Earlier in my life there seemed to be unlimited possibilities, but my mind was closed. Now, years later and with an open mind, possibilities no longer interest me. I seem content to be continually rearranging the same furniture in the same room. My concern at times is nothing more than establishing a series of practical conditions that will enable me to work. For years I said if I could only find a comfortable chair I would rival Mozart. - Morton Feldman

http://www.therestisnoise.com/2006/06/morton_feldman_.html

Ethics—self-interest. For Rand, all altruists were manipulators. What could be more seductive to kids who discerned the motives of martyr parents, Christian missionaries and U.S. foreign aiders? Her champions, Nathaniel Branden still among them, feel that Rand’s view of “self-interest” has been horribly misrepresented. For them, self-interest is her hero architect Howard Roark turning down a commission because he couldn’t do it exactly his way. Some of Rand’s novel heroes did have integrity, however, for Rand there is no struggle to discover the distinction between true integrity and childish vanity. Rand’s integrity was her vanity, and it consisted of getting as much money and control as possible, copulating with whomever she wanted regardless of who would get hurt, and her always being right.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif To equate one’s selfishness, vanity, and egotism with one’s integrity liberates young people from the struggle to distinguish integrity from selfishness, vanity, and egotism.

Bruce E. Levine

http://www.alternet.org/reproductivejustice/153454/how_ayn_rand_seduced_generations_of_young_men_and_helped_make_the_u.s._into_a_selfish,_greedy_nation/?page=3

“Every age develops its own peculiar forms of pathology, which express in exaggerated form its underlying character structure. In Freud’s time, hysteria and obsessional neurosis carried to extremes the personality traits associated with the capitalistic order at an earlier stage in its development— acquisitiveness, fanatical devotion to work, and a fierce repression of sexuality. In our time, the preschizophrenic, borderline, or personality disorders have attracted increasing attention, along with schizophrenia itself. This “change in the form of neuroses has been observed and described since World War II by an ever-increasing number of phychiatrists.” According to Peter L. Giovacchini, “Clinicians are constantly faced with the seemingly increasing number of patients who do not fit current diagnostic categories” and who suffer not from “definitive symptoms” but from “vague, ill-defined complaints.” “When I refer to ‘this type of patient,’ he writes, “practically everyone knows to whom I am referring.” The growing prominence of “character disorders” seems to signify an underlying change in the organization of personality, from what has been called inner-direction to narcissism.
Allen Wheelis argued in 1958 that the change in “the patterns of neuroses” fell “within the personal experience of older psychoanalysts,” while younger ones “become aware of it from the discrepancy between the older descriptions of neuroses and the problems presented by the patients who come daily to their offices. The change is from symptom neuroses to character disorders.” Heinz Lichtenstein, who questioned the additional assertion that it reflected a change in personality structure, nevertheless wrote in 1963 that the “change in neurotic patterns” already constituted a “well-known fact.” In the seventies, such reports have become increasingly common. “It is no accident,” Herbert Hendin notes, “that at the present time the dominant events in psychoanalysis are the rediscovery of narcissim and the new emphasis on the psychological significance of death.” “What hysteria and the obsessive neuroses were to Freud and his early colleagues.. at the beginning of this century,” writes Michael Beldoch, “the narcissistic disoders are to the workaday analyst in these last few decades before the next millennium. Today’s patients by and large do no suffer from hysterical paralyses of the legs or hand-washing compulsions; instead it is their very psychic selves that have gone numb or that they must scrub and rescrub in an exhausting and unending effort to come clean.” These patients suffer from “pervasive feelings of emptiness and a deep disturbance of self-esteem” Burness E. Moore notes that narcissistic disorders have become more and more common. According to Sheldon Bach, “You used to see people coming in with hand-washing compulsions, phobias, and familiar neuroses. Now you see mostly narcissists.” Gilbert J. Rose maintains that the psychoanalytic outlook, “inappropriately transplanted from analytic practice” to everyday life, has contributed to “global permissiveness” and the “over-domestication of instinct,” which in turn contributes to the proliferation of “narcissistic identity disorders.” According to Joel Kovel, the stimulation of infantile cravings by advertising, the usurpation of parental authority by the media and the school, and the rationalization of inner life accompanied by the false promise of personal fulfillment, have created a new type of “social individual.” “The result is not the classical neuroses where an infantile impulse is suppressed by patriarchal authority, but a modern version in which impulse is stimulated, perverted and given neither an adequate object upon which to satisfy itself nor coherent forms of control.. The entire complex, played out in a setting of alienation rather than direct control, loses the classical form of symptom—and the classical therapeutic opportunity of simply restoring an impulse to consciousness.’”
—

Christopher Lasch

My philosophy

Well, in reality, they're my best attempt to amalgamate what I've read from Christopher Lasch, Plato, Aristotle, Schopenhauer, and Freud. Essentially we are results of a will, as Schopenhauer calls it. From this will, all things in reality eventually come to be, each varying in their form of perfection.

Like the physical world, the abstract world, what we know and contemplate that isn't tangibly represented by objects in our field of vision, varyies in grades of perfection. Thus some justice is more ideal than other forms. And thats pretty much half of my ethical system: that some deeds are preferable to others because they're the ideal outgrowth of the will's perfect form of an act that provides justice, kindness, love, compassion, and so on.

The other half is where Aristotle and the others come in: ultimately a good deed is too much of nothing, but just the right amount. What Freud posited to be the structure of the psyche reinforces this because the ego is the middle ground between demands placed upon the individual from without and the id is composed of those from within. Therefore the just, virtuous person is one who mediates the two extreme ends of their psyche best; best meaning most ideal, and therefore closest to perfect.

And lastly Lasch comes in because he understood, as best as I've seen, that we must understand the limits we place on ourselves and we must make sure those limits are not so impossible that they become more than ideal, they become absolute perfection: a condition incapable of being achieved by human beings. So what we have to do is strive to be perfect human beings but understand what limits our nature and environment have beset us with. And we must never forget that becoming perfect is not the goal in itself, but the attempt to do so is the goal. This last point I've got from that Wallace quote about Kafka. But also, I got it from about a year ago when I contemplated what I perceived as some girls disullusionment; how she seemed to believe either in perfection or failure. I came out of that situation thinking that perfection is, as Mangum said, "endless revisions to say (or do) what I mean."

“Constant experimentation in the arts, in any case, has created so much confusion about standards that the only surviving measure of excellence, for many, is novelty and shock-value, which in a jaded time often resides in a work’s sheer ugliness or banality.”
— Christopher Lasch.

It's simply too difficult trying to decipher how compatible you may be with a person after only seeing them and seeing them once. You have to be copiously pretentious to decide one way or the other.

Second day of my history class and ive come to the conclusion that history indicates best how infinite out mistakes are, especially when we fail to ensure our premises are humane. If we are to dismiss this notion, we are to say that an action has desireble results but does not matter because things always FUCK up. We absolutely must value our premises and motives off we'll be far worse off.

thoughts for the day

Traffic in Beverly hills because these bourgeois vintage don't wann ruin the scenery with freeways

The busier we are, the less we have control over how we feel. Americans are only partially to blame for their ignorance.

CHILDREN MUST NOT BE TAUGHT THAT THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL BUT VALUABLE BECAUSE THEY ARE A HUMAN BEING

THE FACT THAT AMERICAN LEADERS ARE NOT ASHAMED OF WHAT AMERICANS MOIL THROUGH IS REASON ENOUGH TO BELIEVE AMERICAN DEMOCRACY TRANSLATES TO FASCISM, WRITING EXTENSIVELY IN COLLEGE WILL ONLY ENSURE YOU GROW AWARE OF STRUCTURALLY SOUND WRITING, AND AN EXTRA HOUR SHOULD BE ADDED TO THE DAY FOR MALE

RAPPERS ARE WACKY BECAUSE THEY DON'T KNOW WHEN TO PLAINLY STATE TRUTH OR WHAT TRUTH IS, POVERTY ENGENDERS UNITY SO LONG AS IT IS EXPERIENCED INGS TOLERABLE AMOUNT IN ONE'S YOUTH, DEPORTATION IS AN INCONSOLABLY STUPID IDEA, LIBERTARIANISM AND LOVE CANNOT COEXIST, AND I KNOCK ON MY WOOD FOR LONESOME LUCK

WE SHOULD HAVE MORE SYNONYMS FOR FRUSTRATE THAN SEX POSITIONS, THERE IS NO POINT IN EVENLY CUTTING HAIR, OCCUPATION IS ENSLAVEMENT, UNITY IS FREEDOM, CODEPENDENCY IS THE EPICENTER OF OUR EVOLUTION, ART IS THE ONLY NUCLEAR WEAPON, AND TECHNOLOGY'S UNFOCUSED GROWTH HARMS MORE THAN HURTS.

PEOPLE WHO ARE TOO NICE KNOW BEST WHAT BESIDES SEX AND PHYSICAL CONTACT LOVE CONSISTS OF, THE MOST EFFICIENT EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM IS RAN DEMOCRATICALLLY FASCIST, WATER TASTE BETTER THAN SODA, SCHOLARS WHO MAKE UP WORDS ARE CONCEITED, SOMETIMES THE WORDS BITCH, CUNT, SLUT, AND WHORE APPLY, LIFE IS AN IMMEASURABLE SEGMENT, AND THE OKLY THING TO FEAR IS FEARLESSNESS

FUCK ACCIDENTS, THE KNOWABLE WORLD IS UNCHANGING, WEIRDNESS IS NOT ECCENTRICITY, GOD IS A DREAM, HIP HOP IS DEAD, POP DIED LONG BEFORN IT,THE WORLD IS A COMMUNITY OF LINERS, AND I'M PLAYING WITH MYSELF ON MY DEATHBED

“You’re happy, and you think why aren’t I always this happy, and you realize why, and then you’re not happy anymore.”

