centipede fuck-me

O to write a chronicle of misery
(none would want to read it)
(i don't even want to read it)
Motion ceasing and daylong stuttered misstep prolonged, extending, the champion Nothing, broad grand unfurled Nothing, day-crushing limb-tearing Nothing, and on and on, so on, so such on and such such so on....
When pills run out, or else on the random chance, whenever wherever, reasons unknown, reasons non-extant, just the mindless Cycling.
Tears but not really, sobbing but not quite. Stasis, unmoving, fixed, affixed, froze, suchlike etc.
Days like this, days and weeks. Flow, what flow? Nonesuch now, just, just--Nothing.
So flow, thus, the unflow, so--Nothing.
Day-crushed breathless and gasping, long day dead day, no-day, Nothing.
And on and on like this, and on, and on...
Reasons unknown, reasons unborn, REASONLESS.
Hello Random, Hello Spontaneous, Unmoved Mover, Demiurge.
Fast-food crying jag in the back booth, but not really. Not so romantic, not so expressive. Just the listless silent eye-twitched tongue-lolled Naught Naught Nothing.
And as said, as said, days like this, whole days, whole weeks.
Whole life, whole future scene. Revealed. Unveiled. Unfurled.
Whole days, non-days, non-lives, stasis, static.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.

The Vampyre of Time and Memoryyy

Recalling past-life, remember you used to socialize, recalling the flare-ups of shortlived friendships, sick to your stomach to recall it all, to connect that Talking Mouth to this identity as it currently sits, lethargic, withdrawn, subdued. Defeated? Perhaps something along that lines, yes, AS SUITABLE DESCRIPTOR.

So much that was born, that died, some unhinged cacophony of random interaction, somehow SOMEHOW you *now* are responsible for *that* back then? Are tied to it? Are its lingering kin?

Again to say, more apt than any adjective, i feel a certain ILLNESS to remember this. There is a pronounced wrongness, somewhere, at the root.

This mouth, how it ran. These eyes, how they spun. BUT NOT NOW. BUT NOT. "ME. I'M NOT."

How to comprehend the linkage between this and that, then and now. How to comprehend the gaps, the great alterations. One self, multiselves, sonewhat, somehow? Such grand grand clusterfucks of Time and Memory....

But still, to add this as coda: all that back then, HOW I WAS, it sickens me partly because it is preferable to this, to what i am now, this sluggish narcoleptic mole....

You can know that a thing is doomed either way,
you can know that you'll eventually end up right back here,
so intellectually, you know it's all a wash--
and yet you'll still break down over it,
over its absence, its non-existence, its abortive state.
Still you'll break down like the little bitch you are,
visions of weaponry and knots, familiar phantoms of the Never Will.
Crying like a bitch,
like a little fucking bitch.

No forgiveness for those that reveal alternatives.
We'd rather not know.

The Eradication of distance.

Distance correlates with ambiguity.

Ambiguity is the foundation of self-torment.

Distance becomes a device with which to bludgeon the Self.

The only established method for eluding such bludgeoning is the forced forgetting of what one is distant from.

There cannot be anything or anyone out there.

That’s the eradication of distance.

Entity Lack.

An entity.

An entity who persists in your environment

Only to remind you of what you lack.

An entity to drill Lack Awareness into you,

Deeper daily, intoned in every Dick Joke.

Fun and games, hoots and hollers,

Get your lulz and note your Lack.

That's the entity, that's its purpose.

And you cannot get away, you cannot turn it off,

Because then your Lack would only grow larger, deeper.

The Lack.

The Lack.

The Lack.

Weaponary

Always finding new ways to insult me, these kids, these future leaders, these present Agonies.

Am I too sensitive? Of course.

But there's an underlying schematic, an aim for agitation.

Unconscious, maybe, maybe probably.

But wrenching nonetheless, lolololololololol.

Kill Me.

How could you ever sleep with the mad banshee wailing that surrounds the Agony, but not even the body, no, even the thought, the mental presence, remembrance and whatever, whatever.

How could you sleep through that noise, how could you think.

The smallest mention and innocence be damned, off it goes, here it comes, jackal screams and hyena cries, every kind of disruptive, beastly, unwanted sound—

But not even sound, more so the dead weight of perpetual presence, the clamp-down and choke-out of sensory independence, of sensory indulgence. All is crushed, all is confined by the toxic swirl of an Agony’s everlasting domination.

You let it in, this is what you get.

You have to let it in.

And you do, though you know the past and can predict the future. All of this, algorithmic.

Breaking away in desperate attempts to regain some balance, swearing them off, turning away—but always somehow, at some later point, giving in, coming back, opening up.

And an Agony will always be willing to service you, to both create a void and be its occupant.

All the power, all the power of the Agony.

Subset of Menagerie P-3.

K. had descended into a state of desolation, the mind-forged figures and diagrams now disrupted, rendered blank and absent within his mental workspace.

Nothing had been committed to paper, so everything was lost, but K. wasn’t bothered over that specific aspect of the problem.

The broader concern was the Why of the entirety.

Why even do this, to what end.

To what actual end, the real motivation.

K. had begun to crumble into a vicious circle of self-interrogation as news of the Forthcoming Agony spread. K. deliberated over what he could show to the Agony, were they to engage each other, K. pondered how best to impress her with his theories and research.

But this slowly put the entire operation under internal investigation, because the question became, was this in fact the purpose—marketability to an Agony—rather than the previously-subscribed-to SEARCH FOR TRUTH?

So it all unraveled  from that point, all assumptions were annulled.

K. had a scarcity of reasons, a lack of understanding into the foundations of his drives.

As his mind turned over and over on this subtopic, or perhaps Ur-topic, all of the work previously built up began to somehow disintegrate, quietly, unnoticed.

