Ottawa last winter

To articulate this experience I must think of a proper way of beginning, my initial inclination was to describe the feeling of being an actor, more accurately a pretender waiting to be discovered for his big lie that he's not from around here. Unable to forget, even for a moment, that this neighbourhood does not belong to me in anyway, I walk around without any sort of security or sense of confidence that I know what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing-referring to a scribbled down list of directions on a piece of paper...arrive at the bus stop, the buses don't look the same, I even have to ask the bus driver where I should put the ticket...I am not myself in these parts. I am something confused and tied in a strange sort of awkwardness about every single move I make-someone will spot me sooner or later and alert everyone else about my presence amongst them- I am a deceiver, a pretender dressed in someone else's clothes.
I arrive at the train station after having ridden the bus on a straight road without any sights other than large enclosing walls made of pale concrete, only to discover that the train costs two dollars and fifty cents to ride...I, of course only have a dollar thirty eight in my pocket...what a fool I am....I find myself confronted with a slight dilemma, for this train stop is in the middle of a wide open space and highways. I instinctively start walking towards some buildings, only to think to myself of how depressing these sights are, even embarrassing to be walking amongst, especially since I do not think I would be walking around here if I knew what I was doing or where I should be going..nothing more depressing than these wide open fields of long, yellow, dying grass with garbage blown around here and there; highways and storage spaces with advertisements for cardboard boxes....this all feels so foreign but all too familiar to me, that it is utterly depressing.. I ask a balding guy where the nearest variety store is, he seems to laugh a little bit when I smile thankfully. Even idiots have one up on me-for they at least know where the hell they are going. I can no longer be that guy who keeps to himself and feels comfortable, who arrogantly looks at no one for a lack of interest, for I am at mimimal in need of their directional assistance. I am almost wishing for someone to take me under their wing and answer the few questions I am requiring answers to, “Does anyone even pay for the ticket this bus, or just get on for free?...Is there anybody to check to make sure you've paid the fare?” But, I am timid, and no-one here looks interested in speaking to a stranger.
I walk a few blocks threw some uninteresting brown brick apartments, and a few large factory stores, (paint, boxes, car parts) get the required two fifty for the train and head back to the station, which is just a platform in the middle of nowhere, down in some burrow under a bridge. but not before passing a house that strikes my attention, all alone on a rather large greenish yellow lawn, as if cut away from the rest of the townhouses which should be pressed up against its sides, it sits skinny and perfectly squared, with fake brick panelling on the upper half of the face, with a small porch with a white plastic chair on it; a settlement resting on a lot tucked in behind a storage space and prior to a block of uniform apartments, all on its own; surely one of the last places I would wish to live on earth, despite its sort of ugly charm. I imagine what it would be like to come home to that place, or to have guests over and think to myself that at the age of twenty it would strike me as a cool place to party-but now I see no potential for excitement in such a barren lot. I wish I had taken a photo.
I return back to the train station to insert my coins into the slot to discover that the machine is jammed; how embarrassing...I find myself standing there prodding a key in to try and push the coins down in order to print off a ticket for myself; as the crowd of students grows around me; not a single one of them shows any interest in the machine itself, only in my occupation with it-this must be a sight they do not see every day; Someone who at face, resembles one of their own, but now I might as well be wearing a neon jacket or a cone on my head. As the train approaches I decide that I will aboard regardless and blindly await what process will occur in order to verify my right to ride, if any....I wait and watch as the doors open and people aboard without having to appeal to any authority. I hop on and take a seat and wait anxiously for the train to start moving...some must find it humorous that I tried so hard to get a ticket only to aboard anyways, I, surely not the only liar amongst them, but still, the only one wearing my deed on my sleeve-they most infer of my slightly worried state-while they relax in a bored state...I am something new; so unfamiliar with what useful secrets I might be missing out on. The conductors of the train exist the pit at one end of the train and I observe them on the dock as I sit; I decide to put my headphones on; the two men are talking right outside the door; when they enter I am just turning the volume up and looking away, conveying a look of non deceptive thoughts; 'just keep on walking'..the man trailing the other, looks at me for a moment and I am almost certain he contemplated asking me for some kind verification. They pass on by though, and I wait for the train to move. It eventually does, and I eventually arrive at a destination where I know even less about what to do, or where to go.
I follow the herd again; the guy I asked for change back on those ugly streets has been amongst the same group of traveller's the entire time; whatever small confines my presence occupies in his mind; it is a place I do not wish to remain within; someone who does not know where they are going, I wish to separate from any one who might quietly still be observing me from time to time out of the corner of their eye.
So here I am now, hiding in a nook typing out this little adventure, to perhaps point out a few conclusions re-iterated in these experiences. Without experience we are truly blind as to what or how we ought to act; even with regard to the simplest little subtleties that can so easily be taken for granted upon being accustomed to certain ways of functioning for years; secondly, this feeling of displacement is both oddly embarrassing and discomforting-even ordering my coffee at a new coffee shop, there is a part of me waiting to be laughed at or told discovered by the people working there....a strange sort of paranoia that only high levels of alcohol has ever been able to alleviate by providing a sense of, 'who gives a fuck'. One pint last night fails to suffice.
The streets here, thus far, are not pretty, not interesting, not filled with cool looking people. Much more wide open then I'd like them to be; and this campus does not yet strike me as some place I'd like to spend a lot of my time. I long for a place far from the spaces between highways, which can only fill themselves with long yellow grass and garbage. The smell in the air speaks of the beginning of spring, with an unexpected warmth and odour of damp grass drying under the sun. This brings me back to her-anxiousness, but appreciative; alone in a purer sense, for the lack of even the slightest of hope of not feeling this way someday. Let the snow come.
Perhaps it takes years in order to learn how to react to sights without a feeling of nausea, in order to respond to familiarity with the much more comfortable intuition of boredom.
The sights on the train however, we're at time beautiful, why do colours strike my eyes with such promises of miraculous things in the future. White bark, red grass, green pine needles, black water-that beauty was the promise of future happiness, I do not know; the will's interestedness was a promise of future happiness-I think more accurately, that looking upon beauty is happiness; when one is momentarily swept up in a sight, prior to the interruption of expression; in that moment prior, when beauty is simply beauty; is this not a state of happiness, though it may only last the duration of a few seconds.
Dec 5
Only takes a few days to realize how to place my poisonous self amongst this populace of Christmas kids and slightly overweight middle aged people who for the last twenty years, haven't needed anything more than a roast beef dinner and a cup of coffee to feel at repose. But, there are still those, who've fallen into this life of suburban routine who shows signs of ware and tare...its the look in their eyes of hopelessness, an acceptance of a fate, as dictated by principles within the good old Christian way, to live up to one's responsibilities like a sheep being herded by an invisible shepherd asking only of them, their time until quiet and final submission; offering them comfort and food and warmth and children, but nothing more; much like the life of a house cat. The wishes fulfilled, the only they've ever known to desire. Such a tricky sleight of hand is the trick which requires no sleight of hand at all; for this magician poisons by granting everything you ever thought you wanted; a new kitchen counter top and the kids at hockey practice by eight.
This is a city condemned to die at a date that might as well be tomorrow; for they are barely breathing as it appears to me presently as I sit here in this coffee shop, surrounded by screaming kids and boring looking 'politically informed' middle class types who care mostly about their families, but still have enough time to shop at Canadian tire for their car's winter needs and to take in a few Ottawa senators games at the local 'pub'. Passing the time comfortably, uniformly and predictably to insure that every PTA meeting goes smoothly...what is the flavour of this place? Like the small neighbourhood I grew up in, but the kids are much more well behaved than we were. The other day I played basketball with a few twelve year olds who left right after the game because they had to go home to finish their homework, it later occurred to me that I was that age when I first smoked pot...good for them, but for their parents I can only feel infinitely sorry, for they are stuck here, and they are happy. It was all they ever wished for. For the ones who are smitten with the size of their houses along these quiet streets which echo only the sounds of politely screaming children-I can think of nothing other than to distance myself from; to those who are beginning to feel imprisoned, who finally have begun to question the meaning of their existence, I can only wish for them to embrace the truths they've recently stumbled upon as a means of empowering themselves in to thinking of ways to escape their thought patterns; illusory escape is usually the only way to revolt against these place in the initial stages, but the imagination can illuminate an entirely new perspective to observe one's world with, and so too might it call for corporeal rebellion, one attainable in an outward sense as well.
But, there is surely, simply, something oh so sheepish about this place-but at least now I have come to be able to articulate it to myself without the fear of being completely in err-its as if I'm perpetually stuck at an easter dinner with relatives I no longer recognize or feel any sort of love for; just stuck here amongst them and completely bored. In five days here I have not seen a single female which I have found moderately attractive, and I even visited the campus here; surely in due time their would be faces to look upon, but as for the past five days, that particular compartment of my nervous system I shall now awkwardly label as my 'heart's interestedness in things' has been good only for collecting dust-in days, not a single bird to land on a branch near me; to activate even the slightest sense of interest. A few weird looking girls have gawked at me, but I can't help but feel that their looks have only expressed a certain sense of displacement with regard to my presence here; at least with this neighbourhood. There is an american apparel in this neighbourhood, and I will bet any money that within a few months it will realize the absurdity of their choice of location, and cut their losses and close up shop.
Last night, I became comfortable again with my self; with my words, for my lack of willingness to 'de-weird' myself any longer. I have a sense of a scene and suddenly again I am able to look upon my surroundings with honest eyes-things are strange and somewhat depressing for the most part around here; I feel more comfortably accepting this conclusion than I do pretending to be okay with it.
It occurs to me how terribly sick I force myself to feel upon opting for silence when forced to listen to others' shortsighted philosophies on everything as if they were the most brilliant thinkers in our times- I often sit and listen, act as if I am in agreement with what they are saying, rather than open my mouth, and allow for words to begin to pour out-and why? I think upon this day, that I would rather leave people in their veil of self approval, because the thought of changing the way they contently think about things in a way strikes me as so utterly offensive for some reason. I will be the quiet pawn to force your words upon-because you are someone I do not feel comfortable enough imposing my perspective upon; I do not impose this curse of nihilism upon people I do not believe are capable of possessing it without a judgement of me; for the way I toy with ideas is simply just that, a toying with ideas, and ideas surely shape everything...my entire body is but matter to be moulded on a daily basis by my consciousness, and my consciousness surely, but matter to be moulded against its will by the hands which clasp themselves around me without my knowledge of whats taking place, typically though, I am lucky enough to catch myself before its too late. While there is still time to recognize the presence of something foreign in my brain, usually at a glance in the mirror when I observe the unattractive dullness of colour and shape that has began to show itself upon my face.....'Woah' I say, “What force, whose thoughts, have left me looking this way?' It is then when I force myself to wake up; to lose a little bit of sleep in order to remember the mood of my thoughts in an effort to re-claim me. At all costs, I will not be lost to this mundane.

