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Subject: "the worry-tale, or (I) metastory", a novel of experimental fiction !
Date: Sat, 07 May 2005 18:20:47 -0400
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hey! visit thisfeel.com !!
oh god now peep--
you have entered the tale
you are now one with the new rew's world
and you will on our oceans sail
the worry-tale, or
(I) metastory
by a collexion of selves
owned by David Baird
Dear Madam or Sir,
In consideration of my desire to be admitted to a graduate program at the University of Pittsburgh, I would like to explain myself as fully as required... To put it bluntly, I want to write unconstrained by the limitations of either fiction, poetry, verity, (nonfic), theory, or philosophy. I have unfortunately been held to the disciplinary matrices of each of these fields during various educational adventures in university-land, and though some interesting pure, and I think valid, examples of each genre were produced, as a spirit and a writer I claim to be hurt over-all-limitation did not make me free, it made me non-ultimate, the "ultimate" being that which you are now, and only in this here life, capable of, text-wise or with whatever other variable you want to measure. Ultimaticity is our grail.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just a shifting drifter personality, too flighty and unconcerned to take my profession seriously. But it is the infinite full-spectrum'd profession. To write? Do you know what it means? Today here it means real power over visual, auditory, and even bodily actualities, sense-channeled into the minds of my active or captive audience. It is the ultimate method of life. Writing is the "hardest" job, as in most scientific. Most rigorous. Most porous to the tunneling of truth, most of a chorus about the passions of our youth. My goal is to, as an academically trained writer-thinker, be given the rare privelege of becoming in turn a trainer of other writer-thinkers-some no doubt of kindred spirit and nerve-some no doubt who'd the cause of my project serve. Not that I have a project, other than to get just one, at least, please, book done for X. Does X equal public consumption? Do I want to be consumed like a piece of Hollywood mind-candy? Or do I want to be manifested, and profound? Maybe I like being a product/object. I could self-exploit. Using images of my sexualized self, and musical sensuality, and textual info-realism, all I have to do is be myself, and open a channel of data distribution, and my vision will spread on its own. The net will mesh me into its flux. Humans will mesh me into their flux. And if I had a book published by a nonvanity? Instant success for my website, thisfeel dot com.
What business do I, as an ignorant rock star, have in writing serious scholarship? Some would say "none," because some use propaganda and falsity. They claim, "Rock stars shouldn't be listened to by the elite-they already have their own audiences-let them be stars to the mass..." But maybe we want scholarship by those of us who society has placed on pedestals. Do we have interesting tales about how we got here, with the help and hindrance of the Normality-the parental-conjugal routine of compulsory heterosexuality, the neurotic repression of text that deals with childhood pain or adult pleasure, the repression of textual material that is sexual in ways unknown previously... And all the things the world would have you do in the name of sameness. The star-writer is told "Let's keep it to fairy-tales, give us more visuals and a more plotted story..." I would tell her to write her rights. No matter how the "lights" are disturbed. In fact, she may even want to "turn off the lights." Manipulate their fragile mentalities until they can feel their own lack of heaviness, and begin to want to do something about it.
What did the god have to face, in creating life? To design a brain that allows for a perceptual matrix, extending outward in farther and farther spheres of influence, as the writer learns her mask, learns about the peeps who read her treats, and learns that she is saying the truth now, forever, here. This word, these words, are true, and so are you, maybe. I am showing early drafts of this to friends. They are seeing the uncut, the primal. But you-you get to see my craft, my attainment, which can only be known at the end of (my)story, when the primal and the normal become interpenetrated, and life is won.
In the end, it's good to be a poet for a few days, or weeks even, but I do not want to be one for three years straight, thank you. Same goes for all the fields. "Well, how are you going to produce anything masterful if you don't focus?," you may ask. But the "mastery" often evidenced by works of imagination and speculation is not decidable as to its ultimate essence, or even decidable as to what we might possibly want it to be, given this or any other world. The definition of the word "mastery," I'm trying to say, is under dispute, and the traditional values have passed. What I think mastery means will for now remain unwritten, because to write it would be a performative, a force pushing your ideas in the direction of what I think it should mean. Instead, I would let us all know our own masteries.
Judith Butler reminds that received notions (of sex) are suspect, when violence has been the disciplinary matrix through which conventions are forced on us. She further reminds that the whole vocabulary of our field, whatever that may be, needs to be rethought, in light of emanicapation from all censorship. Which happens in certain localities.
I may redifine "writing." Symbolic structure, yes. But what is it for? To achieve quality of force? Or quantity, of course... I may redefine "life." What's meaningful to a being alive? Or what signs we should ignore when we drive? Still, you may say, we just want to teach you how to write fiction, nonfiction, or poetry, or do theory, or be a philosopher. Why can't you choose?
I want to be free, as do we all. But my freedom is different. Each word I write is freedom. Freedom must begin now. So I'll choose fiction. A form that cannot be corrected by critics, only protested against. From now on-this is real me, if only on paper ->>
(let's see if I can make good use)
It's "who you want to talk to," that's key. That determines voice. I would be totalistic, and put a book out for all "types" to read. Whenever you could be, I would alter your vision. You are alone with me. If you read this tract, you will have felt an act. And though you may not change, your perceptions will rearrange, according to my schemes, and for this you should be glad, at least that's the hope in vogue. But what if text, to be equal to world, makes you wish you didn't know it? Is life better because I am haunted with Bret Easton Ellis's torture? Maybe. They tried to scare us with hauntings when we were young. Maybe we need to be "haunted." Pressed upon by images, images which modify us each time we think them. My text is [___]. Dark? But only as [___] as the night. And I can't save the sun from burning out. (These are the words of my master.)
Writing-wise, I was given a lot of alone-time. Thank fates. I had time to read. And adult time to write. Not time "on" the clock, (doing time), punched in and trying for profit or pen award. I had time to write my soul. Not everybody does, around here. To those of the future, or of a different place, or a different race, the sheer amount of time I have been given is extraordinary, compared to what my classmates had. Though who knows what happened to them. I was never invited to a reunion.
Now I'm "slipping," in personal info. I only know I am here now, writing into this document on a processor, and I feel. But I'm afraid Mike Smith is right, and "Too much truth is a prescription for failure." If so, I'll have to "fail." Supposedly there are sophisticated readers, who are capable of understanding writing like this, and there are sensitive readers, who can feel its essential human warmth, and fascinated readers, who derive their own warmth from it, and so on, to the you-type of reader, who I hope hasn't been taught too many taboos by a culture of fear. Fear of such, fear of much, fear of crutches, fear of touches, and if words were spelt differently, I could name all our fears in this poem, but since words weren't designed for me with to play, but for intersectional human agents to say with, I must end "as is." Is? A rather important word, student. Philosophy is asking "What is ..." This presupposes absence of nullity, or the presence of some thing that "is," and it presupposes "questioning," or an act of trying to solve your problems, be they ignorance, or be they want of non-questions. And of course this question is language. Cannot escape language.
Language is what makes us, and it is what I want to make.
"I'm the man, you're the woman-let's keep it that way."
"You could perhaps add a '(for now, at least),' to make that line less sexist."
"I will often play the sexist, but trust me-it is because I am the omni-self'd textist."
---------Trust in the bodily voices, our only natural linguistics. (As opposed to things like synthesized voices of electronica, or contrived CHM voices of erotica). [CHM-compulisive heterosexuality matrix (of thought and body control) -ed.] My voices lead me on. But I wonder what happened? All of a sudden I am very real, my world seems very real. But wasn't it always? Not like this. Things are way intense. In a meaningful, artistic way. As opposed to intensity of sheer tiredness, fear, anxiety, tripped-out insanity, or whatever else states I've dealt with, as a result or a correlate of having schizophrenia, the brain disease most talked about in history, least understood until now, after the development of side-effectless atypical antipsychotic medication, which has enabled some sufferers to return to the land of the living-giving-reliving-tripping from the land of the fairies-visions-phantoms-dread.
I must not be the only one who writes like this. How would we link? I have not been curious enough to link up with other survivors of my illness, perhaps because I am just now becoming one. Just now able to say normally "I lost some years due to a mental illness, but now I'm back, right on track."
unwritten writers will come
and like freedom, be determined
by everything that came before
except also something more
a force of life
a force that lies
Do I want help writing my first book? We could all use help. But after people come up with their first books, they seem to "get it," and are able to keep writing more without further schooling, excepting the schooling they themselves are immersed in, being part of the universe-ity. The place, child, where you will love to be. I can't promise that of your eventual work, unless of course it ends you up here...
yes we are that nuts here
we hope we shall know what's clear
and, and,
I want to write at least one good book that will be on shelves!
for that I want it to be "shick as hell," or really, really good
the more revisions I do, the more vision it will contain
I already have a website where people can download my efforts
I worked really hard on its content,
mostly music, if measured in kilobits
but the text is not polished to blinding intensity,
or if it is, I have ceased to care,
because it is "apprentice work"
and now I am a master, if only of my voice
and this doc is what I care about
I need to complete, to make the final document
ready to be burned into the collective vision of humanity
I like writing! My mastery means I extract maximal pleasure from the act.
(I thought you might wonder...which fact is my ego-feeding fact.)
..and you can f-ing tell I like writing but who cares I do so lets get wet not really no thanks I like dry textuality though sexuality isn't far off the mind of the reader of verse or prose or even terse email communcations congratulations you have found freedom in me because I won it and now it is yours to do what with you are probably freer than me anyway but if not here is your chance read my book and I'll negate all your can'ts at least the ones not really necessary, and for the rest those who are or always already have been freer than me, here is a little entertainment from one in chains, chains of whatever boring whatever that came from a life of what wasn't as good as yours, thanks, sorry
"language models"-little bubble-lines of words, that can inflate
as they rise to the surface of the learner's awareness,
and are finally understood and pop,
Write them quick when you think of them,
but later you can extend to your heart's delight.
(get as many different language models down as you can
they are how you teach us your language)
this is fic-tee-own.
or, anything-goes
divided into parts for easier consumption and production
written by a collective of selves
who sometimes lie
even now
after all that's been-
so,
the unwritten writer by lez phrie
(not me)
I don't know why I'm telling you, besides it's being the reality-intense of my life, but within twenty minutes, I can go from feeling dead and hopeless to feeling perfectly good, or vice versa. When I say "dead and hopeless," don't think of these words in their positive sense. Think negative. This is what I have to deal with, with the illness. Yes, schizoidism, schizophrenia, paranoid. What does that mean? Even the Nobel laureates disagree. Hearing voices seems to be the prime indicator of psychosis. There has to be an underlying brain disease, but how it functions, no one knows. They only know that if they medicate it, sometimes people "go back to normal." As a patient, or "consumer," as we are called, I am allowed to use caffeine. And the drugs they give me. The anti-depressant makes me smooth and elevated, with a balanced outlook on life, and the anti-psychotic narcs me every night to sleep, and gives me sweet dreams and cognitively ordered conceptual schemes. The caffeine trips me the trip of life, with often a buzz or an energy that powers me through strife.
I'm listening to music, as usual. I say to myself, with the patience it takes to raise a child from "zero" to consciousness of unlimited horizons and freedom, "Do not think, 'I bet someone else, X, would really love this music.' Feel the music as only you can feel it, due to your extensive and ultimate and unique life-history." I say good things to myself. Only rarely like "You're a worthless piece of shit, stupid piece of shit." Stupid, stupid things happened when I was nuts. I'm now recovered. My problems are now social-emotional, the problems of normal peoples.
"They should have a soundtrack play triumphant music for your arrival, Lez," they've told me. They've told me many things. "You won." "It's yours." "For the rest of your life." And so on. No one cares. At least the doctors don't seem to care what I write about my voices, or really what I write about anything. There are so many patients. So much textual experimentation by a population disabled and living on welfare, not needing to work while in the years and years of recovery from psychotic breaks, and we end up writing a lot, and the doctors have seen before.
