furthermore death to all those embarassed by enthusiasm--
I'd like to write a long ecstatic letter about *new methods*, but there'd be no one to send it to!
phillip roth's the human stain: the aggregate of secretions, excrement, shedded skin, etc over yer average lifespan
how about paper excrement, verbal secretions. met ~ a few months ago -- a proper academic, crusty academic language flaking off his crusty soul. neausiating. i find it very easy to insult other people (obvi)
but here's what i mean:
the utter necessity of morality so as not to waste time; necessity of ambition for the same reason; only universals even in the particulars (for example, a shadow falling across a staircase); reject transcendence, only dig deeper and deeper into what's immanent (person looks at the sky, his pupils get smaller, he similarily shrinks into himself and becomes worthless which is to say all transcendence is the same, now - the big black eyes that miners have, to train for a new sort of vision..the pickaxe helps..)
related: "he discovered early that impacting one's fists into shut eyes generates a stream of hypnagogic imagery.."
asdfasdfasdfqw

Love strikes me as just so many prickly spokes on the wheel of samsara. And yet, I'm not willing to disregard it completely - i sense i'd be thrown into an almost entirely new (but not entirely!) sort of poverty if I do. Love has to be re-invented -- not my words, someone else's. I wont say whose lest I get obvious and tiresome.

Schopenhauer evidently has a lot to say on the subject:

"The aesthetic experience temporarily emancipates the subject from the Will's domination and raises them to a level of pure perception. "On the occurrence of an aesthetic appreciation, the will thereby vanishes entirely from consciousness."
The personality of the artist was also supposed to be less subject to Will than most: such a person was a Schopenhauerian genius, a person whose exceptional predominance of intellect over Will made them relatively aloof from earthly cares and concerns. The poet living in a garret, the absent-minded professor, Vincent van Gogh in the madhouse, are all (at least in the popular mind) examples of Schopenhauer's geniuses: so fixed on their art that they neglect the "business of life" that in Schopenhauer's mind meant only the domination of the evil and painful Will. For Schopenhauer, the relative lack of competence of the artist and the thinker for practical pursuits was no mere stereotype: it was cause and effect.”

"...Another image also comes to mind: Nietsche leaving his hotel in Turin. Seeing a horse and a coachman beating it with a whip, Nietzsche went up to the horse and, before the coachman's very eyes, put his arms around the horse's neck and burst into tears.

That took place in 1889, when Nietzsche, too, had removed himself from the world of people. In other words, it was at the time when his mental illness had just erupted. But for that very reason I feel his gesture has broad implications: Nietzsche was trying to apologize to the horse or Descartes. His lunacy (tht is, his final break with mankind) began at the very moment he burst into tears over the horse.

and that is the Nietzche I love, just as I love Tereza with the mortally ill dog resting in her lap. I see them one next to the other: both stepping down from the road along which mankind, 'the master and proprieter of nature,' marches onward."

___

Yo, sensation, emotion is felt in the body, And the human race has completely failed in giving names to things. Palpitations are felt in the heart and may indicate some sort of illness, but palpitations in the liver or the stomach are completely ignored, even if they are a function of (or in fact ARE) very real and interesting emotions. Note how much meaning we assign say -- the spleen, and the nothing we assign to things felt there. (Writing directly here). "...the psychic cataclysm experienced by Lautreamont and Rimbaud. Not madness, but the realization that the psyche is an unmapped continent..." -- more or less what i mean.

With the completion of X on the horizon, the dread of what is beyond that horizon– I mean of political life, the life of buying and selling, evaluation and valuation, where I always feel exposed, disoriented, unaware of (irritated at) what is expected.

Kill all
1. cowards
2. pedants

whats left? Artists, i-bankers, mountain-climbers, the like. The fusion of ideal and action, which is to pursue an ideal at all costs (money, soul, life – respective sacrifices).

“I don’t find stories about crazy people particularly interesting,”
said the impossible idiot.
It’s all a Rorschach test, dammit, almost every single piece of sensory data there is. And that you think it isn’t is a function of XX years of schooling in reality agreed over by adults, who are blind people led by older blind people. Who isn’t blind? Those who have vision. That’s why yea, I do think there is a link between instability and creativity/innovation (mutually agreed upon reality like a flashing airplane light on a building you’re about to fly into). A worthy sacrifice!

updates:
Busted my right knee open twice, the first time because of a failure of planning (running should go before drinking), the second time out of pure carelessness (in a downpour). Also put a name to a condition (conjunctivitis). Navel gazing going well - discovered a base state of anxiety - highly sensitive, unpleasant. Now what does this mean. I like to think in pop-biological terms, and religious questions are the most interesting. What does THAT mean. I dont care -- futures are for constructing, not for discovering. I have a new long term project: learning how to dream lucidly, which i'm deeply excited about. Kundera is a genius. So is Turner (the painter).



"Seven simple rules for a life in hiding:
One, never trust a cop in a raincoat.
Two, beware of enthusiasm and of love, each is temporary and quick to sway.
Three, if asked if you care about the world's problems, look deep into the eyes of he who asks, he will not ask you again.
Number four and five, never give your real name, and if ever told to look at yourself, never look.
Six, never say or do anything with the person standing in front of you cannot understand.
And seven, never create anything. It will be misinterpreted. it will chain you and follow you for the rest of your life, and it will never change"



writing i found on the wall:
To suk the x out of X – I’m not going to lie! Drunk again! Ate shaved ice and tiramisu – before that, karaoke. A standard story. Fleshed out by eperience. The best years of one’s X. I X with X, had breakfst at X, with random kindergarden teacher, Chinese, putting makup on her face, as most Chinese are --- sandard! Uninteresting.A hop and a step, at home that over looks the perl tower and other things that you mght be familiar with.And burnig hunger alleviated by – I don’t realy know.
Lets ge X everyday! I cant really imagine a better life. Except for the aging on one’s fce. TE Lawrence never drank and died eary on a motorcycle – the only way to go.
I cant remember the last time ive been denied someone;s X
A barometer!



nothing wrong or indecent, I swear, with showing eachother some raw matter. Before carving and polishing. Ginberg and Cassidy sat across from eachother crosslegged telling eachother everything that came to mind, without moving. It's the kind of intimacy I crave, to be honest. Sucking eachother in via the eyes and mouth, drop by drop