...Insane? Ah, you are quick to demand that I qualify my terms...you are intelligent. I could tell there was something about you, undoubtedly why I've chosen you to start speaking to. I typically use 'insane' to describe a state I have become familiar with, such characteristics as...embracing my imagination much more fully even when out in public; beginning to intuit people as mere complicated objects/surface images with meanings I will gladly impregnate them with at a mere glance....a heightened affectedness by the paranoia of being judged by others as I am constantly judging them, an inability to look others in the eye for longer than a few moments as a result of this affectivity, a much more judgemental and articulate version of myself in sum; one that continuously makes statements in an ongoing inner monologue in such a way that at times becomes irritating. Irritating for who you ask? Well, for me I guess. I, me, yes, the voice is my own, so I get irritated by myself then...I annoy me, really isn't that strange when I say it like that is it? Now, that we've sorted out 'insane'....at least for now? How's about paranoid schizophrenic? Okay, fine, we'll say that I sometimes feel like that if that suits your fancy. Though I'm not sure I meet that description all too accurately, if it helps for you then all the same for me...For I'd really just like to continue talking...your understanding is vital, but I'll presume you do so long as you keep quiet enough without saying anything that'll ruin the version of you, your eyes are telling me that are-someone who can comprehend.....Good, a nod, you are smart.
Well, where shall I begin?....How about today...okay....I've been awakening past two pm as of late, and today was just the latest in what feels like a long succession of days. Unable to pull myself away from the pillow and the more and more I reflect upon this inability to move I am led to conclude that there is some kind of depressing intuitive understanding within me that is choosing sleep over wakefulness.Tes, Schopenhauer's will?..I'm familiar with it...Sure, but keep quiet. It occurs to me that I look forward to falling asleep much more than I do waking up; this has clearly not always been the case but most certainly as of late there is a plasure in consenting to darkness that I previously had resisted. In the moments of wakefulness in the morning when I have been awoken by something sudden I have recounted what was last occurring in my dreams and in almost all cases there is some sort of detailed organization of, or investigation into some kind of trivial matter that I am taking great pleasure in sorting out in my own coherent yet demented way. This morning too, I was logically organizing, figuring out tedious things in what seemed like a rigorously scientific manner. This morning when I awoke, I recalled that the subject of my enquiry was a man with coins, some in his hands and some on the counter in front of him and I, bearing the specific question of what stimuli would make this man smile. I was organizing what subtleties would make him smile, as if categorically placing a stamp of 'yes' or 'no' upon each new potential, and then also somehow accounting for what contingencies would alter the outcome of the experiment.It felt like an inner monoluge speaking much faster than I am capable of re-producing in consciousness. He was standing behind the counter of a newsstand if I recall correctly though I can't recall his face or whether nor not I was even looking at his face to see if he was smiling, only the coins in this hands; perhaps they were my tool of measurement. It all made sense...surely you know what I mean? Yes, I know, dream stories are all so boring....You weren't saying that? Your eyes were!
Well, I woke to the cat scratching at the door and this irritated me quite a lot, for I found myself filled with a desire to return to the meticulous sorting. No longer fatigued or in need of more sleep in any way, I was simply addicted, drunk on the feeling of figuring things out in my own intuitive way, the feeling that all of experience could so easily be made sense of and sorted into categories; as if a warm gloss of pleasure was coating my brain and had been left behind by this illusion of progress, I wanted only to return to my dream life to continue layering the varnish...to close my eyes and return to the unity of understanding.
To live in a dream, does not every mad man or creator live out their days as such; it all makes perfect sense to the mind who is processing and positing a unity between all sensations, an indescribable coherence that can somehow become expressible, even if only to the mind of the mad man, or the one who sleeps. Fleeting and immemorial is this knowledge, it still gives a sense of pleasure. There is always pleasure in what unifies; did the homeless man with the deck of cards at the library feel the same way? Was he not talking to those cards, stringing words together as you've never heard them strewn. I believe he knew exactly what was going on-his laughter was at once joyous in his pursuit, doubly mocking toward the children who thought he made no sense at all.
The moment I step out of bed at two pm I am driven by a desire to be outside as quickly as possible, to seize whatever daylight might still be left, but I am relentlessly thwarted moment to moment by my bodily/daily living requirements. I am Sisyphus in the morning, afternoon and evening; brushing my teeth, washing my face, taking a shower, eating some fruit, walking to the metro, riding the metro, making the transfer, getting back on the metro, off the metro, up the escalator, buying my coffee, opening my bag. I could describe each step in much more detail but I'd rather not, such descriptions seem cliche and I can think of any number of movies that have endeavoured with more aesthetic originality than I am capable of achieving in describing how mechanical life can be. Not to mention that I find doing so rather unpleasant...also there is the needlessness of accounting my own individual mundane doings, for surely, every single person has their own daily robotic motions, and feels absurd in some form or another when going through the motions. The question is whether or not they are awake at all though, as awake in the present moment doing what seemingly extends throughout eternity, are they aware of how tragically funny they would look if on filmed on a relapsed shutter speed?...As the clouds move before our eyes in nature shows, there man stands, brushing his teeth, two to threee times a day, in the very same spot, over, and over, and over, again...the act of brushing man's teeth, merely the monkey filling the role in this moment in duration. Take it back to a shot of a monkey using a stick to pick his teeth...do they feel the weight of eternity upon them as they brush their teeth? Does it fill them with a feeling of insignicance?...excuse me for getting excited there...I realize that emotion can affect my clarity....But, I am agitated....almost an hour of my already-wasted-day lost before even beginning; lost in the daily routine of cleansing, eating, caffeinating and tram.

