| but it's all in your head. |
[20 Nov 2008|12:38am] |
1. everything is an action
1.1. perception is an action
1.2. speech is an action
2. all acts are motivated
2.1. even if you don't 'know' why
3. motivation stems from the body
3.1. the brain is part of the body
4. the body relates to objects
4.1. everything is an object except the body
4.1.1. words are objects
4.1.2. other people are objects
4.1.3. thoughts are objects
4.2. the body and the soul mean the same thing
4.3. you have an attitude towards everything
5. objects relate to each other
5.1. the body relates to a network of relationships
5.1.1. light is part particle
5.2. space and the relationship of the body to the relationships of objects means the same thing
6. space is constituted by the body
6.1. this is not empirically true
6.2. empiricism is reflection of perception
6.2.1. perception is a motivated action of the body
6.3. perception exists before reflection
6.3.1. reflection can only confirm what the body already 'knows'
6.4. perception and the constitution of space mean the same thing
6.4.1. the body can't answer what it doesn't ask
7. something anterior to perception is inconceivable
7.1. the world is already there
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| from The Comedian as the Letter C |
[25 Aug 2008|12:42am] |
II, Concerning the Thunderstorms of Yucatan
... He that saw
The stride of vanishing autumn in a park
By way of decorous melancholy; he
That wrote his couplet yearly to the spring,
As dissertation of profound delight,
Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes,
Found his vicissitudes had much enlarged
His apprehension, made him intricate
In moody rucks, and difficult and strange
In all desires, his destitution's mark.
He was in this as other freemen are,
Sonorous nutshells rattling inwardly.
-- Wallace Stevens
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| yes. the human emotion! |
[17 Jul 2008|06:10pm] |
is like a club, really.
with a thin handle widening to a broad, flat head.
you know, for the extra pivot. you just have to contend with all the weight when you SWING.
ps the real problem with lolcats is the baby talk.
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| i just realized |
[12 Jun 2008|07:37pm] |
so because i can be an obsessive pack rat, and i know this, i told myself i have to let things go or i will live in chaos.
and you know how i feel about chaos. i like my emotions sloppy, but my shit has to be in order. alphabetical, preferably.
what's happened is that i find myself having this little ritual recurring over throwing things away, deleting things. it's part this-far-but-no-farther (what's sine qua non... thanks BSG!) and part symbolic catharsis or something.
when i like, delete my sent text messages.
there, little sent messages. i could reread you and ponder myself, but instead i release you to the void! look at me universe! look at how not anal i am!
or when i throw away things, from receipts to gifts i don't use or look at that i got years and years ago. am i throwing away the object? or a piece of myself?
deep dude. deep.
i am an asshole. not, in like, the bad way. but in the celebratory dennis leary way.
i have that special feeling that's in the sub-cockle region. or maybe not. we don't know.
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[01 May 2008|11:30pm] |
when i'm drunk i feel like listening
to 90s pop. the drama, the hook.
smoking cigarettes and looking at my guitar.
it still has no strings.
i want to write the most beautiful thing ever
and then i remember, shit, i'm drunk.
i have all these pictures of you
and if i come across one i think
god, how pathetic.
and i put it somewhere i'll know
it will be, if i need it.
i play grand theft auto until i'm dead.
i wonder: why are pop lyrics so good?
while i walk around the block.
what i mean is: what's being said
that's so banal it's sublime?
who am i to use lower case i's,
cummings? then: no, can't think
that and prove bloom right!
is there a new lyrical poetry?
am i writing it? or will i read
this in the morning and burn
it, say it wasn't really me?
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| once around the block |
[27 Apr 2008|10:13pm] |
flatbush, maple to midwood:
61. The Center Conforming. Camel Lights. The situation described by this hexagram is characterized by bringing one's inner being and outer circumstances into a sincere and reliable accord. One's inner being. The moon is almost full.
midwood, flatbush to bedford:
what makes sense? save the date. april 26th, tori is married. kate is married. save the date. your last letter hoped i am happier. if you could have, you would have made me happier. all the ways to think that.
bedford, midwood to maple:
the moon was almost full. then, for a second, it was. and i missed it. now what? is it.
maple, bedford to flatbush:
gibbous. waning. was it? was it full once? your last letter, one's inner being. we can't make each other happy. so it does make sense, if you know how to look at. when the moon stops waning, it's gone. what do they call the moon when it's gone?