—

John Dufresne

“In moments of intense joy he always grew sad, he himself could not have said why.

-Dostoevsky

“Freedom does not consist in any dreamt-of independence from natural laws, but in the knowledge of these laws, and in the possibility this gives of systematically making them work towards definite ends.”
—
Friedrich Engels

Lost in space
tethered to the human race
the goals i've set have remained unmet
sooner will I expire than accept
the most basic of contracts between
male and female
tethered to this expiring world.
lost in the gravitational pull
of the human race
the greater the density
the more of a hold an object will have onto me
your heart weighs a ton woman
don't you forget about the purposes i've stated
for staying.
i'm not debating where to go, i'm considering why.
for if i leave you, i will be weightless.
tethered to your kindness and graces,
i lie at the mercy of the unjust
one less reason to live, one more reason to persevere.
gratitude sometimes manifests as hope,
but i refuse to thank the void.
i'm tethered to everything,
and i cannot move.
all parts have a distinct hold on me,
but I most enjoy being tethered to you.
lost in the human race,
i belong adrift, freezing to death in outerspace.
would i be better of in any
alternative conditions?
prior to living, moms should have
stayed in the kitchen
avoided sex with a father who'd eventually leave
i reproach everything that has had any effect on me
i could have turned out better
could have grown larger and bolder baring limbs
large as boulders; with a wife by the age of 25
i know i'm not there yet but the future looks
as dim as the falling sky.
there are moments we do not anticipate becoming
pivotal instances in which our future is accidentally determined
but here we are: essentially accidents.
essentially born from unwarranted passion.
i only eclipse the labor of ants.
call me out of this dungeon, mom,
i'm stuck being the same man my father was and is.
failures have a tendency to feign a new identity every generation.
wasn't this the point at which he failed to overcome an addiction?
well here i am, addicted to listening to women who only hurt me.
by and large, the results are the same but the means are not;
one seems far more healthy. i disagree. substances or cordiality,
we men fall apart for the most basic absurdities.
but back to my point, and i pontificate to all:
i am tethered to the human race
lost in a crowd of nullities, farce, and whim.
i am tethered to the human race
wishing to be lost in outer space

It is, without question, the most organic, intense and passionate artform that exists, especially when you consider that the average band consists of four or five individuals that somehow have to find common ground to create one fully realized piece of expression in the form of song. On top of that, the translation of song in a live atmosphere literally changes every set, every night.

http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

". I don’t believe in the “punks”… I just believe in punk itself."

You’ll go to see a flavor-of-the-week hip-hop artist with nothing to say that has gone multi-platinum, pay $40 for admission, and consider this awesome in some sort of fucked up ironic way because it gives you something to tell your friends so that they think you’re crazy or funny.

- Ryan McKenney of Trap Them

“What if the way we perceive the problem is actually part of the problem?”
-Slavoj ZIzek

Commie hating capitalist: Waiting for superman [is a good documentary] if you can tolerate any non commie propaganda...but really all documenteries are one sided propaganda pieces meant to appeal to emotions and weepiness
Me: Opposition to emotions, spoken like a real Rand fand.
Commie hate filled objectivist: Almost all decisions based on emotion end badly.
Me: lol
Commie loathing conservative: Example hemmingway/thompson/cobain​ decisions to orally ingest lead, and plaths decision to easy bake her mellon
Me: I wouldnt doubt that you, especially being a reader of rand, must side with the ''be strong and push through or get the fuck out of life'' group of people who refuse to sympathize for the weak. so i'm quite sure you wouod be being more consistent in with all your opinions if you just said they're better off dead, which would mean their suicides were not ''bad'' ( a subjectively ascribes value based on emotions and motivation that support living) as you have said now, but quite just in fact. if you truly believe they were ''bad'' then you are of course implying that living through suffering would be a better decision, which means you believed they should continue offering themselves and their talents to the world -- forced altruism, is it not? -- or you would believe that they should create their own success and happiness in a system/life that they truly despised. not at lot og sense has been made, in short.

Capitalism is the middle ground between fascism and libertarianism.


We must see people simply as people. an enemy is simply whom reconciliation with is impossible or too taxing. we have a lot less enemies than we think.


government propaganda = bad. advertising that reduces autonomy in consumers = perfectly fine


The most selfish people are the ones who argue that everyone is selfish. they've already forgiven themselves for being immoral and apathetic.

Split humanity into owners and workers, and you will quickly see how very weak the owners are.

Unless you're living on the shore, the only nice view you'll have is of our profusely corporate culture


Everything is a waste of money when you're broke.

White privilege: optimist as logic, not fear.

To be jaded in this redundant society is to be consistently observant.

this society slaughters the souls of young men and forces all of their anger to be withheld and forced upon its own ostensibly perceived creator; instead of rightfully attacking the system that produces this repression, they attack the most easiest of foes: women, friends, relatives, or they resolve to game and rituals to express their angst.

Isaac Brock laid the roots that grew and became socialism; ''do you need a lot of what you got to survive?''

Surely the best we can do would yield better results.

Zizek
Century of self
Inside Job
Flight from death

“Life is long. All you kids out there living fast and dying young, you’re not going to die. You’re not that lucky, you’re just going to look like shit.”
— End Of A Year

“This instrumentalist impoverishment of struggle is not characteristic just of particular parties or currents (Stalinism, Trotskyism and so on): it is inherent in the idea that the goal of the movement is to conquer political power. The struggle is lost from the beginning, long before the victorious party or army conquers state power and ‘betrays’ its promises. It is lost once power itself seeps into the struggle, once the logic of power becomes the logic of the revolutionary process, once the negative of refusal is converted into the positive of power-building. And usually those involved do not see it: the initiates in power do not even see how far they have been drawn into the reasoning and habits of power. They do not see that if we revolt against capitalism, it is not because we want a different system of power, it is because we want a society in which power relations are dissolved. You cannot build a society of non-power relations by conquering power. Once the logic of power is adopted, the struggle against power is already lost.”
— John Holloway - Change the World Without Taking Power

“Constant experimentation in the arts, in any case, has created so much confusion about standards that the only surviving measure of excellence, for many, is novelty and shock-value, which in a jaded time often resides in a work’s sheer ugliness or banality.”
— Christopher Lasch.

YOu don't know how to love if you claim a person is too nice or good for you. Love is nothing but goodness and nicety. Kindness and honesty. How can a person possibly too nice or good in a world where there is so little of just those qualities? It would make infinitely more sense to hold on to that kindness and good so that you may survive the sadness, grief, the struggle, the turmoil, and so on, that exists imperviously. I hate the way the young love. Men too but I don't date men. I specifically hate the way women are better off longing from afar, and thus men like me are too because we seek practical women who are satisfied with being despondent. What shame a kind person feels. What agony is engendered because they do not succumb to the selfishness of humanity and take only as they need. All ills of mankind are perpetuated by mankind. Nature isn't some inconsolable fib, or a despot living inside our hearts and minds, manipulating our will and scandalizing our choices; nature is intricate but not definite. Choice and reason and sagacity could not be further from frivolity. I am at wit's end dealing with women my age and this is nothing more than the sententious pronunciation of such. I'm ready to embrace both celibacy and misogyny simply so that I do not instead choose suicide.

The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned.

William Somerset Maugham

purposeless art is insufferable for me. sure, its art, but it is pointless. that much cannot be refuted, I believe. and purposeless art is just as pernicious as poison as far as I'm concerned.
5 hours ago · Like
Erica Starr
purpose is subjective chris. the majority of art exists with the intent that others may find individual purpose, i guarantee you that you have appreciated a lot of pieces of art in a completely different way from the artist intentions. instrumental music, for example can be considered to have no purpose without guiding lyrics, but it creates a different landscape in people's minds. the best thing about art is that it can speak to an individual's soul in a number of different ways. if all art was seen exactly the same way by each person, the world would be a shitty place.
4 hours ago · Like
Christopher Anodyne
you overestimate the degree to which I'm willing to define art. within the bounds my definition has conjured, i do not seek to homogenize art and expression. If I did, I'd only listen to a very specific genre. forgive my impatience, but the world needs change and purposeless art isn't helping. purposeless art can be seen as art that provides no insight or emotional catharsis. not everyone who can make music should make music. not anyone who can wave a paint brush should. or rather, some art and music just shouldn't be heavily praised and appreciated like it is. a colalge for instance is nothing but an amalgam of images. life itself is that. my room is that. what purpose does an intentional amalgamation of objects have? absolutely none. only to create a set of things that has never been seen before. and that is the essence of purposeless art. you don't create anything just because its new. and if you do, and you're willing to believe it is great, then you have committed an immense travesty in the name of all art and expression.
4 hours ago · Like
Erica Starr Eh, bad art isn't a threat to good art, Chris. Bad, pretentious art has always been around and so has good inspiring art.
4 hours ago · Like
Christopher Anodyne
the latter must compete with the former. the former is often buoyant and unmediated mess. i know you will reproach me for saying, but compare lady gaga's music to one sole NIN album and you may see what I'm saying. think of all the focus that trent puts into making music that has by and large helped people continue to believe in existing; existing in a disagreeable tragedy ridden world. And what has lady gaga done? comparably, she's only made music to lighten the hearts of listeners and only inspire them to pursue a disguised sense of freedom and enjoyment. Gaga represents the collage makers, the "I made it, so its art" people. Trent, though even he may disagree, represents the people putting their emotions into their work to expand and improve the unspoken rhetoric we thrive on.