Because, again, nothing had been written down. Pure nonphysical  memory held it all, sustained by a curious passion, which supposedly intellectual passion now began to look more like base lust covered over in a shoddy disguise.

So it went, it faded, it wiped itself away.

Time and distance remained as they ever were, unscathed, unbroken.

A GREAT YAWNING BLANKNESS.

IN THE END ONE EXPERIENCES ONLY ONE'S SELF.

TERMINAL

EMBARRASSMENT

PERPETUAL

HUMILIATION

Potato Larose Synchronicity

Sects.

According to Burroughs, the sexes should have never intersected.

Some psychic domination, exercised by females.

Seeing maybe some parallel, to certain substances, where the mind goes One-Track, taken over, rendered obsolete with regard to any other function.

Just fucked, right, just fucked.

A flatline of impotent obsession, rehearsals and reversals.

Gone out with any/all production, dissolution of motivation, just simply simply churning, stewing, running the same sideways cycles of Wonder, Wonder, Wonder.

So on occasion, yes, some sorta-maybe-okay thing comes out, but at the cost of all the other sucked-down bottomed-out moments, a degraded desert landscape of the shell-shocked interior.

Only solution, to our mind, being total eradication of any such feeling.

The eradication, followed by the isolation.

Just locked up, put away, tuned back to product, product.

Like a good little capitalist.

Place/Position/Isolation

We move/slide backwards a bit.

To the place of,

Position of--

The place & position of Isolation.

Isolation *EMBRACED*.

We move to that position, that place.

Because--

Because that is a position wherein the mind is not *COLONIZED*.

There is no COLONIZATION by an External Agent,

there in the place & position of Isolation.

Mind can move, shift, phase, filter.

Mind can properly function, and/or at least more so,

in the place & position of Isolation.

Otherwise, to move OUT of that place and position,

the External Agents can enter the Mind,

can COLONIZE and DISABLE.

Wreckage, malcontent, disuse, off-veered.

WE CANNOT HAVE THAT AS SUCH.

Cannot abide by that place & position.

an equation yielding the sum STOP.

distance plus time multiplied by colonization of mind divided by focus plus production.

DISGUST
DISGUST
DISGUST
DISGUST

YOURMOUTH

Your mouth your mouth

running your fucking mouth

disgusted by your fucking mouth

the things that come out of your fucking mouth

always same suchlike similar things

pouring dripping out of your mouth

bullshit bullshit in widening gyres

your mouth your mouth

always running your mouth

your stupid dumbshit ignorant mouth

always the refuse

the garbage the trash

pouring out of your irresponsible mouth

drive nails in

staple the fucker shut

just stop with your mouth

with your motherfucking mouth.

Non-Solution.

The reasonings given to advise against suicide, in works like Camus' Myth of Sisyphus, as well as the reasonings of the protagonists in John Barth's first two novels, are always of a vague nature, always seem contorted and lacking. Like the entire question exists in a place that language is incapable of reaching. Thus you get answers like, well, don't, because you shouldn't. Or, it's meaningless either way, so why bother. But this never addresses the issue of whether it is ultimately worth it to continue living, they can never tell you directly whether the final account balance tends toward worth or misery.

DFW & The Venom-Spitters

I'm having trouble comprehending the vitriol that's thrown at (the memory of?) David Foster Wallace.
Since I see this mainly on Twitter, I assume it has something to do with Wallace's statements regarding the contemporary excess of irony, and its possible hazards.
I've read multiple interviews with DFW, and on this point, as well as most others, Wallace is quick to point out that he doesn't have "the answer." He makes it clear that he's confused, unsure. With regard to the subject of irony, he agreed that it has a value, but that perhaps it shouldn't completely overtake sincerity (or perhaps at least attempted sincerity).
But the way that people ridicule him suggests to me that people recognize in themselves the problem that Wallace was pointing towards. I've seen it in myself, I've felt total repulsion, I've deleted my accounts (always to come crawling back though, in a more degraded position every time), and I have to think these critics see it, too. They see it, and through their exaggerated responses, it seems they're entering into a fierce denial of the potentially poisonous legacy of The Life Ironic.
I would guess that people are also reacting to the role that the media put onto Wallace, the "voice of a generation" bit, which is just lazy journalism, not anything that Wallace himself decided on.

See, I liked DFW, then spun away and joined in the mockery, and now, after reflection, have moved back to the starting point.

Suicides have to stick together, after all.

Beneath Floorboards.

Could not even provoke a reaction, really.

Maybe? Slight semblance of recoil?

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

But ah, harder now to muster it for dead or dying things,

things well past their sell-by date.

And the other, yeah, another,

but really did that ever seem likely, no,

so let’s glance again at these photos, let’s sample the happiness (??) of others.

Let’s sit and feel our lack.

Our various lacks, gaps, negativities.

There is no route, no path, no hint of direction.

Only chasm, yawning chasm.

Only this, nor that. Only empty, just gap.

Yawning chasm and the Cloud of Unknowing.

Chasm’s yawn in the unknown cloud.

Cloud come downward for earth-sweep, cloud come to cover, enclose, hide, disguise.

Cloud become fog, fog become veil.

There is no route, no path.

It goes on.

Goes on.

Pathless, aimless, somewhere far off, the clock-tick.

Somewhere nearby, the alley that dead-ends at the longtime Inevitable.

Go there, then, or make like.

Through the cloud and fog, go then to what you know, or what you’ve divined--

What you divined so young.

Inevitable outcome.

Through cloud and fog, I go there regardless, it’s choiceless, it’s Inevitable.