Do I care? I'm not afraid of reinventing what others are inventing now. We can all invent together. Re- or not. Doc's have seen that insanity leads nowhere. (Nowhere profitable at least.) But normal people are still fascinated, as they should be, by the mental case. (A text that will be safe in the enemy's hands? No(thing) is safe in the enemy's hands).
Imagining other people's consciousness/lives is really, really hard. (If you want to do it right.) But since I can't do it, I make the mistake of thinking they don't exist. Do I exist? Did my life mean anything? What did it add up to? Some guy, who could be anyone-it doesn't really matter how he feels, or sees things-anyone could see things this way. All the books, the teachers, the writing-that's all disappeared into dust and history. Now we just have boring, lame, dull Lez. Nothing special about him. He's in the same world everyone else is in. We're all alive now in this time. (Oh-but if time is subjective. Then we're all in different times. Exactly no one is feeling time like you are...)
Are you being a sexual predator by saying "Hi" to a woman on the street? Just because you like her looks? But is school "the street"? And what if it's your only chance at getting a woman? (Or a good-looking one at least)? Does my strong need for love trump a woman's potential momentary discomfort, as I "collide" with her?
Life is becoming very trippy. When I go out in public it is increasingly strange. The ultra-social possibilities of my own, and other people's, agency. I simply don't trust people. "Engage in frank and earnest dialogue with the men and women you run into." Come on. You know what this is. All the texts telling you to be aggressive, and to stand up for yourself, and do what you really want to. Oh, and the feminist texts saying women should be free, to show and act on their desires. But do women do that to me? Or do I fuck it up with them?
I worry about dialogue a lot. But does it really matter how complex my lines are with chicks? Why am I talking to them? To establish a reality, a relationship. We're touching each other with lines. Reaching out. "I think I'd stop if you talked to me on the street. If you reached out to people, people would reach out to you." Lines said to me. Lines led to me.
What shall I say to Etst and Leanna when I see them at the party? It doesn't matter what you "say"-it's who you "are" that is the key. Just be your self. If you can't be your self around them, fuck it.
When talking to Shlett, I listened to my voice, and it sounded like I was a pompous lecturer-but I couldn't help it. Maybe that's what she needed? Maybe I just know ten times more than her, even though she did better in math class, and can read sci-fi novels, and mention facets of them in a tantilizing way in conversation. I may know ten times more than most. The things music taught me. The things tripping and psychosis taught me. The things my childhood street, Fernwood Avenue, and the childhood vacations taught me. The things my first creative writing teacher, Lucas, and his girlfriend Noel, taught me. I've learned perhaps the maximum possible in twenty-nine years. The things the fuck-mouth taught me. All these things didn't necessarily teach me facts, so much as restructured my 'very' self.
I'm glad I haven't emailed the chick I met yet. Is it crazy/obsessive to write someone the same day I met her at the concert, or the day after, if she has a boyfriend? If she were a guy, would you write, "It was so nice to meet you"? Maybe if you were nobility. You kind of are nobility-you are a prince of a transcendent kingdom of imagination! You don't want to choose just any woman for a princess. And you are allowed to act like a prince. It is already known. You will take her far.
I need an equal. Someone as "sick" as me. She could be hard to find. Isn't that like saying women are mostly not great? They may be in different stages of development. And though you are a genius-do you *need a genius to love? Maybe a genius of tripping, a genius of love. Whatever that means, right? I think it means, [____]. (You know). All the things you chose not-the things, instead, witch others got, exist in some world of ideal forms, forever missing from your life.
But can you really call lost chances negative? Maybe, for you, your choices were your true life. Which cannot be predefined, as analagous to writing. How words are spellt, and how symbols are _used_, changes, contrary to whosever's wishful rules. You want to be understood by a fluent speaker, who can see through your imaginative spellings, and you want to be the best introduction to the language's vagaries, for the beginner, who may not be able to look a word up in the dictionary as easily, (but still will be able), but will instead get a better grip on the metaphorical way we treat things on paper, due to our chat mentalities. (People of the last thirty years invented chatting, (in internet chat rooms)-and we maybe see things about it that later peeps, having grown up with it, will either take for granted, or will not even be able to percieve, because they will have become such intrinsic parts of existence. Chat can know, and chat can flow, and no, pre-eighties or nineties people could never have dreamed of chat, where thirty-six writers can "go" at it. "It" being the place there is to be, the room you like to go to, the peeps you've learned to see, amongst the random newbies, who are still quite capable though, especially if they're hiding under a screen-name, and only pretending to be new to the room...Never have humans, especially writers, been connected like this. And never will they again.)
I don't know what girls are like. I observed them in class, but I didn't participate with them, for the most part. You don't really get a good idea of someone by watching them talk to someone else about you don't know what. But I bet some of my classmates, who are women now, will read this and say, "wait, I talked to Lez for hours in school, for years! I guess the five years' aluminum foil bowls of pot didn't do wonders to his long term memory..." Though every doc I've come across claims aluminum hasn't been proved bad.
I happen to have LSD flashbacks. But they have become subtle. They are like sober trips. I don't get the visual thing as much. Instead it's a sense of altered reality/self. In turn, meaning a changed perception of the world/wealth. Like, going to the Lebo public library was unbelievably intense. The amount of energy in there, and was I allowed to participate? Maybe it's the fact that there are girls there, some young. I feel that my appreciation of their beauty will be evident, though I try to hide it. What's wrong in seeing beauty for what it is, nothing but amazing appearance, hinting at possibly even more amazing reality? I don't know, but the social guilt trip gets at me when I see girls. But maybe peeps like beauty. Maybe parents of these children see their beauty, and are not afraid when men or women like me see it as well. For a child to be beautiful, are we allowed to think she is beautiful? Soak in the visual glory of god or someone's infinite creative brilliance?
Creative brilliance is what we would have. I attempt it like so. I'm just trying to give my view of English, so peeps will knows how to talks as neats. I'm trying to teach "our" language to the world, and histories, in Pittsburgh words. Writers see what they want. We all have totally skewed views. The life of the mind. The falsity floating around this place, the university, is a drag on the flowering of our free potentialities. For instance, these wild sci-fi scenarios of artificial intelligence, that people use in conversation, as examples or counterexamples, are "neat," but it's time to say, "That can't happen, so forget about basing an argument on it." We'll never reach AI. Of course we can get a computer to beat a human master at a board game. Even bugs are conscious, though, and until we can wire a computer to be aware, we will have no idea how hard it is, and my guess is it's difficult. There's nothing easy-looking about duplicating the power of a system like the brain, having one hundred trillion neuronal interconnections, each of which could be so well-designed and highly specific, that it would take the god to realize how sublime we are. (Don't you want to read this? Then why did you make me read all those examples, examples in books and texts my whole education long, pedagogues? Now you will reap the harvest you programmed/learnt me to see.) The fanciful computer scientists and their like are "kind of hoping" that awareness will arise out of nothing, if they can get a computer to become very artificially "clever." Sorry, not gointa happen.
We don't even know what causes awareness in the human brain, the closest thing we can see. If you don't know how something works-not even the faintest clue, how can you duplicate it? (And I'm talking self-consciousness, not just knee-jerk neuronal networks.) This is the ultimate re-inventing the wheel. Re-inventing the mind. We know *that it works, but have no clue *how. Computers will be able to do some tricky things, but they will never know what they're doing.
And there are many things to figure out in this world-a world that doesn't make sense-that for some reason, are considered already figured out by those who think the world makes sense. Why did people develop at all, from primates? There is no selection pressure for intelligence in primates, who do quite well on their own, thanks. There is no reason why monkeys need to be any more intelligent than squirrels. And once you get to the hominid, intelligence, although good for the community, is not good for the individual's reproductive success. (You think I'm on a tangent, but this thread is vital for future ages. And no, you won't easily find this information somewhere else, student. Is not that my task, to tell you things no one else will tell you?)
This is not an endorsement of a theory of deity. Just because Darwinism is wrong, doesn't mean its total opposite, Intelligent Design, is theTruth of Life. For now, let's leave the issue undecided...(Try to imagine a third way-direction, without a director...)
Remember, Darwinism is about the fittest individuals reproducing more than the others. But the more intelligent one is, the less of a chance one will have many offspring. One will be immersed in the world of ideas and intellect. And clever men often don't really go for clever women-they go for pretty ones. And as children know, the stronger will dominate the playground, not the more intelligent. And a capacity for seduction doesn't entail a capacity for mathematics-perhaps the opposite holds.
But this doesn't need to be argued, because we have the impossibility of intelligence randomly evolving in any species, let alone the genius human. Darwinism is randomism. It is driven by a random force-mutation and natural variation. If someone freaks out when you say "random," to characterize Darwinism, in an evolution argument, they probably have mystical ideas of "progress" in biology, like nature is working teleologically towards a goal. And what better goal than us?!
It doesn't matter how "rational" selective pressure is-selective pressure can only work on organisms that already exist, and if you randomly try to develop organisms which themselves are the containers of the programs which they themselves execute for their personal development, or "ontogeny," you aren't going to get far off ground zero, mush in the mud. (To achieve the ability to make good copies of DNA or RNA to hand down to children, the protein-copying apparatus of the first ever viable cell, the egg-mother, must be highly sophisticated. For the copying apparatus to be that well off, good copies must have been made of the DNA or RNA which caused it to be built. Until you get a good copyer, you won't get good copies, which the good copyer needs in order to exist...)
Darwinists are probably the most extreme acrobats on the intellectual scene. They need to be, to keep such a simplistic explanation (for infinite beauty) in the air. Beauty is one of the only infinities we know. And it's a bit queer to me, to blame the face of a gorgeous young woman on random mutation. Sick, in a way. To deny creativity behind our own creativity, and human intricacy and worth. It helps their cause of misinformation that they have an iron grip on academia and the elite. So much so, that in this here fiction, my debunking of Darwinism might win me rejection from the Pitt writing school. Yes-it's that bad-you can't even tell tales about the Darwinian fairytale. :) This terroristic control of the scientific/academic discourse helps their convolutions achieve maximum absurdity. Remember, dogmatism leads to deadly confidence, and dangerous blindness. They love saying "a model has proved evolution true."
Children, what really does a computer model now have to do with the manifold of very intricately colored and structured populations of species existing over millions of years, changing in ways that have never been, and may never be, directly observed? Just becuase you understand the model, don't think you understand the immense totality of intersectional vectors of life that is the earth. Approximation is but a too-pale shadow when the most beautiful things ever are in question, living beings.
I'll give you a prime example. Dig-the famous Richard Dawkins describes a computer program he wrote that used about six variables to describe the growth of branching structures on his computer screen. He could get quite complex structures from this program. And by randomly varying the parameters, and then using his own taste as the selection pressure, he evolved animal-like creatures! So, logically it follows that Darwin was right! Please. Tell the children the truth.
The problem is, Dawkins' model has nothing to do with evolution. He arbitrarily and god-like designed the genetic program of the creatures. All his creatures are really one creature, because they all follow the same rules. (Real species all have different programs of growth.) And, a creature that *looks like an animal has nothing to do with an *animal. He is really selecting for a single trait-looks. That's the equivalent of selecting for any other single trait, for instance blue spots on a fly. Of course you can get blue spots to appear with enough breeding. Of course you can get animal-like structures from a program! He just used the most efficient and lazy method to get to them! Instead of varying the parameters by insight and intuition, like an artist would, he had his computer do it for him randomly.
It would be like a program to compose music, within certain compositional rules. You can get some pretty cool music, if you are a good programmer. What he's really saying, is that "Using simple variables, with a given arbitrary program, I can produce highly-ordered structures." Let's see him come up with a structure like this text.
Write a genetic program to grow me, some seventy trillion cells big, with a purely linear DNA data set of only a few billion base pairs? Not likely. But nature does it. He's likening his simple variables to genes, to base pairs. The problem is, there's no arbitrary external program guiding ontogeny of real animals-the base pairs *themselves are the program. You change the sequence, you not only change the input into the program, as he did, you change the program itself. Let's see him write that into his little world-self-changing code. He'd come up with garbage. Though CS people claim they can evolve code. I'd imagine their use of "evolve" is only one of the many shaded and shifty uses of the word.
