10,000 corpses inside of me

"A connecting thread, an inner rule, a perspective, a discourse. With cities, it is as with dreams: everything imaginable can be dreamed, but even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or, its reverse, a fear. Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, & everything conceals something else." (Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities)

a literal sea of dogs & all you can do is laugh & as i sat beside you i felt the great sadness that day & at dawn armed with glowing patience, we will enter the cities of glory (stripped) & beyond & bliss everywhere bliss & died instantly endlessly & dream of sheep & heart breaks & heaven turned to her weeping & his reptilian children are morphing in the mud & i & i grew into ribbons & i love her & i was a boy from school & it hurts & nothing comes between the sadness & the scream & off the deep end & onto picknickmagick & she was & so is love & the bands played on & ...& the day turned tonight ...& the forest began to sing & the pips ...& the rain ...& the world laughs with you & then patterns & then she kissed me & then so clear & then... & they all look broken hearted & through the wire & we got older & we run & you & i & you love it & your bird can sing

a person complimented me good naturedly when i got off the bus. the weather feels really nice and "forgiving" and i am stuck on this in the lispector book: "Yes, he thinks a bit reluctantly, be more human, don't worry, live."

ambiguous conceptual linkage between "a person who becomes psychotic" and "a person who forgets about the mere polite social formality that they are expected to say the word 'like' before each simile they employ"

and it brought me joy as an echo that suddenly made the sentence prominent

i feel at timess like my feelings and desires are listed on pieces of paper being printed in an adjacent room

and read aloud to me by someone sitting in there

another big one:

The concept of the Absolute, also known as God, The (Unconditioned) Ultimate, The Wholly Other, The Supreme Being, The Absolute/Ultimate Reality, The Ground of Being, Urgrund, The Absolute Principle, The Source/Fountain/Foundation/Well(spring) of Reality, The Center of Being, The Ultimate Oneness/Whole, The Supreme Soul, The Supreme God of The Universe, and other names, titles, aliases, and epithets, is the thing, being, entity, power, force, reality, presence, law, principle, etc. that possesses maximal ontological status, existential ranking, existential greatness, or existentiality. In layman's terms, this is the greatest, highest, "truest", or most sublime being, existence, or reality.

apropos nothing [...] i think you are a genius and i find it something like "intimidating" to point my thoughts at the blurry open ended question of what you're to additionally evolve into as time goes on marching on and on

but i want just nurture beauty

completely asemic string of words fully intended to communicate something

conteemplating the feeling of wanting "in the abstract" to comfort other people but they arent actually sad so its like "well i dont want anyone to be sad so iguess i dont 'want' that really..."

Do Your Best

earthly dopinesses, hardy politenesses, rhapsodise tensely, dishonesty relapse, prissy leaden ethos, lithenesses' parody, tepidness, thyroid palenesses, hoarsely proselytised ashen, shapely desertions, idlenesses' atrophy

endless nameless mapless

first seven statuses visible in my discord friends list currently: and when we're in your scholarly room, who will swallow whom? you wouldn't understand how i feel cause youre always in la la lovey dovey land. we hear the bells. And so I do what I do and at least I exist.. What could mean more than this? trapped in an endless nightmare. being someones stay at home husband is only sounding better. sometimes it seemed to her that to be held tightly and kissed was the whole secret of life

for instance i should live "in the now" of being where i am and knowing [...] and not wondering where life might one day spiral off to

For some time the augurs had been sure that the carpet's harmonious pattern was of divine origin. The oracle was interpreted in this sense, arousing no controversy. But you could, similarly, come to the opposite conclusion: that the true map of the universe is the city of Eudoxia, just as it is, a stain that spreads out shapelessly, with crooked streets, houses that crumble one upon the other amid clouds of dust, fires, screams in the darkness.