La Boetie

From all these indignities, such as the very beasts of the field would not endure, you can deliver yourselves if you try, not by taking action, but merely by willing to be free. Resolve to serve no more, and you are at once freed...support him no longer; then you will behold him, like a great Colossus, whose pedestal has been pulled away, fall of his own weight and break in pieces.

WHITEBOOK.

Mind manifesting, mind manifesting,

I read of this in a book once,

a book in Pennsylvania.

Mind manifesting,

God-being, I Am, God-Being,

which of course I read about

in a book given to me in Pennsylvania.

And now touring the planet,

revealing the esoteric techniques

of mind-based manifestation.

What I Am.

What I Am.

All in a book, borrowed, annotated,

told me what I was, told of my Power.

This book,

in Pennsylvania.

Because my infinite mind

expanding infinitely

creating all things,

causing all effects,

My Mind My Mind

at The Center of it all.

Because, really, I swear,

this was all told to me

through a book

in Pennsylvania.

And so I caused the great crashes,

and so I manifested typhoons.

I have a murderous mind, this is true,

as foretold in a book

given to me in Pennsylvania.

But that’s what I manifest,

a joyous cleansing of the earth,

an ecstatic emptying of bank accounts.

My infinite infinite forever-expanding Mind.

Sympto.

It could be argued that it is a grim sign, when the largest part of you (from one angle) is de facto rejected, banned, blocked.

Cannot do not want to hear that....

So that could be a grim sign, yes. 

Among several others.

It's quite arrogant to believe that you've reached some point of personal development where you don't need to have human relationships anymore
But what's worse than living with that, is to have it revealed as false, and to then become acutely aware of what's missing.
This is a case where delusion is preferable to reality.

Menagerie 53.

B. came to the common space of his own volition, his own free choice. He came to spare the people in his life the effects of his personal toxicity, the thick, destabilizing vibration that dragged through the floor everyone within a certain emotional proximity.

B. could no longer feign innocence. Although his destructive influence was not something that he felt he could control, neither could he play the role of an innocent victim, persisting in those shared spaces, persisting in the production of his wide swaths of wreckage.

B. departed, B. went into exile.

B. came to the common space because he wanted to live---deliberately?

No, not that.

An example, though, that slip. The old things linger, they follow.

B. was followed.

New opportunities for the aching incitement.

I am a Gnostic insofar as I believe in the reality of a legion of demons dedicated to inciting my suicide.

Satan Takes You.

I often wonder if cellmate can subliminally detect when I'm having a fairly good day, and so she launches some critical piece of info or pushes onto us some abusive attitude so as to destroy the upward-movement of mine vibratory passings.

But she couldn't have arranged today's turnabout on her own, which leads us to speculate that the real antagonist here is beyond her, behind humans in general, and in fact is connected to The Demiurge....

Four hours,
Four percent.

The deathdrums are pounding in 4/4 to incite a mutual extermination here,
this house is a home for disturbed vibrations, eh.

Tho funnily enough Russ was more or less feeling past and/or beyond the 4 hour situation, but the cellmate's four-percent atrocity is now filling in the gap with regard to deathlust levels.

THAT'S CALLED BALANCE, THAT'S CALLED HARMONY.
DEATH FOR EVERYONE.

Burn The Witch.

They coined the acronym 'LOL' in response to Russell feeling disappointed as he observes the vitality of his anguish fading away into a dull, typical indifference.

Ebbing back from the forward flow of overhot dramatics, now resting at a point of mere mechanical verbiage.

Like a chore now, sort of. But Russell feeling he should hang on because, well, why, because there might be some fresh woundings in the future, to fuel future Menageries?

Or also to coddle the 0.0081% chance of a return, maybe.

Though that of course is foolish in the extreme, considering the Much Doomed nature of The Whole Thing, The Whole Situation.

Russell is a scientist, doing little randomized trials on different variations of pain and irritation, also some analog testing of the degrees of obsession....

Cioran 5.

We cannot aspire to happiness, only to less unhappiness. 
...Self-control and sustained inner effort are required in
order to diminish unhappiness. All efforts to attain happiness, on
the other hand, are entirely futile. You cannot retrace your steps
once you've taken the path to unhappiness; it is the path
of no return. 

Cioran 4.

When men can no longer bear the monotony and the ba-
nality of ordinary existence, they will find in each experience of
the absolute an opportunity to commit suicide. The impossibility
of surviving such extraordinary states of exaltation will destroy
existence. No one will then doubt that it is possible to long for
death after having listened to certain symphonies or admired a
unique landscape. 

Animal banished from life, man's condition is tragic, for he
no longer finds fulfillment in life's simple values. For animals, life
is all there is; for man, life is a question mark. An irreversible
question mark, for man has never found, nor will ever find, any
answers. Life not only has no meaning; it can never have one. 

--

A little knowledge is delightful; a lot, disgusting. The more

you know, the less you want to know.

Now Emil Cioran is talking about infinity.

You're losing me with the infinity stuff, Emil.

I don't comprehend it, bro.

How fortunate that, having lost all our hopes, we can still
leap into infinity, dive into boundlessness, participate in the uni-
versal anarchy of its whirlwind!

What the fuck does this even mean, Emil. C'mon...

Cioran 3

Only when you do not deign even to despise this
world of unsolvable problems will you finally come to achieve a
superior form of personal existence. And this will be so not be-
cause you have any special value or excellence, but because
nothing interests you beyond your own personal agony. 

--

As far as I am concerned,
I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a
man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system,
make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical
systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It's all too little. I
renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone.

--

 Knowing full well that men could abolish poverty, you
are nevertheless aware of its eternity and you feel a bitter anxiety
in which man appears in all his petty inconsequence

--

forgetfulness is the only salvation. I would like to forget everything, to forget myself and to forget the world.