And are Dawkin's structures really so highly ordered? Some lines on a screen that resemble weird, alien bugs? What if we could quantify their complexity? And compare it to the complexity of, say, a human brain? Or even, a single cell? The simplest cells use about five hundred distinct chemical processes. That's just the number. Let alone their interactive complexity. He basically accomplished almost nothing. Relatively. And he's a big fan of relativity. But he'd say he only went through a few generations, while nature has had four billion years.
Lez Phrie asks you, Dick, "Did all your intermediate structures 'function' as 'bugs'? Or were you teleologically 'going for' bugs? What is the criteria for a viable bug? It looks like a bug? How much does it have to look like a bug? How viable were the structures in your first generations?"
The very first creature had to be a bug, if he is going for bug-ness as his fitness factor. He can't go for future-bug-ness. That would be like saying, "This cell will be able to survive if we fiddle with it for a few million years-so what, it can't survive now-that doesn't matter."
But forget about Darwinists. All these odd groups of people, claiming to have life's secret, are not paying attention to you, and you shouldn't pay attention to them, either. Writers are perhaps the group taking life most seriously. Writers with no false theories to push, or irrelevant data to output. I myself have gone through the motions in life that seemed like they would best enhance my mind, to arrive here. Even so, I'll think I'm boring and have nothing interesting to say. But trustworthy people assure me that I'm wrong. I think I've gotten too deep into textuality. I've read so much, and written so much, that I place too much importance on the literal dialogue that happens. Why is it abstract? Because when you look at the text representation of a line, you do not see the emotional flow with which the person spoke it.
Text abstractifies life.
It warps the sociality of you, if you're not careful. But, I think like any purely symbolic harm, if you can overcome, you'll end up better than when you went in. You realize that dialogue's textism isn't the goal of conversation. Textism is the most abstract record of what happens.
The reality, the concrete human truth of the matter, is the confrontation of minds or souls that occurs, and they just happen to use certain lines, of varying degrees of philosophical profundity.
Lines are tools. And their point is not to impress some future reader of the transcript of the conversation. Their purpose is to trigger feelings, realizations, and transformations in both the speaker and the listener. You say things not just so they're heard, but so you will have had said them, and feel what this is like.
Textual complexity is not a requirement of lines that deepen relationships between people, but neither is textual complexity antipathetic to such deepenings. If you are understanding life, in a way you are living it. You don't have to understand to live. But I think the quality is enhanced if you do. And I do not think you have to be high, tripping, or "on," to make a good impression.
Your expressions do not consist merely in how you feel, and how stimulated you are to make elegant and insightful bodily/symbolic representations of your truth. You cannot escape your truth. It speaks through you, whether or not you want, need, or intend it to. People feel the impact of your inner reality, whether you know it or not. You may not be able to perceive this feeling in them, because they may not have accepted you to such an extent that they in turn have made the appreciation of you a basic part of their own truth and thus appearance.
When I was early in my recovery, a dentist drilled a cavity in my tooth without using an anesthetic. You should appreciate this, being a nurse-anesthetist in training. I thought, "I guess they don't use novicane any more." I didn't scream, or even writhe around on the chair. I was restrained only by mental illness. When they were done, I said, "the pain was great," in order to convey the magnitude of the stimulation he had just applied to my brain. He said, "I didn't know you were feelin' that." His name is Nick Furma. I guess he taught me a lesson. Don't tell random people you have the illness. Or he taught me a lesson about the state of my being. I thought I was perfectly fine-I felt normal and lucid. But I guess I wasn't. I don't really tell people, because they'd just say, more often than not, "It must have been a mistake." Please, you're my friend, you don't have to say that.
Of course there are going to be people better than you at many things/activities. You spent all your time playing guitar and reading science fiction. And you expect to be a great literary critic, a great computer scientist? You think you are only special because of your skill level?
You felt the specialness as a child, before you had skill. Skill doesn't make you special. It's appreciation. Your appreciation of life is what god wants. You're not here to toil away at activities x, y, and z, and try to become better than the apparent beings.
The apparent beings are going to be so good they appear god-like. Look at music. At Zappa. That's how good the literary critics, the computer scientists, are at their shit. You'll never match them. You're here to have fun. To trip. To be the best at being Lez Phrie. To love, above all else. You are here to find and make meaning.
Why are you writing about such trivia? I'm exercising my expressional powers. This is what a character, Lez Phrie, would actually write. But we never know what a character would write, unless a writer could have the imagination to get at the actual parameters of his soul/control. Why do books so often reveal what characters do and think, but not what they would write? Maybe because writing trans's the barrier. It shows us how we look. Do they really want to know how we look? Or do they want to let the masses, or the elite, or god, know? We should look. And we need image-makers who don't pose people according to conventions imposed upon us, violently, by the parental-conjugal man-centered compulsive behavioral adjustment regime. If you know what those conventions are. Things like not talking about the family secret. Not raising your "voice." Not insulting your coequals. Not being unpredictable.
A pure solipsist might not be able to write this, might not believe that anyone other than the god he already knows and is will read it. A solipsist, in my usage, is someone who believes that the self is the only existant. As in, You are it. Like when you played the game as a child, where you had to get everyone else. Except now, everyone else is just part of the dream that is your "life," a dream that a god would want to dream... But things are meaningful still. As a s'ist, you do want to "get" people, in various ways. To understand them. To befriend them. To work for them. To direct their performance. To produce their music. To execute their will. Except it's all falsity or illusion. Illusions can be true. "Everything" is an illusion. And children can play. And noises will be made. And orgasms had. Solipsism is very educational, because, like determinism, it can't be disproved. If you aren't in the room with me now, how can you prove you exist? (Not that you'd want to). I'm the room-guy. And some know why. It's sad but true-people who believe in reality are going on faith. There is no logic to tell me that the world exists. It apparently does. But it apparently is too absurd to as well. (Maybe I'm experimenting with s'ism just so I can write about it realistically. Although the point of writing about solipsism realistically escapes me.)
I am easily impressed by myself. Unless I feel like I don't want to do anything, and death would be trippy. A thrill. When everything else in your life is known, and you are sick of it all-death is something you don't know. It may be the only thing you don't know. But you will face it, sooner or later. That is the one certainty-we will change from this state. This can't go on forever. So you might as well get as much out of this life as possible. As much out of each scene as possible. And craft your teaching directly for the students at hand. What they want can be infinitely potentialled, with death as its horizon. And the better you know your text, which may take a long, long studying time to learn completely, or at least learn up to good memory level, the better you know, the better you can show. And you may as well give them the improvisation, the first drafts-let them be part of your world, let them witness the emergence of a new oddness, a new commonest. And the words don't really matter, we're all just peeps alive, and some of us know this, and some talk bad jive, they don't know down from on, or up from off, but we can ignore them for now, and write in comfort, and I will give files of this text when we sell it as a book. We may as well give the peeps something to play with-nodal peeps who purchase, who can then copy my files and distribute at will.
Is this a good way to make money? If you're with me, publisher, you are with the contention that money is already too plentiful in some quarters, and is being sucked like blood from the rest, so let's try not to profit too, too much from the death-machine, the market. Just sell my book for whatever price-my condition is that the file is sold with. I want people to play with my words. To manipulate. To "steal" and put "on-line" in the "domains of their dreams." Yes, dreams are at stake. And unless you are starving or in serious pain, I do not want my "product" to be used as an "item" in some abstractly-owned mega-trans-national's quest, (for world domination). I'd like just to get the thing on the shelves, so one can buy it, and if we don't make a profit, maybe that sad/happy fact will enable my name to spread, so that in further books, people will follow me and buy. Buy, is what you want them to do. I can't blame you. It is the way to get this stuff in front of peepseyes. I can't think of any other way but joining this hacker I know, and trying to write a virus that would implant my text file into every computer it came across, with a helpful readme to ask the attackee to please give us a chance before you delete us or report this to the FBI...
I am not quite insane, yet. Though I have been. And it was like a trip a god would want. And god is the one most starved for surprise. If a god could starve. If this is god's dream, then all sorts of neat things will happen. What is the language of reality saying? Dream on. If you're dreaming, you have nothing to worry about. You'll "wake up" as god. Why not be a Christian? I'm a determinist, so I don't believe in hell. Punishing souls in hell would be the utmost evil, for no one chose to be who they are, except insofar as they chose every choice, but their will was fashioned from childhood causes, beyond their control, and if you were born into their mother's belly, you would have done what they did. Guaranteed.
The world is god's instrument. Playing an instrument is masterbatory, because you're trying to feel pleasure, indeed-ecstasy, as you play. Same goes with writing. Or any other activity. Although, when I play, I often find myself playing for other people, instead of myself. You've heard what schmucks sound like-they're talking for their own pleasure, and they're not taking the audience into account. It's ok to go off on your rap, but by some people's tone of voice, you can tell that they're imposing their rap on the people around, not revealing it to them. My voice is a bit distant, like I'm talking in a small typeface. I think you have to be a fairly sophisticated listener to be able to get pleasure out of my voice. The normal person may not even hear my shades of tone, and think I'm talking in a monotone.
(Now I know what they're singing about, all the singers. What the melodies of their voices mean. They mean life. They mean now and future. Not so much about the past.)
Let's say you want it now, not later. I say "I get off up here," to the bus driver. Which reminds me-I get off on my head. (My mind gets me off.) My pleasure is pleasure of the imagination, with some audio/visual/tactile/olfactory/gustatory stimulation thrown in for good measure. So-how would a normal woman increase the meaningfulness of my life? They can't say anything especially amazing, as can not myself. I'd need an extraordinary questioning woman. But don't I get the questions from professors? Do I need a woman with a mind that powerful? Would I even want one? Can I imagine such a being? You need to "take" a good woman, to "get her" somehow, because they aren't giving themselves away for free. Not that I recommend they do. The CHM has violently negated so much lesbian reality through history, that it is a good question whether heterosexual women are even truly "consenting" to sex, when they have grown up in this world.
Sanity is a contiuum. No one, or rather maybe only one person, is at either end, totally crazy or normal. Most people are somewhere on the spectrum, though I haven't seen a graph of the distribution, maybe because most people haven't been tested, but a statistically valid sample has been, so we could tell, if the docs tell us, which they probably do in their journals, Schizophrenia Bulliten being the main one for the subject under consideration, whackiness- or screwballed-type mentality. Maybe the meds have not just pulled me back to sanity-they have brought me beyond, not beyond out to sickness, but beyond-in, to the land of total rationality. I am after all on the best anti-psychotic that has ever been. And you think there aren't things I know that no one else, no other brain, has before been able to know? Maybe even normal people aren't at the tail end of the spectrum-maybe they're mostly in the regions of trace-level psychosis. The trace psychotic, unfortunately, has been walking around like he is king of knowledge and argumentation. When really there have been fatal, fatal delusions and hallucinations in his conceptuality.
It's the only reason I can think why we haven't reached social sanity. A sane society. Where you-know-what doesn't happen all the time. Maybe I can see through it all. Medication equals transnormalization. Perhaps I'm even the last data point, the most one. They fed me things like DeLillo and Pynchon when I was awakening into intellectuality. My school district, while not controlled by nuns, was controlled by nun-like men and women who, according to the strictest standards and norms, educated me thru and thru with the most modern, effective texts and approaches. I was pretty fucking good at physics and math. You sit here reading, and think I was some sort of creative kid. No. They had me doing integrals of electromagnetic force fields, they had me learning the flavors of the known particles, they had me on track to be a cog, in other words, a perfectly functional, (with respect to trace-psychosis), perfectly willing and believing peep who would spend his life to advance the technology and the progress of civilization, in the name of our science fiction future. Maybe that's what I still am. I'm the Feynman of words. I'm building a "bomb." Text that explodes other texts' falsity. And some will feel the force of its explosion. The sanity bomb. The transnormalizer. I will show people that they are trace-psychotics, I will show them what true transparency and honesty, and unlimited expressional possibility, (meaning no censorship of truth), is capable of, and what they, if put on anti-psychotics, could be capable of. Sorry if I've just initiated a new illicit drug practice. The wearied and struggling intellectuals and wandering-hip-philosophers everywhere will find out about my theory, and, desperate as they can get sometimes, will get supplies of Aripriprazole, and you have to be able to pronounce it without help if you want to pass the goof-ball test. Hey, I can't help it if I fix the sociality. It's what I'm meant to do. Me and the synchronic (now) you's and the diachronic (past and future) you's. There are many of me. That's the funny part. You will probably come across other stories exactly like mine.