Friend i turned my phone up louder than i am comfortable listening to music and pressed my earbuds into my ears also for the cool last song chorus

Friend you are bright and a bowl of fresh picked berries and the worls needs you far more than even either of us may have the perspective to realize!

glad i missed that bus

God will permit life to be that single undifferentiated form beneath all forms prerequisite to it assuming the individuated forms of the spiral or any other delightful thing - or even a bit painful one so long as it has shaped! and this will make me happy and grateful

heart-react your own laughter

How To Write a Trillion-Year Piece of Music

http://web.archive.org/web/20090719052857/http://www.utubedrama.com/

https://39sincegafieldfuckingandsmokes.neocities.org/ef7830db5bfbf3536820c00105ab5734ef4609fc

i'd say things are... relative to the timescale of my whole life, uniquely comfortable here

"I disentangle myself from appearances, yet I am snarled in them nonetheless; or rather: I am halfway between these appearance & that which invalidates them, that which has neither name nor content, that which is nothing & everything. I shall never take the decisive step outside them; my nature forces me to drift, to remain forever in the equivocal, & if I were to attempt a clean break in one direction or the other, I should perish by my salvation." (Emil Cioran)

i had a dream that i was at work and one of my coworkers was very irritable, partly cause i kept bothering him with my mistakes. and there was like a gel form of Red Bull that came in one of those tapered hair gel containers. in a moment of impulsivity, i ate the whole gel Red Bull in one gulp even though i knew it was his. then i felt really bad and confused about why i did it. later i heard him discover it was gone and get really upset, but he didn't know it was me and for the rest of that section i was anxious about him finding out, and checking nearby corner stores trying to find more of it and replace it for him. to no avail as i heard him grumble something like, "freakin 4 minute drive to ____ for more of that stuff," suggesting they only had it in a specific store that was some non-trivial distance away

i keep screaming into my pillow in joy

i like only wanted to listen to recordings that tacitly admitted they weren't really happening

"i like reinventing the lightbulb. im just kinda dumb in that way" -[K. O.] my professor

i really liked you at that moment

Doors are opening and closing. Your friend who is not really your friend but maybe he will be in the future but in the now you can enjoy the presence of his foot next to your body and how limitedly hairy it is. But then what was all this about you may ask your friend . Inside his fridge he only kept pistachio flavored ice cream that he gulped on as he let you sleep on his bed and your other friend , the one who was really gonna be your friend and her existence was still stabilising back then like an uneven but daring rock of a swing , was very insistent about buying cigarettes that she had already bought ... How many times did I buy cigarettes that night ? And funny hour how she can be in this room with all of you and your other you's and everyone else's other you's that noone talks about and they are just hovering in the summits of the walls under ceiling soaring high and so it was revealed : Heaven was a surface. But still yes , back to that , how amusing to think she was still on her way to buy cigarettes and we all took that walk with her so many times that night entertaining ourselves sipping on her disorentiation infusion as we lapsed back in beds floors and pallets on the balcony. It only occurs to me much later : How I am taking this walk again and again no matter where I am , even if not to buy cigarettes to just pass in front of that front door and peak on the hazy stencil next to the doorbell . I splashed some gelato on the floor and there was so many ways it could have splashed but there was also only one. Did all of the others die out eliminated by the one that impegrenated our reality with its lush green splash? THIS IS CAPITALISM SQQUAD ...

i think if humans r little twists of the fabric of the universe into order instead of chaos then you r when its pinched into very crystalline lattice

i think what im saying is that im not sure u can understand just how much [ur casual speaking to all about the nature inclinity of exploration [ as if it didnt feel to me like a miracle]] privately quietly does to me , altho maybe (for all i know) u can understand

i want to believe in miracles but id admit its a scary task

i want to draw a spiral on your hand

"I want to reveal the underlying stuff"

i would whisper

id b a forest dwelling entity that gives a child strange cryptic advice they dont understand til their mid-late twenties

if either of us make a discord channel that proves to have a regularly occurring expressive utility that wouldn't have been there otherwise, we sort of alter us.. the medium is a part of us !

if ihad a map of everything we've ever said to eachother connected with red thread it would make me forfeit all logical obligations i think

if you play the cricket i will shush you cartoonishly as loud as the cricket and with joy and passion for both u and cricket that has become real omniversally