--

Not greatly disjoined from life, woman is a tempo-
rary salvation for those on the heights of despair, because
through her a return to life's unconscious and innocent pleasures
is still possible.

--

I can only live at the beginning or the end of this world. 

--

Why not say it? True knowledge is the most
tenebrous darkness. I would gladly exchange all the harrowing
problems of this world for sweet, un-self-conscious naiveté. The 
spirit does not elevate; it tears you apart. 

--

Should Eros also be my enemy? Why is it that, when
love is reborn in me, I become so afraid that I am ready to swal-
low the entire world in order to stop my love from growing? My
predicament: I want to be disappointed in love so that I will have
more reasons to suffer. Only love reveals to you your true degra- 
dation. 

Voidness Voidly Exaggerrated.

Now it's all feeling very "much ado about nothing." Will report back on the day's further evolutions.

Oserious

When Levi Tate is on the news,
will the little info bar under his name
include the words Black Divinity?

Copy Of A.

Oh apparently there's a song about this, "Only" by Nine Inch Nails.

You have the crisis of identity;
The rage/apathy leading to a turning-away-from the world;
then--

Because you were never really real to begin with
I just made you up to hurt myself.


AND SO TOO FOR EVERYTHING I PERCEIVE, ALL JUST WIRING AND DUCT TAPE FOR MY MASOCHIST MACHINE.

Didn't.

He configures for himself:

HOPELESS SITUATION

Said configuration withdraws his blood,
this is good, this is productive,
look at all the complicated emotions we can explore on our blog.

Reminder that everything --out there-- is just a reflektor for the further descent into my Self.

Cioran 2

Although life for me is torture, I cannot renounce it, because I do not believe in the
absolute values in whose name I would sacrifice myself. If I were
to be totally sincere, I would say that I do not know why I live and
why I do not stop living. The answer probably lies in the irra-
tional character of life which maintains itself without reason.

--

It resembles the last stage of initiation in the
Egyptian mysteries when, instead of the ultimate knowledge,
one is told, "Osiris is a black divinity." The absolute remains un-lovable.

A problem with Cioran is that he frequently speaks of having shed his illusions, but how could you ever know if you've shed all the illusions, or if you're not just looking at the next layer of deception....

Decay.

The closer parts will wither now,
will decay as a consequence of time and distance.
Eventually you'll be left only with a residue of inanity,
your own stupid humor, tired jokes, broken shticks,
lingering on half-dead, staggering, mocking,
bitter indicator of What Was But Now Isn't.

Cioran

Why can't we stay closed up inside ourselves? Why do we chase
after expression and form, trying to deliver ourselves of our pre-
cious contents or "meanings," desperately attempting to orga-
nize what is after all a rebellious and chaotic process? Wouldn't it
be more creative simply to surrender to our inner fluidity without 
any intention of objectifying it, intimately and voluptuously
soaking in our own inner turmoil and struggle? Then we would
feel with much richer intensity the whole inner growth of spir-
itual experience. All kinds of insights would blend and flourish in
a fertile effervescence.

--

 There are experiences and obsessions one cannot live with. Salvation lies in confessing them.

--

Creativity is a temporary salvation from the claws of death.

--

 I cannot contribute anything to this world because I only have one method: agony. 

--

The structure of depressive states holds the key to their
fundamental understanding. These states, in which separation
from the world steadily and painfully increases, bring man closer
to his inner reality and cause him to discover death in his own
subjectivity. A growing interiority progresses toward the essential
center of subjectivity, overcoming all the social forms which usu-
ally mask it. Once beyond this center, progressive interiority dis-
covers the region where life mingles with death, where man has
not yet detached himself from the primary sources of existence,
where the demonic rhythm of life works with complete irra-
tionality. In cases of depression, the awareness of death's imma-
nence in life creates an atmosphere of constant dissatisfaction

and restlessness that can never be appeased. 

Smash & Grab.

Just tried to incite some vicious pain again but it didn't work.

See how unpredictable this business is?

Rapid cycling, eternal mysteries....

Leave, Get Out.

Russ has to pull way back on all forms of communication everywhere, because he is almost always putting himself in the position--the dreaded position--of The One Who Cares More, which is hell itself, which is utter utter burning burning.

Russ has to learn to shut the fuck up. Remember when he'd disappear back in the day, before Myspace and Facebook? He was gone, nobody heard a peep, that was some good hermit shit right there. Now, thoug,h the pull of social media fucks Russ over in twenty different ways.

Disappear, fucko. C'mon, Russell. RUSSELL. Just go, fucker.

Russellender.

No, but look, here's the thing--

Someone is still at a point prior to total cynicism. Someone is at a point where the world is interesting, exciting, it offers intrigue and cries out to be explored.
That's where someone is.
That's not where you are.

I don't know what could be offered to The Someone, from one such as I, having departed that more engaging reality long ago.
In fact, to encounter it in the someone else, it serves as a mirror to reflect back to me the whole arc of degradation, the full scale of the burnout.
I can see the whole process, played back again and again, and meanwhile being here, in the v---.

What can I offer to such a person except a contagious corruption, corrosion. Inevitable probably, but why should I step in and accelerate the process?

This makes sense, right? Russ thinks so.

Theory 993.

Probably the problem is--

Russell became very numb and unaffected over the course of several years.

Then a [Situation] suddenly developed and cracked open those parts and spaces that had been sealed.

So now everything is flooded and soaked and drenched and fucked, because Russ forgot how to cope with certain shades of emotion.

I manufacture machines. I manufacture perfect machines, invisible machines.

My machines live within the mind, they are born and they are killed strictly within the mental aether.