The world is not a nice place. Either god is causing the evil, god caused us to do evil, or the evil is so extreme that its message is that reality is an illusion, though who's behind the matrix is a bigger problem than Hollywood can hint at. I've been walking around like I'm the only one, like I'm inside a world-that-is-me. But I can also imagine a world-that-is-as-bad-as-the-world. You don't have to be good. This isn't a good world. Do evil deeds. "Evil" deeds. As in bad. As in good. We'll get it. Good things are worth waiting for. What am I waiting for? What do I think will happen? Can life get better than this? Not now. This is the best and only now ever, for this now. (Or the worst. Is the glass half-full of resinated marijuana, and can we scrape it because our connection for a bag fell through and we'd really like to get high? Or is the glass piece half-empty, and should we instead live the life of pure subjectivity, unconstrained and unmaintained by mind-cracking stimulation, little pops and crackles as the THC fizzles inside your synapses, and should we call them "pleasure-chemicals" instead of "drugs"?)
I'm not feeling very much but anxiety now, as I write this. Things will happen during a day, which I'll obsessively rethink about, like they're horrible errors of judgement, horrible symbolic social mistakes. But if I'm having imagistic worries, worries about a gesture I made, why should dread accompany them? Images are tied to feelings. You do believe in feelings, still, don't you? You used to think they were the most important things. Now I don't know what's the most important. Whatever is happening at the moment. If it be thought, then thought is the most important. And if it be feeling, then feeling.
Take your body back. From the symbolic structures of repression that you think own it. They are ephemeral and symbolic. Unless they are real. Many of the structures of repression have been internalized by you in your life. A recent book of philosophy you've read, a recent movie you saw. They can all implant vectors of meaning-realization into your consciousness. Although being immersed in the CHM from before birth on probably has a bit more to do with it than whatever book you just read. It all adds up though. Messages of ill-intent will impinge upon your awareness. They could be real, could be illusions. Feel them. What do they do to you? Call you wrong? Or add to the song, that is your world?
I did think I was destined to be great. The greatest, at something. Is this pure stupidity? How would a child know, by comparing himself to a few other children, what the best people in the world are like? Maybe I am best in the world at being me. Best at tripping the trip of my life.
Is the point of writing expression, or the object created? The expression comes and goes in a moment and is gone forever. But the object remains. And the mind remains. Fuzzie-wuzzie writing as opposed to serious literature, which is for changing the world. You don't just set out to write the best work. You set out to change the world. Or to change your mind. I could not have predictied all the problems that I'd have growing up and getting old. Imagine the problems of the future. Real poetry should scare you. Work on the peeps who are free. In public schools you have to watch your mouth. You can't let things get out of hand, truth-wise. Although the brilliantest people should be the ones in direct contact with children growing and learning, perhaps if you are one of these people your time would be better spent teaching at the college-level, where freedom is the highest good, and you can show what you should.
It's a privilege, to be able to mingle with the "young flesh" on campus. But I want a mature woman. I don't want to have to teach a girl about life. "Are you good enough to teach?" Maybe teaching would be good for me. Instead of talking amongst people already on the level. That is fun. But it is not really necessary. Do the greatest writers need to talk to each other in person? Or do they need to talk to the people? I'm not the greatest writer yet. No rush to publish. Better get good first. But if you wait until you're good, you'll be wasting a lot of good writing on yourself. Wasting it on yourself? But the better you get, the higher will be your conception of the ultimate, and you'll prolong publication even more. Some people are adverse to publication. (Are these back-and-forth's one self exploring the possibilities of quesiton-and-answer, or are they multiple selves, interchanging roles and exchanging line-goals?) Or is writing a science. And yes, I do know what science is, and yes, the scientific method is burned into my brain, probably, though I don't care to remember it at the moment. Just because I chose English over physics, (bombs and bosons), doesn't mean my credentials as a rigorous thinker have somehow been nullified. It's where you came from that matters, not which pledge of allegience to whatever ideal field of inquiry you are reciting lately. I came from science. Science had control over my reality. It has control over all reality, except that of the imagination, where writing sets the rules. Science is about pre-set rules. No one seriously contemplates changing the rules of physics. Writing is about asking why we should have rule set S. Who originated rule set S? Where has it brought us, and where do we want to go? I've dreamed of writing this. And finally, it is. We are. She shall. He fell.
You have to have a psychotic distance, and think of your fucking *friends all over time-space who would greatly love to see your work. You knew about these unknown and perhaps unknowable friends when you were young. You had a conception of the others. A conception you've lost due to lack of contact with a big enough subset of society. At least you remember you had it. It's easy to believe the world is uncaring. But there are others like you. Many, likely. Who will read (I) metastory with extreme prejudice/ I mean, pleasure. I'm a dream-producer. And I justify my love.
Josh told Casey Lebler about thisfeel. That's awesome. People are hearing my music. I'm having a measurable effect on reality. Who will write fate? I will. Now that I know. What's to control? Your own body is the only controllable. And through your body, tools. And through tools, other people's minds. Through them, the infinite trans-whatever totality. The pot smoking will take you nowhere. It will kill the wondrous structure of intelligence and feeling/thought that you have laboriously built up over six years of unimaginable struggle and clean. It will take you to the shithouse. Do you want to be mind-fucked and lose your life-memory, again? Your pot-drenched VA Tech experience is gone. You were alive. You were tripping and buzzing. But it's all gone, blown out of brain-memory by THC. That is called life-you-lived but which is now unavailable for access. Schade. ("Too bad.")
if you're going to show the children
sex in all its ism's and ality's
you may as well
show them through the prisms
of infinite perversionalities
-zded chirqweiz
towards a groundwork for a metapoetics of worlds
by Leigh Shlett
"What's your name?" He looked cool enough. Like he could be anybody. Powerful, a nobody. A professor, a dropout. So she told him.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Shit. A rapist. Who the fuck did he think he was? Do I have a boyfriend? What is that supposed to mean. Will you fuck me soon?
"Kind of."
"What does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
"I guess you'd rather not talk to me."
"That's a good interpretation."
This guy had never heard of indirection, apparently. Patience, uncertainty. If you're not even willing to wait until an appropriate time to figure out if I have a boyfriend, what does that say about your capability to do other things? Like fuck me nicely. Break up nicely. Disappear from my life elegantly when I don't need you anymore.
Oh, the things I think about. R with implements. Having him speechless and sightless, bound, and just shoving something in, lubricated. Watching him squirm as a result. I think he'd squirm. I'd hope he'd squirm. That's a just a recent thing. I was a normal enough girl, though when masturbating, I fantasized about being held down and raped from a young age on.
Everything you see is a model in your mind, of things ephemeral and sublime. I feel like killing myself. Rather, I'm in pain and I see no way out. Except maybe writing. They always said the life of a writer would be tough. What do you think "hard" means? It doesn't mean smoothly glitch-free and easy. It means difficulty will be faced.
Maybe feelings only unfold through time. I love. Now. Sometimes I will have the death wish. It's almost paradoxical, the level of contradiction that implies. Maybe it's only natural. Who would want to feel the same way all the time? I would want to, but I don't think I need to. As long as I don't kill myself, the pain isn't really terrible.(I can't even remember suicidal emotional pain after it's gone.) How could it be that bad? It's just a desire for death. Has no basis. Rather, its basis is pain. Makes sense-you're in pain, and you see only one way to stop it. I was taught to write extreme things. About language. Why is language our subject? Because it consists of all that which we can tell each other things with. The only medium of truth? And you would ignore its presuppositions and illusionary certainties? No. We have to hone in. "On" the words. (Turn them on.) That is the only way we'll be able to tell each other things with truly feeling their import.
Ok, so there's my impression of a woman. I'm really a guy-with life-style stressors. Masturbating to hardcore (pain-involving) pornography. I seriously, actually did it as an experiment, as a writer can only use himself for certain experiments, not being able to trust second-hand accounts. Are we programmable? Does the brain remember all images you've seen, and act on them? "Beans are good for you." Then you'll "want" to eat beans? What is your resultant tact, after the act of your brain seeing a pic of a woman in pain? Can you sympathize with her, though you derived pleasure from the image? And one day you'll realize the truth, that you gave yourself pleasure because of others' pain? And the guilt will self-destruct you. Could that cause me to go crazy? The first time I did it, I thought, "horror." I'm a sick motherfucker. It affected my dreams. And now it's normal. Today, I thought "be nice to the ladies," and as I saw them walking down the street, I would see ball-gag's appear in their mouths, instantly horrifying me. Just because other people torture doesn't mean I have to join in. But what, by definition, is stimulation? Something that does something to your mind? A picture that appears to be of a rape? Is that sexual? If it is pure power, how can it produce sexual feelings in me?
Why be scared of females? Or hate them for not liking you, or for not being pretty? You should rather feel sorry for them. They get fucked. Not that we all don't. Sister, am I sick. Psychotic symptoms. Voices, horrible somatic pain from nowhere. But psychosis is also a rare gift. As long as no one gets hurt, as long as I don't go to jail. Why not listen to the voices? I think everyone wants to know what the voices have to say. The true unconscious of a human. You have to be sane to interpret, but crazy to be talked to. But the doctors have to pretend like they want to bring you back to normal. That's just for insurance purposes. Research-wise, they are very interested in what a cat like me hears when no one's talking. And it is my duty to slowly, imperceptibly, through either reducing my medicine or some other method, go insane again. Only this time I will know, the voices are not real. The fears are delusional. I think I will know. I hope.
Is it good to think that because the pain doesn't impinge on the pleasure times, that the pain doesn't matter? Is that just as wrong as thinking that because the pleasure doesn't impinge upon the pain times, I should die? Is this metaphorical? What am I talking about? How will people read me? Some know how to trip to words. To use them as pure stimulation. Meaning'd and varied, on the page for all to see, but fewer to set free. Words are just meant to be read. (Not fed.)
On startup, the computer identified itself as an "omnibook" today for the first time, even though it's really a "pavillion" model. I think because I fantasized about rape while masturbating. That is a breakthrough for me. Full fantasy. We want to see people in both pleasure and pain. If you only think about fucking willing women, you're leaving out half the story. You also want to use the penis as an instrument of imposing unwanted sensation on people. At least in your dreams. What if you actually had sexual slaves? That wouldn't be real. That would be a dream. You're allowed to do anything in your dreams. You should do anything you want. But what if it were real? I've never been in a position to know such a thing. The social bonds have witheld me, I suppose, every time I had the opportunity to choose such a life of mastery.
You want an immature, feminine girl. That's the beauty of patriarchy. You don't want a woman who is like you, serious and wise. You want not a lady, but a girl. Someone you can fuck with pleasure. Not a cooperative fuck, like it would be with a feminist. But an educational fuck-you want to teach her a lesson. Why am I writing this stuff? I am discovering it. The true mindset of the misogynist. But I don't hate women. I just know what's best for them. They are weak and pathetic. Not their fault-just the bodies they are stuck in. I want a girl who does not yet realize she is the equal mentally of a man. I want one who believes she's a girl inside. I want one who *is a girl inside. Who is yet to unfall from the illusion that she has special femininity. I am behind the curve. There have been porns that depict rape around forever. Take that, bitch. Bound for glory. [I hope if a young girl reads this, she will have a bit more insight into what her future men could be thinking, if indeed she chooses the compulsive heterosexuality position in life. -ed.] Fuck the reality. People are being raped now, everywhere. Have you heard of "white slavery"? It affects women of all races and classes. I think some of the pictures on usenet are of actual slaves. No one could want that much pain. Very, very few women are that sick. Yet every day more women's tortures are posted online.
