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.