Monday, May 16, 2011

'Confabulation' - To Fabricate Imaginary Experiences as Compensation for Loss of Memory. My Last Journal Entry. Happy 28th!

Taken from my last journal entry, Tuesday May 16th, 2011

I think the reason I avoid this journal is in part from this girl who explained to me that it should be faced right side up (which it now is) so that the tassel falls from top to bottom, I hadn’t ever thought that a point worth considering. Today has been a great day, an important day I would say.

A great many things have taken place, some of which made it into my journal used as space filler for this one, because I can’t seem to write in you! Lets say from now on you just get the filtered bullshit and maybe you can give me some synthesis once in a while, for I am tired of giving. Funny things happened its true, things that caused reflection, events that brought back my times buying underwear from African street merchants in Napoli, times which have taken a seat to my consciousness. All well kept in another text, a book you will only know now through what I let slip. You my friend are the last survivor with me chuckling after a late party before we part ways.

Today was important because I put my two tasks to work. My recent interest in narrative I am sure plays little if any part, maybe as a paratext through outside materials you will never know anything about, because I won’t mention their name. As I was saying, today was an important day. I finally got beyond the insufferable reports from David Copperfield’s wedding but I still can’t get beyond his current indiscretions, benevolence, and inability to disentangle himself from his social sediments. Basically I can’t stand his knickknack of a wife. But hey, at the moment he is only 21, and that’s when it all begins in my book… By the way, I am in deep trouble. I have been swapping between a fully charged Cosco bag of trail mix and a near potato sack of dark Chocolate A├žai for the past page now and if the past is supposed to reflect the future, I will take my breakfast with a burning regret. Even without the aid of beef jerky. Thanks mom. Basically today seemed to top other days. I found those I sought, and spoke about space I found to give form to time, cause ‘it’ happened. So it goes.

The first element we agreed on was that ‘it’ could not be communicated, at least through our current system of forms or language that already ‘means’ something. All presuppositions and therefore all orders are banished. Us as a group, in a circle, shared a special position together of space and time and enjoyed each other’s company. Attention being paid to discourse, to the ‘words’ allowed, as language is a form of public transportation at a tax of its paved roads and maps, and we wanted the forms of our conveyance to be free of direction and result. All we agreed on was that one had ones body and its movement, that’s all that we could be sure of back then. We meditated over how to give what we had form, to define it, to make it last, to express outside ourselves what we knew already within.
Today has been a good day. I can’t stand post-modern thought; it seeks fragmentation and clamors for identity, full of perspectives without any plan for action. It’s like a child with a ball and a cup tied to a string, its only entertainment; a toy not to be marveled at but remembered as an effective gizmo that taught coordination while we were still growing up. Now it’s Nintendo. Now I am digressing in thought. We agreed that Plato began and Hegel completed Western Metaphysics, basically the world of thought we were thrown into and forced to make doo with. We are currently very interested in Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard, we made a large pot of ginger tea and decided that today was a good day

If I were a new historicist I would explain all my current subjective developments and socio/ cultural constructs that have shaped how I view and interpret whatever it is I am speaking of. But that is for my past 7 journals to support, you on the other hand will attest for nothing before now written. We were watching Scanner Darkly projected outside an apartment wall. This was after the brief encounter with a section of American students, t’was their last farewell, adieu, au revoir, adios, bon voyage, aufwedersehen before their sober return. Their semester had just ended. They were drunk and bedazzled, full of sound and sentimentality, we crashed their party, and we smoked American Spirits.

‘Is it rational to be immoral?’ that’s a question posed by my professor that stemmed from a simple question of ‘what is good,’ from which we will submit an outline next week. In my opinion, depending on a reason justified by a given community for some desired result, it is not only true, but in the same context its opposite can be true as well: that it can be immoral to be rational. I will then allude to the American treatment of the Japanese during WWII and get a feather in my cap for not mentioning the Holocaust. OHHH discourse, ohh language, oh you blasted bottle of invertible time! Today was a good day.