In Olinda, if you go out with a magnifying glass & hunt carefully, you may find somewhere a point no bigger than the head of a pin which, if you look at it slightly enlarged, reveals within itself the roofs, the antennae, the skylight, the gardens, the pools, the streamers across the streets, the kiosks in the squares, the horse-racing track. That point does not remain there: a year later you will find it the size of half a lemon, then as large as a mushroom, then a soup plate. & then it becomes a full-size city, enclosed within the earlier city: a new city that forces its way ahead in the earlier city & presses it towards the outside

Olinda is certainly not the only city that grows in concentric circles, like tree-trunks which each year add one more ring. But in other cities there remains, in the center, the old narrow girdle of the walls from which the withered spires rise, the towers, the tiled roofs, the domes, while the new quarters sprawl around them like a loosened belt. Not Olinda: the old walls expand bearing the old quarters with them, enlarged, but maintaining their proportions on a broader horizon at the edges of the city; they surround the slightly newer quarters, which also grew up on the margins & became thinner to make room for still more recent ones pressing from inside; & so, on & on, to the heart of the city, a totally new Olinda which, in its reduced dimensions retains the features & the flow of lymph of the first Olinda & all the Olindas that have blossomed one from the other; & within this innermost circle there are already blossoming---though it is hard to discern them---the next Olinda & those that will grow after it.

it comes through the window as rectangles of light, a bundle of overlapping rectangles appear in the north half of the western wall. these creep across the western wall towards the corner leading to the southern wall, which is longer. they creep at different speeds so they separate as they go. whenever one reaches the corner, it rounds it onto the southern wall quickly and then dashes east across it, fading

"i could ask the universe why it would be so meticulously kind to me before i'm equipped to fully process it"

it feels like what i thought was real was like me in a coma for 8 years dreaming some sort of hyper realistic semi lucid dream where things felt out of my control and people acted in ways that felt off but in the moment it was sort of just part of the atmosphere and then suddenly put of no where im being shaken awake by someone ive never met. the presence of the unfamiliar made me genuinely convinced that this must be the fake world, but then all my friends rush in seemingly from a million different rooms and there the ones from the dream but it sort of actually this time feels like the things i can say aren't limited to a set list of defined responses . i could say anything . it feels like i have something to take seriously

#it was me.#literally im the unidentifiable iowa city resident having my life altered by this rn.#insane pull for my tumblr holy shit#woah#to be fair it was also storming like crazy snd weirdly humid#and I was out in the lighting storm with Luca#while it poured in some of the first nice weather of the year#and we talked about what it meant to be real in any tangible way and what it meant to be human#and how that was a projection of other onto yourself#and the like#so a lot of things were happening#but holy god yeah#nothing like being out in ghe boonies listening to music Youve never heard and being Insane

its as if the hunger is made to be both real and merely hypothetical, both at the same time, in a strange unresolved overlap, like if u cross your eyes... hypothetical in the ways that count, real in the ways that dont count...frustrating!

july 6th, 2018 . this one kind of transfixing me

just to pause to force good thoughts into this time well-spent in beautiful gardens
to take in blossoms & aging babes should give more weight to hold within the moment

oh, are you having fun?
i think that i'm having fun
it's just like i hoped it would with you

if i close my eyes i just might miss this perfect jiff - i'm worried if i don't care!
find a spot to sit & hope to get all there's to get from beautiful gardens

license plate JOLYROG

like conceiving of maliciously masculinized inhabiting presence or personality fragment inside me, or like asking myself where my own thoughts come from as if the answer wasn't just strictly "me"

like if u watch this music video and try as hard as you can to envision watching it not as yourself but envision all you would have to subtract from yourself to wathc this at complete face value at the time of release and then project that subtracted self forward indefinitely in time, with zero gradually acquired proximity to you as you presently know yourself

look at this painting

make downward sine sweep

repeat following:

duplicate the track and reduce the second track to 0.x speed

(starts at 0.95 and decreases 0.05 each time u repeat this block)

put tremolo on both tracks (square wave, 100% depth), but one of the tremolos phase
shifted 180 degrees so theyre trading off and its just a constant sound

mix down, duplicate track again, repeat

mutually haunted by the platonic human

"New Year's Eve, Grand Central Station, New York City", leonard freed, 1969

odd

none of it is about MY enjoyment of anything, its more llike, recognition of, Theres a guy who in 2006 wore a cowboy hat and felt titillated by Honky Tonk Badonkadonk , and here i must qualify that since it is sort of a knowingly raunchy song there was, for him, A layer of conceptual remove from it, but not OUR layer of conceptual remove from it at all , and like, this dude just had to EXIST