“When you’re a teenager and in your early twenties it seems desperately eternal and excruciatingly painful. Whereas as you grow older you realise that most things are excruciatingly painful and that is the human condition. Most of us continue to survive because we’re convinced that somewhere along the line, with grit and determination and perseverance, we will end up in some magical union with somebody. It’s a fallacy, of course, but it’s a form of religion. You have to believe. There is a light that never goes out and it’s called hope.”
—

Morrissey on Love

If one's greatest agent of disappointment is to be considered the cause of their radicalization, then I have been radicalized by women. In being told I'm too nice for them or that they're too whatever for me, I've ruminated the qualities about them I both love and despise. Typically what I've come away with is despair in rumination such as this. I think the first time this occurred was when a girl told me I was too nice - not for the first time - and I came to see her for all her optimism. I then dislodged all my anticipations for pure happiness, as I saw not only that she was hardly my type of women (because the optimism; therefore optimistic females would probably not be into me) but also because it just seemed like a fools errand to actually expect such perfection and glory of life.

THis was the time when I became resolutely pessimistic. I began developing justification for anticipating less in life. ANd i still do, primarily because of how disappointed I was at that time.

A few years pass and I meet someone else who I greatly anticipated to be a darling of sorts. Bullshit explanation, whatever. She came to say she wasn't good enough for me. It struck me as awfully reminiscent of the previous female who declared me inadequate in a roundabout way. What I came to understand as the result of this is that this generation has an infatuation with a few things: perfection, impulsivity, the anticipation of despair and hopelessness, and reaffirming its own worldview. These, of course, were the traits she embodied that I came to despise. I'm a prudent male. Hardly anything more. I cannot be so impatient and hopeless that I misconceive the intent and actions of another. I just can't. I'm too fucking fragile. Consequently, I do over-think, but most of the time I think enough to know what it is I'm doing and who I'm attracted to as well as why. And now as I read Dostoevsky's The Idiot, I find myself reminded of who I was in high school: the boy waiting for marriage, the nice guy, the shy guy. I was those things because of a christian ideal I applied my will to. ANd I am hardly any different now, but I see that it is not without purpose that I must remain this way, even if I do not believe in God anymore. THe suffering of the loneliest of the world is my main concern. One particular woman, and I beg you forgo all notions of determinism as I am simply speaking of possibilities, who I may end up with is suffering now in one way or another. SHe is without me and she is without love. As we males grow older, we are either bettered, or worsened. If I am to make her happy, I must continue to grow and become better. I absolutely must. ANd if leaving women, all of whom don't believe in the potential we share for love, alone helps sustain and mediate my desire for a woman who will appreciate me, then I cannot break, I cannot fall apart in an earnest plea for the whims of another woman.

Cynicism is generated from the desire to be right all the time. Human nature isn’t even consistent. Cynicism is wrong.

Both truth and fools are inconsolable.

“Minimalism is not a style, it is an attitude, a way of being. It’s a fundamental reaction against noise, visual noise, disorder, vulgarity. Minimalism is the pursuit of the essence of things, not the appearance.”
— Massimo Vingelli

some neighbor ruined my nap with their bullshit rap so i typed about how infuriated i was made by that

These kids and their lame ass rap music. Swear to god, wake me when music made for, by, and appealing to minorities isn’t some audible paraphrasing of bourgeois principles or talentless assholes crooning about the least detrimental misfortune theirvyoung, cynical, insipid head and hearts can imagine.

And when autotune isnt cool anymore. and when every beat doesnt sound so similar only the faux minimalism of odd future’s shit can capture new appeal.

And when whats popular isn’t a disturbing list of perversions and explicit innuendos that steal the mystery, beauty, and value of a flirtatious remark because every goddamn song must get a pussy wet and a dick hard since everyone’s too godd…amn bored with the intricacies of life and relationships that they’d prefer to be shown what an exciting one is instead of, god forbid, manifesting one that actually lasts and isnt built of pretension and absurd symbolic approximations hetween two individuals.
And when these dumbass kids learn the enjoyment of music isn’t one primarily blissful, but instead relative; the most powerful music isn’t some bullshit about who you want to be (which is the same exact cunt everyone wants to be) but who yo…u are and how you’re trying to become something/someone. christ. rest in peace our aspirations, now all we want to be is rich and lazy so we become broke and lazy and disregard the feelings of each other because so many of us arent rich and associating with a broke nigga or bitch is played, can’t respect yourself and appreciate someone trampled by the same system thats engendered your own fucking fantasies about how to live. fuck rap since around 2002 or so. its been shitty commercialized bullshit that no longer represents its people so much as it creates a spectacle of decadence and success, which is the very lifestyle we are least likely to achieve. fuck this bullshit completely. if standards were to be set, we’d openly claim we’re disappointed by entertaining rappers most likely even stupider than us. good lord, is that whats became of us? we dont even ave the decency to value members of our society that have set ethical boundaries for their actions. but thats not entirely true, we just want to love both fools and geniuses, the latter only serves to redeem the former. yea some fuck who can write a book or poem or run for president with distinctly ethical principles is cool, but everyone vows to love charlie sheeen or some bitchass rapper who’s pribably doing as much drugs as sheen when he isn’t writing lame raps or paying child support or buying more shit than he can afford.
And when these kids realize its not fucking fun to not give a fuck. and when they realize a display of apathy is infantile at best if it only arrouses their desire to party or fuck shit up but maintain the prominent principles of their time… that establishes the REAL anger of individuals who don’t give a fuck and want to fuck shit up because shit is fucking us up beyond a point of recovery. wake me when they see they give plenty a fuck and start directing their interest into a more viable place that isn’t bullshit competition and emotionless interaction.
and when life is not synonymous with a self-perpetuated party that ceases to end and only begins once you’re awakened by the hypnotic undulations of vibrant bodies taking in fluids to reinvigorate their desire to not be else where. and wake me when people realize they’re fucking asleep.

Painless art should only exist in a painless world. I considered the opposite too: painful art should only exist in a painful world. Such a point would be made by an optimist or a hipster realist, or whatever, but the abundance of pernicious elements of reality aside: if there is any pain in the world, it needs to be documented and tended to. There is a point to the happiness of an activist. It is as if their indignation has sought and found some of the rewards it deserves; knowing more and more people are joining a movement is a delight. Being around more people interested in the dire causes one has joined is not the same as accomplishing the freedoms one has set out to achieve, but its a hell of a lot better than knowing there’s just as few people interested in liberating us all as there were the last time a group coalesced. And this serves to reduce the pain in the world, but in doing so it must acknowledge it. Which would by why you get Dylan performing at a million man march, and even that atrocious amalgamation of light hearted dilettantes - better known as the Rally to Restore Sanity - showcased a few political-esque (gaaaahhhh) songs instead of having fucking James Blunt or another punk ass optimist coward twaddle their way through a chorus and verse

The other day, a few weeks ago, I was giving some thought to this RSA animate or lecture video I watched wherein the speaker challenged the idea of the profit motive and presented an alternative: the purpose motive. THe purpose motive mostly describes a human beings ability to work for the notion of satiating a purpose, rather than acquiring money. Apropos: money has no real relevance other than in a system where money is integral to the sustenance of life. Currency of any sort essentially is nothing more than a medium between man/woman and the object of their desire: food, housing, transportation, etc. So without money, is an individual to be pressured into making money to fulfill their desires? Or can they live perfectly well with company and food and love? I believe its the latter. For the very desolate are often without purpose and thus do not believe living life is worth the effort each day produces. More than an affirmation of my socialist proclivities, this means human beings must need a purpose to find solace in suffering; we need to know there is a reason to have a shitty (or great) job so that we don’t go home and become so overwhelmed with depression we eventually give up. I believe love is that purpose. In all its glory, it is multifaceted enough to never refuse applicability.

So of course I believe in true love. Without it, the notion of living becomes the movement of ones, the singular momentum of randomly generated masses, the ebb and flow of whim. I loathe few things more than a genuine, voluntary abstraction from prudence. I’ve told at least one person how I believe that if we all resorted to answering all the nagging questions within, we’d find the same answers - or most of the same answers. And I believe love would be the most common answer. Not some immature, petulant love that sets about achieving a new face and soul each day, but a lasting love that recognizes the fragility of an object and its unique beauty. I think I could go on much further, but I shall not. And speaking of being able to write for eons without end, I’ll end with a quote from Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground: “….with love, one can live even without happiness.”

Children should not be taught to dream of a perfect world. Fostering such foresight of adulthood is detrimental to the mental health of a child. Not only does it absolve large portions of responsibility that one takes for their own actions, but it ensures that people will be perpetually, or quite frequently, disappointed by their fellow human beings, and vice versa, because no human being is perfect. What children should be taught is to recognize solutions and recourse; they should be encouraged to think not of a perfect world, but how to perfect this world. There is no achievable end when one imagines perfection, and that is because becoming perfect is the perpetual goal of a good person. I cannot help but think of the hypocrisy unwittingly bestowed in an individual who appraises insecure, idiotic public figures as more admirable than the people who approach life with humility and gratitude. Such qualities as those are a rarity among famous people. ANd it means that such qualities are devalued among lesser known people


A shitty poet is one who has not configured an actual, demonstrably valid philosophy or the ability to impart knowledge while utilizing literary devices efficiently….but he is a good rapper.