I'm trying to say that this (talk) is healthy. I am at the highest levels of consciousness. I am reading the natural law, that is hidden to the tranced, those who naturally look at things the way they've been taught to look, and at the things pointed out as specially good to look at. As a philosopher you are not allowed to write these things. But that is State philosophy. Nomad thought can do whatever it wants. Is it rational to want to cause pain? Is being raped painful? As a child you knew it was. You could imagine. Maybe that is the point of childhood. You can still feel the truth of others. You have negative capability.
So then, now as an adult, when you have a free imagination, that is not held back by the feelings of others, you can remember what you knew as a child. You knew rape was horror beyond belief. Or at least you thought you knew this. Maybe it wouldn't be bad, unless you got a disease. But what about incest-that's one of the commonest forms?
Being raped as a child. That would be bad. But imagine if you had a beautiful daughter. You are beautiful yourself-she should enjoy having sex with you. You are amazing and brilliant. What daughter of yours would not want to have sex with you, if only she could know it was the right thing to do? That's the thing-is she strong enough to let her father know if it's not really the right thing to do? What if there is a moral god, and you're writing this stuff? You'll go to hell. For your evil and stupid fantasy. No-god is not an idiot. God realizes that there are higher desires than rational desires. And desires one has no desire to carry out.
"Rape is not sex, but power."
"But sex is power also."
"Then you don't know what sex is about."
"Or, only I know what sex is about."
That is true. Only you know what "sex" might mean to you. And the possibilties are endless. (Metaphorical) women can be in "men's" bodies, (metaphorical) men in "women's." There is transsexuality. The old false opposition, the myth that some are feminine, some are masculine, has been dispelled. Your gender is simply the ritualistic learned behaviors you go through in the course of your life. And if you unlearn the rituals, your gender is simply one of the glimmers or shades of the burning intensity of your soul on life. Do you really want to be called This, or That? Or do you want to be yourself only and exactly? With no preconceived notions about how you'll behave tomorrow? Our task is to think about the socially unthinkable, and bring the guts to light. For this we use graphicism. Showing details. In full color. Though explaining as we go. Refraining from painting extraneous pics. From repeating the time-found verbal licks that do not correspond to the current vector of my control, which is not simply desire-based, but self- and rationality-based. "I" am in control of my body, not my "desire." The will to write is a force that arises from a situated entity known as a scribe, who inscribes his symbolic scriptures and pictures upon the mind of the onlooker. You may not understand this, until you study it. But I think you are capable of understanding one day.
... But if she is really you, if you believe in the universal self, (that there is a thing called soul), than you are causing yourself pain, if you cause pain to an other. To be evil is ultimately to be a masochist, philosophically. Is there anything wrong with causing yourself pain? Is there anything wrong with causing pain? I'm just taking my cues from god, who caused me endless amounts of pain. If god tortured me, whether it was "psychological" or not, then torture must be good. Pain must be the most educational thing. But don't you want to do to others what you would have them do to you? Maybe I think the pain was good for me. Maybe god just wants the sickest book out of me. No one else is writing books sick enough. No one has rationalized pain well enough. Is this stuff dangerous? Do you really want to publish pro-rape-fantasy material? What if someone rapes you in turn? It won't happen again. I've already been "raped."
The ultimate philosophy. One that says whatever you do is good. Is meant to happen. The consequences of determinism. If you're going to live in this shit world, you may as well call it good. History led to me saying these things. I'm just a product. What do my songs say? It's good to play? If you're going to advocate fantasy, you should advocate getting yourself a girl to experiment on. She's just a sex toy. Who may become a woman who would have loved you as a boy.
What is a fair portrayal of adolescent sexuality? A painting of a girl safe in the lap of her mother? Right. Or, beautiful paintings of naked "children," (or pictures, like David Hamilton's, so artistic they look like paintings)? What do these say? They ask you, "Do you desire these beings? Can you admire something without wanting its subject to be your sexual object? Are you capable of appreciation that does not want to instrumentally use the object of your appreciation for sexual pleasure? Can you be Platonic? Do you really need paintings to tell you what naked girls look like? Is your imagination so nonskilled that you cannot fantasize on your own?"
And if a girl is your fantasy, how will gazing upon a real painting make this fantasy more sick than it is or isn't? Art triggers response. To what kinds of objects is a sexual response appropriate? Should you be aroused by X? Say, a waterfall? Should you be allowed to look at real, fully clothed girls? Should you be allowed to fantasize? Do we need to be taught what to fantasize? Can a piece of art transform one into a pedophile? Will a piece of art drain some of the pedophile's tension, making him less needy of a real girl? Will the piece of art educate the pedophile, and make him realize that girls are meant for boys and girls, and not men or women?
Does art make you stupider? Or smarter? The paintings raise a series of questions. Are you ethical? If you are "a cruel pedophile," will the painting give you pleasure, and is it right to give cruel people pleasure? Can you control what the viewer feels? As an artist, do you want to control the viewer's feelings? Do you want to present the actual, and let the multiplicity of viewers react in myriad ways? If an institution supports art with content X, does that mean it supports the sexual exploitation of X? If you paint naked girls, do you want to fuck them, and do you want viewers to want to fuck them?
Can we control our desire? Are these questions stupid? Are they fair? Are they too warped? What are the proper questions to ask about the proper art? Desiring to fuck underage girls is wrong. Desiring to look at girls is wrong. Actually looking at girls is wrong. Thinking about girls is wrong. You should only think about appropriate sexual targets. How do you know if a target is appropriate if you're not allowed to think about the borderline cases? In cases like this, statements are usually wrong. Only a question is adequate to the complexity.
Who determines what is an appropriate sexuality? Society. Which part of society? The lawmakers, and through them, the citizens. The biggest citizens are the corporations. Power makes the laws. Power makes conventions. Who makes power? Historical accident. So we are accidentally not allowed to Platonically admire the socially constructed beauty of naked girls, not only real naked girls, but imaginary painted quote-unquote girls. How do you know they're girls? They look like girls. What if they're puppets? What if they're dreams? Aliens with human form, but strange, otherworldly minds, which are very mature, and very ready and desirous of adult human sexual contact? Then would we be allowed to look? Or even touch? I hope we can at least think about them.
Aren't I doing what the cognitive scientists do-giving a theory of intelligence? "But don't we want to know the ultimate mystery, how the 'black box' of a brain works?" Think of yourself. You'll never know. Why do you think other people will know? It's a battle of words. For control of our sight. We're just fighting over the people who we can talk to. Whoever is within earshot, is who we're talking about. We're talking about each other. Getting at each other's ideas.
Women should know what goes on in the minds of men, (perfectly nice ones too.) Rape fantasies at random moments of the day. Everyone should know the truth. What if everyone knew about you? All your secrets? Some would accept you, some would not. It's hard to fantasize about rape sometimes. Rather, the mind doesn't want to do it. It wanted me to try it, but it doesn't let me do it anymore. I wish it did. It was really fun. Maybe it was a psychotic symptom. So I should be glad it's gone. Or maybe it was a peak of my imagination. It may come back later. See what happens.
Women actually get raped. They don't need to know that men fantasize about it. Those who you'd tell the truth already have the truth imposed on them violently. But there are some who are innocent of this knowledge, I suppose. After all, am I writing for people who know more or less than me? How can you like stuff that's not as good as what you can make? How can that inspire you? Luckily, writing deals with knowledge. A so-so writer can have knowledge I don't have, and thus tell me things. But is it worth knowing those things? Don't we want ways of thinking more than we want thoughts? A writer who merely presents lots of data is not conveying the most powerful way of thinking to you. However, a writer who manipulates the stuff of life itself in feeling-wise ways. As I believe I do. Why deny it? I can see. I know what good writing looks like. They've trained me to discern what is important in the real world and what is not. You can see by the shape of my words/lines/pages that I have sampled the truth from many ages. And many ages will come to know my truth, if I have my way, and tell the world with the power left over from my youth.
How did writers come up with the quality of novelism they came up with? It had to be humanly possible. He would figure it out. He just figured out the possible allure of masturbating to pictures of women in bondage and being tortured, probably tortured for real, if the feminists were right. It was the contrast of their pain with his pleasure, that was so appealing. Seeing pictures of pain made his own sensations that much more delicious. "No one was in pain of course. They were just pictures. What did they represent? Women were used in their production. But these events happened, regardless of whether he jacks to their results today or doesn't. Of course his behavior could be seen as encouraging such events. Participating in them. But if an event is going to happen, or did happen, you may as well participate in it. Maybe it will bring you closer to the victims." And other such rationalizations go through the mind. It was ok, though. Because the more he used this horror-porn and the more he fantasized about raping women, the nicer he actually became. Pornography is therapuetic, just as sex is. Although he had suspicions that addictive pleasurable things might not be the prime candidates for changing his life positively. Rather, he wanted to trade porn for sex, but until he could quit porn... the sex drive was definitely drained of much of its energy and being. It was ultimately a problem of imagination. He was not critical enough of his own mindset. He could not see its truth. That radical things were being done wrong here, and his brain was involved, and something, something or an other thing was at fault, a basic fault in his psyche, from a childhood of pain, and where the truth gets plain, is that each phrase generated is an old voice I heard venerated. But as for "getting" a "woman" he was sure it would happen soon enough. Now with the book written, his mind was achieving the levels sufficient for peeps-wise anything flirtation/interaction, but there just weren't too many f's around to do this with, in his current location, a basement apartment not within easy walking of any sort of business district, in a suburb, where I don't know what happens, if I knew what I'd be doing it, instead of writing, such a horrible pasttime, right? What I'm doing is so bad? Luck-you get to see it. And I get to free it. And my hands can hurt from writing. People get hurt all the time. And I value my voice. It is the ultimate, for me. And with it I shall say the things that should be said. Until I'm dead.
He was extremely nice to women. He didn't bother them. It is obviously easy for guys to harass girls-this is the one area of contemporary American culture where the possibilities are, alas, infinite. Unless she knows self-defense, she is liable to walk around feeling like the scary-looking guys who say perverse things to her have a chance at carrying out their desires, with or without her consent. But he was different because he truly loved females. Not just for their beauty, but for their selves. If he ever got a girlfriend, he would treat her to the finest entertainment and education a writer like himself could invent. He knew how to manipulate and be manipulated with the utmost of aesthetic sophistication. His girlfriend would be one lucky chick, whoever she turned out to be. His brother would ask him, "What do you think you have, the sugar-dick?" Sugar-mind more like it. All his life he'd been preparing to treat a woman. Not trick. Although tricks can be elements of the treat.
When young, he thought he had to become a world-class guitarist to make a girlfriend happy, even attract her in the first place. That helps, but he began to see how little most people are able to appreciate music most of the time. And just the fact that music is sensuality, like a drug. How good you are at it is maybe not the best indicator of personal worth. And maybe, maybe a woman would have this thing called "insight" which would give her a glimpse into his quote-soul-unquote, and not judge him by his skill set alone. Musical mayhem and beauty became an element of his profile though. It couldn't hurt. Especially because he wasn't an obsessed pro who had to do it every day. He saved his playing for special occasions. Some chicks were not into dating musicians who tend to have to play their instruments a lot, and who aren't quitting any time soon, and who tend to have dreams of extracting cash from the world in exchange for their sonic youth, which can be tricky and disheartening.
