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.