If we willingly separate art from the culture that surrounds and engendered it, then we have made our society far worse off than we would if we sought to unite the two. most people aren’t happy or successful, yet most pop and art in general is. does no one see the ill fated reasoning in this?

this slutwalk shit is ridiculous. I’ll put away my nice guy rhetoric for just a moment and simply say I hope all the people willing to march for this shit are willing to march for labor rights, anti-war protests, medicare, and a bunch of other issues.

moreover, i’m getting tired of the politics in this country becoming obsessed with minor shit that only exists because our society hasn’t sought to reconstruct all institutions to run on demonstrably effective theories that will enable society to be composed of cohesive groups and communities getting along. this shit about drugs, gay marriage, abortion, changing rape laws - all this shit is indicative of the same lack of power we have as citizens. our fight should be a wholesome one to establish an actual democracy where we can decide what the hell we do. fixing or voting on policies effecting only one of those issues subverts the general cause. it makes as much sense as a socialist debating utopic visions with a communist or an anarchist. we all want the same universal freedom. we’ve really allowed our sights to be set short if any of us think that begetting an alternative world for women who want to remain free to be promiscuous (I argue that is the primary nature of this; otherwise there’d be no need for the nomenclature ascribed and the protests would be a wave of feminist protests known as nothing more. Imagine the civil rights movement suddenly being named by incumbent activists as “The Water Fountainers: people who want to drink from clean water fountains!” or the million man march being called “The Interracial dating proponents walk”) will cure the women, or the nation, of a significant amount of its obstinate woes. It’s time to focus on the big picture, the whole change that needs to be relieved.

Lastly, once more on the subject of rape and abuse: I feel I can safely say, as Oscar Wilde did, that these crimes are often the effect of a starvation. He was literal - he spoke of feeding the malnourished and poor - but I’m sure we can transpose his purported principle to match present context. As people, Americans live their lives in constant search of one moment of pleasure that will unify body and soul, establish peaceful occupation of the psyche by the id, ego, and superego; we search for rightful pleasure. And we are starved of this epiphanic moment every day of our lives. Ergo: maladaptive and, at times, violent coping mechanisms and psychoactive drugs meant to relieve the ‘pain’ of being dreadfully normal and without the rightful pleasure. We are significantly starved of attention, sexual activity, food, education, approval, acceptance, company, and the list goes on and fucking on. Would you protest the pejorative connotation of the word ‘idiot’ in order to change the continuous ailing of education in America? No, so why don the word slut for a protest like that will do anything? I am speaking without compendious knowledge of this slutwalk phenom, I know, but I certainly believe with complete and utter resolve that any accomplishment to be won by this nation’s people will be the most easily feasible result of fighting more grand struggles.

When did mediocrity and banality become a good image for your children?

-Bill Hicks

Sufficed to say: this is the present state of most music right now. Banality is copious and so many people find it worth coping with. But where is the love of life is bullshit is accepted? The more I find out about the opinions of people who keep up with modern rap and enjoy a lot of it, the more I see they’ve basically given up on it being any better. The 2pacs, the Wu-Tangs, the Deep Puddle Dynamics, they’re nowhere to be found. What you have instead are individuals keeping rhythm with hip hop as an art form and structure wherein rules are to be followed to produce honorable art. Rappers rhyme, make up some silly metaphors, display some nonchalance and arrogance, and call that shit a day. People soak it up because thats what hip hop is externally. But the passion is lost. ANd it is even lost in the fans. People are, as far as I can see, just fucking apologizing for wack shit. They’ll say not every rapper has to be the greatest. Well who the fuck is even great anymore??? jesus christ. I do feel jaded, but I’m jaded by an incredibly redundant society recycling garbage; by a elementally secluded artform whose inhabitants refuse to help the genre grow; by a society producing whatever profits most. Yet I am the fool for not finding enduring sources of joy here. No fucking way that makes sense.

I posit the killer of hip hop to be...

(some of) white america.

far as i can tell, the history of hip hop went something like this: negros find new way to express discontent, hip hop gains notoriety, people who don’t concur with or want to hear the primary message of negros (LOLOL LIVIN THE HOOD KINDA SUCKS BRO) favor less depressing messages - messages white america/non-broke motherfuckers can relate to. those people get rich and become the notable frontmen and women of the genre, record labels only sign those losers, those losers get rich because white america/non-broke motherfuckers are a larger portion of america’s population than negros. Selling this much means they have the more power in the industry (yay capitalism) and can influence (if not dictate) the way people view them. This power to influence has led to establishing both gritty and rich images of rappers that aren’t either. Then after about a decade of this: all you get are motherfuckers obsessed with the art as a form, motherfuckers only trying to be lyrical and dope without a message - people who can’t express what those pioneering negros expressed because these new motherfuckers haven’t lived that life.

and what it ultimately produces is a narcissistic culture obsessed with possessions because somewhere along the line the dreams of the poor, to be rich, became the commonality uniting anyone and everyone who weren’t the people selling the music. and who were those people?!!? anyone?!!? ANYONE?!!? AHHH THATS RIGHT, WHITE PEOPLE!

It bears worth also mentioning that this is what happened with punk/hardcore. motherfuckers hopped on board and used a set of aesthetics and styles to express ideas that were completely disassociated with the original principles of punk/hardcore.

“It means stupid, thats what optimistic means, you know. It means stupid. AN optimist is someone who says “hey…maybe something nice will happen!”, why the FUCK would anything ‘nice’ ever happen? What are you stupid??” - Louis CK

I love her so much it makes me want to cry.

I have wanted some women so completely. I've desired with all that I am composed of. Yet, I come away with nothing. It takes a sturdy foundation of courage to need. I admire a man who is willing to beg a woman for affection and love more than a man who carries on at the slightest sign of disinterest. Our impatient lives are being wasted. WE're running through lifetimes and burgeoning a carelessness that only preserves the self. Such a shame, such a waste. Such a loss. How am I to be there for a woman if she believes she neither needs a man or that she has the time to develop love? I'm full of a bitterness that unravels with the days. I'm standing outside myself, watching a train wreck become. I cannot believe the events I have endured as well as initiated. I am ashamed of myself; my mistakes, my uxoriousness, all of it. I've begged for fondness from fucking idiots. Purely stupid individuals that wish for a dream. Reality doesn't always fucking suck, I've tried to be proof of such to some. Christ. I''m done with everything. The only real question my heart, my soul, the quintessential portion of my mind asks is why continue. And I am running out of reasons. To be real, the only reason I have left is the minuscule fact that someone may love me as I love them, someone may consider - with depth and gratitude - the possibility that two human beings together leads to greater passion than a life of singularity. But who among the wanna be pop princesses and reckless females would wish for the monotony of my unwavering interest? I'd have to be someone completely not me to even rouse the interest of a female; dry ice or female interest: I cannot hold either. I'm holding on to my self against my will. The weight of me leaves my cavs week. I'm burning memories to sustain eligibility for love. Yet all my actions are illegible for the common woman and both extreme types: the extremely lonely and the extremely extroverted. I'm nothing to all women, wholly disregarded by the species. Should I continue to watch their beauty and gaze longingly? To swivel eyes with breasts and asses, to hold my seed inside with diligence so that one day I may break free in the arms of someone who actually loves me? Excuses. Every reason I have to continue is an excuse.

To all those who want to raise a young man who will never know the lovely presence of a woman romantically interested in him: raise him in a house full of women. Or simply teach him to respect woman and believe they are equal. He will grow to eventually attempt to court a young lady and be rejected because he idolizes her and treats her like the beautiful being he sees her as, but she will disagree. She will not acquiesce, not even after a large portion of time is spent on her by the young male. She will prefer the wanton and disinterested aura of a typical, generic, vapid male, commonly referred to as a bad guy. He will not seek to prove to her that he loves her or even cares for her, simply that he’s, at times, delighted to be in her presence. She will be replaceable to him, but she won’t acknowledge this; she will build a He in her heart and mind, and that will be the basis of her delusion. Meanwhile, the nice young male who at least envisioned an immediate future with the young lady will grow disillusioned against his will; he will grow misogynistic. And he will war with himself forever more because if chivalry isn’t dead, it is profusely unrewarded. And this will be life, and the world will turn in its longing for excitement and pleasure, not equality and mutual distribution of responsibility and care. And everything will be fine somewhere else, where the nice young male - heart full of enshrined females he has so fully attached to that he now wonders if he has any love left to attach and offer to someone new - isn’t; where the disparity of love as an obligation disproportionately exists in less than halves opposing the greater portion (the side burdened by an actual desire to love - but loves the wrong person). And it will go on forever because equality takes effort and effort diminishes beauty upon first notice.

18thex-perpetual replied to your quote: To all those who want to raise a young man who…

its just as marginalizing to be idealized as it is to be demeaned. personally i would hate either form of relationship.

The moderate form of a relationship I favor and believe is most nourishing is one that maintains idolatry and realism without too much of either. Too much realism leaves an individual just looking at the fleshy, progressively sagging body of their partner and has only reason to love it if it becomes beautiful. I suppose idolatry may be the wrong word, but no love exists without an enriched fascination. Those that don’t love life become nihilists. Those that don’t love and see the captivating beauty of a human body become promiscuous, unattached romantic-wayfarers. Thats how I see it. Perhaps it is preemptive idolatry that is the root of a dissuasion such as the one you’d feel. I can’t quite say. I just know that I’ve tried desperately to express both desperation as well as patience and neither has paid off. At some point, a man isn’t so willing to conclude its just his luck, but instead perhaps no one out there that wants to be admired and loved.

