off itself but never into a proper oblivion.
As if one reacted to a linear nothingness of their own double.
So listlessness has been one's habitation and is couched in each pore, whether it is an open pore or is to remain obstructed by the dirt of their irrelevant being.
Or perhaps irrelevant dirt with a good gust drooping and following that awaiting the right pitch to groan in the lorn pass of a zephyr might lose patience and alight thus from its place in the atom of one's rendered skin---like plaster,---always on the verge of a fixity to clog the hope of small flesh, particular flesh, with what is mean and hopeless.
One is only ever the being they strove to affirm; the hope of being alive, like these words, is an ideal made lax, and not firm, no, not so firm.
But one continues, one grows digressions out of the first thing; the first, unvarnished truth and to overfill this cup of weeping.
If addiction were a disease it’d be an epidemic. Everyone’s fucked up, some people just like getting fucked up more. Or everyone’s fucked up to start with people just like getting fucked up as a way to pretend they hadn’t been previously. Sometimes people feed the bad side and sometimes they feed the good side however what’s true for a given asshole walking the streets of this world is that both sides are equally them. I’m not saying everyone is the same rather that everyone has trouble reconciling something about their identity, something, anything; and this creates a wedge between all that they realize they are and every thought or part of themself or thought on a part of themself that cannot come to grips with this irreconciliable thing and thus cannot fully be there, not fully IN the conscious mind of the given asshole, and not then in a fully real and by extension more acceptable way. So then the wedge becomes the irreconciliable thing, the split in who you are; and whatever had at first been unacceptable is now layered over with millions of other things that are as repugnant, but not as truly related to what had started you spiraling. It’s focusing on collecting the blood drawn from the wound, rather than on stitching up the wound itself. Eventually you will find yourself bloodless and the ground beneath your feet painted red with your waste, all you have let of yourself …
Come close. I’m not here but I try to be. If I were anything more than what you could make possible then I were a thing too riled by the compression of what I have spent so much time attempting to unfold and thus disintegrate. You are what has come in and out; you are the lengthy pallor I drive over significance to keep it up. So you could talk about how what was understood was not realized nor what was talked about very significant. I try to be here. I try to be here next to your logic. I inhabit all and everything that that statement before the confession to connect, yes, to connect to you, who reads this, all this, compressed into, highlighted and signified, without a knowledge of what might just or just not be united, verily, verily, some intimacy similarly understood, realized, what have you, by something outside of what it effects. I am outside of what I effect but only in that I refuse to have that be me, at least now.
Aug/1/2012, 7:39 am
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I read most of this between last night and this morning. Have you read "Nausea," by Sartre? It's been years since I have but much of this, particularly the first section, reminds me of it. Queasy and questioning: "...this muse is nearer to a presence than the weight I feel myself carry in even walking down the street."
Aug/2/2012, 9:11 am
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all I've read of sartre is no exit and his study of baudelaire, and a few essays here and there. I've browsed thru being and nothingness but im not ready for that undertaking. Overall I'm impressed with existentialist philosophy and find it insanely redeeming. Sartre in particular was quite the personality. Did you know he declined to receive the nobel prize?
Actually the fact that these writings somewhat remind you of this man is an awesome compliment. He's a genius! Thank you. I'm aware of the idea behind nausea and, in a nutshell, that we are only truly alive when experiencing this seasickness of living and spinning and living and moving forth on our ship of death towards the inevitable naufrage. Again, thanks for the comment, cheers!---satdoc
Aug/2/2012, 9:21 am
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