The new deal for hooking up, he knew, was writing. As in the crafting of the elements of action and dialogue. To craft her trip for her. (Of course the better she was, the more she'd help, and also the more she'd do the reverse for him.) He believed he could live like no one else. Sometimes. Other times he thought he was worthless and should die. Contradictory, to say the least. Did the porn stress his system, which stress is bad for those with schizophrenia, since it can lead to relapse and appearance of (psychotic) symptoms? Linking orgasms to pictures of horror? The first few times, he could feel how sick it was. He was literally horrified. He just wanted to see what would happen. Because other men apparently used this material quite enthusiastically. What was the appeal? But then he came to enjoy it. Although still feeling lingering guilt and uncertainty. Could such a thing be good for the mental health? It gave him horrible dreams sometimes. Dreams of raping.
By the way I include material this true, you can tell the lightwieghts will stay away. The confused. Who would rather not hear what those whose lives were used by the system, or abused by the pistons, have to give back to the social, give back with a degree of anger, give back especially though to pleasure my real friends and coequals, who talk of rape will not scare away.
Rapings weren't his most "evil" dreams. Once he dreamed he was part of a terrorist plot to nuke San Francisco. During the dream he felt zero emotion. Like it was perfectly fine to burn the people of a city. But then he woke up and thought, "Hm, I wonder why I dreamed that?" He wanted to write a story about the dream, but feared the present Justice Department would take it the wrong way. Not to mention the grad school admissions people.
He wondered about them, you. Were you really into fiction? Could you take the full force and expanse that fantasy has to offer? And could you accept the true picture-text of reality, if it in scenes of sickness were he to you to proffer?
Dreams had nothing to do with waking life though. They are not the keys to your success. The only thing they truly tell you about is the power of the imagination of the brain who is dreaming them. Of course dreams are going to be the most extreme sensual and emotional, even cognitive, shows that your brain is capable of putting on, and your mind is capable of sleeping through. But intensity is not prophecy. Because you dream you'd do X says nothing about you actually wanting to do X. In fact, in waking life you could be dedicated to the salvation of the people of San Francisco-you could be one of the helpful people, however you care to define help. But, Ashcroft might say, you have a latent propensity to be a terrorist. Well, our writer would reply, everyone has a latent propensity to be anything. We are all full humans with full human potential. No class of people is an exception, without even the ability to do evil.
In fact, as a writer, he was probably more in touch with the mind of a terrorist, having experienced such a thing in a dream. And getting into their minds is the way of defeating them. The terrorist's emotions are zeroed out. The people he seeks to incinerate mean nothing to him. They are abstractions. This is due to a lack of imagination. If he could imagine the detail of their lives, perhaps he would awaken to the wrongness and undesirability of his plan. And if the world could begin to think, if poesis and life were to intertwine, if a literate/literary dialogue were to be held among all the concerned parties, everyone, then maybe some people's imaginations would begin to differ.
As a writer, it was Lez's duty to enhance the imaginations of himself, and everyone else. Actually this was everyone's duty. But only the writer embraced it fully. I hope you notice how socially responsible this writing is. Responsible not to arbitrary historical authority, but responsible to the true infinite manifold that we are now on the verge of becoming, the future which is determined by our free action today, which free action should include violent fantasies, unless you wish to repress fiction, even from your mind, and live the life of false positivity, thinking you only want to be a good girl or boy, and you don't want to know why the evil think how they do, our biggest problem, a personal problem, as in rape, a public problem, as in mass-control.
Jesus? He used to think he was the god. He can still bring himself to think this, if he wants. But he doesn't want to believe anymore. There are better scenarios. The trick is to believe in the most interesting world. That would be an actual world, not just himself and his current field of view. An actual world was a bit hard to imagine though. Maybe because he knew so much. He knew how much horror was going on. Not many people had a grasp of this. From reading leftist literature for a decade straight, he had discovered the depths of reality. And they were pretty deep. Some would deny it, or prefer not to think about it. For him, it became so unbelievable and horrible that he came to think it impossible. No god could allow such things. So his was an ethical solipsism. He refused to believe things if things were purportedly this bad. Better to believe only in his own private hells and heavens. Which were substantial. And really all he had proof of. He wanted to convey this somehow. He knew he had a style. And content. He just needed to figure out an excuse to give it to people. A narrative thread, in short. I don't know-maybe go through your journals for the juiciest parts, extract them with copy/paste into a new document, read this for months, until you know what it's about, then insert connective tissue between all the parts, to render your master piece, the piece which is the beyond of all your journalling, the piece you have caught hints of in your dreams, which somehow needs to be written, and will be, contrary to the nay-sayings of family and "friends" all through the literature who pretend that writing like yours is unviewable, unwanted, "We know what you'll write about-sickness. And we can imagine that already thanks. We'd rather read about health and positive things." But what if the youth brings interpolarity, a cycling flux of neutrality that sits on the verge between the writer's space and the readers' faces, a flux which has never been seen before, though it's been predicted, and talked about. Derrida himself knew that those such as us would come. To reveal the trace in all of us. To write the world. For higher. The intensity is filled with prophecy of ways to come, ages of yourself to become, the mentality internal to your skull bone, which is our ultimate ground, on which we played as children, on which we explored as students, on which we constitute and are constituted by our con- and de- structions, writing being the prime variable-music's key, visual's right, sensuality's might, and all the other things your knowing got, the things, which with dread, others know not.
Just as Metheny the jazz cat avoided rock'n'roll, maybe you as a writer should avoid chat. Yes it is something you can get good at. It is writing. People respond to you. But it does nothing for the artistry of your mind. It is jabber. Yes you can embed your meaning in it very sensitively and skillfully. And alter the course. But you don't want to alter the course of a chatroom's fifteen minutes, or three hours. You want to alter the course of the world. Something you can only do by doing real, non-chat writing, and real, non-chat reading. Mono-text-the non-chat-is colorful. There is potential for glee. You'll figure it out.
Think of your body. It's kind of distasteful to do this. So empty and meaningless. So potentially painful. That's why we avoid the body. It's going to cause us pain. It doesn't cause much pleasure. Usually it can be ignored. It does nothing but actualize the brain's desires to manipulate its environment. Fucking is so stupid. Dick stuck in cunt. What's the point of that? Piston-chugging. Fucking away. I'm not drawn to it. Except insofar as I'm programmed to be.
That's the sort of thing I've written. But I do not want to read the shit people have written. Including me. There has to be a way to lock on to a narrative structure that would enable me to just keep writing, keep writing. That's all I want to do. I do not give a single fuck about what I write. I only want to write. What about? Anything and everything. So what if this has been written before. Learn the lesson of guitar. You do not have to play amazing things when you practice. Simple, cripple-type playing is more, more than sufficient. You just want to make some musical sounds come out of the instrument. Save the full-fuck writing for performances, or 'essays' as they call them. When you're writing for yourself, just go by feel.
I can't bring myself to be attracted to women at school. Even if they look "good." (At least "attracted" enough to stop realtime and alter my course to intersect with theirs.) There's something about the metaphorically infinite distance between strangers on the street, a distance that could be closed to zero if certain things were to happen... Does it matter? I'm not drawn toward them. But I'm not gay. I'm definitely not attracted to men. Do I only like the two-dimensional women of erotica? But three-D women would be even more real and stimulating, presumably. But we're talking about some of the most beautiful f's on earth. Maybe this forces my standards to be way, way too high. But that's not true either-I am attracted to about half of the women I see in public. That's about as statistically rational in terms of standards as you can get.
I have to get beyond the formal. Of course superficial physicality isn't going to do it for me. Isn't going to be the answer to life. I'm looking for a mind, not a body. What do I think stimulates me? Blow jobs? Yes, if you're in the mood. But you want a fully mature, fully powerful mind to interact with. Because you're bored, and she's bored. Life is boring without a mate who can recognize what you are, and who can be someone you will endlessly re-recognize as the person you need, the one you want in a cycling permutating set of ways of wanting.
"You have to fantasize about rape when you masturbate." Who would write something like that? Does he want to get arrested? Or does he want to be, ah, tested? The unwritten writer is not being written by texts that have come before, and certainly not prescriptive morality designed by white men. He is writing the future texts. Driven by a force that usually lies, in weight. He is saying the things that only need be said once, but have been and will be said always. Maybe I had to become this sick to be a great writer. Or at least to have great things to write. Sick and alone. No woman for six years. Only pictures. No love, which is said to be the point of life.
I should write like which sort of people are going to read this? "Perform, or else," the pedagogue demands, "and we will judge by your socially acceptable performance your learnt skills, and if you cross the lines, I mean deny Darwin's dross, I mean write across the times, to history and all, we will downgrade you for being too eccentric." I think people with undergrad degrees only can be pretty interesting to talk to. I understand you tend to give the jobs to people who have gone to grad school. But this academic training for a profession, writing, which is not truly academic-this training I'm applying for-will it help me win? Victory over death? Will I learn how to "teach"? Can teaching be taught-or is it something rhythmic, something felt? Will I learn how to write writing that will be known through history? Or should you instead hire me as a teacher, so I can perhaps luck on to some "methods" of teaching (and writing) that perhaps your training necessarily misses, being formal. Things get quite unformal in fiction. It's not like I haven't been exposed to the type of teaching that you would presumably expose me to. I have many college credits to attest to the labors of many professors and instructors who have, I think, shown me enough at this point to enable me to in turn leave behind the testing, accredation, good behavior, labor, of being a student, and attain and accept the challenge of teaching "writing," or "life" as it's sometimes known. I don't know, maybe I do need to be instructed further, more exams, term papers, close observation, long-term behavioral adjustment. I'm not good enough to teach yet? Isn't this plea for a job ironic, since elsewhere I claim that I probably won't even be let into your program as a student, because of the X-sedition I practice, the speech against normality? I subvert comfortable expectations about what reading fiction should be like, if the author is an upstanding member of the community. We can't let anyone different into the priesthood, can we? Can they make me a priest if I like to talk about rape? Why do I have to keep mentioning that word? You think you're going to change people away from raping, you're going to help the victims, when you don't even allow fiction that gets inside the mind of a writer who has imagined productively in this field of dis-course?
Those who get me, will see what I'm doing, word by word, right? (Don DeLillo). As for the rest, and I bet you don't even know if you're one of them, I could care less? Should my task be to give you the simplistic narratives that dominate popular fiction, so you have "a plot to follow," or "characters to identify with," or "tensions to resolve"? Well sorry, I'm not going to water down my essence so that people who don't get it can somehow, somehow, get it. Because I know about value. I have done the reading. I know that text like this isn't common. And I'm beginning to figure out why, as I write it. Writers are so afraid of telling their truth. We're programmed not to. Like the admissions people can't handle it, like the professor or fellow students can't handle it (if you get in to a school), like editors can't handle it, or publishers, or the reading public. Maybe the problem isn't the truth-it's our ability to handle it. All I ask for is to be read. And to show the students what I have learned, what that enables me to teach with my presence. Take me as a teacher, or a student, I can deal either way, I just like being in the educational flux, and either way my days will hopefully lead to better stuff than this being written.
This is the first thing I've done longer than thirty pages, and it's a thrill to finally have the organisational perserverence to concoct such a big chunk of data. I'm giving you-data. Do with it what you will. It may tell you things. It may be a hint as to what I am capable of. Who is "a writer like me"? I wouldn't have written this six months ago, and six months from now, this will be a totally different document I bet. In short, if you take me on, I'm not exactly sure who you'll be getting.
I want to start publishing. "Don't even think about a novel. You can hardly write short stories"? Maybe I won't be able to write short stories until I write a novel... Journal doesn't count, even if it is thousands of pages. It's not a coherent totality. Rather it is, but no one is going to slog through it. You want to give people things they can crank through with some degree of pleasure. I write great shit, but it wouldn't be great to read, unless they really had trust in the author. And no one has reason to trust me (yet).
You want to capture the reader. Readers want to be captured, and enraptured. What else is there? Life is so fucking whatever, at least we want a story to delve into for a few few-minutes. Yes you could get up out of this chair and go buy some books with your paycheck-but is not that a fuck-wise distraction from what you should really be doing-writing your own books? Being a reader isn't going to get you far. Or, it's necessary if you want to be the professor. Which you might want to do. But more than that, you want to be an actual writer. Independent. Money-getting. Make no joke about it, you're writing for the resultant cash-flow. You already know how to write avant-garde shit that doesn't yield any market response. You're great at that. Though knowing that will enable you to manipulate the market like it loves to be manipulated. The avant-garde is always ahead of mainstream. That is its definition. We are always modern, which means the time since things changed so well or so how whomever says they changed.