Slightly funny and sad how parts of that presuppose all love is meant only for long term purposes/marriage. Jesus, I’ve got to get my mind off the future.

THe value of consumerism should be no mystery. In truth, all commodities are variations of the same goal: to ease the difficulty of life; to make the strenuous simple. All around us is proof of what human beings have created to reduce our ineptitude: a glass to carry around fluids inside of, a window with blinds to allow light into a room at the volition of an occupant, compact discs holding recorded ideas and emotions later to be listened to, pieces of paper to also carry ideas and emotions that will later be referred to, etc.

Thus, a critique of consumerism shouldn't seek to dismantle the market as we know it, but instead to encourage a more prudent process of consuming. What will follow is not only the willingness to tell one's self 'no' to buying something they do not need, but also the ability to use only that which can be used.

It also bears worth saying that the commodities we consume lead us to believe our quality of life is higher than that of a 3rd world country because the inherent usefulness of any form of technology. An individual may not be abjectly poor, but since they can clean a household, talk to friends on a telephone, check their facebook and explore the internet on their computer, the individual is inclined to not even confront the reality that they indeed are not middle class either. I believe this delusion is the most significant disincentive of a revolution. Complacency is only obvious from the view of the disgruntled. The more we consume, the more new products and revisions have to be made to keep us consuming; the process never disrupts itself and questions if it should be halted or at least slowed down.

An unattended child, leaning against a car, preparing to search forever.

You dont want company, you only want to tease your loneliness; pretend it doesnt exist, but only for a short while.

Its amazing how easily a woman will forget about s man, or even disregard his feelings. Yet he has no right to be upset. She's confused so i must mute me.

- I now realize what I was really eking towards with my anti-kindle and e-books phase yesterday. The world is becoming less authentic and less lovable. Everything is being stripped down to its bare, essential state. There is nothing to be fascinated by. Why have a book when you can just download all the words and probably an image of the cover? This is a world of images and projections. How long before our own very bodies are reduced in the same way? As Pessoa remarked, the sanctity of the human body from an aesthetic perspective only exists in cultures where clothing is more than arbitrary and optional. As I see television shows and adverts getting racier and the bodies of men and women being scandalized further, I think the future is both bleak and far from perplexing; its quite clear where we're headed. Perversion is being standardized. THe other day some kid in my public speaking class gave a speech and asked, with heavy implication on the affirmative, if the men in the class would like to see a naked woman in an advert. The casualty of such a question, to pose it to a class not only filled with men. That isn't the product of anyone that heralds intimacy as one of life's finest attributes. I've digressed largely, but I feel this is one example of how much future generations are likely to not even believe in beauty so much as they believe in expressed or replicated beauty. And I believe this is a direction we should avoid at all cost. Someone told me I fetishized books by preferring them over their electronic competitors. Tonight I came to understand thats because I don't mind fetishizing life. I think the will to live only exists with a love for aesthetic idiosyncrasies as well as banalities (sometimes - rarely, rather). Gah. I think we're moving more in the direction of impatience than we need to be. Thats what I've been trying to prove/say. I've been addressing everything with what David Foster Wallace said about how profusely americans acknowledge their own impulses; we do so without regard or prudence, without contemplation about consequences or necessity. And I would say that being able to download everything takes some of the pleasure there is in living at a brisk pace, or as Bukowski put it, "aging gently". Listening to vinyl is a much more involved process than simply playing a cd that you can skip around on.


- I feel such an urge to disconnect from humanity that I will not suffer fools gladly in the time I spend not ruminating heavily upon burdensome topics like death, the fragility of the earth, my own absurd existence, and so on. I don't know how people claim to dislike humans and their stupidity yet they're entertained by fucking idiots. I just don't see the extrapolation there. Is that response to exploitation any different from the ones that idolize fools and want to be some bitchass loser on the real world? Christ. I think this is what has always ate away at me when I find out someone listens to, for instance, Joy Division and the fucking Yin Yang Twins or some other group of dumbasses. How can true affection as a fan of music exist for both those acts within the same person? Just doesn't make sense to me. Essentially, what is being said is one enjoys the world and loathes it but doesn't loathe the people that make life loathsome, we instead enjoy their stupidity and impetuousness. Their buoyant, artificially sly remarks about sex and casual romance made in passing as if the subjects were equally worthless yet attainable.


that all nowhere.

the near fatal recognition of

what lies beneath your own sighs. yearning for women that do not respond or do not reflect your feelings. an immobile bruise. seeks neither to bury itself or evaporate/distill/ascend/whatever wounds that honor the continuity of time do when they realize healing may lend strength to the weak. sorry to all, apologies all around. the smiles are scarce these days, the trust is gratuitous and gruesome: thrown in all directions in an ambivalent attempt to reserve the will to live. the will to live, just another figment, another set of words. if it were self-evident, the issue would not be having faith in the living or pursuing one's own fulfillment, but rather the discovery of methods most likely to ensure fulfillment. the alternative to this utopia, the only dissonant, valueless facade we can will suffering for is that which engenders peril from purity and bewilderment from clarity. is it too much to ask to be acknowledge? i'd rather be a mole on her asscheek. I'd rather unite incontrovertibly with the lips she pours compliments to other men from. to shrink myself to half the size of a single synaptic chasm, and catch an impulse of hers with bare hands. hold it with me until i evaporate/dissolve/descend/whatever suppressed favorites do when they realize reemerging is a whole and a half of the beauty of nostalgia. do it. and then do it again, because love is to be sought, fought for, reached, captured, and mangled until malignancy becomes sovereign state of your hellhold for two. cry out from below, the only place she cannot be removed from. it is her passions that will sew your death certificate: the document will be of wool and some other man's, whom she compliments, semen will glue rice to build the letters. it will read like a yeats poem. your dirt will read like a earthly trophy; proof god exists and weeds out the weak. and i will evaporate/dissipate/burn to ash by the fuel of continuity/whatever young, wound up spirited men do when their lover decides elsewhere to spawn love. 2 more arms, much stronger. 2 more legs, much firmer, 1 dick, much more fervor, 1 mind, much smarter. out done, out done, out done.

People pretend that profit is the one reason we as a nation grow yet the very cultures they majorly embraced are the product of impoverished individuals utilizing elements of their own surroundings to establish conduits of entertainment.

she is all the places I wish for my tongue to go.

it arrives upon me as I make a smoothie

People that consume fast food, me included, often take a preference and then that becomes what believe is a choice, yet they aren't composing the burgers or frying the fries, so how could they really have choice?

Thus, true liberty and freedom (especially of choice) is the ability to utilize internal components to achieve a desired outcome. A person must be the ultimate decider of how they live and they must use internal reasoning to decide who to be. Now with a community, this means absolute democracy must be upheld. The people must work together to achieve a desired out come and the power must be centralized in the people who compose the society, not people who privatize and own the resources and means of production. Thats like believing in God to help you digest food.

Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not selfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does not think at all - Oscar Wilde

I want to stroke you casually as you do yourself.

I am so vastly sick of everything. WE don't even have problems, we have complications. Intricacies sewed to fundamental desires and needs. Sacrifices we make for the sake of minuscule jubilation, hints of solace. Perilous as ever, we are and always will be.

“

All of the problems that exist in our world are essentially the result of individuals without realizing or simply without regarding the consequences that those actions will have on their peers. We are all guilty of this. The result is a failure of trust. But despite this lack of trust, despite being let down and even given up on, we can’t give up on others. We can’t perpetuate this endless cycle of distrust. We must break it.

In this life, you will be let down. You will be dropped. You will be hur. You will not be appreciated. And when things are at their absolute worst, and you fall backwards, there will be no arms there to catch you.

But you must stand back up. We all must stand back up. And together we must help each other to stay standing.

To me, that is what this record represents. It is an angry record, because there is a lot in this world worth being angry about. It is a cathartic record, because it is a positive, meaningful, and necessary way of expressing this anger before the problems that cause it can be addressed. And it is a defiant and unsubmissive record because the people behind it will never fail to stand up after they have fallen. And that is the inspiration I draw from this record and from [members of In First Person].
”
— Mike Brennan of Paramnesia Records

The thing about you kids is that you're all kind of insensitive. I'm glad I grew up when I did cos your parents were too perfect at parenting- all that baby Mozart and Dan Zanes songs; you're just so sincere and interested in things! There's a confidence in you guys that's horrifying. You're all ADD and carpal tunnel. You wouldn't know Agoraphobia if it bit you in the ass, and it makes you mean. You say things to someone like me who's older and smarter with this light air... I'm freaked out by you kids. I hope I die before I end up meeting one of you in a job interview.

i'll be your body's historian. an archeologist of your epidermis, finding youth buried in your skin's crevices. loving you for what you've lost.

thoughts of the day

Trends die with the youth of its proponents.

I hate everything about america except its dissidents.

Takes more strength than you'd suppose to loosen your grip.

She makes me sick.

for as long as you exist
and you believe you have a basis,
don't go climbing up rafters
don't fall in love with the faceless

you will likely doubt you feel something you've never defined.

who would ever treat a man so bad,
well who the fuck wouldn't?
in confusion, we lack prudence;
are two ever certain of love
for one another?

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them. --Ernest Hemingway

when i was young

I yearned for female company mostly because of hormones and curiosity. And now, I do so because of curiosity and the hope that I will not die alone.

There goes yer name again and here comes the tears.

two days without

masturbating. lets see how long this can last.

To be held and caressed is all i wish for right now.

lay down with love on your mind, like it is mine, and we'll never get up.

Suicide is the only victimless act. Both assailant and victim are one in the same, both get what they want.