.
End

Saturday, February 12, 2011

A Stifling Status Quo

Actually went out for the first time in weeks rescued from my avalanche of books by a pocket of time and now I can feel the strangle
hold this system has on me and what little of myself that is left, this system of dry emulation and categorization and comparison
that seeks not to innovate but to inundate with qualifications and create space not with substance but with that which defines
its function, a wallflower who gawks and justifies its lack of participation with the dance of life with highfalutin lectures
that call attention to nothing more than words that can only wish to be real. My soul is being sucked moment
by moment so soft and faint I hardly realize it is not my own incompetence but my everlasting prowess
which cannot squeeze and shaped passive by these smothering forces that I seek as a naive convert
seeks absolution through that which only takes and deceives My achievement is a dream,
my room all too well furnished, I blather and stumble my age thickens and coarse
with its leathery carelessness, not I, this is not how it is to be,
no dead arid arrangement can bring me see otherwise
as I ignore and I break and defy and escape
these chains around nothing I laugh
as I feel to be alive is no reason
but with structure no feeling
though once it was said
to have been
what now
isn't.
Fuck Form
and what it stands for
and all its discrimination
to point and regard for a base of a tyrant
all things made select and come taken if proven
yet forms themselves form nothing and thats why I'm gone.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

A joke and tears below 600 words...

Inside a coffee shop located on the corner of some busy four-way street stood Charlie, waiting for his latte. The three teenagers behind the little counter moved in every direction, knocking metal on plastic, pulling brass knobs, releasing steam, pouring this, sprinkling that, a wild flurry of bodies performing a synchronized beverage dance while everyone else waiting in line appeared frozen and de-caffeinated. The carefully metered aroma of coffee and soft contemporary jazz music that swirled around Charlie as he remained upright and waiting reminded him of what purgatory might be like, some vague location between standing in line and reclining above cushions. His mind wondered around the earth tone colors and coffee bean mosaics that coated the walls and soon Charlie found himself searching for a quite place to sit and think, a place near one of the windows hopefully…oh too late, well luckily there was a place in the center of the room flanked with sofa’s and there he made himself at home, working himself between two cushions he set his coffee down and slowly stretched his legs out on top of a little community of neighboring pillows. Ahh. He closed his eyes.

Soon a little boy with silver spectacles shaped round carefully balanced his hot chocolate with both hands as he took up residence right next to Charlie. The boy tried to take sips of his chocolate the best he could since he had a patch over his left eye behind his glasses, the doctor said it would have to be there for two more weeks. He had a lazy eye. It was just the two on the sofa and the both began sipping their drinks, each conscious of the other, there was an unnatural silence about the room. Then the boy suddenly turned to Charlie and asked, “Want to hear a joke I heard?” Charlie felt obliged to humor the child so he agreed.

“Ok,” said the boy, “say knock-knock.”

Charlie considered what was asked of him for a moment then said, “knock-knock?”

“Who’s there?” the boy answered swiftly. Charlie wasn’t sure what to do, something wasn’t right he thought.

“Who’s there?” the boy repeated slowly.

“I don’t know?” Charlie said as he crinkled his forehead in confusion.

“Well lets try again,” said the boy, “say knock-knock.”

“Knock-knock,” Charlie mumbled and straightaway felt ridiculous.

The boy with what looked to be a little smile repeated those words, “whose there?”

“I don’t know who’s there!” Charlie exclaimed.

“Who’s there?”

“Nobody! Nobody!” Charlie was trembling as he spoke the words that seemed out of his control and immediately Charlie broke down in front of his young inquisitor, shielding his tears with his great big hands. Who’s there now he thought to himself? This little boy brought out the strangest emotions, he saw his own son who grew up long ago, who one day, just like his wife, wasn’t there. Such great distances of time and loss caught him off guard, he felt ashamed and childish.

“It’s OK grandpa, it’s just a joke. I don’t get it either,” said the little boy.

He pulled himself together taking a long sip from his latte. He managed something that resembled a smile.

“It’s a good one Charlie,” the old man said at last, “I haven’t heard it that way before.”