I make machines in my mind, perfect machines built for the purpose of torture.

The torture is highly advanced, highly adaptive, free-flowing and dynamic.

These are my machines, I couldn't put them elsewhere, they are mine and mine alone.

My machines run constantly, they never turn off, they never sleep.

So long as I live and breathe, so too will my machines hum, they will hum and destroy.

Forever. For the life of me.

Is what I do to myself a form of psionics.....

Loves It, Wants It.

I just willingly DELIBERATELY did something that I knew could *only* affect me negatively but I went ahead and did it, so is this proof enough now, that some part of me is in love with this condition, loves the brokenness, loves the deepening of the waking nightmare, etc. etc.

Can you LOL at yourself,
since you can't do the other thing?

Yeah, nice takeaway, let's have a good laugh.

Ha ha.

Oh alright.

The arrangement of situations into delicate orders promising full maximization of masochistic self-tyranny.

The imagination at the center of it all, nibbling spare details, assembling them into pure products of private anguish.

The world entire is the inkwell for the penning of your terror.

All considerations will be made, all observations will be disfigured and prostituted.

Who initiated this mission of the psyche?

How does a mind come to embody so perfectly its own gravest enemy?

The Symbol Has No Referent.

Beckett

Crawls and falls. Lies. Lies in the dark with closed eyes resting from his crawl. Recovering. Physically and from his disappointment at having crawled again in vain. Perhaps saying to himself, Why crawl at all?Why not just lie in the dark with closed eyes and give up? Give up all. Have done with all. With bootless crawl and figments comfortless. But if on occasion so disheartened it is seldom for long. For little by little as he lies the craving for company revives. In which to escape from his own. 

--

Halting now and then with bowed head to fix the score. Then on from nought anew. Huddled thus you find yourself imagining you are not alone while knowing full well that nothing has occurred to make this possible. The process continues none the less lapped as it were in its meaninglessness. You do not murmur in so many words, I know this doomed to fail and yet persist. No.

--

You now on your back in the dark shall not rise again to clasp your legs in your arms and bow down your head till it can bow down no further. But with face upturned for good labour in vain at your fable. Till finally you hear how words are coming to an end. With every inane word a little nearer to the last. And how the fable too. The fable of one with you in the dark. The fable of one fabling of one with you in the dark. And how better in the end labour lost and silence. And you as you always were.


Alone.

BLACK WAVE

BAD VIBRATIONS

I feel like Arcade Fire really understand the situation, globally.

In terms of what people actually feel, in themselves.

Crying and Raging.

Themes of Escape.

Solipsis 2.

Provide me with some mild irritant,
some minor wound,
and I'll supply the momentum,
I'll grow it internally.

It won't be you anymore,
just me again, again,
just me as always.

Scientific Reasoning.

One [Situation] can be the vector opening up to the *ALL-PAIN*.
This one [Situation] can trigger the reflective flow of *ALL-ANGST*.
It no longer lives as what it originally was,
a relationship let's say,
but instead persists and mutates as the now-independent MASOCHISM MACHINE.
Now it evolves on its own,
the aquatic ape marching upward through the psyche,
bridging old with new,
ALL-PAIN in the SOLE-SOURCE.


The theory, let's say,
is that a [Situation] can serve as the trigger
for a whole blood-splattered Evaluation-Incessant,
a constant self-fueling internal trial,
which leaves the original [Situation] completely behind.
You may *think* all your wrenching agonies are due to the [Situation],
but really it's its own thing now,
propelling itself,
cut off,
alive.

THE AMAZINGLY TORTUROUS POWER OF THE HUMAN IMAGINATION

Cautionary Tales.

Russ is disgusted by his own pathological expressions online, yet he cannot stop and walk away, because *this* is his only link to anything.

Oooh oooh oooh

Got that

Mod-errrrrn 

Aliiiiien-ayyy-shun

Cancerous.

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

And The Others Yet To Come

etc., etc....

nobody cares nobody cares nobody cares

chorus:

noooooooooobody cares
noooooooooobody cares

damn bro just put like soem fat detuned bass up in there fuckin sweet little ditty that no one cares about ever. #greatjobbbb

Beckett

Though now even less than ever given to wonder he cannot but sometimes wonder if it is indeed to and of him the voice is speaking. May not there be another with him in the dark to and of whom the voice is speaking? Is he not perhaps overhearing a communication not intended for him? If he is alone on his back in the dark why does the voice not say so? Why does it never say for example, You saw the light on such and such a day and now you are alone on your back in the dark?Why? Perhaps for no other reason than to kindle in his mind this faint uncertainty and embarrassment.

--

Another trait the flat tone. No life. Same flat tone at all times. For its affirmations. For its negations. For its interrogations. For its exclamations. For its imperations. Same flat tone. You were once. You were never. Were you ever? Oh never to have been! Be again. Same flat tone.

The simplest, smallest missteps are enough to kill this one, this guy Russ.

Everything is a threat, everything is an exposure.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxox

Laughable!
Hideous!
Life!
Unending!

And Russ once again tops himself with masochistic staggerings. ALWAYS, EVERYWHERE! HA! VULNERABILITY! EMBARRASSMENT!

And it just keeps going on and on, you know? Real cosmic-like, being a fucking idiot. So amazing and celestial.

Christ Almighty,
Christ Christ Christ.

Silence can be like a sort of death.

This I say, to the void.

Blogger void.

Fuct.

I could have at least left it on a high note, but I didn't.
I blew it within five minutes.
That's the take-away, that's the lasting memory.

Fucked it up again, Russ.

(Cue the cacophony of future lovers laughing at me, off in the distance, extending forever...)