To love life, one must make an event out of everything. BUt that takes a lot of energy to practice daily.

I cry and worry most over the fragility of life and its incumbent pleasures and events.

"“Anyone who is not entirely blind to social reality will likewise recognize as hypocritical the right-wing claim that the work in Sensation is “sick and offensive.” The truly “sick and offensive” facts of modern life are the social conditions—poverty, homelessness, misery of all kinds—presided over and continuously made worse by those making the claim. Nothing in art can come close to that. If anything, the irony is—and this is something I would like to return to—that the art in Sensation is an all too accurate reflection of some of the more retrograde tendencies in contemporary society.” "


“One gets the sense that some of these painters and sculptors—like many youthful “celebrities” today, whether in sports, popular music or films—have been picked up by the art industry and its operators, fed into its maw and never allowed to mature. They are obliged to remain artificially “young” for commercial reasons. This has to affect the work they do.”



“…[artists] have become the play-thing to a large extent of the wealthy and powerful, and their work takes the form of a cool and self-serving accommodation to the social transformation. There is no anger, no protest, relatively little compassion for society’s victims. Entirely excluded is the possibility of altering external or internal reality. (Why should it be changed, anyway? Some of the artists have made a bundle and are not at all dissatisfied.) There is only the clever maneuvering among and within existing objects and relations, a universe of openings, galas, tabloids, rock stars, pornography and mass media. Utopian vision is absent, and so for that matter is the anti-utopian; the art is largely of the present moment, the moment least important for art.”

goddammit

she brightened my whole day, the whole fucking thing.

I hope you will not just be another girl i remember as no more than just a girl i was talking to during my fanciless youth.

a beautiful young man dies much

less than that

oh but don't we all want somebody we can't have?
and don't we judge who we do harshly because of that?

“The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche

Staring at the neck of the woman ahead of me, i notice her skin folds when she turns her head. She is a sight, and i would marry her if...

I will feast upon you where foolish men have frolicked.

MOvies watched since last saturday:

Oh Brother where art thou
The Ladykillers
PI
28 Days Later
Ed Wood
Buffalo 66
Junebug
Thumbsuckers
American Splendor (half of it)
Its Kind of a Funny Story
Greenberg

On the subject of Odd future blah blah blah blah

There is no indignation in fun. Rebellion without purpose is easier to manipulate and capitalize from than complacency; the acts of rebellion denote an air of activity and self-righteousness that you will only find among punks that went pop or normal, hippies that gave up, and the falling wave of any movement strong enough to actually fight for social reform and a change in the edifice that debilitates passion - which is very very easy to sell because who really wants to be an average american? Not even those already an average american want to, and especially those who are set in schools and institutions or places of employment that help marginalize creativity and inspiration do not want to ascribe themselves to a very typical way of life. Thus, with punk/hip hop’s originators having their pride broken, stolen, or partitioned, the idea packaged in bands or musical acts then sold is that it is more important to ignore authority, than to fight it. Its like getting punched but going on to fight with a punching bag instead of attacking your original assailant. I can’t co-sign that. I miss old school eminem: the anger he had beginning his career and the passion he wrote/performed everything with, but I won’t just listen to these new cats from [insert appropriate acronym here (I ain’t googling that shit)] and pretend I’m suddenly crucifying the hegemon with the most engaging ambivalence that duplicitously curates the ailments of our Americanized, complacent, acquiescent, delusional, downtrodden spirits.

I am not the man she is eager to describe to other friends as her boyfriend.

I swear i have always

found it easier to converse with women.

Here it is,

Every single fucking woman
I could
possibly need
giving all the men I'll never
be
everything i yearn for.

Love him like a worn cloth,
Facades of nostalgia don't decay.
He's beautiful where he curves,
Instruct him to make your bleeding late.
Put some other man's dick in your mouth,
it'll give you strong bones.
Fuck em til you and he hurt,
it'll make you live long.

About a year of knowing her and

last night i had my first dream about her.

She came to my house out of nowhere and we started hanging out in my room. Talking led to kissing which led to frolicking and eventually I'm above her and she says "lets have sex." I am reluctant because this seems rather impulsive and unfettered. Eventually we do so and once we finish...it comes to me asking her, before she leaves, if I can see her the next day or soon at all. In my mind, I'm asking this because I believe she's on vacation or isn't going to be around my area for long. She basically says she doesn't thin we're gonna see each other again and then I spend the rest of my dream crying.

I think this is also the first time I've really cried so much...in a dream.he

The very fact that all actions in our lives are now predicated upon the possible euphoria some tasks may produce should be clearly recognized as indication of how pitifully we feel inside. Entertainment is a form of sedation, and experiencing it is the only goal we have. If it were not the ideal way to spend time, we wouldn’t associate boredom with depression - at least not so predominantly. There’s no room even for a voice that calls for the quieting of cheer. I haven’t read Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent, but I feel a point similar to this would have to be made in it; for a govnerment or wealth class to be able to manipulate people, they have to first at least establish a sense of decentralized power not emblematic of a democracy, and then they have to continuously project images and ideas fawning about the American dream and how good it is to be happy.

I have to say: if all our joys and hope and optimism and love for living were entirely constructed on our own, we wouldn’t be such a dissonant amalgamation of sufferers competing over paychecks and opportunities; we would be up in arms demanding peace and an understandable, practical regimen for living in America. One has to - absolutely must - take at least a gander at this fact. The disparity between our own lives and the commercials that inspire us, Christ, what the fuck. Is anyone still under the impression that all of that is even possible? We are being misled. A toll on our integrity and communal affection has been taken. Our passion hindered. Cowering in fear that our next may be our last breath, we don’t trust each other but we all believe we’re supporting the perfect lifestyle.

Thoughts for the day:

Cant have culture and passion without anguish, hence america's utter lack of meaningful art and beliefs that go any deeper than ''smile'' or some aphorism about enjoying your life endlessly. Apropos: america has only trampled cultures that are now sold, have been sold, or will be sold. I once said on facebook that american has no cultures, only businesses. People weren't feeling that.

Christ, i just remembered a girl i had a crush on in elementary school who, if memory serves right, believed me to be some weirdo. i woke up oje morning after recently graduating from the school and even then as a boy no older than like 11 i was distraught over the reality of never seeing her again. good lord it is difficult to care. nostalgia degenerates the soul.

The Occupants

This house
is full
of age.
These walls are wrinkling
behind my back.
I can hear them,
as I rest,
cry like passengers
on falling flight.
Somewhere a window is opened,
elsewhere a room collapses.
Beds everywhere, cushions
soft enough for no one to rest upon.
Bad idea here, regrettable memory there.
irascible youth,
primitive scars,
quintessential unimportance -
staining the carpet.
Baby vomit on my skin,
I tore a piece
of my mother's vagina
off when I was thrown
into this world.
I am paying back
for the pain since,
since,
and since.
And I am breathing,
and that is the catapult
from which joy is launched
somewhere down the street.
I can hear,
i can make out,
i can see
it all
from the tearing screen
of my room's window.
And it is hard to recall
that you are merely an occupant.
It is hell to know.
It is a house full of age,
a spine outstretched - widened - by woe.
It is a house full of age.
Surely the finest of
agony
thanks this disconcerted abode for
its being.

I love her, but do not have the experiential evidence to justify doing so.

The feeling goes no deeper than missing the one who made you

happy.

No one's going to come out of this dirt-free; I don't come out of it dirt-free. It's basically [about] having to make a decision whether to do nothing or try to engage with it in some way, knowing that it's flawed. It's convenient to project that back on to someone personally and say they're a hypocrite. It's a lot easier to do that than actually do anything else. And yeah, that stresses me out, because I am a hypocrite. As we all are.

-Thom Yorke

People sometimes ask me if I'm happy and I tell them to fuck off. If I was happy, I'd be in a fucking car advert. A lot of people think they're happy, and then they live these boring lives and do the same things every day. But one day they wake up and realize that they haven't lived yet. I'd much rather celebrate the highs and lows of everyday life than try to deny them.
- Thom Yorke

“I feel tremendous guilt for any sexual feelings I have. So I end up spending my entire life feeling sorry for fancying somebody. Even in school I thought girls were so wonderful that I was scared to death of them.”
— Thom Yorke






I cannot, and I will not say it any better. Ever. Its like a step pass Morrissey's depravity, into the realm of intent to interact but a crippling fear debilitates any movement. A crippling adoration, rather.

this is my purpose
and i'll be dying for it handmade
possibly shirtless
disturbed by the worthless
ive got an affinity for desert islands

my dissent for modern hip hop

First of all: erratic fluctuations in audibility and pitch aren't necessarily displays of emotion. And that is precisely what most rappers do. And it is false, false, false, and false and farce. How much of the emotions are real when the average rapper is talking about how much they love themselves? Why would the realness of emotions within the context of primarily self-referential rappers even be suspected to exist? And more importantly, why the fuck would those emotions have any pertinence for you, the listener, not living the life of the narcissistic rapper?

Rap fans are the most obvious spectators in the history of music. Prior to them, I'm sure people would imagine they were rich and successful, but that wasn't the dominant subject matter in any music genre. People would be more likely to imagine they had the flawless love pop stars of old and new have sung about. Now hip hop fans get their shits and giggles listening to motherfuckers speak of being able to replace anything they own with ease, because they're so fucking rich and detached from everything (because it all has either a monetary or otherwise artificial value), and the money to buy anything they want.

