Saturday, November 05, 2005

In the spirit of posting high journal writings (8/20/05)

TBH wants us to post, and post I will. We should all be posting more. Aspiring writers have no right to be ashamed. Even of scribblings inspired by smoking fine bud on a fine summer's day. I think it's most interesting to find the places in this kind of writing where you suddenly become self-conscious, and the writing thus begins to suck. Later you perk up again, but it's always an up and down. We all just need to find that Joycean remove where we stand back paring our fingernails.

Listen to your mind's inner secrecy. Dropping is planning. A slim beast wanders and ripple roars the scowled vision: "Secrets! Secrets!" Silent courageous whisper lightly the manichean vision of separatedness. If you can orchestrate the many vibrated grassblade then let the buzzing be shortlived and the vanquished enabled! Take messages from Mars and bask in the moonbank of so many different colored hickory sticks. Unconsciously you nightmare the running vision which peeks incessantly over your troubled - but no more.

We crawl. Over these lines slowly, and we creakle to the front door. Problematize that! But when this finest swing of the mood transliterates your herbicultured mind do not gasp. Only accept the many colored scenes. in which your life takes place and don't forget what I said thirty years from now! If your placebo is of a higher calorie level than this moment just now, then, but absurd now.

It's only a moment of insanity and then you're back. But your eyes water. And that's a lot to deal with. Periods one under the other. But didja see it? As if that were a wave, you know? Didja seeit, private i. ready for the massacre and don't forget my spaghetti (spaghetti being his punchline, for everything - in any moment of crucial time in the episode, he says "spaghetti" and that's the joke. You're waiting for the line the whole time, but "spaghetti" just comes out after the strongest lines so you just can't see it coming.)

Colived waterfalls. Perpetual Monhegan buzz in your ears outside Pierce Cottage in a sleeping bag. And same long distance calls! Strange these nights and chances. The waitresses I couldn't get to, they wanted me! In that inn, can you imagine it? The sex!? And then just yesterday! The French-Canadian girl you were going to signal, and then bring back for sex? Are you insane? What person is that! That's not me! How could I but now I'm still that person and it's states of mind! The swing of mood is so fuck! no word.

Nostalgia is just the desire to return to the time before the fall.

Everyone could be experiencing and seeing each other in so many ways. Do you know what this means? You don't know how someone else creates you - forms you - another you - you don't know what it is though! Insanity!

I am formed by society. I have been, and presently am a social character. But I console myself, justify myself, in saying that I like the things I am. I enjoy the pursuit of being cool. I enjoy certain styles of being. And that makes it ok. But really it is just blindness to the fact; acceptance of the illusion as something real. This has truly stripped me of my child's nature, my original nature. I did not once pursue these things. I once was purer, more an extant sentient being, rather than this illusion of life, of individuality, of dualisms and for dualisms. This is why I need Zen. I once said that "One needs to discover the reason that Zen attracts him." The attraction is the search for finality. It is the absurd. It is the thirst for life and its gifts. But at the end there is only more road, more pursuit. Zen is the decision to stop moving, Wu wei. To stop the desires to be this or that. You no longer desire to exist. You just do. You didn't ask to be brought into existence. You are. That is the stopping break, the end of pursuit, the return. Perhaps it is the end, too, of nostalgia.

4 Comments:

Blogger Tongue-tied Lightning said...

I've realized in retrospect that I completely contradict myself in all that chatter about nostalgia.

9:17 AM  
Blogger Sturgeon General said...

Nostalgia is just regrett with a double h.

5:16 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I can concur. From my experience the waitstaff are hot, and some are even bothered. I lived in Pierce for awhile one Autumn. It was damn cold. Clearly a summer haunt, unless your companion is hot enough to warm you up.

9:26 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

who is william s. porter?

1:25 PM  

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