This trigger I will not take literally. It should not be an object. Movement should not be an act.
Yet. Expresses exception. There is this fact and that fact and yet...
(more) One would not think so, however...there is a change.
Change is not an act it is a coming forth, a natural progression which cannot not be. A welling forth.
Yes this response to this trigger is only a rant.
Have you ever felt a profound lack of faith? Like the world behind you might not be. Like each breath must consciously be had or you will cease to breathe? Each step becoming a leap of faith. I have stood in wonder as my lungs continued to pull air. As I continued to exist in this empty and meaningless void.
Have you ever wondered on how the world does not ask for apology? Has it ever made you laugh and feel free? Has it ever crushed you? I have been devastated by the unfulfilled need to be justified by something outside myself, something transcendent. I have been denied this again, again, again, again until the only response is comedy. To laugh. Humor at horror.
No matter how far you run, the rules will be the same. In Cambodia a man wants to be told he is handsome. In Kamchatka a woman wishes the sun would come out. Have you ever been desperately bored with the world, the universe, humanity, all philosophy, poetry and religion?
I have practiced letting my head drop back and my arms and legs go limp. Laying there too bored to exist.
Is this nirvana or is this the depths of depression?
A self less, un attached, letting go of everything. In Buddhism there is the hope that this will lead to oneness.
Depression says "this sucks"
As they aimlessly thread their way through the aisles of a Rite Aid Beth explained herself to John:
There's something so beautiful about tragedy and depravity.
(more) Like a sacrifice to a missing god. An obedient man whose loss goes unrewarded. An Abraham whose hand is never stalled.
Or like a sad and crooked old woman bent over by a life of devotion to a mere token divinity. The way her hands cradle that meaningless icon whose divinity departed with her.
I'm in love with it all. For everything that is wrong with it I want more. It's about the magnitude of the feeling, not if it's good or a bad or abnormal.
I am obsessed with peoples lives swallowed up by primal drives. Withered away in fulfillment of an unforgiving act. Mummies whose phylactery contains a silver spoon and a syringe.
They are like dried flower blossoms desiccated and perfumed. A potpourri for a sick passion, my sick passion.
"John, you're a mummy" "You would let them do that to you". John didn't look up from the package he was reading. He was imagining Beth as a beautiful vampire and thinking these five words: the world is a vampire.
But the deepest and most primal dive is the creative force that makes life. To snuff it out is to pervert the most stubborn part of innocence in the world...she continued but John was lost in thought.
It terrified John to realize that what she said was true. She honestly meant it. He was desperately fallen for a killer.
He thinks about how she will do it. One day soon, when I'm really ready, she'll be able to do it. An easy and relaxing breath washed over his persistent anxiety.
She'll be kind and thorough. I will look into her eyes.
The thrill of the music still lingered in the place. A few shafts of light still touched down variously onto the darkness of the theatre. I sat there running my thumb and index down the seam of my coat repeatedly.
The heavy empty. The heavy empty. I repeated(more) the phrase to myself repeatedly. The loop kept up like a prayer. My fingers continued running down the seam of the coat the way a penitent soul might briefly handle each bead on a rosary.
Frantically my mind was grappling with the dichotomies inherent in heaviness leveraged against stillness or the word play of still and thrill.
Thrill then still. The thrill-ness left in the still-ness. It's still but still the thrill.
I thought of all the books I'd like to write. Thought about the ties that bound them. The threads that merged them together. I was hunting for the seam like the seam I ran now between my thumb and pinky finger.
I reminded myself of the phrases. Thought on the advise by Hemingway to find "one true statement".
My stories just aren't that way great sir. I have only questions. Only shafts of light touching down on dark empty spaces. Only the seams and not the coats. The materials too expensive you see. I'm sure you understand.
My imaginary Hemingway asked me a question about the seams.
I told him my one true things.
I told him about the way "intensity fades into the everyday".
I told him "happiness is the art of being OK".
I told him that I would write about a man who survived himself then sat to think about how to proceed and could only arrive at a question at best.
I told my great sir Imaginary Hemingway the line the man said "So What Now?"
John wants to study philosophy but thinks he'll cut himself short and study something practical like...Bethany wants to study anthropology and work in the underbelly of the world.
They meet being trapped together waiting for their numbers to be called at the DMV. All the seats are take(more)n except the one beside John. Beth hesitates and remains standing then takes the seat when a heavyset woman emerges from the bathroom and eyes the chair.
John is attracted Beth because of her shoes. Her whole outfit really, but especially the shoes. He imagines she listens to Echo and the Bunnymen or some such sad and pensive music. Maybe that she too tortures her time by reading thick and heavy literature just to meet self assigned expectations.
John is writing as she sits and he attempts to obscure what he's written, stops writing. He was writing about the anonymity and powerlessness of being in the DMV.
