Saturday, June 9, 2007

Sorry, Jeff, but this is part of it too/writing as therapy

I need a break from the crazy dull monotony we call life. I mean, shit (and let's be on our merry way). who actually wants this? To blend into this droning choir of halfdead dying soulless dumbfucks. The world is far too full of people doing nothing, shuffling on and off this mortal coil never raising their eyes to the heavens, never mattering, moving or contributing a verse to the powerful play. Accuse me of nonsense, lies or the crazy. do it, I have done it all myself. I no longer care. You hold none of the keys to the dungeons I desire. I have come from beyond the goblin city and ... you ... have ... no ... power over me.

My head is full. Snappy commercial jingles, books, movies, songs, words, thoughts, images, ideas, slander, prose, nonsense, insight, enlightenment, glory, bullshit, lies.

Growing up at the end of the world doesn’t do much for a body. Broken, shattered before I even had a chance. My potential lost I know not even what of. I could jump but I don’t even know if I would fall. Nothing is certain. That might be a problem. We aren’t sure. We are never sure. That might be a problem too. no one is looking into it. but the answers might surface in another one of those dreams that speak to me truths of events I have never seen, blending so well into my real life as to blur all distinction/maybe I’ve been drinking too much/spending too much time alone with only the voices and the lies and the signal(noise) to keep me company.

Look for a pattern. Always look for patterns. I have never been able to shed the analytical side of my life. I gave up math and science in college (I found that I was unsuited to putting forth the effort and I just did not give a fuck about all that shit you need to learn before you get to the good theoretical shit/same with some of that philosophy and so I fell into the books who will sell you their lies for cheap). But there is pattern recognition in my soul. That innate aneristic desire to order the goddamn world that went and got itself all fucked up. Of course, my order and Their Order and two completely different motherfucking things. We would be wise not to conflate the two. Fuck sure on that. I am not nor have I ever been a member of the ________ Party. Whatever. A passive sense of distrust towards life, the universe, everything, and ideology in general. I read people decently. They live by their patterns. I am afraid that I might do the same. And with all that effort expended on cultivating unpredictability, I would find that rather disappointing.

Speeding towards infinity, the balance is off and too many are dying for no good goddamn reason and the fuck of it all is I can’t seem to tell if I care. I don’t know anymore. But if it doesn’t happen to me/near me, does it matter? Does it really happen? Does life go on outside the walls of my skull? Because I know that I couldn’t imagine something this reasonable, horrible, and boring. Not my way. Never my way. I think, that is, that I have a way and so…something.

The thing is, there are answers in here somewhere. I see them in my sleep. I know things that I can’t couldn’t (shouldn’t?) know. but they vanish in that fleeting alarm fucked waking. It’s fucking killing me. this having a job shit. this waking up and going and doing someone else’s work. this is not my work. my work is here: with the bottle, the page, the signal, the noise, and everything so ever muchly much more. And I never get to it because the world is driving the sense out of me with its mindnumbing schlock and bullshit, its cleverness and stupidity, its failed attempts at meaning and usefulness, at relevance. The world is a endless collection of dying specimens of an experiment gone wrong. Clogged with drones and rotting flesh, I know not which way is up. I don’t know what I am thinking, I am not in control and the lunatics are on the grass (there is no room upon the hill, the moon or anywhere else the songs tell us to gather does that mean I am not alone, that others have gone before or that I am more alone than ever, that the signal was never meant for me and I got it all wrong all over again.).

Get all this crazy out now in the dark before you go back out into the sun and see people (you remember people don’t you?). am I just a misanthrope? A cynic, a liar? Or am I dreamer and a prophet who has lost faith and lost his way? Is there a difference? Can’t it be both? All these questions no answers not even proper grammar or punctuation no wonder I fear I would be unable to teach the language to foreigners. Just another lie to get myself out of this place going anywhere have shoes will travel.

Does anybody really read this? Does anybody really know what’s going on?

I wrote a short little piece not long after college and then I decided for fun that I would annotate it, that I would meticulously mark each deviation from the standard etc and the reason for it, each quote/reference and why I felt compelled to use such a line at such a moment. It took a while (it was only a short piece, it would be hard as fuck to say do it for a rambling shitshow like this (try it, I dare you/double dog dare you/I’ll take the physical challenge) and ended up getting longer as the annotations inevitably needed annotations of their own and so on. I’m sure I did not finish the job. I have no patience for such meticulous actions, no Danielewski I. I don’t know why I mention it. I suppose it serves to highlight the perils of influence or perhaps the nature of my writing style (perhaps even giving insights into my psyche/I wonder what it would be like to be psychoanalyzed/I wonder what they might find, if it would mean anything or whatever).

I lose track of things, fall off the page, digress, whatever, I know not what of. I gave up seeking all the answers. I never find

"What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you but I know it's mine." - the Beatles

Fate, it seems, is not without an overdeveloped sense of coincidence.

(a late edition, not that you would have noticed)
It’s a tricky thing: being. I suppose it might get easier as times passes (time always passes even though it doesn’t even exist/never enough always out of) but I have no knowledge of that. if you don’t think about it or if you drown it in booze and other assorted chemicals you can come to an approximate state of ignorance and bliss. But that never lasts and like a shame spiral it takes you farther down to a hellpit that is nowhere near the bottom that anyone wants to be hitting. Not the good kind of hitting bottom like in Fight Club where they shed the bullshit of the material world for that sweet existential human reality. No one is desirous to be beholden to a master whether he be man, machine, system, or supposed leisure activity. “Freedom’s just another word for having nothing left to lose”/“Only when we have nothing are we free to do anything.” And life goes ever onward down that road that no one takes.

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