In sleeping, I suppose I find escape; staying in bed prolongs the stay of freedom within the boundlessness of imagination. I stay in the world that makes sense and requires no robotic form of maintenance. For I know, that in getting out of bed, I'll only leave the house to come sit here, in a cubicle reading texts while trying to figure out/remember ways of retaining ideas, of building structures in my mind-in sum, how to oversimplify words so to reproduce them. How to make sense of what makes little sense to me at first. While always suppressing the underlying thought that philosophy is a general waste of time for the very reason that it requires so much of my mind; a heightened state of awareness which seemingly I am incapable of maintaining for any longer than a few minutes anymore. Back when I had heart I was living and breathing whatever words it was I was feeding myself; I took ideas more seriously than I did people. But now I don't think so much...its not so bad! And, I actually like to live and breathe as odd as that may sound. I've even come to appreciate the importance of not thinking sometimes, not only have I learned to appreciate it, but I think I also re-understand that its perhaps even more important to not think, than it is to think at times, and this conclusion comes even after considering ethical motivations too. That is to say simply that, if I rationally or speculatively deliberate upon the matter of whether or not thinking is more valuable than not thinking, that is, “To think, or not to think!! That is the question”....I have clearly concluded that not thinking is, at least some of the time, more important than thinking. Testament to the power of the human will is all of this, I overcame my condemnation, and was able to return to the realm of 'not to think', not only return to the realm momentarily, but to return and to embrace it as my own meaningful world. To 'play'-how key this word is, within it lies all of the answers to solving the scholar's plight. There was hope for Faust, Kierkegaard, those tormented intellectuals...if they could only remember how to 'play'.
Not to remember how to play, but to simply, play.
I had forgotten....to play what you ask? Life! that is the game you must play; choose a role, but play with sincerity! Get swept up in the competition of sport. It is just a sport? It is just a drama? A comedy? No?...there are many games to play in this unity....I even taught myself how to stand in the hallway of doors to each arena....as if each entrance were labelled with its own neon sign representing a context. Calm the nerves I became upon reminding myself, that contexts are best understood when subsumed by them, and not when rendered intelligible so to then opt for getting picked up on a wave. We can not stand in the hallway and recall what is required of us upon entering a door, we must simply enter the door and remember our part by getting lost in the motion, or subsumed by the rythm. As one simply drifts in the ocean, they can not pick what waves they drift along; there movements only make sense in the water...consider how foolish a man looks when trying to learn to swim on land? This is the state of the man who forgets how to play; condemned to dry land, when the truth of life lies in the ocean.
I was able to stop judging....judging who? Well, others...shh. My judgement was ill...for it lied in my own illness, my own sickness was the true target of my scrutiny. My judgement of others always made from on a perch, below me, lied myself, and them, spitting upon their forgetfulness; I was bitter because of my own unwillingness to stop thinking. My restraint, my conviction to hold fast to a thought was where my disdain found a home, a target in others; for no-one else was ever thinking about anything and this is what I resented in them; my own ability to not think about anything other than myself...a capacity I had spent so much time trying to kill out of guilt. 'Guilt' you ask?...
Yes, guilt, for my own embodied awareness that everything I wished to believe in was far too phantasmal, that humans were fornicating fuckers who forget. And that I was one of them dammit....Guilt, despair...feelings felt toward the nature I had suppressed...to try to overcome my plight. My need for memories of perfect things, non-existent things. Ah, dear friend, I digress, perhaps I shall explain in greater detail later...no need? You already know what I mean....yes, it is a tragic thing to forget isn't it?...I couldn't agree with you more. But, you see, deeming it as such will make you weak; so do so at your own risk. The strong are those who forget, those who live for debauchery; so burnt out and drunk that sentimentality becomes a mere mask they sport to attract more attention to themselves. Numb at heart are the debaucherous, even when tearing up over sentiment; they know not why they are crying, for it is not for what has been lost, for that has already been forgotten or can easily be forgotten with a few more sips of the poison; you see, they cry, because they are so numb, and because there's always a crowd to soak up their tears and drink up every drop as if it were the nectar that pours from sincerist of the sincere. But, there is no sincerity in the forgetful, I know this because I am forgetful! There is momentary acts of respectfulness, kindness for others? I do so condescendingly...always motivated by the belief that I am better than the one I am helping... do not think for a second they will not laugh at you later for the kindness in you they appraise. But what a fool I was!? Good deeds are a point of weakness-give a man a dollar, and he'll tell his friends you sucked his dick. In sum, good deeds are never good deeds. I can't accept without knowing how superior the other person feels, how they'll tie their act of kindness to a positive judgment of themselves and a negative one of me....it's all so contradictory you see? And me doing good deeds?...the regress is infinite, just consider if they thought of me as I think of them....you can't win against judgement. Judgement day is everyday.
Ah, forgive me friend, I lose track of thoughts...I too have my vices, one of which clouds my thoughts upon this day, yes to live in a fog, quite a feeling of peace it can be....to wake with smoke still filling your brain...
But, what I wanted to say...there is something youthful about sleeping until 2! Yes, thats what we were talking about...For, I did so as a teenager; slept all day that is....but now when I do so, I wake up feeling angry for having already let the day slip away; but the youthfulness still lies in the state of mind that sleeping so late creates; an undeniable urge to go is born from this sense of missing something...to get moving out the door, 'you've already missed the bus, better catch the next one!!'...in this sense, there is a feeling that I am already too late to catch the day; already too late we are always though you see? Hence, the beauty of this illusory possibility for missing what is always missed, for there is never anything to attain!....just kidding.....But, I am filled witht he thought that I have missed what might've been a momentous morning; and now I ought to get all my shit together and get out there before I miss anymore of the action. There is a feeling of anxiousness and an anticipatory illusiveness that something is slipping through my fingers the longer I allow the angels of sleep to drag my back down to their cloud..... But, then I come here where I sit speaking to you, and question just what it is that I've chosen to do with my time; I am alone upon entering the street in the mid-day morning, the same as every other day. Alone on the metro and with no desire or requirement to close the distance between myself and the surrounding world of others. I lie, I do feel the need to socialize, but only because I know that I am enjoying my time on the inside far too much, and with time I will grow much more fearful of the world that lies outside....I wake alone, and take to the streets as an anonymous wanderer in a big city, still all too aware that I am clinging to a dream that I don't even believe in; no, not the kind of dream we've been talking about, though that is perhaps where such dreams will find their actualization....not here....'simple selfish beings we are driven by our genes'...in so many words, this just seems obvious to me you see, but a paradox as I have tirelessly struggled with and already mentioned here and always mention no matter what I am thinking of. The paradox of the eternal and the finite, romantic and biological...its all bullshit you see...the story book about the apple on the tree? You know its only perfect prior to being plucked, so then its not perfect at all?
Seems I can't take a breath without this duplicity entrenching me...comic book romance/the years of monotonous marriage after the high school dance...either/or is simply IS....a broken dream rendered by reality. If I wake for love, then what makes sense? What kind of love? If I hold certain convictions, then how are they alive in my existence? The fairy tale is for her mind only you say? Hmm interesting...and it's my job to straddle realities so to create the prettiest picture within her mind?....I have thought something like this myself....but when does my aesthetic pleasure get to have its turn, for even in my speculations as to what she may be thinking, I can not ever forget that she is not as passive as her prettiness might lead me to believe, she is not naive, no, she is a thinker too, and I am always being judged, even when painting pictures for her she is cunning to my ways.....ah I see what you mean though, that such knowledge can only assist in my endeavours to paint for her....but still, what about me.....The answer is apparently simple? Accept the duplicity, be selfish, love only yourself, be an ape, be an artist, be a liar, be a lover, perhaps in being able to laugh at the lies within yourself, it becomes less difficult to bare the laughter of others, for they can always be seen to only be laughing at themselves. They are the liars, just as you are, just as I am...only you and me, we can see and thus have the right to laugh, for at least we know we are at all times, both virtuous and sinful, an artist and an ape, both violent and passive..without ever any clear guiding conviction to tell us the right way home...wanting to make a cruel joke to the bum while you give him change...loving her with real desire while thinking of yourself as some kind of sage, this moment a portrait you could find on the pages of some romantic tale....Lord Byron was full of shit and that's all there is to it; did he really believe in all that imagery or was he just doing it to make girls think he thought that way?.... So why do anything if your split, always divided? No answer for that!...Perhaps because its all quite good for a laugh.
How does this tie in with the question of thinking or not thinking? Well, it's all the same you see, never once did I stray from this question. You can never stop embodying the duplicity that plagues you, thus, what is required is an acceptance modification; embrace the entirity, the unity. The one who judges is always judged, the one who does no judging is less aware of the other's judgements upon him, but these are unimportant considerations...laugh at duplicity, accept.... sure, strive to be something better...be virtuous! be a romantic knight!...or go the other way, be a sinner, be a forgetful fornicator....you will see; you are always divided my friend....the sinful within you allows for virtue, just as the fucker in you can allow for poetry.