The Ground of Resistance and/or Pissboy Fuckmouth

You can say whatever you like on blogger because nobody gives a shit.
I could spell this out more explicitly, work in the whole history of shits-not-given, here and elsewhere, the outlets aborted, pre-silenced, but let's not be too explicit, in case someone pretends to give a shit for just a brief number of moments and happens upon this bullshit.
So let's not be too explicit, right?

How did Russell completely lose the capacity to cope with relatively simple matters, with issues he's fairly well dealt with in the past?
What we were *told* was that things like this get easier as one gets older, but in Russell's case, he is rapidly losing ground, losing foundational abilities, character qualities.
Even his typing seems to have gotten worse.

Oh, what wonders, what mysteries.

Suspicions are of the chemical variety, prescriptions, but hey, let's be a good company man and continue towing the line so granted to us.

Let's leave with an inspiring quote, right? Russell feels a kinship to these lines, they seem to encompass so much of him and his earthly experience.

It didn't turn out the way you wanted it to 
It didn't turn out the way you wanted it to, did it? 

And it just goes on and on, because Russell resisted the urges, The Urge, today as with every day.

Wretched.

life is like a trail of wreckage.
it's all fucked up.

Russell stumbled into a perfected mechanism for maximum masochism. The entire world bends backwards to INFLICT.

Shields

Nothing can make of Kafka a bad writer, but there were things that lay outside his ken: the communal, the shared, the necessary social lie, and, most significantly, other people. That Kafka finally comprehended this lack in himself, that he measured the shape and depth of his own wound—this is what makes him an information bureau of the human condition.

Menagerie 9.

D. believes in the reality of malign influences, malign forces.
D. believes only in the malign, sees no evidence of anything beneficial.
D.'s belief informs all his conversations and most of his decisions.
Thus the others find it difficult to talk to D. for very long.

"The yelping has stopped. Yelping, I hear none."
"Nor a cry, nor a cry."
"Perhaps he has at last willed his body to die."

Menagerie 8.

"What is the one he keeps going back to, smother-this?"
"Summence. Is a name, I believe."

How did Z. achieve his position?
Was he elected?
Did he emerge victorious from a battle?
Did he kill the previous occupant?
Does Z. sit in a desirable seat, or an undesirable seat?
How is he connected to The Bold-Printed Sign?

Menagerie 7.

They could hear the cries and yelps of B., also the names, the trembling speech giving the names.
D. asking, perhaps no one particularly, "Is it possible that a malicious entity put into B.'s head the notion of this Isolation Module, put the supposed solution in his mind as a trojan horse which now, in reality, reveals itself as a cauldron in which B. will be boiled by the heated waters of his own fevered paranoia?"
D. receiving no response, particularly.
B. continuing to cry, to yelp, to utter Names.

Menagerie 6.

The visions of B.
The nightmare visions, the daylit nightmares of his insipid neuroses.
His entire face become an ear, so great an ear as to pick up every word spoken anywhere.
The face.
The face.
When here on the bed--
Continuing to violate him in his Isolation Module, his visions, his hauntings.
Mother.
Mother sternly rebuking.
Mother insisting she predicted the torments thus unfurling.
Should have never,
Should have never--
The visions of B.,
consumed by ends
real and imagined.

The visions like white text
printed on the black matte finish
of The Bold Printed Sign,
the forever-ground,
the gestalted skull.

Menagerie 5.

B. lays still, blanket-wrapped, within his hastily-assembled Isolation Module. "I end it now," he told the others, "I stop the interfacing before it stops itself. I kill before being killed. I slay before being---"
"Yes, yes, yes," Z. interrupting. "Yes, and..." pointing upward to The Bold-Printed Sign.
And so B. cut himself off, as promised, entered the module, as assembled, and laid awake but under covers, trying to clear his mind of any reference to that thing which he was trying to avoid.
C. delivered a message to B., via paper rolled up into a ball and given greater momentum (and thus distance) by being swung from the end of a section of fishing line.

Dearest B.,
Just letting you know
that I feel properly motivated
at this moment-of-writing
to, if you consent, destroy
your new-built module
and yourself as well,
tucked within it,
this I can do,
if you so desire,
because I finally at last
feel properly motivated,
as I said previously.
Please respond quickly,
as motivation-for-destruction
is in short supply
and rarely lasts more
than half an hour.

At the ready,
C.

B., true to his method of Total Communication Resistance, did not reply to C. Had he replied, and had he agreed to the act of body-and-module-destruction, it would have had to been sent, received, and acted upon quite quickly, for C. sunk back into a motivationless lethargy only a few minutes after landing the ball of paper into B.'s Isolation Module.

Menagerie 4.

Does Summence give an indication?
Any new transmissions 'pon the vine this morn?
L. waits, occasionally scratching down onto his yellow legal pad possible routes of conversation, adding also to the sidebar list of troublesome terms, those terms most readily misinterpreted in the back-and-forth of indication transmission.
L. has over the years amassed a significant archive of identical legal pads, ideas and inspirations laid out in all directions and variations, the list of troublesome terms stretching back through thirty two thousand different items (present total, at time of writing).
L. has not, however, used any of this material in his own transmitted indications, at least not yet. But still, he prepares. He has naught else to do, really.

Menagerie 3.