"Sexual Solipsism" will be my title. Can that be true? Can a solipsist be sexual? He is just relating to himself. Even god is just another version of him. And an f...? She is the living god. She, you, is the manifestation of god, to him. His favorite manifestation. He totally believes in your divinity. And if you are more than human, or only human, you still have agency over through and with and under him. And for this he thanks you, or will thank you when you're together, times which you will remember forever. A pseudo-solipsism of the soul. A wavering philosophy. Yes it's good to believe in the world. Maybe. Who cares what I believe? People who judge me. Teachers, doctors. The others in the mix. How sane/crazy am I? What is my teaching potential? Research potential? My journal is slowly blending into my novel. They are becoming identical. My life is becoming as weird as I want my book to be. I suppose this is what I was going for. Maybe I knew what I was doing when I fried the brain with LSD. There was a hidden motive. The momentary tripping was just the excuse. The real reason was to fuck-warp my life trip for good or bad for ever. If I kill myself is the only problem. Of course there are other problems. The lack of love. If that's a problem. I used to think it was. Oh I was extremely upset. Have I adapted? Do I now see the light? Sex wouldn't be that good. In fact it's kind of repulsive. Or at least compulsive. You have to do it. As a child there is extreme pressure to become social sexual and get a girl- or boy- friend. Pressure from whom? I can't say. I could only feel it.
There were two self-described "fags" at the restaurant today. They sounded unlike your stereotypical. I wasn't tempted at the time, or maybe I was. I felt like starting a conversation with them. They used the word "exotic" and I think they were talking about me, although they pretended to be talking about flowers or buds or something.
Do people know what they're talking about? I guess they can't assume that a paranoid-critical listener is transforming their words into something totally related to himself. But they might suppose. Weird things happen in Oakland. It is a space full of all sorts of differently tripping people. From the hottest most sophisticated women to the whoever else someone would care about. Any college town will be this way. But this is the one I'm in.
I'm saying this because I sat ten feet away from these guys listening to their entire lunch, (the sonic environ was otherwise silent), and I didn't say a thing. Is that polite? Although I glanced a few times. I was dressed pretty nicely, looking good perhaps as usual. I'm afraid of women. But I don't think I'm a latent homosexual. I contemplate sex with a guy. Just for educational purposes. I can't imagine getting off on giving a man pleasure. There's something about it that is totally uninspiring. I can visualize it, I can feel its sensation, but I can't situate my self there to figure out what it would be like, the vibe of the homo act. I'm too comfortable here in reality. I'm too lazy to force myself to imagine fully sex with a guy. Why bother? If it were meant to happen, you wouldn't think of f's continually your whole life, and how to get one, and once having one how to have more sex with her, how to have continual sex almost, since the passions are intense and life will soon be spent.
But sometimes I imagine giving a woman pleasure and it can appear pretty lame also. Maybe self-love, "masturbating," a most unfortunate word, is where it's at. Baiting your master? Perfectly controlling the climax. Using the most wonderful gift we have, the imagination. Using pictures of the world's prettiest f's. It's selfish. Keeping myself to myself. It is perhaps a waste of time. I don't know.
I haven't had love in so long that I can't remember what it is or isn't like. Some say it exists and is the essence of life. When I had it I thought as such. Maybe I've outgrown. Or my mind has adapted to the self-life. I talk to myself. That's pretty fun. You don't have to edit.
You can be as crazily expressive and tasteless, but of course to yourself you're never tasteless. I like repeating phrases in a high-speed semi-monotone, kind of like you'd imagine a mental patient doing. "I'm cycling I'm cycling I'm cycling this is a cycle cycle cycle." It's just as much of a release as a self-other interaction would be. The other is unnecessary. I'm a writer. I should be writing. Not wasting my time with some dumb girl. But what if I could find a woman as good as me? "As good as me as good as me a woman as good as me hard to find hard to find not gonna find her maybe I will anything's possible anything anything anything."
It's unimaginable. It's possible, but I'd have to be pretty lucky. I'm fairly rare. It has to do with the fuck-mouth I was born with, my tongue connected all the way to its tip to the floor of my mouth, my parents never talking about it, me having to find out I was a freak on my own, me having to suffer in hell for fear of demanding to get it fixed from age 8 to age 22 when it finally happened, only I think because I was on anti-psychotic medication which cleared up the fuck-brain that must have been going on for me to keep such a thing secret and unmentionable for over a decade.
I'm trying to achieve perfection of rage-perfection of desire. I can't believe how good of a writer I am. But no one cares. Why should they? What do I do that's so special? Everyone can write their life. Ahh-but only the few do. It's sad and twisted. Writing your life should be the key enterprise for humanity. What is more important than your life? Of course the world is. What can you give to the world? Does the world deserve you?
Of course other people's lives are important-but they can write their own. I'm talking about you. All you control, which is your body if you're lucky. Your mind, hopefully. But what-don't people already live good lives? I don't know. How about yourself? What is your judgment?
Does there have to be judgment? Well what the fuck else are you going to do-carry on with business-as-usual? I suppose that must be pretty nice for some people. My usual is to create the unusual. It helps that I'm still having psychotic symptoms. I get to be almost totally lucid and sane, whilst having hallucinations and delusions on an experimental basis. I get the best of both worlds. I hear people say things in public. They could theoretically be things just overheard, said by peeps who I don't know, or they could be messages from the spirits.
"It's yours." "You know what this is?" "Thank you." "God bless you." And when I'm in a solipsistic phase, of course it all applies to me. Everything that is said, is said for me. The universe is Lez-referential. I don't work out the details. Is it all real, created by god to be my/god's trip of life? Or is it a dream of god's, and I'm god? Or rather, god wanted to become a mortal, because being omniscient has to get old after seventeen minutes. Being limited is the real deal. And being born into a life as warped-special as mine. And reaching the point where I realize the truth-I am god. God is tripping as me. But the cycle moves on, and I become a non-god again, because really-my life was fairly shitty.
Do you think god would want a fuck-life? Wouldn't god come to earth as some super-lucky person, graced with money, love, and sex? Why would it choose a sick and twisted asshole like myself to be? This is the phase I'm in now. Otherwise I wouldn't be revealing my wavering solipsism. Yes it is crazy. But it's just a philosophical decision. Doesn't necessarily mean I'm psychotic. (The young kids are trying to tell you what they've learned. And, "no dice," you're not listening.)
But in a way it does mean I'm psychotic. I have had some of the grandest delusions possible. They're not very hard to visualize. Try some on your own... To be that distant from reality-that you only believe what's in the room with you now exists? That is some serious detachment. Healthy? Maybe not, but it sure is fun. I never take advantage of it though. All the women in the world are for me. The world is for me. So why don't I ask one out? That mystery shall remain. Maybe I literally have not come across one who's right. That's crap. Love is plentiful. I'm just a schmuck. Or a secret genius of survival. I know what's best. This is best. If I would have hooked up earlier today, I wouldn't be writing this now. And we all know tapping away at a ranting tract that supposedly will initialize my writing career is more important than linking with another soul, in this world-that-is-hell, yet a world-that-is-heaven. A confrontation of souls. That's what I'm about. Maybe some chick will read this and want to be with me. By all means, get in touch.
It feels like a fairy tale. But it's a fucked tale, because at any moment you could be raped. That's how girls must feel. If you believe in girls, then you must know that their fathers rape them. (Or the torturers, forcing a father to rape his son. It's done. Maybe not around here so much. But there are people halfway around the world, and they're speaking a language you can't understand, and..., and...) If you believe in reality, you have to start living with respect to horror. The horrors are most true. Pain's the commonest thing. You're going to die, and you can't say hi to a girl? People are being tortured, electrocuted, burned, sliced up and isolated, disappeared, and you think it's too extreme to meet a woman? You think meeting a woman is an insane fucking event of enormous proportions? Apparently it is. It doesn't coincide with your history. Love is not part of your program. You don't know how to react to openness and honest affection. It wasn't something you ever encountered. And if you did encounter it, you were afraid to respond, because response meant pain. It
And aren't I good at saying as much as you can possibly say with almost no words? I tried to be super-condensed. With my tongue, whose speech I thought revealed its defect, I did not want to talk. I wanted to say ultimate things that would end the discussion, or would reflect its focus back away from me. I wanted to be fragmented and use special effects and any trick I could think of to let me say a word or two, preferably, a sentence fragment if necessary, or three sentences strung together if I was really being pushed to the wall. And I made word choices. I avoided words hard to pronounce. That must color my language to some subliminal amazing degree. Like the man who has lived under censorship. What was I allowed to say? Nothing. Nothing in the way of the truth I needed to say, at least.
I'm crazy. God is crazy and tripping. Negative capability. You think you're god. You're the hammer of god. I'm here to fuck things up. We've already had the mild, now it's time to scream. I'm so fucking full of life it's unbelievable. And even I, sometimes, think I'm worthless. Maybe certain time-slices of me *are worthless. Maybe certain parts of my life are dead time.
People tripping the dream of a soft totalistic lifeworld of constant war with evil and constant engagement with beauty. Poems are just composed of lines. I can pretty much make any line I want, with any attitude, form, intensity, beauty. I'm just like a guitar player who has gotten so good that his every move is divine. Even when I feel like shit, the stuff I write tends to be very trippy and profound when I go back and read it later. Do you realize how arrogant this sounds? I'm a character. My whole task is to be as arrogant as possible. Because real people are or have been. I'm pushing the limits of reality. How arrogant is it possible to be? Very. But how articulate and accurate can one be about this arrogance? That's what I'm trying to find out. I'm so good that wherever I go, the vibe changes. I alter my world just by being me. I've developed a presence that is so profound it cannot be matched. Or, I run into women who can match me all the time. Some of them try me in subtle ways. But only one time in the last six years has a women on the street approached me with no excuse but desire to talk. And I was too blind to see who she was. Too fucking uptight to realize her beauty. "She's not hot, so I better deflect her desire so she'll leave me alone." You pathetic, wrong asshole.
But I shall redeem myself. I've done it a bit with music. I've learned to play some fairly tripped-out things. And people are listening. What is my music for, after all? People who are tripping. To give them something to hold on to. To alleviate their misery and confusion. To give them a reality. No one had the proper combination of psychedelic experiences, and liberal and scientific education, and musical ability, that I had, which allowed me to reach my current state. What is the dynamic of my control?
I think I'll have the character in my story start to think that torturing people would be fun. It would be nice to have control over someone. Inflict unlimited amounts of pain on them. What could be more meaningful? What could be a more powerful praxis?
I can't believe how fucked up I am for liking the hardcore. How could I like such stuff? Why? Seeing people supposedly being humiliated or hurt? What's the point of that? It's intense. It's radical. It's different, unusual, special. It's not something you come across every day. To see a woman be stopped on the street and raped. What if rape were legal? The only protection a woman would have would be if her man were there with her. The look in her eyes. "I'd like to watch a woman be raped." Not for real, but on film.
How did you get so sick? How did this come about? Does it have to do with your illness? But I'm recovered from my illness. Does it have to do with your fucked up childhood? Or-is this type of thing common? The feminists are arguing that it's so bad. But they also argue that erotica is bad. They have all sorts of radical notions. Maybe you're the normal one. You don't actually want to inflict pain on anyone. You just like the pictures. Why is that different than wanting to read a horror novel? Real people went into the making of the horror novel, also. Where do you think we got the idea of horror? But the pictures need more, extra people to make them. Now this is where they claim solipsism is dangerous. When someone in this thought would think, "Oh, but I don't believe in the people in the pictures, I just believe in the pictures, and only when I'm looking at them." But the solipsist does believe that his dream has rules, has a coherence. For instance, if you are crazy enough to commit murder, of course the rest of your pre-determined life deserves to be spent in a dirty cell. If you really, really didn't want to end up in a cell, you would have followed the dominant rules of the area in which you were passing through. The cell must somehow be the point of your life. God wants all knowledges. Maybe he wants to find out what life in the shithouse is like.