There was one a way in which the entire world could becaome illuminated in a certain light-as Camus said, I revert to old words I had once read...-'that with each mood there lies an entire universe of feeling.' That everything becomes seen in a new light given the underlying mood affecting the perceptions-the apperceptions. So, without feeling can I then conclude that there is simply no universe? Or that the universe merely exists as it is to be seen before my eyes?...Images can pass by unnoticed when seen without feeling or impulse to interpret in a certain light. Seems to me to be the case...For, here I find myself surrounded by new frameworks, and all new faces-wiaitng for the storm still to come sweeping down these streets and knock me off my feet to send me gasping for air on a water slide without the slightest plateau for momentary repose....I postiviely expected something greater to overcome my psychic life. Whether or not meaning can come by storm I am yet to demonstrate with my actions. If anything, this move has made me more doubtful of the possibility of the more poetic notion of meaning which I long to believe in; that very one I am seemingly unable to articulate properly; without analogy; that meaning which overcomes us and conquers our capacity to construe...for without my own inward storm-or inward push in a certain direction then it seems that all will continue to mean nothing to me-very little to me at least.
And, when I gage the degree in which something can mean something, what I am doing is most accurately determinging its strength by the degree or significance of feeling with which it comes accompanied; and what I have felt over the past few weeks is very little; slightly out of place at best. As if still waiting for my self to arrive in the mail in order to digest as Bart did his soul in order to feel whole again. But, there have been many sights which pass before my eyes, and I am sort of this spoiled kid who sees them and wonders when the feeling of significance will arise.
But, there is nothing amazing falling from the sky despite how pretty the snow looks from time to time. I can recognize the beauty, 'someone would say that looks quite pretty' i think to myself-'if only she were here to enjoy it for me; to reassure me of the belief that aesthetic beauty in nature can in fact be enjoyed with the eyes without requiring some sort of epressional articulation in order to become meaningful.' I unfortunately can seemingly not overcome this human need...in the movie, the snow falling bares significance, and the joy lies not in simply looking upon the sight but upon perpetually re-interpreting the significance the symbol bares to the development of the story and the character's emotions. The auteur meant something by this shot, it is the intention when properly conveyed that possesses the capacity to break one's heart-intentionless beauty lacks any sort of affect. There is a beautiful girl-what am I in a positon to do with this pereception?.... very little; for my heart seemingly remains a crucial tool in allowing for such sights to make an impact-the impact as of late is complacency, a sort of desperation in order to be desired as a means of re-assurance that I am still in fact as desirable as I once percieved myself to be in the smaller place from which I came. But, there remains my heart, in a suit case perhaps, locked with a code that I remain to afraid to recall in order to free-for the safety in which the confines of the darkness in the box bring to me is very hard to will myself to leave-it simply hurts too much to let go of things from the past whose meaning I have come to understand in some synthetic intuitive sense. So, maybe I have seen the most beautiful girls in the world-maybe I have not...I'm not entirely sure-does that render me asexual? This thing I'm describing...no, for the desire remains a voice, an inclination upon seeing such sights-the point I merely try to make, is that intentionality does in fact bare resonance with how I am capable of interpreting-......in a sentence-the moral restrictions placed upon potential intentionality; the significane with which potential meanings become less feelable. For, I suppose, what I want is not merely to appreciate the contours of something and place a stamp of beauty upon it. I want to fall in love with it. I want to render it soft. I want it to become my own. I want to imagine the infinitude of potentialities which accompany the sight; I want to complicate it, impregnate it with meaning-I have seemingly said to myself though, that this is not an option-thus, such sights pass before me and I am unable to even place myself in a position so to warrant becoming overcome by something powerful.....If I am struck, then so i shall be; this, that would fill me with such torment would surely strike joy in me as well-for the fact would remain; that I were still a lover of lovely things in an intuitive way. Surely, I still am, but if I cannot possess and bring into my own in the fullest sense then I still remain slightly complacent toward the larger significance which i long for-
As I started, there was once a way in which it could all become meaningful-the previous way was by pouring everything outward onto the frameworks surroundings me via some articulation in a kind of blue. There was seemingly an infinite well of sadness with which I could tap into; but utilizing this option requires some kind of acknowledgement of a burn which I do not necesarilyl feel anymore; or have upon me in order to become conscious of...surely there is so much there, but going down those roads can also lead to a lack of clarity...but without a feeling to inspire intentionality, then the ability to articulate becomes inhibited-for without an initial stratum from which intentionality might spring, then there lies a lack of justifcation for any persuasion in any certain direction....a feeling is what is requited to dictate the path of an either/or. For, principles can be justified by other principles endlessly, but whether or not I care about the principles in order to place them higher on the hierarchy of things then I remain careless...For, so many principle can bare the same sound reasoning, the same logical validity; an endless line of propositions could bare these same stamps of soundess and validity; what I choose to justify each would remain arbitrary; unless I gave precendence to a feeling; though that too could be considered some kind of maxim, which would then require more justification.... it stops with me though; what I feel; why? because I'm human, this is the foundation...fluid sure, for feelings are genetic. Life is perpetual becoming.