At this time in her life, Beth had settled down and accepted her clinical attraction to homicide. She looks mockingly and pityingly on John's horrible rambling lines.
John thinks he hears his number, stands, recognizes his mistake, awkwardly debates whether he should sit down again beside the blonde doing her best to ignore the awkward stick man trying not to act stupid in front of a girl he obviously likes.
John decides to sit back down, instinctively turns back to his journal, hesitates, decides against vulnerability and lays his sweaty palms on it's closed cover.
Beth looks at him, revels at his torture, damps down that erotic compulsion towards the suffering. Another perfect example of the underbelly she holds at arms length. A fluttering moth beating it's wings against the thick glass.
He wants to die, she wants to kill. If you've read my work, aforementioned. (less)
"well don't cherry pick it boy, give er' some gas" ---hooooop--- Whip back into seat; crimson red and silver buttons. "yes son the great beyond" ---hush--- Clear wide open eyes; perfect purple black---prismatic stars--- sudden suchness [pure presence]. "shoot son, you're pure star struck aintcha'?" "hee hee you'(more)ve got the twinklin' eyes" ---stupefied grin--- turn to face, see straight past ---prismatic stars--- he speaks "we're here!!!", escaped from Earth in a Hillbilly StarCraft. (less)
Simple language now.
Happy, Sad, and... Good and Bad.
Simple expression because we trace with stencils and then we come back to fill in the details.
(more) We think our thoughts from the largest and least sure things until we arrive at the small and direct things.
Over the table, negative space, wallet shaped.
Vexes that tender rage.
Intensity fades. They say, into the everyday.
Until then. I'm left to feel it.
In the mind, a brainstorm rolls in.
Bolts tearing down from the ponderous bulk of its folds.
In the space thus lit, sulking b(more)estial behaviors roam.
What I will do if I find the one who stole my wallet?
But honestly, nothing.
To sulk, to scorn, to promise retribution.
The community condemns retribution not codified and executed on its financial behalf,
and after all,
I just want my wallet back.
I stopped writing, stopped thinking about writing.
I was embarrassed by the fact that I wrote and the fact that I liked to think about things the way that I do.
Somehow it seemed safer to join the dumb horde and chew the cud.
The temptations of normalcy (more)and acceptance were an alluring light that I shuffled off towards.
What did I win? I won shame and shame turned into anger.
At the end of the day I spent my time wondering whether it mattered that I care about politics and I spend hours forming arguments against god, watching videos about economics and reading greek philosophers.
If I could turn my interests into money the people would worship at my feet. The damn sheep. Fuck cool.
Never was I so content as when I was trying my best to be alone with my books, and scribbling for hours about nothing at all.
The richness of the pleasures of the flesh, the fatigue of defending my solitary bookish ways, the thought dream of the house with the picket fence and a seat at the tables of the bourgeois. Lured me away to hunt for cool.
Caught infinitely falling into the event horizon.
The affirmation of the right to die over the will of others. The music is blaring out and the sense of loss is looped continuously by the stillness of a photograph.
Misery so horrible its comedy.
The music o(more)f a pitch and repetition that grinds.
Nothing anyone would want to endure.
To capture that moment of dying so perfectly.
Fear that humbles the brave, who dare to call on death before it's time.
They will look at the grimace and just as they fall past that terminal point will know the answers we can only wonder at now.
Will liberation occur?
The living go on living.
The family finds their loved one dead.
Taken back into the source by an unnatural hand.
For those who have never wondered at the exquisite darkness of death it's such a strange and stupid fascination.
But for those who have gazed longingly at the exit and written their notes to say goodbye, it represents relief.
This week I've catalogued my sparse cupboards and counted the days. The days between now and enough to eat contain hunger, that's certain.
My living space is an ascetic exercise, bare and empty.
Bertrand Russell's "History of Western Philosophy" occupies my time while I avoid the scho(more)ol work I really must do.
Everywhere I go I walk or take the bus.
This is the life I chose, and that which I am choosing.
But then she came along. Random and interesting. Saying those words I turn to blood on the tongue. Two simple syllables "hello".
We talked for an hour or so, enjoyed each others company. The conversation tangled across the minutes until the sound of a jet split the day. It felt appropriate to part company so I bid her adieu. "I'll see you in class" I said.
She suggested that we might see each other outside of class and I agreed.
It isn't her. She seems quite fine. It's my life, my choices.
My spartan existence which in our society is unacceptable.
We must possess commodities in order to be eligible for each other. We are not our words, our thoughts, our feelings. We are the cars we drive, the app's on our phones, the lacquer on our cabinets.
This is especially true for men. A woman can live without possessions and those around her will admire her for the strength of her convictions. A man on the other hand is automatically cast as a failure if he does not own status symbols.
So as I've considered how to approach her interest I've decided to just be honest, and if she buys into what so many of her peers do, then it's just a one time thing and I will go on living a life of accustomed solitude.