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| dude, really? |
[21 Apr 2008|11:42pm] |
"The subreption that in Kant turns the transcendent to which representational absence gestures into a delusional metaphor first appears in Stevens' essay as a sublimation that reduces the otherness of the irrational to a representable object within the horizon of writing."
get over your bad self.
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| cut through the gravity / you were meant to let it go |
[12 Apr 2008|08:10pm] |
cause i am the sun
i'm the only one
i'll pull you to me
the moon and the sea
and we are the ones
with the parts and the motion
we fill up the sky
and we burn with devotion
when the oxygen comes
and blows it all clean
remember to breathe
remember to breathe
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| the secret is to know he's going to hit you. |
[05 Apr 2008|04:28am] |
that's what i just figured out that i've figured out.
the secret to giving good lip, anyway. figured that out when i was ... 4? the first time i turned around and told my mom to go to hell. i'd been slapped for lesser offences -- so i knew if i was going to step it up a notch, i'd have to duck.
but rule number two is just as important. know what you can get away with.
see that? that's the spin i just put on learn how to keep your mouth shut.
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| i'm afraid you'll come back and cause a flood. |
[02 Apr 2008|02:28am] |
what's left is an idea that recurs.
i mean: an idea that recurs is the idea of "what's left."
what's left is useless desire. is there another kind? water water everywhere.
and no object to fix desire on. just a meaning that no word is sufficient to contain.
and then the feeling of your name, when i think it. when i speak it aloud, which i do.
i'm afraid you'll come back and find everything the same.
i don't feel like i've learned. i don't feel like i've grown. i don't feel like a new day is a new adventure. i just feel like i've failed. i tried and failed, i gave up and failed. somehow both! the common denominator -- well, you know.
what's left is not right?
what's left for me is to let the waters come back, fill up this empty space. point myself in some direction. when i say your name i think what's left for you is just my failure. in the end, it might be all i ever had to give.
i failed you as best as i could.
i'm afraid you can never come back.
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| match |
[26 Mar 2008|02:03am] |
d'y'ever go to like a website like match.com and think... i could join this dating website...
and then you look around on it for like 20 seconds and you're like... nooooo. i really can't.
i do that sometimes.
this is i mean unless you're rosalie.
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| i think it was never fate |
[04 Mar 2008|06:47am] |
when the love of my fourth grade life dumped me. man.
it was the start of my career as an emo weirdo. i mean, i'd started already, really, but this was turning pro.
one of her friend's said to me, quite pragmatically: "you're only in fourth grade. it was bound to happen. what did you think, you were going to marry her?"
and later she asserted: "you're not going to marry her."
i thought, how could she know? but i didn't want to sound pathetic, so i kept my mouth shut. and i burned quietly, thinking that some day, if it happened that we did get married, i would remember that moment. it would be like it was fate. people like to laugh at fate, but...
i just found out she is married now! not to me, either! damn!
THE END.
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| my blood is alive. |
[18 Feb 2008|01:10am] |
I keep my head up tight,
I'm going crazy at night.
And I don't sleep, I don't sleep,
I don't sleep 'til it's light.
Sometimes float, sometimes I'm buried alive.
In a bus, on a bus back home
to you and that's fine,
I'm barely alive.
That's fine,
it's just a matter of time.
You know our hearts beat time out very slowly.
You know our hearts beat time.
They're waiting for something that'll never arrive.
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| you eat shit for breakfast? |
[11 Feb 2008|11:34pm] |
Remember some time ago (no? it's cool) when I wrote about criticism and art and being torn between the two and wondering if the split was hurtful to me as either a critic or artist?
I'm totally over that.
Two recent reasons: Oscar Wilde, who reminded me that self-consciousness is necessary to all good art, so that all good artists must also be good critics, maybe even good critics first, and that criticism can itself be an art that uses art as art is meant to use life to draw from, or something to that effect. Bleh.
The other is this sentence from a piece of (egad!) literary criticism on a short story by James Joyce:
"as we look for a glorified image of ourselves in the admiring eye of the other, we fail to see ourselves as we are at that moment, as seekers of glorified self-reflections in others' eyes."
I eat that shit for breakfast.
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| ask me how |
[10 Feb 2008|01:19pm] |
saturday night was hanging out with like 20-something not-yet-twenty-somethings.
and all i could think:
here we are inside a novel
waiting for an end
but we don't know the authors of the book
maybe someone's writing chapters
for us while we sleep
from a million miles away
hang on. hang on.
there's a twilight, a nighttime, and a dawn.
who knows how long? just hang on.
when hope is gone, just hang on, hang on.
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