a young man and a young woman

Most begin with a brief exposition of their current context; the relevant and irrelevant details of their surroundings (symbolic, setting, mood, and so on), and both temporal and spatial. What function this excercise serves, whether to aid in the task of remembering what to write, or to simply impose an image upon the envelope whose contents the following words will find themselves within, to prepare the recipient in some way for the message they are about to recieve; much like a letterhead, or an establishing long shot in a film..we see the city, then the building, then the room, cut to a medium close up, a man sitting at a table. cut to a close up of a tired looking face, and then, he speaks......I embrace this same desire to elaborate upon unecessary details, the meaning of which will remain illusive and unintelligible to me, for I am living them, they are open for interpretation... In a play.....
A young man sits at a table tucked away in some library stacks side stage, there are three empty tables surrounding his table, each with four empty chairs of there own, his of course only having three left. There is a brown man with white hair and a tiny kind looking face sleeping at a comfortable looking chair at the opposite side of the stage, with his back to the audience. The young man takes a few assessing glances at him to observe his shut eyes and briefly reason that the mean had probably been waiting for the library to open in order to get some sleep in a warm comfortable place; there are others lining the other floors of the library doing the same thing, some even taking there shoes off to show the world how dirty their socks are. There are pretty old buildings seen through a large window at the back of the stage, which functions to shine light in upon the young man's back from behind and cast the slightest of shadows towards the front of the stage; the building look to be downtown apartments, old frameworks filled with bricks; tiny balconies with plants on there last legs of life as the weather becomes less accomodating. On this day, the sky is grey and perpetually pouring rain down; sometimes softly, sometimes hard. The young man seems to enjoy this miserable weather-he conveys this subtly by sneaking glances down toward the ground outside to inwardly record observations of the speckles upon the puddles to insure the rain has not ceased, or to document the force with which it is presently falling. He writes in a navy blue hard covered notebook and the audience is left with nothing more than the sight of him scribbling and sipping on a large paper cup filled with coffee. These past few weeks of my experience, like blank polaroids, whose exposure to light has failed to impose an image of anything with the lack of any image striking enough to leave even a vestige......(except for that one incident) The mundane succesion of days whose uniformity has come accompanied with an intuitively predictable flux of colours which paint the sky and shade the day to day occurences; and here I am writing to you. As aware of the nothingness within me and around me as ever; my desire to create is an expression of my revolt against this nothingness. By pouring words upon this page, I admit a preference for imaginary images to the bleak perceivable appearance of things when existing in this town. These words will provide a new method of interpretation for my existence; a new mood for the movie
As much as it seems I hate this passing of days, I have discovered how frightening it is to have the uniform succession of experience disrupted by something unsuspected...though the discontinuity of this chain is not what instills such fear; it was the incident itself and the following implications which I have been left to dwell upon. I surely will remember this event forever-there is no question. As a result, I no longer walk with the same sense of security towards the consitency which I have taken for granted; so unappreciative to the extent of it actually thoroughly irritating me. I find this so strange, that after a tragedy or a shocking incident, people can easily re-plug themselves back into society to be consumed with arbitray concerns and petty domestic disputes. It isn't so much a choice perhaps, as a result of participating in the day to day humdrum, 'life goes on'.....I know of a man on his deathbed, tumours enclosing upon his heart who 'miraculously' recovered and has returned to good health-grown hair on top of his head again; seemingly the moment he returned to living him and his girlfriend got on with thier childish disagreements-perhaps their games never ceased, even during the worst spells of bad health.....you'd think they'd just be appreciative that one another was alive after him having stood on the edge of the cliff, staring into the fait of oblivion...the irony of life; I expressed this sentiment to the person who told me of them playing jealous games with one another....and later that night I would have my own chance to learn such a lesson.
For, I have now watched a chord come unplugged from a body that was standing perfectly well, right next to me, while both of us were engaged in taking this uniformity, and predictability of experience for granted, for not even our most immediate of foresights would come true. Projections for what was about to ensue could not have been more in error. Standing with assurance of what the two of us were about to enjoy together, her laughter and approvement of my demeanor expressed with every half drunken assesment of my appearance, and her re-assuring words that I had successfully won the hearts of her somewhat simple neighbours with my humour. There we stood, her occasionally clasping my arm, in comfortable glee and joyous anticipation for the music we were about to collectively enjoy, like two unsuspecting flies on a window pane enjoying the warmth of the sun, when one gets swatted by a force unknown to them, whose power comes so swiftly and decisively that it leaves nothing behind but a dirty looking smear on the glass where a life lived in the seconds prior; a life that felt things, flew, and landed with confidence and assurance upon the mere existence of their conciousness of the next few moments-only to have them smacked and sent into oblivion without warning. This is much how the scene transpired for us two flies; us two birds on a branch, feeling love in our ruminating of the present tense, comfortable in the sound of one another's chirps, only to have the blast of a shotgun pierce through the trees, to send one of us birds falling to the leaves beneath instantaneously. In a flash one disappears from the surface. This was her and me. In a moment, her eyes rolling back to her brain and dropping to the ground with only the faintest of warning sounds in the form of the words, 'I think I need some fresh air."
Panic sets in upon watching what was so undeniably alive in one moment, fall to a lifeless blank nothingness in the latter half of the same moment. Gone, I hold the back of her head and her waist up from laying completely on the ground, and reach for whatever hands might be clinging to life within her by calling her name; like reaching down into darkness blindly with hopes of connecting with another set of fingers in order to pull an entire body back into light, to re-awaken her consciouness back into life. Tears upon having the chain of existence broken, but why? ...I assert it was the deepest feelings of sympathy for her unsuspecting innocence which led her right up until that moment without a glimpse of a clue of what was about to happen to her. Dropping to the ground was her body, as her mind surely found itself lost in some imperceicevable darkness; with the sound of my voice calling her name, creeping in through whatever cracks of sound could climb in through. Please allow these words to be heard and to bring her back to the surface. Please God.
As if watching a movie begin to unfold right before my eyes; this is how the sight of the frames that passed in the following moments intuitively struck the pre-reflective consciousness. And I immediately become the sincerest of actors, whose tears need neither reflection nor interpretation to continue to pour freely from my eyes. There she lies, she comes back to the surface momentarilly and I pick her up and begin to walk her out, still so far to go....she collapses again....what the hell is happening?... now up against the wall and cradled in my arms amidst a scene that suddenly reeks of chaos needing organization in order to render it all intelligible, in order to clear a path for her wheelchair to pass through the masses. She is green and grey in the face with an oxygen tube up her nose, and her eyes reflect only a blankness that seems to be experiencing the same dream as I am but in a much more surreal and tranquil way than I; she is weak and unable to move at all by her own volition, while everyone else in the scene with me suddenly seems a mere obstruction in our path; all the onlookers unaffected by everything which has turned my entire being on its head; we are the only two in this entire stadium of people whose sleepy existence has become disturbed by this nightmare.
Surely, the most afraid I have been in my entire life, and the funny thing is, I was not afraid for my own well being at all; for someone else's. I find this funny for the fact that I am aware of how concerned with myself I constantly am...but watching this happen to her, someone more innocent and less reflective than I, someone always so simplistically appreciative of the subtleties which can at times mean very little to a temporally contingent mind like me; I do not say she is stupid, i merely mean that she is clearly more in contact with more sincere emotions than I...for, to me, this night marked merely the opening for me, in a string of adventures to come, I already had the mood and aftertaste of the evening premeditated in my mind. I would act in this way so to insure that everything would go smoothly, that she would be happy, and we would both walk away with this pleasant memory of one another. I merely prepare myself in such a way to ease my nerves.....But all of that speculation was rendered impossible by a swatting of some invisible newspaper; a pellet from a cowardly hunter's gun, who hides in the shrubs so well that he becomes invisible to all around; a dead-eye with a rifle shooting straight for the weak little hearts of pretty, happily chirping, unsuspecting birds.
Tubes up her nose and a pulse reading which tells of weakness in the heart and momentary lapses without beats strong enough to make an impression upon the surrounding veins; cut to outside where she is too weak to move and strapped into a stretcher with tears coming down her cheeks at the thought of my not being able to accompany her to the hospital, and in my thoughts, there is the tugging inclination that this is all too strange to even actually be occurring, though I continuously repeat the word to myself, 'Please, Please...." .....for in a moment without warning, she dropped like a sack of dirt, from off the branch we both were sitting upon with such comfort and ease, such confidence that the next moment in time would bring us the same safety and earth to stand our legs upon. Please....
The scariest experience of my life to date; one which undermines all justifications for feelings of, 'woe is me'. For, nothing compares in strength to the deepest of sympathies which ran through me in the hours of this incident- set into motion by some invisible force; sympathy is an inadequate word to encompass the multiplicity of feelings compounded within my body at that moment-a synthesis of some indescribable shock and sadness all at once. Instincts overtaking a body whose mind is profoundly concerned with ensuring the survival of one so dear to them.
'So dear to them'? Apparently, for in those moments when the reel playing the most comfortable of movies breaks, and the house lights come on full to illuminate the snakes composing the floor beneath your feet... how awakened, how much care, how little one understands what the hell is going on.... how empty was my daydream in the sleepy state leading in to this day; of the humdrum of the passing of my time; the selfishness to my leisurely living which allowed me to take for granted the very root of all things known to me; the strange, illusive quality attached to things still breathing and being; that quality of being 'alive'. The realization that her chord can come unplugged at any moment without warning makes me wish to wrap my arms around her and never release my grip.
This is my illusive way of articulating a sight without presenting the facts objectively as if from the prospective of a reporter. Reading the events of this as seen or collected by the hands of a heartless reporter would render the scene all that much more shocking and surreal to me. Young man and young woman attend concert. He said the girl expressed a desire for fresh air before falling to the floor in what looked to witnesses to be a seizure, but what was later diagnosed by doctors as an irregularity of heart activity. Her head may or may not have hit the ground according to the young man who seemed to still be in shock at the scene and for some hours afterward while standing beside her motionless body as it was carted from floor, to floor after having collapsed again, to a small room filled with St.John's workers whose comments regarding the scene were too retarded for this reporter to consider relevant or useful towards any sort of articulation of what occured, to a stretcher, to an emergency room, to a hallway at the hospital.
"I had plans of leaving the city in a few days; it would perhaps be the one of the last times we went out together...something tells me plans have changed. I stayed the next three days at her side, constantly refreshing my memory of the feeling running through my being, that she might no longer be with me in a second. That she might die right before my eyes and I would be helpless, right here and right now on this floor around all these unconcerned gawkers taking in the show, so unsuspectingly and innocently in a moment of happiness and appreciation for ME... the life from her body stolen with a swift sleight of hand! Appreciating me of all people, one who so easily from to time could take her looks of approval for granted without so much as allowing them to register in any sort of positive way. Prayers said and apologies to God all over again-there certainly strikes a chord of irony within the timing of this whole spectacle, why were you placed at her side at that moment after all of this? And, what would have happened had you not have been there? Are you not meant to ask these questions now; to dwell in guilt upon the previous promises you made to Him if she would only just love you? Is there not something surreal about all of this? You certainly think so now don't you.....Consider that there might be a reason for your presence in this particular envelope in space IN time, in this rather fragile game, placed at her side by your own prayers, do you not now have to face the responsibilities associated with having a wish fulfilled?