And what this all should reveal sooner than that I am another heretic of some sort, is that somewhere deeper down inside, beneath the desire to dance to the undulations of bass, beneath the love for, albeit falsely, relating to joys of joyous rapper, we are sad and horrified by the immensity of woe in our lives. So it becomes an escape to listen to popular idiots. Yet, if questioned, one would say that the point of life is to enjoy it. Music is a fairly common conduit for entertainment and enjoyment, thus people will identify with people they aren't. This contradicts starkly what is the common goal of most lives; if the only most abundant source of enjoyment you get in life stems from listening and experiencing art made by people you wish you were, then you are not really enjoying your life. You're enjoying their life.


I am certain that in some subconscious form this has manifested in the minds of all corporations who have raped hip hop for what its worth. We've been the recipients of marketable dreams for decades now, and hip hop came out of the ghetto in a sort of new age tale-of-the-underdog folk way. And eventually the predominant star in the genre was the one who could sell the most. Who would sell more than someone that doesn't appear to have came up rich as fuck and happy all the time? (Ha, another hint of how sad we are: we're still coming up, trying to get out of that perpetual slump). It is worth noting that this was the trend occurring in the 90's and has progressed into a phase where people don't even love the underdog as much as they love the clearly successful guy/gal. THe self-obsessed queer at soul who doesn't fucking care about much other than the monuments they can build to attest for their affluence. Sure, the idea that maybe they weren't always rich is there, but its unconsciously motivating fans to love the music. It is presumed, now, that no one's had it easy growing up and trying to become successful, so joy and relativity is a reflex when listening to their music.

But whatever. I'm a pessimist and can't comprehend a good time, or some shit.

Listening to bright eyes, I say, I say,

I say I think we fail to judge the things we love. Sight be only applied to the attractive parts.

I say, I say, I say this because this motherfucker sounds like such a kid. Its not depressing music, and its not entirely happy - but its not right in the middle; its not just acceptance filled music. I don't know if I can listen to this feller. I remember the last time I talked to her she was listening to bright eyes and something clicked. He must be nebulous enough to submit to either side of our emotions' continuum. That is not to say there aren't moments that he stands firmly on either side, but I don't think his music if for me. But I'll give I'm WIde Awake, Its morning and some other album of his a try.

True love lay far too uncut - Doseone

At least I think thats the line from the opening of Ethereal Downtime. I'm not sure.

Anyway, if love is unanimously believed to be natural and reflexive, then it will reflect not the tragedy of its time it could subvert or the truest, deepest yearning of an individual. Something meant to last, such as love, cannot exist without effort. If it lay untouched and misjudged - or not judged at all- then it will never be experienced. What will be experienced is some tickling away, for a moment, the fear and misery beset in us. ANd that is such a vague reaction, one can easily produce a similar reaction with drugs or adrenaline.

If we do attempt to define and understand love, then we will know for certain if one specific individual is worth being with, or if they're just passing by through one's life. If we do not comprehend love, we will drown in regret, proffer our unrequited affection and forever be uncertain about who to pursue, and whether we even know someone valuable enough to remain indebted to for life.

Long retort (to nothing) short: love is worthless if we do not firstly grasp a definite idea of its purpose as well as its manifestation, tangible or not.

With the first

she was probably disinterested from the start, but spending hours driving around and talking would purport otherwise to the logical. Turns out, I was avoiding this truth from the beginning and hoping to become much like her, she was a bubbly optimist, full of cheer and normalcy. How the fuck could I love someone like that?

The second, most recent, the lovelier of the two, the brooding bigot who held opinion steady and safely flush against my own, she is now just, as I see her and I cannot help but hope I am wrong, a confused girl growing into a common woman. Afraid of so many things, she's unsure even about what she concludes after much rumination. And I understand this and I know it is absolutely true of her. How the fuck could I love someone like that? In the stark of now, I admit she was not like that. Not last summer when she verbally shunned existentialism because she didn't want to become someone who "lives in the now" like the rest of this generation. When she suddenly broke out in a facebook chat and showed me a poem about her former love, or object of torrential intrigue. And the word entropy stuck out like the palest of bodies laid in a row of the still living. And we spent an entire day together, and while under blanket - a thin agent of warmth separating our bodies from the moon - she, not me, SHE grabbed my hand and struck me at a place so deep I forgot I even had the depth to feel like that. And all the perfect, and all the peace, and all the love and life in the world was felt right fucking there. So how the fuck couldn't I love a girl like that? And we loved so many of the same artists because the unspoken agony we shared.

Well nevermind it all. She was a beautiful woman I must forget.

No Famous Death (The Sads) - Pregnancy Scare

I hope the band members, should they discover this or not, are not offended by me uploading it. Its just no where to get this music but apple, and forgive the anti-established, pissed off, juvenile-of-heart inside me, but I just do not fucking want to support apple in more ways than downloading itunes for free and using it to play music I have 'pirated' and still aspire to purchase. I can't even delete the apple account I had to fucking create to download this. What kind of bullshit is that man.

ANy motherfucking ways, I'm listening to this shit now and I absolutely love it. Its like slowcore meets folk, Horse Feathers and Mogwai got together and said, lets play like everyday is a sunday and its always 2:36pm in the afternoon of our lives and the grass blows over and back and the sky is a pale canvas you fingerpaint on with invisible paint and your lad or lady is there and you guys are all like reminiscing about agonies of the past and yet to come. Man, whatever, I suck at reviews but this shit is gold. I discovered them within the last hour, and actually spent all my time from then to now looking on the internet for a download link. I only found them because I came up with the idea to make a band and give it the moniker 'The Sads'. So I googled this shit, and then found that depressing ass website thesads.com .



No Famous Death / The Sads - Pregnancy Scare.

She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.

To elaborate upon the popping of that bubble

that i distilled with my poem "A Ladies Man:", a ladies man essentially treats no new woman with wonderment. He knows her already, he's been with so many that he doesn't have to explore your body to please you and thus, one can say, he is not nearly as affectionate or interested as a guy who hasn't had so many opportunities to please a woman. Though a nice gy, a plain guy, whatever, may fail or not appease a woman as often, he is trying desperately to learn how to...and he is doing so with the woman of his eye, the apple of his heart. It is this distinction that I feel women overlook when they take an interest in the opposite sex. ANd I fear we gentlemen will have no way to fight it. But that is that. I won't change the way I love or approach a relationship just because I am unsuccessful when trying to court females that would much rather be led and persuaded than courted.

Superstitions of the Sky - Absolutely Nothing

I've resisted listening to these guys for too long. Interesting song compositions that aren't the standard folk-esque structures you'll hear. I believe these fellers were in Neil Perry, so that would likely explain why they're so fucking awesome. Could be wrong. NOnetheless, this is good music. Really easy going, honest music about heartbreak and the visibility of the past. Remnants, remnants, remnants. ALl we have. Let me cease now, before I begin to weep.



"Its so hard to look past those eyes, when its all I'm ever looking for." - Oh, those Eyes

Absolutely Nothing ( mediafire )

To my homeslice Nick O: my facebook is only deactivated temporarily. I'm takin a break from it for a ton of reasons. But ill be back sometime this weekend.

Getting tired of porn

so very tired. just knowing all these people are fucking for money, making a living by performing an act that is most wonderful when nothing about it is performed and also desensitizing the youth to the act. Man fuck all that. There's better fucking porn in my head.

To briefly propone monogamy

Be it naivety of my youth, or my general lack of experience with long term relationships, but I genuinely wish to spend the rest of my life with a single soul that too wishes to spend her lifetime with me. Every day we become less of what we once were, and only hold onto it or remain stuck in the past when we cannot accept that time is proceeding with little regard to our nostalgia. Every experience changes us, every new wrinkle she would acquire would be an artifact and a monument of her beauty. Semblance of change. Unavoidable marking of continuity, of life. And I find that alone to be beautiful. Sincerely. Because so many things remain as awful as they were to begin with, few things are even susceptible to your will. So why wouldn't one infinitely, ceaselessly developing lover be less than adequate as a compliment of my very own soul?

Good grief, I should hope I am not alone in this desire. I am so terrified by what this generation appears to believe is cathartic when it comes to romance. And all this technology only seems to make us more impulsive and irresolutely applicable to our surroundings.

Every single fucking woman I could

possibly need
giving all the men i'll never
be
everything i yearn for.

These days, or perhaps it has been this way forever,

dancing is an act of intimacy between strangers. Clothed strangers. People who would otherwise flirt on cue or make casual conversation. FUck all that, I'd rather dance with myself.

A poem/rap verse I wrote last semester in one of my classes. I did a lot of writing in classes last semester, and I wasn't taking notes.

Whatever, see you motherfuckers when I get a life
Or never again if I can first find a wife
lets prepare the breakfast of champions tonight
our diet, full of caloric cowardice
is weighing us down and we can't remember
the last time we didn't weep in December
or march, for that matter
seasonal depression probably isn't the diagnosis
when you can count the months you've haven't cried on an orange's limbs
you're falling now, head under heels
lookin up to the sky for a skirt to see
or were you looking for genitals too warm for your own heat?
there is a place beyond all women's clothing where we've never been
and its more tangible than their metaphysical heart.
you know the place, i've no need to place
a name on the foreign land from which you and i came
never to come and visit again
celibacy for life
introversion for all the hours of day and night
might you face the portion of you that is as fearful
as an abused child, you may shed the skin where scars are
just a word of advice for those who have given up on christ:
take everything for what it is and nothing more;
facades are not a right, desire is not a fight.

i don't fucking feel like it

she, one of many
who agree,
would say,
"you're just not right
for me."

they, some of plenty
who agree,
would say,
"you're just not right
for us."

despondent women
and employers,
love the world,
naive and endearing
boy,
love the world
for what it is for:
existing beyond you;
existing without you;
existing with little regard;
existing.