not a duration of time to charge through and feeling the music happen and feeling its each second be a second more with it gained, but rather a kind of elision of time, a duration spoken for so that i don't have to think or experience or live through it

ok so i dont know how to describe the sequence of songs i just sang but it flet immaculate to be doing it, the privacy of the booth flet so necessary, it stated when i got really into singing push th little daisies by ween & then, i sang "ocean man" while like apologizing that i was playing annoying songs but then doing a bit of desperately commentating between llines how the song was also annoying & it was forcing me to sing in an annoying timbre of voice & iwas in Hell, then i did like an ironic "hppayy birthday" to the owner of the bar, trying to explain thee context between the lines as if i was like physiologically forced to sing each one & didnt have room to speak, then repeated happy birthday while doing a bit of explaining in very strictured language how i had been contacted through facebook instant messenger about how my karaoke waiver obliged me to clarify that it was not really bar owner's birthday, & then gettting really fucking into singing the star-spangled banner. i need to come back & do karaoke again

order from someone named Korea Medley... love this

"promises ? in THIS economy ?! ... could b just crazy enough to work.."

reading and reviewing a specific comment that really got my attention...

receivied phone call from completely unknown person with Missouri number who started singing birdhouse in your soul and i sang the whole thing with them

Section I examines the concept of witchcraft theoretically, from the point of view of natural philosophy and theology.[61] Specifically it addresses the question of whether witchcraft is a real phenomenon or imaginary, perhaps "deluding phantasms of the devil, or simply the fantasies of overwrought human minds".[62] The conclusion drawn is that witchcraft must be real because the Devil is real. Witches entered into a pact with Satan to allow them the power to perform harmful magical acts, thus establishing an essential link between witches and the Devil.[62]

"Sham dustbathing raises an interesting question in animal behaviour, motivation and welfare. Hens that have been reared in captivity without ever having encountered litter will perform sham dustbathing. Therefore, it can be questioned how these birds, which have never had the possibility to dustbathe in a functional substrate, perceive sham dustbathing; do they yearn for something that they have never had or known (i.e. litter), or are they content to sham dustbathe?" (Wikipedia article on "sham dustbathing")

"She was this isolated person, incarcerated for all those years, & she emerged & lived in a more reasonable world for a while, & responded to this world, & then the door was shut & she withdrew again & her soul was sick." (Jay Shurley, psychiatrist who worked with Genie (feral child))

Some Velvet Morning (Eedie & Eddie & The Reggaebots)

SOMEONE HAD AWESOME SEX! oh happy day!

ten thousand angels just crowdfunded to put an apple through the eye of a camel... what the fuck...

Static is never present in ones ears if not for them inducing it. In recent years musicians have found ways to sneak the hiss , devoid of any musical elements in their recordings . Hiss overcomes the music , as it gains in momentum establishing itself in your speakers and ears. Lo-fi music you may say , yes , but this time round we are all in for the aesthetic : Much like keeping a bunch of cassettes over your bed , small shrine to the past and so it is , as hiss acidicly soars in your eardrums, we find out for one more time that the most pristine and clear things in our experiences come from somewhere outside , from somewhere that is not precisely life , but rather a layer of it that is not continuous and seems to remark on all the things we have learnt and teasing them with a sweet mouth then kissing our heads. I marvel at how concrete it can be in its abstraction and fleetingness , the hiss emanating from your shrine and dripping into your dreams , eliminating most actualities. Now you can really feel the gaps , going all in for this one game. The table is set and you are free to bite into wood and porcelain.

"exciting night", susan hertel

thankfully many people on the bus to [...] r probably airporting so its not that weird that i am giggling kicking my feet etc on bus

that u mgiht even giggle and kick your feet on the bus really turns stuff on it head hahah...