Today when I leave the house I will tuck my depression into the inner breast pocket of my grey blazer. It may seem like a strange thing to tuck away, or to even insist on carrying around with me...but surely you do not think I will actually place it there?....I merely mean that I will carry it with me wherever I go, as I always do, as I watch leaves fall to the ground and swirl across the street making scratching sounds. I allowed myself to indulge a little bit just there by thinking about the leaves...articulating a little bit of a scene...as poorly as I may have it was still something other than what I truly wish to talk about, which is myself of course. How my existence seemingly remains somewhat incommensurate with my surroundings; with the faces and frameworks that I perpetually find myself grounded within, while always hanging on to that bitter taste in my mouth, as if I've just swallowed something that wasn't right for me.
Last night it all made no sense....watching my body move in my memories last night fills my heart with shame and anxiety. What my mind instructs my body to do when I have had a few drinks perplexes me; as if I know precisely what the worst possible thing I could be doing is and therefore must do it. I wish to do ugly things to feel the thrill of not being caught...but what if....just what if i did....get caught....how shocked the world around me would be today....how different this morning wake would be as a guilty man, caught in the act with red on his hands? How filled with torment and embarassment would I be today? Oh, how horrible it would be....
I found myself all alone and sneaking through trees to get a closer look at what was going on inside the house. I was even bold enough to stand right beside the window and peak through to see flickerings froma tv screen and to hear four voices...two male, and two female...none of which interested me....so I got back to my initial place of hiding, under a truck!...would you believe that? I wouldn't either unless I had seen it myself. But surely, there I was, with dirt on my hands squirming on my stomach to get a look into a basement window and still remain hidden....but there was nothing going on in there....no party....no people....nothing at all....'what the hell was I doing down here?'...the thought must've occurred to me a million times, and I seemingly laughed it off each time with a sort of sinister little smirk to myself...fully in awareness of the damage I was doing to myself in some strange form or another. Somewhere there were people laughing and finishing off the night with a round of tokes...or beers....or laughs...or whatever...and here I was, either laying under a truck, or hiding against a tree; a few half hearted efforts to slash the tires of a certain somebody's jeep with my keys only to realize that it's not as easy to stab a tire with your keys as you might think. Seriouly, imagine if I had been caught, what if an alarm had gone off and there I was fleeing the scene after having vandalized the property of someone I had always despised; simply for the reason that they had always despised me. Though I hated him. I had not seen him in almost a year and his life had meant nothing to me unless I remain tied to her; she was the one with the ties to this asshole I had always hated. I had always hated everything people like him stood for. So damn stupid and so damn sure of every word they ever spoke. Precisely the opposite of how I envisioned myself; so damn smart and so damn skeptical of every word I ever spoke. I told myself as I told her (probably, not in my finest hour) that I too could have my mother invest in properties for me to oversee to if I really thought it would mean anything to me. I hated his guts for talking about his, 'properties' as if he had some undeniable stake in this life, some positive claim of importance. I could easily do that too if I wasn't so damn sure that nothing like that would ever mean anything to me.....'but what about money?' you say...ahh to hell with it. You're clearly missing the point....
For, I admit that it all doesn't sit right and that is why I'm still sitting here, in bed, typing these little ramblings in this attempt to find a voice of optimisim in what surely looks bad on me in retrospect...how sick and tired I felt standing there last night with my head throbbing, standing alone just hoping for something loud and constant enough to attract everyone's attention away from potentially landing on me. For what would I say?...I do not feel like myself, or upto the challenge today. But rather, quite sick and tired. I'd rather avoid the accusations of being a hypocondriac upon expressing that I've been under the weather for some time....I'd rather just sneak out the back door when noone is looking; and that is precisely what I did. For I could no longer take the feeling that everyone who spoke to was a part of some collective mass that looked upon me either with confusion or sympathy. Surely, all of this was in my head but I could bare it no longer and simply had to leave....none of it was making any sense to me, and I hated all of it. I pin point the core of my soreness to lie at the center of my brain...such sickness extends outward from there-what an ugly human being that sickness can sometimes make me...and I laugh wickedly and embrace the face that I can't even bring myself to look at in the mirror at the bar....who, or where I am in someone, somewhere far away from the surface; and all the kisses on the cheek and shots from the bar mock me, for they fail to sink in to me....I am left wobbling down the streets....to a car.
What's this, keys in my pocket?....might as well go for a spin. Yes, that's it, get behind the wheel though you know you're stone drunk. Drive around like a maniac even! that's it...good going....recall driving around on the grass at her apartment last night? along the walkway?....what a mad man you were and all by yourself?! what we're you thinking...you almost got stuck in the mud; what would've happened then? Ah the embarassment, the shame you narrowly avoided....and don't forget the rest of it all. Carry that ugliness around with you today, allow it to fuel you into something positive, even if that positive thing is only really an expression of everything negative about yourself.