So who gives
a shit
what you feel
like?

a dream is a dream is a dream

I was pretty much tupac while conducting a train through the city which eventually got to a wall that opened then i was standing before what i felt was the government. But it wasnt the government, it was a group of individuals. then i started freestyling for them and i felt like 2pac all over again. then obama came out of nowhere and gave me his approval. then there was a comparison made between me and this girl in the class who was anti-everything (but i believe she had an underoath tshirt on) whereas i, in the dream, came off as well balanced in my loathing and loving. then suddenly i made conversation with someone i havent seen since high school - who I initially ignored the fuck out of - and a few others. then we were in a math class and i wasnt taking notes but i was getting confused as fuck. i sat behind the girl i mentioned before and said ”i dont have to prove anything to you. you dont have to prove anything to you” after she called me cleverless. its funny i was in a room full of people and she was the only one i was conscious of. the rest of the people there could’ve been mannequins for all my heart cared.

then all of a sudden the class was like a drive in, like we were in a classroom that was more of an auditorium now and we were all in cars lined up. and then for some reason my car couldnt brake if i went in reverse. so i then backed up and tried to gow backwards down a hill then drive forward around a corner once the street was flat. all the while people in their cars are terrified about me backing up unrelentingly. then i was on my feet and walking around. then there was a violinist who was playing over some club music instrumental then when the crescendo hit some harlot ran by like a flood light and started dancing. even in my mind in my dream i made the point inside my head that she’s a loser. then i walked away and now the class i was in before was outside and the chalkboard was just cardboard in a window. and yea thats the dream, it ended there and i’m mostly sad because me and that girl were starting to make a connection, but that always happens in my dream. [/melodrama]

aside from her despondency,

the only reason i'm not begging her for her affection right now is because i dont believe a decision to care should be the product of a plea. It would not only be less authentic, but made out of pity and without an introspective gander at possibilities. but nonetheless, of course i am typical. the another male, led by his dick, and only that, right? right. goodbye womankind, again. see you next time this loneliness gets too strong to keep inside.

my speech/public speaking teacher asked my class if anyone watched the state of the union last night. Every said they didn't. Then she asked why, and the class responded in unison, "work." No enthusiasm, glee, or pride. Just a mundane "work" was said. I find that ironic. People missed an important speech/address/whatever that is supposed to detail the progress, improvement, or just the general state of our society because they were the products of its unfairness and inhumanity. Oh, you cannot write moments of irony like that!

A really beautifully minded girl is rare

normal girls are EVERYWHERE. Ruining my will with their bubbly imagination and sickening love for banality. And to top it all off, special girls are even more hesitant to trust a male. No, I take that back. THat isn't the cherry on top this gloomy sundae, the fact that my hormones know no difference, that my erections have no sense of direction and point to them all is the worst fucking part.

Everyone

is so kind only to themselves.

Where do I fit in between your 'me' ?

An old rap poem verse story novella i wrote and found recently

Excuseme if I seem a little bitter miss,
seems god loves us all but forgot about punishment.
I've only loved womankind and was treated like a piece of shit.
Now my temper fluctuates between horrid and worse.
My first curse words were said prior to this acknowledgement
still helplessly moaned like tomorrow was insignificant
for better or perfect, everyone smiles in fits.
They don't know it, but I see their live's development.
Before they know it, all pride will be artifice.
Their only way of pertinence will be moving about their fist
better get a better god before its all over with
I deserve better, you too, and so the sinking ships
who were lost at sea and had no need to return to shit..
A wise sailor drowns after a long voyage.
A silly one goes back home and wants to do it again.
What have I become, my unsweetest friend?
Everything I've seen is disappearing way before the end.
You can dream today, but tell me if that makes sense
tomorrow when we're all bones among soil and shit

Since you've left,

I've fell for every blond woman I've seen.

Thoughts of the night

1. Far as I can tell, the young admire their favorite artists and individuals. And the more aged, those with greater wisdom, understand and are understood by their favorite artists and individuals. I'm sure there are exceptions in both of those populations. But for the most part, the young are still impressionable and I think that is why they look up to people, even those their age. They still want to become something. And those that are older are carrying such a burden of living, an extremely large case of sorrow and worry and anxiety that they only want to be understood; to be reassured that they aren't the last persons left trying to keep hope alive.

2. These rappers now days are about as real as a hooker's affection. Fuck em, most of em I mean.

3. Living ain't easy unless you're pimping. Displacing the scarce courage of impressionable women and ordering them to fuck for your well being.
Living ain't easy unless you're drug dealing. Playing salesmen to the dolorous, promising for a low price they can purchase, what is in all actuality, worthless.

4. Talk about fucking hypocrisy, how the hell do people love jay-z and lil wayne and all these fuckhead rappers that only reinforce the values of the rich (spend fruitlessly to be happy and proud) in their music, yet disapprove of corrupt politicians and businessmen? The greatest trick the rich played was convincing the poor that the pecuniary ceiling was pregnable. The fuck it is. Capitalism runs on this delusion held dearly by the impoverished, presented daily in movies, music, and tv shows. We believe so little of what we practice, so disturbingly little. All who question anarchy and communism and socialism need to first question their own integrity. You are absolutely right none of those would fucking work because people refuse to criticize their desires and live moderately.

5. I dug into the pocket of my work pants and discovered this little nubmer:

No fish in the sea thou art,
you're a woman with both goals
and failures.
I won't think of or treat you
like you are just anyone
because you're not.
You are
you.
So in the event that I cling faster or longer than
you,
be certain that it meant
that I
cared.

Its not impossible to have too many friends, to know too many people. You'll notice, once you're surrounded by individuals you consider yourself friends with, you cannot directly apply a large part of your personality to them. No one has infinite or even may best friends. People are similar, but even raised in the same culture they are not homogenized and absolutely identical. She told me one can never have too many friends, and I think a sentiment like that comes from the fear of having too little - something I do not fear. I only fret having the wrong friends. And I believe this is emblematic of how casually we seek to part take in each others company. How ordinate we are amongst groups and collectives. I find it sad that we don't even judge something as critical to our mental health as one's compatibility with people they know.

Asking

questions that no one has the courage to answer.

Admission to loneliness statement

I will not charm, I will not entice with dishonesty. I will not be so beguiling, I forget, or never allow a woman I am interested in, see my true self. That is not me, and if I should acquire her heart, or whatever, then I will do so by transcending the friend zone because she has already left that idea altogether. If she should be so concerned with having many a male friends, then I do not want her. If she should consider love so irrelevantly that she'd risk going to bed alone another night, forgoing the possibility that I may very well be the friend and lover in one that she needs, waiting to meet the perfect stranger she probably won't meet, then I do not want her. If I ruin anything, I will do so being myself, and nothing, and no one, else. I will not tease, I will not charm. I will not be cool, I will be calm, resolute and abiding.

I long for a day when we quit admiring people that make the statements we want to live by, and start making the statements ourselves and living by them. What integrity do we have if we are so subject to the whims of society, better known as the mass we compose but do not express ourselves through, that we never become the undertow or vehemently indignant tide forcing banality out of our sights? I have not digressed from my original idea here; if we are to ever love, we must decide to be ourselves and quit pretending. Quit chasing ideals that are not visible even in the slightest capacity in our current reality. And if I must be a fool, or be a stunning, conniving, generic man cordially interacting with the opposite sex so that I may ensure company on my dying day, then I will not have company on my dying day. Being happy and satisfied with life means there is no lack in quantity of what one wants. My life is as simple as that. I will pursue this goal - to be with one I can love and to be someone of emotional value to others - and I will fail or succeed. Feels like Notes From the Underground because I don't even have a reason to, but I will stop here.

Absence is the most personable company we'll ever have. If it is a choice of yours, you are fortunate.

So this one time,

I was about to masturbate and then I thought of her and wept instead.

At this point it is not even her that forces me to brood, not as much as it was for all of about the three months I spent longing for her. Now, I ruminate because I have spent so long feeling sad about her.


Nick Cave more adequately expresses the sentiment: "Every time I see you baby, you make me feel so all alone."

Great Morrissey interview, as they all are

Are you celibate?
Morrissey: "Yes. I'm a devout celibate.
"Initially I had no choice, and it occurred to me that I had been celibate without actually wanting to be, and that angered me, and I became quite bitter and twisted about the whole situation, because I wanted to have a great deal of fun, and I didn't..... so... you can put lots of dots here, implying that he didn't actually finish the sentence. He fell off the chair and started crying."

Why is the fear of sexuality

often synonymous with sexuality itself in america, the one fear that has to result in broadcasting one's triumph over it? And why does the triumph over it include promiscuity?

I have

gone from being shy and thus dishonest with women to believing that there is no point in telling one the truth.

YOu're either a

super or stupid human, they make you a martyr or a terrorist. Despite your efforts, you don't have much to do with it.

A letter to someone I hate

You
fool,
you are an insolent
idiot.
Boorish and malignent,
like a disobedient limb
I'd rather amputate.
You are a clock
that no one reads,
you gauge what
might as well
be immeasurable
and nameless.
In your absence,
I only hope to
hear
the news of
your
death.
Your arrival,
your departure,
your health,
your words, pitiful, annoying,
meaningless words,
and all that you are:
I couldn't possibly
care less about.

My heart

is a whore for lending itself to you fools.

Under her unclothed, I said

you will
never have to
make love
to
yourself
again,
that is
what I'm for.
I want you to
get off
on me.