The ancients built Valdrada on the shores of a lake, with houses all verandas one above the other, & high streets whose railed parapets look out over the water. Thus the traveler, arriving, sees two cities: one erect above the lake, & the other reflected, upside-down. Nothing exists or happens in the one Valdrada that the other Valdrada does not repeat, because the city was so constructed that its every point would be reflected in its mirror, & the Valdrada down in the water contains not only all the flutings & juttings of the facades that rise above the lake, but also the rooms' interiors with ceilings & floors, the perspective of the halls, the mirrors of the wardrobes.

Valdrada's inhabitants know that each of their actions is, at once, that action & its mirror-image, which possesses the special dignity of images, & this awareness prevents them from forgetfulness. Even when lovers twist their naked bodies, skin against skin, seeking the position that will give one the most pleasure in the other, even when murderers plunge the knife into the black veins of the neck & more clotted blood pours out the more they press the blade that slips between the tendons, it is not so much their copulating or murdering that matters as the copulating or murdering of the images, limpid & cold in the mirror.

At times the mirror increases a thing's value, at times denies it. Not everything that seems valuable above the mirror maintains its force when mirrored. The twin cities are not equal, because nothing that exists or happens in Valdrada is symmetrical: every face & gesture is answered, from the mirror, by a face & gesture inverted, point by point. The two Valdradas live for each other, their eyes interlocked; but there is no love between them.

The child who cries when its mother disappears from the room is threatened with the disappearance of his own being, since for him also percipi = esse. It is only in the mother’s presence that he is able fully to live and move and have his being. Why do children want the light on at night, and want their parents so often to sit with them until they fall asleep? it may be that one aspect of these needs is that the child becomes frightened if he can no longer see himself, or feel himself to be seen by someone else; or to hear others and be heard by them. Going to sleep consists, phenomenologically, in a loss of one’s own awareness of one’s being as well as that of the world. This may be in itself frightening, so the child needs to feel seen or heard by another person, while he is losing his own awareness of his being in the process of falling asleep. In sleep the 'inner’ light that illumines one’s own being is out. Leaving on the light not only provides assurance that if he wakes there are no terrors in the dark, but provides a magical assurance that during sleep he is being watched over by benign presences (parents, good fairies, angels). Even worse, perhaps, than the possible presence of bad things in the dark is the terror that in the dark is nothing and no one. Not to be conscious of oneself, therefore, may be equated with nonentity. The schizoid individual is assuring himself that he exists by always being aware of himself. Yet he is persecuted by his own insight and lucidity.

the circumstance of saying things that will make ones own self cry...hm

The cultural evolution of distortion in music (and other norms of mixed appeal)

the discord message is not lost on me and makes me want to give [...] A hug if this is positive but with the qualification of instantly infinite thoughloops and my horror of any modicum of outreach

"The point at which that particular dynamism found its purest incarnation in matter, the point at which it was freest from interference from other modes & rose to its highest degree of intensity. That never lasts more than a flash, because the world rarely leaves room for uncommon intensity, being in large measure an entropic trashbin of outworn modes that refuse to die." (Brian Massumi, foreword for A Thousand Plateaus)

the special smart that is re!@%$#& to be

the way i now say "the way..."

(the way the internet lets humanity bypass l'esprit d'escalier feels insane)

the next time im ever in a job interview where they ask me to name my primary weakness or whatever i think im going to feel tempted to say "i read too many books by white people"

"There is no escape. You can't be a vagabond & an artist & still be a solid citizen, a wholesome, upstanding man. You want to get drunk, so you have to accept the hangover. You say yes to the sunlight & pure fantasies, so you have to say yes to the filth & the nausea. Everything is within you, gold & mud, happiness & pain, the laughter of childhood & the apprehension of death. Say yes to everything, shirk nothing. Don't try to lie to yourself. You are not a solid citizen. You are not a Greek. You are not harmonious, or the master of yourself. You are a bird in the storm. Let it storm! Let it drive you! How much have you lied! A thousand times, even in your poems & books, you have played the harmonious man, the wise man, the happy, the enlightened man. In the same way, men attacking in war have played heroes, while their bowels twitched. My God, what a poor ape, what a fencer in the mirror man is- particularly the artist- particularly myself!" (Hermann Hesse)