Meaning Construed or Meaning by Storm

He asked himself the question of how meaning occurs from so many different angles; where exactly in the mind does it arise and just how can it be arrived at? How do our realms of context determine the meanings we ascribe?...
For Husserl, the meaning of an object lied solely in one’s judgement upon it; though perception shaped and determined the possibilities for the kinds of meaning we could come to possess...the ultimate meaning we settled upon occurred in one’s judgement of an object. This notion that the meaning of something lies completely in how the individual construes it stems all the way back to Socrates-the idea that, “You are what I make you to be”. This idea has bothered me for a variety of reasons, and as I look over the scribbling lining the pages of notes I’ve taken over the past year I realize the extent to which this idea has plagued me and plunged me into the ground, a shrunken human standing under a daunting night sky, upon realizing how unbearably heavy the weight of freedom becomes upon coming to an awareness of your own ability to paint things as you please, for ones line of thinking when pushed in this direction will lead them to the ultimate conclusion that at the end of the deduction there can lie nothing more than the unsolvable and overwhelming responsibility of having to choose for one’s self how he is to interpret the things closest to him. With regard to the ones we love, this possibility for freedom and at times unbearable responsibility can become rather tragically unnerving and profoundly unsettling.

She was a ship with cracked anchors and peeling paint..rickety old floor boards and ripped sails when I saw her after a month that one night in the winter-but plagued with the belief that how one relates oneself to such a sight is completely contingent upon their own subjectivity, I become rather filled with torment and guilt for settling upon the conclusion of her sight that had pushed me away and the inevitable next thought; that I could no longer stay. For I didn’t have to leave her behind, when perhaps all that was needed was simply an adjustment to my eyes-for it was always in every aspect entirely mine; in changing my mind I could spare her the pain of me leaving again and even allow myself to be happy with everything I already had surrounding me. Determining the perspective on the world outside was always simply a matter of adjusting the blinds.

I toyed with the notion in my writing previously of the oscillation that occurs upon stepping upon deck of an old ship that one has spent many years growing acquainted with, and the possibilities for interpreting the sights and sounds that accompany a life spent captaining her. The world of intelligibility as Derrida would say, represents the universe of possible meanings attached to an object for a specific individual. The realm of meaning becomes more and more pregnant the older we grow and the more we learn; or the direction we learn in you might say. The context within which we acquire knowledge and impregnate our thinking, determines the thoughts which we ascribe to sights around us. To a sailor, a ripped sail would pale in comparison to a brand new one without any tares or flaws; simply for the reason that it would perform its task more sufficiently (presumably, though I am not a sailor). So then, if one is a sailor or simply a pragmatist, very little else matters about an object than how it will function with regard to performing its duty in a specific context of interest. Much about the way mates were chosen in the olden days was pragmatic-when I say the olden days you may fill in the blank of what I mean, whether it was the fifties or the eighteen hundreds; men chose pretty brides and women were paired with those working men who could provide. Perhaps we can’t enter into that sort of talk without making a nod towards the findings of evolutionary psychology; for is the picture they paint not of an entire race filled with pragmatists? A pragmatist species humans are, not unlike all other animals with respect to why we see things the way we do. Value determined pragmatically given our biology. But, we’re a perverse creation; with motives unknowable even to ourselves, thus the value we ascribe to given objects and actions is most of the time unknown to even our deepest levels of consciousness.

Thus, meaning is much more complicated than such sciences wish to admit; and I do believe that acquiring meaning in life is perhaps the most primordial drive for all of us. Frankl’s will-to-meaning merely re-iterated and simplified what so many had already said in order to use philosophy for therapeutic purposes and for that he was a genius. To have meaning in one’s life-what a perplexingly simple statement that never fails to leave one twisted in knots if they actually begin to consider what the word meaning means to their life; and if this line of reasoning is followed and hatched out to the bitter end then it seems difficult to understand how or why happiness tied to temporal things in life can ever seem justified. What do I mean?...simply that I am spiteful towards the ones who still see value in nightly affairs that ask for the same enthusiasm for the exact same conversations and jokes over and over and over again; and in that moment of anger towards empty chatter and the void of unintelligibility that I often find myself trapped within, I recognize that my spite is, to some extent a result of envy. Towards those who never question attaching positive meanings to themselves; who wilfully and gleefully jumped at the opportunity to become something determined, rather than avoid ever becoming anything in particular by slavishly obeying some strange fear of losing out on what may lay down one road upon pursuing one specifically. I pity those who I envy, for they seem simple to the condescending cynic in me; yet another one of the paradoxes within my subjectivity that never fails to baffle me into a state of annoyance with my lack of self understanding. My general resentment towards existence is surely nothing more than a result of feeling like a lone soldier consenting to undertaking a battle of thought that necessarily consents to a pointless struggle of ceaseless defeat the moment he turns his stare towards the glare of the burning sun. Staring at the sun will make one blind when looking around at all that surrounds his social affairs. But, there lies little difference in he who thinks too much and he who does something a lot of his time-one finds meaning in his affairs while the other searches for it somewhere; hopes for it to come falling from the sky, but knows with all his knowledge that such a day will never come.

Kierkegaard’s perpetual becoming towards the infinite, and grounding one’s self in uncertainty elicited the very problem that ultimate meaning could never be attained in life-existence was an endless string of overcoming and losing; trivial victories and arbitrary defeats that amounted to only a fleeting, momentary possession of an illusive brand of happiness that could never actually be attained in the strong sense. Happiness is unlike a graspable object, but like children (as so many have said) we long to grasp everything in our hands, and need to in order to render it intelligible to us. In paradox he posited truth; a resolution in the very fact that there wasn’t one; in uncertainty and need he found his guiding light, which was the acceptance that he would always remain blind and grounded in finite darkness. But in my opinion, Soren was nothing more than a closet nihilist dressed in Christian clothes; filled with the contradiction of the need for the eternal while perpetually grounded in the realm of the temporal. Perpetually conflicted and burning with a need to make sense of everything; yet always in acceptance of a life that offered nothing more than uncertainty. To him, meaning then, with regard to important matters such as love and the infinite relation to God could never simply be construed as we wished for them to be-so we weren’t in a position to control or shape the manner in which we related or determined the meaning of the various objects which were important to us. This idea about meaning overtaking us or coming to us, or sheathing us in a certain kind of shadow beyond our control is precisely the opposite of having complete freedom in choosing how to interpret our lives. This idea appeals to me for it relieves the sense of individual responsibility; though again, this idea of meaning happening to us strikes me as a question that sought a solution and arrived at a truth by allowing matters to be simplified too narrow-mindedly. Meaning finds us and overtakes us; we are thus, free’d from the torment and able to go about our business happily; too easy. We become free’d from the anxiety that accompanies accepting the necessity of uncertainty if we are at our core, a bottomless insatiable void of indescribable syntheses, by embracing openly an inexpressible form by allowing a storm to pour down on ourselves, the individual removes the power from his own hands and places it in the hands of something bigger than himself. For those who do not believe in God, we are left waiting for a storm to come sweeping in, to flood the streets and knock us off our feet; we long to struggle and gasp for air-and in this journey under water we could recognize that here, lies our possession of meaning; though we know not where the waters will lead us, we at least momentarily may recognize the return of meaning to us; one that is free from our determinations and therefore we become free from our anxiety of responsibility and guilt upon placing the power to shape meaning in our own tiny hands.