E. is going over his list of twenty-two names, himself included, and comparing it to the twenty-two major arcana of the tarot deck, which is also spread out next to the list of names.
Z. passes by, tepid whiskey sour in hand, on his way to the chair beneath the bold-printed sign. He pauses for a moment, taps The Hanged Man, gives a wink to E. before moving on.
"That's not what it means, Z. It's not about suicide. Not everything has to be perceived through the interpretive prism of suicide and suicidal ideation."
Z. only shakes his head while his lips discreetly part to form the shape of a small grin, a grin that suggests its bearer possesses some undetected wisdom impervious to debate.
"And actually," adds E., "perception is key here, The Hanged Man comes freshly born into this world with uncorrupted vision, he would dash your grim philosophy into pieces if given a chance."
Z. pauses now, that tiny grin given over to a bit of widening. Z. turns, stares at E.
Z. says to E., "Perhaps my intention was to disclose something of myself. Maybe I possess that vision you speak of, and manifested my clear-seeing into the bold-printed sign which the rest of you struggle to keep out of your field of view."
E. has no response to this, knowing that the discussion, like most every discussion, has entered into the plane of uncertainty, of the unprovable, the untestable.

Menagerie 2.

E. is in a fit of pondering. Ponderance?
"It seems of us there are twenty-two in number, thus one should automatically bow to the universal laws of analogy and admit that there must be a deeply-threaded association between us in our twenty-two varied personalities and the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet. This is all standard practice, obviously, merely acknowledging the import of number and supposed 'coincidence.'"
Which of the twenty-one will express at least a passing interest? Or are they all pressed face-to-screen, awaiting the next indication?

Menagerie.

B. walks out. "I'm done," he says.
C. rips out the telephone jacks, smashes the components, scatters the pieces to the wind.
"It's better this way," he assures us.
E. diligently reads from his collection of self-help books.
"We must persist, we must trust in the future's desirability."
M. continues under the mistaken impression that lacerating his skin will trigger a flood of endorphins in his brain as compensation, thus pulling him (and, through psychick mystery, all of us as well) out of the umbra.
Will we, perchance, make it out to the....penumbra?
L. checks his access points obsessively, awaiting the next indication. "I could live on this for a few more years, maybe, or at least until Christmas."
Z. does as he always does, sitting patiently in the corner, pointing upwards to the bold black print of the awful sign and symbol.

Let me remind you of a sentence by Saint-Just, one
of the main protagonists of the French Revolution who got guillotined
in the end, and who said once: ‘There’s this new idea in Europe: happiness.’
Well, his other phrase, which I like very much is: ‘If the people can
be oppressed, even if they are not actually oppressed, then they are
oppressed already.’ It is a very interesting statement, because it says that
the possibility is already the reality. Even if you are unaware of it, it has
already happened. Hence the menace in the present period.

All things
become burdens
hanging, pulling.

Everything is replaceable.
Everyone is replaceable.

Your uniqueness matters,
but then it also doesn't.

Can we reiterate
that the objective
of This Whole Thing
is *not* to maximize
human happiness?

Protect the system,
breed the system,
breathe the system,
give everything you have,
all of your time,
for the greater good.

What do you do
when all you have
within the confines
of a system,
all you possess,
is your own hatred
of said system?

Your only asset,
we say this
in a broader, deeper,
more shallow sense.

Kill It Quick.

Russ loses it, cries in front of a child,
God I hate this fucking world,
FUTILITY.
FUTILITY.

Get a job.

Sometimes Russ just cracks,
the tears burst forth
and his mind is utterly filled
with the notion of murder,
the grandest murder,
of the system itself.

And more tears come
because Russ recognizes
the total futility.

ENJOY YOUR PAIN, BUD.
HAVE FUN.

Dear Russ.

Go ahead, we tell Russell,
cry it out, feel the oppression,
suffer alongside all humanity.

But nothing changes,
nothing will change,
this is how it has to be.

Enjoy your pain, bud.

For The System.

Time surrounds, like brackets. Pushes, exerts pressure.
Within the brackets, distance multiplied by obligation.

The sum is the number of possibility's absence.
The number of a lack, a gap. Unmeasurable.
So what is the number?

There is a whole world
whose primary purpose
is to keep people apart,
to keep each individual unit
in a state of alienation
from everything that's not
a product of the imposed world.

Each individual must be alienated,
kept busy, kept stressed, kept worried,
this must occur and must not stop,
for everyone.
The why, the reason,
is that the system requires it.
The primary objective
is to maintain the system.
The health of the system
takes precedence over all else.

A human creation
destroys human life.

A lot, a little.

254.

Blocked.

DISTANCE.
TIME.

Choice, Problems Of.

It's quite amazing that a mind
with a more or less limitless imagination
will choose to revisit
the same dozen or so concepts,
all of which involve
your Hypothetical Wounding.
Quite amazing
that this mind
will make this choice
DAY IN
and DAY OUT.

Gut-sick.

How lovely
when the paranoia
sweeps in
from nowhere
for no reason
to disturb
and disturb.

laotzushot

shredded pages of tao te ching
mixed to smooth paste
dried and crushed to powder
delicately mixed with solvent
gently injected
lao tzu to the mainline
in times of grip.

Latin solvō, "I loosen, untie, I solve"

What Again.

What is,
What is this thing.
Undefined thing,
Nebulous tentative
And vulnerable thing.
What is this thing you fear to lose.
Would it matter,
Why would it matter,
Is this surprising,
Should you ever be surprised,
Can you expect and accept completely everything,
What is this thing you fear to lose,
Why are you grasping,
Why do you kill,
What is this thing you fear to lose.

WHAT IS THIS THING THAT YOU FEAR TO LOSE

...a destructive and ignoble emotion and nothing good can come of it...

No.

Don't grasp
if you're the type
to perceive everything
as a threat.

Laotzugrip

sudden flash-pangs of attachment
the worryness of grasping--
headshake and eye-blink
mutter-whispering No, No,
LAO TZU
LAO TZU
LAO TZU
Help me to release.

Barthelme X

...the paradigmatic artistic experience is that of failure. The actualization fails to meet, equal, the intuition. There is something "out there" which cannot be brought "here." 