there is no orca and the bar is loud

theres kind of an obsessive compulse "tinge" or "style" to the thought, wherein the life that has the momentum of self-acquaintance is "pure" and "actual" for being authenticated by that momentum, with each moment being endorsed by the one prior, and you could follow it all the way back and find no gaps

and then conversely "impure" life with some initial stumble or lag, of being so removed from oneself you basically have to be taught there is anything better than putting your hand on a hot stove for no reason. and theres room to feel like this initial lag must be some kind of structural deformation at the center of things, very obvious at the hidden core but rippling out to produce only small deformations at the visible surface

this is one of my favorite song ever because : the bass feels watery and boiling like a barely visible cloud layer in the night sky and i feellike i am lying in the backseat of a car where the snare hits feel like bright white streetlights darting across the frame of the window and striking (piercing) my field of vision with a hypnotic regularity ; the cloud of blurry and intermingling synth notes then starts to show through which mkes me picture distant anonymous lights of houses nestled behind and amid a distant treeline kind of peeking in an irregular flickery way through the branches as theyre so criss-crossed and have such a complex parallax ; thenhis voice feels like glowing warm embers cloaked behindthe rest of the soundscape like its a pane of dark tinted glass,but, something more coarse/papery than glass, like looking at lightbulb through magnetic tape held taut over your eye , and this evokes the warm hidden away in all the fragmentarily glimpses houses (they r there, but not mine, but still there)

Thought-Forms

"Thus it is that the lovers conspire to protect each other from the lethal destiny of their passion, either succeeding in this, & relapsing into the wretched sanity of mutual affection, or compacting their fever to new scratch-patches of intensity." ([redacted.....], The Thirst for Annihilation)

to {spiritual-opposite-of-ripping-out-one's-own} someone's hair

together we shall unravel some percentage of the central mystery ,

voca.ro/185LOG876Ffd

Welcome !

"what if they think that my posture makes me think that they think that my posture signifies a thought of them thinking that my posture makes me think that they think my posture makes them think that.." (whine of microphone held next to amplifier and i imagine this whine being my body posture and so it feeds back into the recursion and so on)

I. what type of place of business we're talking about
II. all possible variations in the layout
- - II.i. how many rooms there are
- - II.ii. the shape of each room
- - - (the combinatorial geometric characteristics)
- - - (every angle of every corner of every room)
- - II.iii. the materials of the walls
- - II.iv. the colors that the walls are painted
- - II.v. the texture of the ceiling
- - II.vi. the furniture
- - - - II.vi.1. the exact placement & orientation of each object
- - II.viii. the lighting
- - II.ix. the smell
III. the number of employees
- - III.i. each employee's permutation of:
- - - - III.i.1. all possible variations of a person's:
- - - - - - III.i.1.a. info (name, age, etc.)
- - - - - - III.i.1.b. appearance
- - - - - - III.i.1.c. demeanor

it can all tap into a kind of fear of transience, & a corollary impulse to fix, to freeze, to preserve, to hoard, to hoard details of life situation & lived circumstance

we can liken this to digital hoarding: suppose a person writes an app which generates a 12x12 grid of random black & white dots, & then they come to feel like they must save each generated grid to their hard drive, because, in spite of each one being generic & indistinguishable, they know it'll probably never be generated again! sadly, though, there are approximately 22,300,745,200,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000 combinations. even if you could use a single bit of data to represent each grid, you would need approximately 278,759,315,000,000, 000,000, 000,000,000, 000,000,000 terabytes of disk space to store every grid

when maybe i already blew a fuse in my brain readin about taht stuff when i was literally a child and thats why i got trouble emotionally grasping even immediate mundane circumstances, let alone incomprehensible terrors of human history , like dang i gotta step back and give some attentions to me , i dont gotta informationally martyr myself while im still not even healed from the initial shock

when theres FINALLY people around you wanna play it safe and not have any conversation you experience as "risky" and you dont dare to commit to any position too strongly

when i was eighteen, my relationship to music was:

"i like vaporwave specifically because it is bad. i have never even thought to consider that if a human being likes something harmless, then that can participatorily define that thing as good for being capable of producing enjoyment. i see 'vaporwave being bad' as an objective quality which exists independent of my relationship to it - if i like what is bad, i have no room to debate about that. i just have to exist in that position. i like vaporwave on the basis of it being bad because i am a horrible person. since i am a horrible person, i looked at the fact that the music is bad & opted to like it in lieu of whatever would be good instead

"when i interact with it, i do it while thinking fully consciously of how it is bad & how i am also bad. it feels bad but i do not even notice that it constantly feels bad because i have never even thought to visualize a mode of existence other than constant, intentional, masochistic friction with myself. when i reflexively hate each impulse or affinity that i identify in myself, the hatred is not even with passion. i have never even considered either not liking vaporwave or just liking it & accepting myself for liking it, because a horrible person liking something bad seems to automatic & natural to me. i have never applied even brief thought to any of these matters"

would you like to make comedically ritualized eye contact for the entirety of grrrls?!

yeah this'll probably be a good summer

Doors are closing and opening all the time but the funniest thing is still putting the key in the lock and turning it the other way around. People are speaking , your friends , in the now , in the future it becomes field recording hieroglyphics, in the past , it is merely tape hiss and reverse delay, formulating a teenage daydream. Who has remained in the room ? Who witnessed the splash of forest in a sea of bodies ? So many times I wanted to say keep your face always towards the sun, but the one time she really looked, to the sun , she dropped out of view and reappeared behind some bushes like a fleet of airplanes flying over the rocky cove , then the shadow really fell behind her and it was such beauty and consolation that I did not dare or , for one thing , even care to look.

As you lay in bed on Christmas Eve, you can't help but feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness. The anticipation of waking up to find all your presents under the tree is almost too much to bear. But at the same time, you know that you have to be asleep when Santa comes down the chimney, or he might not leave any gifts for you. So you try your best to drift off, listening for any signs of jingle bells or hoofbeats on the roof.

And then, just when you think you might have fallen asleep, you hear a faint shuffling sound coming from the chimney. Your heart races as you realize that Santa must be here, delivering presents to all the good boys and girls. You try to keep your eyes closed, but the temptation to peek is almost too much to resist.

But you know that you have to be good and stay asleep, so you take a deep breath and try to calm your racing thoughts. You remind yourself that Santa has a lot of work to do, and he needs his strength to pilot his flying reindeer and his sleigh across the whole world. So you make sure to leave out a plate of milk and cookies for him to drink and eat, so that he can have the energy he needs to complete his important task.

And as you finally drift off to sleep, you can't help but feel grateful for all the joy and magic that Christmas brings. You know that this special day only comes once a year, and you can't wait to wake up and see all the presents that Santa has left for you under the tree.

while i never really think about my mom's death, i think it may be a quietly negative thing, if only in small ways - not due to any clear emotional harm or sense of loss, but rather: she, as the person i was stuck with as a kind of "pilot study" of human beings and what they are like, was cut short as someone i could progressively reevaluate with an increasingly learned brain and kind of treat as an anchor point for other insights

for instance, from a young age i regarded her as someone who didn't feel like she had much of an internal life - this feels increasingly callous of a thing to say about anyone, even if may still be prone to it in certain contexts, and to this day i have trouble rescinding it about her. were she alive, there may have come a certain point where i might have said, "ok, here is how she has more of an internal life than i supposed, even if it may be very alien to my own and i may not really like her or connect with her in any way." this moment would be less about my knowing her and more about the development in the "pilot study"

then "crystal castles - courtship dating." then "incredible string band - cousin caterpillar" as i walked along a stretch of road so pretty that i'm sure it'll have a lasting association with the song, & also as i saw an old woman exit her house walking two big dogs, & it felt like i was supposed to see her in that place, at that time, with that song. she wore a pink sun hat, a tan dress, white leggings. it all seemed to communicate a good soul. then "they might be giants - cowtown" as i looked up & saw a street sign with a highly relevant name, even flinched at it. then "fleet foxes - crack-up"

later, i abruptly found myself at a small yard sale. i was the only person there, aside from the owners, of course. an old married couple who ate popsicles & put great effort into removing a big blue tarp from a trailer so i could look at the stuff under. a yard sale can be such a melancholy & bittersweet thing, with too much to meaningfully document or describe, bearing witness to the expulsion of what feels like so much speculative personal history encapsulated in objects. a stack of waterlogged vinyls. i pet their cat. it had a stubbed tail. the wife told me that the husband had cancer in his kidneys