In that recognition, in our grasping of something, such as a lover, in our determining of them in that moment of recognition which posits the return of meaning to our lives we seemingly lose a little of what we inexpressible embodied prior to placing a frame upon her, or it. Perpetual uncertainty; to embrace her with open arms, this kind of openness is the state which we long to return to. In an unknown, indescribable land in a storm of the likes which we have never known.

Back to what I was saying...to an artist, there lies perfection in imperfection-but anyone attuned to the sensations associated with art knows that there lies no objective way of interpreting a sight-and that those who prefer art which is as easy to understand as an instruction manual will miss out on the richest kinds of meanings that man can experience; such meanings as I have argued in the past can only ever be intuitively embodied and thus never adequately expressed even in our inner monologues. To an artist then, it becomes impossible to ever settle upon one assessment of a sight; for all realms of possible interpretation perpetually leave the door open-thus remain open to an infinite world of possible interpretations; and she, as I saw her, was a painting that refused to allow a frame to be placed upon her so to allow for determination to conclude her, and bring to me that unity I longed for and needed to possess in order to feel a sense of closure on the matter. A need for results gone begging down the dirty streets of uncertainty; she could never mean anything clearly enough to me-for the moment I had moved towards drawing a conclusion via the negation of certain possibilities she would surprise me by saying something so simply sweet. The moment I would move towards affirming something sensitive or soft about her there would be an unconsidered term introduced into the derivation that rendered everything else I had a thought a contradiction and therefore invalid.

So here lies the synthesis of the two schools of thought; in the form of a very unclear synthesis which considers the truth of our ability to construe objects and people in a certain way; for our judgements upon objects most certainly determine the meaning which various objects take on in our lives; though perception has a way of determining the kinds of judgements we ascend towards. To re-word this, in order to render the entire solution more sensible, let us say that perception packs a greater punch than our judgements are capable of expressing in words. Thus, there can be certainty with regard to simple matters, but with regard to love, we must wait in uncertainty and attempt to remain in wait for as long as we can in order to avoid ascending to previous kinds of judgments, for in doing so we allow ourselves to remain open to something greater than our mind’s are capable of understanding and inevitably tarnishing. To remain aware of our mind’s tugging at the sleeve of arriving at a determined meaning in order to remain more open to what can sheathe us in a more profound, inexpressible kind of light.

"My thread of thought is severed in despite,

I sicken, long revolted at all learning;

Then let us quench the pain of passions burning

In the soft depths of sensual delight."

-Goethe

Love is art; art is understanding; understanding is unity; unity is simplification. Love is simplification.

The road chosen by brave burning bandits towards the fires of intellectualism which always inevitably bring about an untimely decline into the depths of an illusive yet unmistakable darkness. Intellectualism as a longing for a grasp upon The systematic totality and a true dialactical conclusiveness which can clarify everything and put an end to our perpetual desert hunts which yield no goods.... Such foolish pursuits will leave you lonely in some dusty old attic, far away from everything regardless of where you are actually standing. In an attic always, in your brain scrolling over philosophies new and old, quotes from geniuses-extracting themes ro categorize and systematize the many ways philosophers and writers consent to leading less fulfilling lives. Into the deep abyss, grey in the face and bearded, how you momentarilly let go of the melancholy dream that simple men sub consciously hold fast to; that youthful hopeful dream of bliss via the arms of another who will make you Whole. Love as simplification; a framing; a placing of a border so to understand that which one is looking at. We can only possess the wholes which we determine with our own hasty need to grasp and to control and to understand. Fools you thought, were all of them, so quick to bait at the plastic bait hanging at the end of a line; only to be captured by some unworthy fisherman and be filled with hopes of being thrown back in.

Digression....

Either/Or is the theme for now that I wish to articulate-specifically for now, the conception with reference to a life choice I have often attempted to explicate which offers at its core only two options. Analagously understandable as being stuck on a rock at the fork of a stream; drfiting down each stream only to always acknowledge an itching nostalgia to turn around, to paddle against the current; always followed by a ceaseless hesitance to commit to any one life upon learning the ins and outs of what lies on either side; thus, perpetually stuck on a rock without the capacity to synthesize.

Every book you read seemingly recycles the same tired theme regarding knowledge and how it will lead to madness and loneliness; this of course is one of the streams. In following this path one keeps in their pocket an ultimately ungrantable wish to return to the simplicity that has been strayed away from due to their initial longing for more and more education-a mistake to assume that words and theories would bring about an illumination to clarify the meaning of our existence......

you were very close to the edge of a waterfall at the end of this stream; close to losing yourself in the depths of angry waters; to the anxiety and trembling hands that accompany the actions of a man who lives within his own inward icy land. Yet before you consented to closing your eyes and saying yes to a falling unto a sickness; a sickness that can only attack the soul of someone who devotes their days to searching for understanding. The kind of Understanding that can only come by acquiring that objective answer, or that system of conceptions which will unify the many pieces he has collected along the way, to paint a coherent picture of the All. Longing for conclusiveness in a Universe which keeps her secrets hidden so well will break any man's heart eventually, even if he can rarely ever feel it anymore. And the relation between breaking and sickness is as causal as any.

But before you consented to a falling unto madness, someone in the crowd took notice of your movements and spoke; her soft voice brought tears to your eyes; for the resonating sound of her voice represented a reason for staying upon a surface you had spent so long drowning in doubts; like a hand reaching down to pull you up from the ground that you only wish to kick away, for the worrisome feeling that your legs had been laying for too long to work any longer you said, "Oh its no use! That kind of life belongs entombed in the lampless clost I call my memories!"; the disappointing sight of a man attempting to stand and try to be human again upon quivering limbs would be oh so comic you thought. You were all too sure that your fall had already begun.

The days of youthful thoughtlessness lost, there would be no more sensual fun-but she ran to you as you let your head fall back to lay yourself open to that unintelligible abyss that had always been all to happy to leave you alone in your quest for answers. And, she wrapped her arms so tightly around your torso and swore she wouldn't let go until you remembered how to feel what living meant. "On the surface lies the answers" she swore to you. "Reawaken your mind to the truth of perception and allow the surface to flow inside through your eyes and fill your soul with delight."

In a strange way, as time passed, you noticed it working; while the sharpness of your thoughts was dulling the ease with which you passed through days was growing. But of course, you came to question what questions your mind was no longer asking, and whether or not simplicity was ever an answer at all; or simply a lack of asking questions so to remove a requirement for answers.

But the questions all over again came to dawn upon you like some storm called rushing in on the sound of thunder on day when forecasts promised sunny skies; your eyes and ears welcomed the sights and sounds that reminded your soul of a past, but unforgotten life. A life spent in solitude in pursuit of something. You remember what it was like to identify with the intellectually inclined/the spiritually condemned.

On days of deep thought your eyes look miles deep into nothing and the context within which girls used to think of you as an answer when in your confused starry eyed state was certainly not

in the context of city streets and swirling tongues and drunkeness-it was lecture halls and libraries.....but has anything really changed? You've kissed more girls in the last week than you can count on one hand and why but yo place your lips on something and close your eyes and if it feels like nice; none of it feels like much though; only when you think of her; the one who seems to have sad thoughts surrounding you; a handsome vestige; immortalized by his willingness to turn hus back of the one that saved him; and his commitment to go without asking whose been lying in her bed; he lets the questions pile up in his head in quietude instead.

For you've always equated true love with gloom. Happiness comes easy to simple people; true sadness implies a degree of thought and depth more profound than one night loves and flirtacious lip curls that seemingly work on any kind of girl so long as you're drunk enough to see value in such ambitions-to allow yourself to loosen up in pursuit of what will only eat a hole in you every time you think of her and what the sight of your hands on someone else's hips would do to her. Tell me I am free; and I'll tell you a million reasons why I could never be