Can you remember

To consistently

Slap yourself

And mutter-yelp Taoist reminders

Against

GRASPING

??

Virilio 3

I like Virilio's assessment of May '68 and the Situationists as the final act of the revolutionary "drama" begun in 1789.

It gives a good foundation for understanding why modern Situationist-style movements seem hopeless and lacking in some key element.

It also gives some degree of explanation with regard to why the tracts/etc. of the '68 era seem so far removed from reality and probability.

And Virilio's emphasis on the technological element is something almost always ignored by these groups.

And so on, and so on.

the problem is in the
GRASPING.

May Sixty-Eight.

Those who look down upon this world
will surely take hold and try to change things
But this is a plan
I've always seen fail.
The world is Tao's own vessel
It is perfection manifest
It cannot be changed
It cannot be improved
For those who go on tampering, it's ruined
For those who try to grasp, it's gone.

G-rb-g-

little iris-eyed window closer to closing for good,
having to wonder then,
what is the physical force that compels its constriction?
time as a)
distance as b)
tertiary factors (environmental) as c)
the temper & tone of your degraded being as d)
a four-factored flush towards finality,
the great forever shut-out.

Tapestry-Taker

As read in some book, outlined in some article,
likely probably aimed at a different sort but STILL--
mission nonetheless, mission and the tentative uptake.

Mission with base-formation rooted in Other M,
[Misery] (??),
that's the proper fuel, the only gas (for this one).

Redwhite indications. flatlined blockbar to halt,
well-heeled thrust to pry the mind away from counterproductive habits--
if i was younger, if better, younger, better--

Third M-term, Mind,
specifically.

And on and on, suchlike, of course.

Solipsis Ho.

Novel new devices for partnered pairs to
split open the head of the other
and so deeply study and analyze the emotional reactions
to the self-propelled perceptions
(thus what is said, thus what I say)
(and so to see what you think, how you feel in response).

And the outcome has the potential to horrify,
or merely gut the participants,
as they gaze into the black bottomless well
of general human indifference.

And ever again,
the rest of your years,
you would half-measure every future word
and cringe to know
how far it will miss
(as it will, as it must).

Barthelme.

30 October: I return again and again to the problem of my future.

Bucky.

One evening he walked along Lake Michigan and thought of his life up until then. He had disappointed his wife, and he had lost money for his father-in-law and his friends who had invested in the enterprise. He was useless at business and a burden to everyone. Finally he decided upon suicide as the best option. He would drown himself in the lake. He had a good insurance policy, and his wife’s family would take better care of her than he had been able to. As he walked toward the water, he mentally prepared himself for death.
Suddenly something stopped him in his tracks—what he would describe later as a voice, coming from nearby or perhaps from within him. It said, “From now on you need never await temporal attestation to your thought. You think the truth. You do not have the right to eliminate yourself. You do not belong to you. You belong to Universe. Your significance will remain forever obscure to you, but you may assume that you are fulfilling your role if you apply yourself to converting your experiences to the highest advantage of others.” Never having heard voices before, Fuller could only imagine it as something real. Stunned by these words, he turned away from the water and headed home.

Ten Twenty Fifty From Now

Futuretalk
Hazed plan(s)
--and your own
notable absence,
Always Always Always.

Whatever might fit
would shift
and so
no longer fit.

We call this a trend,
based on historical data.

Bird.

Then a few years later he saw the great jazz saxophonist Charlie “Bird” Parker perform live, and the sounds Parker produced touched Coltrane to the core. Something primal and personal came through Parker’s saxophone, a voice from deep within. Coltrane suddenly saw the means for expressing his uniqueness and giving a voice to his own spiritual longings.

Or like some Icelandic thing sweeping in, suggesting a resonance beyond the human.

Snare.

Datamined,

Compared and Contrasted.

Language habits, word preference,

Tabulated against backdrops of other notorieties. 

Self gives Self away

Through much too much sharing,

Too many idle speeches.

As ever could ever be planned (no better),

Like this was the very reason for its Creation.

Ensnared.

Other Persons With Obvious Jesus Complexes/Fixations

Martin Gore
Trent Reznor
Maynard J. Keenan

The It.

Knowing enough to know,
as a pseudo-Barthian,
less what I am than what I'm not.
(Loses a thread...)

Jahili.

Blasphemer against whatever substitute this It holds up.

Jahili. 

Against whatever secret god this broader blank Self worships.

This It is due for its own psychological September.

Virilio 2

Man has revived the question of God through nuclear accident?

God has come back into history through the door of terror.

Virilio.

Death and consciousness are allied, thus the consciousness of death is the origin of consciousness.

Nickel Theory.

The one stable One,
around which the ape-faces are preening,
singing their individual songs of misery.

Structured just so,
that there would be a single stable point,
against which all madness would throw itself.

And so if this stable point breaks,
likewise descends with all the rest,
the effect reveals its mass,
it envelops the globe entirely,
it takes everyone down at once.

Emerson

A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the luster of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.

Right thru the first 3 of John Barth's novels, the male protagonists all suffer from a similar malady, that of having no specific ambition whilst also lacking in any sort of stable identity.

They manage to reason their way to a somewhat comfortable acceptance of this state of being. I have half a mind to copy down their reasoning(s) and repeat them to myself obsessively and basically try to "theft" a mindset from a novel, but we'll see.

 the culture industry is shown not to separate
itself from existence in the way that art does but rather as engaging in ‘the
idolization of the existing order’ (DE: xix). While the culture industry poses
as an escape or rest from the rigours of contemporary existence, any
difference between it and the world as it is constituted at present is, in fact,
merely superficial.