i stood at the top of a small, gravely, sunlit hill & i became a child again for several minutes. for no reason! sometimes you just walk over to a clearing in the woods & become a child again for no reason. usually you don't, but sometimes you do. everything cynical, & bitter, & akin to the cultural hellfire that Italo Calvino said we form by being together, was gone. i felt free. i hopped around, i raised my fists, i skipped, i mindlessly tried to pull an enormous tree branch out of a pit but didn't have the strength. i had to prance & leap the energy out of me, making a raggedly happy sound, like a shredded up beginning of a laugh. it probably has a name. the best thing that can happen seemed to have happened: the tyranny of the mundanity i seem forced to ascribe to every moment had lifted. i daydreamed of a friendly stranger approaching me, of taking his hands & reciting the song's lyrics as i heard them, of this being delightful & stimulating & not disconcerting

this was mostly all fixed in words even before i began to type about it on my phone, so maybe it was diminished at that point. still, though, it was very real & i'm very grateful to have felt it. & after this point i still felt like i was in a dream, walking along the trail, through the woods, sometimes carrying my bunny in its sack or sometimes hugging it, sometimes holding its face to my neck as though i were really comforting a small creature

if i can keep fresh enough in my mind how fucking insane it felt to just watch [...] be doing anything then that may sustain me forever ,

,dancy skeletal entity in kinda demigod-y attire in front of me present as ambassador for all humanity & there to [positively] “break my heart” / “devastate me” not by relaying any message but just astonishing me with how much it can be a person standing in a kitchen light

& their clothes are on top of bones & - there’s another fucking person walking around doing stuff this is the best thing ever!! i keep discorporating & becoming the camera of you in an otherwise empty room & then having to remember i exist & reconcile it with my factual presence!! i keep stepping to particular places a couple feet away because they’re the best view of how insane it is that you’re existing & it keeps seeming to convey a social or practical adjustment when i’m just managing myself as pure presence

i am having thoughts about perception & application of anti-dissociative cinematographic approach to my own visual field, & the really beautiful idea of being witnessed by another person who is treating themselves like a camera trying to see you as best as possible - but i can’t get these words out because they feel entangled with questions of - “seeing” in the vulgar way ? is there an inherent cynicism to a camera, its selectivity / vision / whatever ?

?……… i saw them at last with the full unconditional insane beauty of a person walking around just doing stuff & i am willing to just state for my own self that i dont think wanting to view in most beautiful way or wahtever is equivocation like i do think it’s love

falling asleep to jazz station

fever dream consisting of entries being crossed off a list of planned shared activities, all the shorter-duration ones of this list, the abstract occurrence of these crossings-off as i’m in some kind of worry about this because each feels like it’s being wasted & considered decisively finally “occurred,” when i feel like there might be better times or occasions for each. i’m having these worries in relation to someone who is a metaphysical oscillation between two or a handful of particular people

indescribable feeling of falling asleep to jazz station and waking in the middle of the night to a very slow, quiet cover of somewhere over the rainbow thats like a small glint off the pure dark obsidian of the room

i doze off again

i wake incredibly dehydrated with my knees hurting. i think to myself that i’ve always lived with other people, so if while i were asleep & bleary a person broke into the apartment & were audibly moving around, maybe it wouldn’t register as viscerally wrong to me, & arouse no alarm. i wonder if the bedroom door has a lock. i think of the unlocked front door

i shamble into the living room which is very streetlit. the window is slightly ajar so i can hear bugs. i approach the front door. my shadow next to it registers to me far more distinctly than usual as a woman’s silhouette. i lock the door

the silence is broken by someone outside, ranting with emotion in their voice about how they just don’t want to be here anymore, how if their kids weren’t here they just wouldn’t be here anymore

i pad over to the window to hear them better. my throat really hurts. i fill my water bottle. they can be heard speaking of their situation in calmer & harder-to-eavesdrop tones as i go back to the bedroom

Mark Strand

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