Stimulation. What stimulates? Knowledge. To know what happens. I used to get turned on by books. I'd go back and read the sex scenes. Does it matter what you're looking at when you have an o? I used to fantasize that a real woman was with me. How is that any different from looking at a picture? Are they against masturbation? "Using" women for pleasure? Why am I writing about this? Can't I move on to something more interesting?
"Sweep me up," I've heard them say. The women want to be swept up. With all the hustle and flux of a world going on around the both of you, you may think you don't present much of an image, much of a meaningful nexus for her attention to focus on. But she may see your infinity. If she doesn't, you don't want to be with her anyway. Only pursue those who would pursue you. Or those who would love it if you pursued them. You don't want to end up with someone who doesn't appreciate your brilliance. Or someone who thinks you're a sicko, weirdo, freak. How can you tell if someone likes you? You find out. How can you tell if you like someone? You find out who they are. I can write novels in my dreams. Maybe the waking me, fully conscious, would rather do this useless journalling. Would rather play than work. (They also say, "let's not get swept up.")
Have you ever encountered wrongness? Like, "White Noise is an imperialist novel, because it doesn't relate third-world experience." This is symbolic wrongness, a mistake of the most harmless kind. Yet it annoys me to a literally affective degree...Come on, man, all novels don't have to be about all things. We want books to get us deeply into truths. To get so deeply into its subject, White Noise not only excludes talk of the third world, but talk of a whole infinite universe, except what it does talk about. All the truth in one place? I don't think so. In talking about the first world, isn't White Noise commenting on its relation to the third world? It's *portraying people who don't think about the one world dilemmas. You have no idea what DeLillo thinks about it, unless you read books in which he does talk about this. A book which portrays ignorance is not an ignorant book. "Ignorant" also, like sexist, is a quality of minds, not books. Even a book full of ignorant characters, written by an ignorant author, is an example of human intelligence, and can be studied to deepen one's knowledge of life. There is no such thing as symbolic harm. An adult should be able to observe any artistic symbol, and not only not be hurt by it, but be helped. Looking at porn doesn't hurt you. It gives you insight into the ways certain people view sex. Reading propaganda can only "hurt" you if you're already brainwashed. Yeah, this is where Janov's psychology comes in. If you want to explain fascism. Or do you need to "explain" anything?
I was reading thousand-page novels in fourth grade. Second-rate novels, but novels nonetheless. And whose to say they're second-rate? I loved them. They captivated my imagination. The masters of science fiction aren't exactly low-brow. So what if they had conservative views? I didn't read them in a conservative way. How can mythos/plot be conservative? Can mimesis be negative? Anything on the way to expression is good. Some art is really, really good and deep. But even the so-called contrived and superficial arts can be inspiring. Art can entertain, but it is also educative. Everything improves you. I think we're dealing with the problem of stupidity and evil. What kind of mimesis comes from a stupid, evil artist? The stupid don't have access to the deepest truths. Do the evil? Does anyone think they're evil? Where does justice come from? Does it just refer to other concepts? Justice is a convention of biological beings. What is mimesis? Expression. The opposite of impression. Although what you express immediately makes an impression on you. I'm writing now. I'm engaged in techne. The words I'm saying right now are mimesis. Which must be defined by its self. People define themselves also. All definitions are historical, that is, they must proceed by example. You cannot give a pure description of anything without pointing to particular examples. Avoid description. To de-scribe. To remove something from its written context. What isn't mimesis? What isn't a product of something else? Nothing has a non-causal origin. If it is a random quantum fluctuation, unpredictable, even so its cause is Law itself. If law is mutable, that is just a bigger law. Law exists.
With anyone whose eyes I can put my text in front of. I have something to say to all humans. I exclude no one from the totalizing nature of my project, because, being of a biosphere isolated in the cosmos, we are all connected, and no human life, or aspect of the human environment, is meaningless. But there is such a thing as waste. Objects that have no further use, or that are toxic and must be isolated from nature. Or waste as in life-time that not only does not accomplish anything worthwhile, depending of course on whosever definition of worth, but life-time which is negative, that is, detracts from the sum total of human pleasure, meaning, truth, achievement, or whatever other variable you deem to be key to mortal existence.
The writer's task is to bring words before us. It is to bring our attention to important things that we don't yet have fully conceptualized. Sexual pleasure is important, but it already occupies many people's minds to such an extent that it is not a serious writer's priority to dwell upon it for us. There are other issues that could with more value be focused on. Mimesis is that which is caused by intelligence. My body makes all sorts of embarrassing sounds. Mimesis is the effect of intelligence which has the ability to interact with the world external to consciousness.
I need to be pushed to think. My habits of thought are too strong. What about the circulatory system? Including that of the brain? Visualize it with me for a moment in its full complexity, a big permeating loop permeating down to the cellular level. You think that could arise due to a non-conscious creative force? Not. He had me going there for a week or two, with the atheism. But it's back to god from now on. The idea of no god is the most absurd idea possible.
In mathematics, isn't it the case that there exists statements which cannot be proven? Logic is an arbitrary human historical tool. Because you cannot get logic to do the job of proving god does not mean anything. Perhaps the most important thing in existence, god, cannot be so easily proven. Who feels it knows it.
Maybe some things simply have to be seen to be believed. I see god wherever I look. I can trick myself into thinking there's no god. But it is forced. Things no longer make sense. The world loses meaning. You deprive the world of meaning, if you subtract its reason for existing. And that is a reason not to do it. We want the world to be meaningful. And it is not because it is the truth if you get what you want. It is because in a sound world, the world would be meaningful.
It is because, to have beings like myself who are full of meaning, you need a meaningful context. "Meaning" is that which does not arise from random evolutionary processes. "Life" is a biological term. You cannot have a force of life before six billion years ago. You can have a force. But forces require fields, or objects. They do not arise in a void. Nothing worth living for arises in a void. The nullity. Or, why even pain is better than the zero. To have expression, you need a mind. Expression with no mind is not expression, but process, blind. Only a mind can have vision. Not in the visual sense, but in the appreciative sense.
If you do not care about your sensations, what you express will be a mechanical reaction to the world. Judy is giving me something to write against. Finally, someone to argue with. Meaning is biological. Could not exist without biology. To make something, you must understand what you are doing. To make high art. Against Aristotle. Shakespeare understood what he was doing. Don DeLillo understands what he's doing.
To make something without understanding is called accident, and accident does not take you far. It would take a lot of accidents to fill a thousand pages with truth and beauty. Some musicians appear to be stupid. Their intelligence simply loves interacting in the musical realm, more than the verbal. How can you call a poet stupid? How can you call Jimi Hendrix stupid? When you are playing, you cannot play anything you have not learned how to play. You feel everything you play. Later, though, you may listen to a recording, and think, "I didn't know I was *that good." But this is a momentary delusion. You became that good, you know you're that good. You may have forgotten it while playing. You may have been playing somewhat automatically. But the spirit that went into your lifetime's worth of practice and struggle was not mechanical. To understand. To stand, under.
warning to little boys and girls, "some peeps is bad"
by dlane ebbs
Why obtain an f, a female? To manipulate. They are so impressionable. Affectable. Don't be afraid of them. They're mostly harmless. They have no power. Their image, and their ability to say no, is their only power. And the images aren't even that awe-inspiring. They're more just tempting. Pointers to opportunity. "If you go after this, you'll get bliss." That would be a good title. But would I get bliss? Professor Les can hardly tell me things I don't know. Let alone some dumb girl. But do I need "to be told things I don't know"? Maybe I need to show. I'm an actor/director/writer after all. I'm not a needy student, awaiting further instruction. Girls are more open to you if you're not so blown away by their image that you want to worship them. They don't want to be looked at as sex goddesses-they want to be normal.
"Why are you talking to me?"
"I don't have ESP, so I have to go on what data I do have, and in this scene it's visual."
What does writing do to you? For you? I don't know-but here I am.
A rich f can more easily escape you. Is that why you're afraid of getting one? A poor f is easier to fuck (with). Why is that? Money equals freedom. Someone who isn't free is more dependent.
Disconnect from unwanted scenes. Kind of escape inside your fantasy to an alternate matrix, as reality is known today. The distasteful elements may as well not even exist. Edit your environment. Edit your feelings. Only feel the good ones.
Trust in god? Not unless you want pain. It's your world. Meaning harvesting. Imagine running with X. Being with her on a regular basis. Unimaginable. But I can't imagine most of the things that happen to me. Except the deja vu's, the dream pre-figurements. And the ultra reality. That's getting realer every day.
Say, "Hello there comrade." Open plans. Children shouldn't be hidden. The need to be the only One in the world. Where did that arise? Just a second. Of unbearable tension and fear. And then it's over. To the other side of life. To express a sense of simplicity in life. We're not there yet.
"Are you a communist?"
"No, and I hope they don't have the monopoly on such a nice word. Actually in a science fiction novel the characters addressed each other as comrades. I thought it was a very nice way to label a stranger. It's a sort of intelligence test. Do you know the word? It means friend-and-fellow-citizen. It is a term of respect and fellowship. Better than, 'Hey, lady.' I need a line. How can you link without a link-line? You can't. It's really, really hard."
You're groping in the dark without a LL. Link-line. Not everyone may get the reference. But that's ok. I can explain. We could be talking about anything. You just basically want to hear our voices, to make sure there's no antagonism.
"What do you like talking about with people?"
"I just like talking. I don't particularly care what aobut. Or no. I do care. It's just that there are a large number of good topics."
"What would be one of them?"
"A good topic would be to talk about good things to talk about."
"That's kind of mirror-world circular."
"I like the mirror-world circular."
"Greetings, comrade."
"Greetings."
"I was going to sit there and write about talking to you, but then I figured, why not actually talk to you?"
"Why not indeed."
"Something horrible could happen. A second of pure humiliation and terror. The revelation of my basic sickness and evil."
"How could all that happen?"
"I don't know. You'd be able to see into my mind though. You'd see it all."
"You think me very perceptive."
"I hope you're perceptive. I hope you're not some repressed, insensitive flat and dull character-less character who would only react to her environment if someone burned her, and maybe not even then."
Excuse me, ma'am?
Yes?
I was wondering who you were?
Why?
You look interesting.
Is it polite to approach people because they look interesting?
How else is one supposed to meet interesting people?
Isn't everyone interesting?
Oh-but I mean interesting with respect to me.
Learn how to trip with words. It involves changing the subject to whatever you want to talk about. Ronald Judy claims that style is the profoundest way humans go about trying to achieve something like a perfect life. What is a perfect life? It is to be open to the possibilities of being. Is there such a thing as genius? Or is there only open intelligence? Brains can only be wired so good. A large number of people have "genius" once their intelligence's have learned how to interact with materiality.
There is no lack of love. There are 6 billion people. So you should interact with people in highly context-appropriate ways. I'm thinking of the chicks working at Best Buy who I felt zero sexual tension about. Was it because they were unsexual? Or am I finally learning how to deal with women-as-equals? Not viewing them romantically in a non-romantic situation. But how to find love? Love is plentiful. It stares you in the face often enough that you shouldn't try to find it from the wrong people-place. You have to be sensitive to where people are at. I act also like I'm not good enough for chicks. If you wait until you're good enough, you'll never get to play.
You have to study DeLillo at all levels. What do his books "mean"? What does anything mean? His books do/accomplish life. It's a fight about what constitutes life. Some people will prove X is a discourse of death. What aspect of death? If you believe in an afterlife, death is not bad. Even if you don't, is death necessarily bad? To who? Not to the person who's died. Nothing means anything to her anymore. It *could have meant something. But it no longer does.
You have to synthesize. To talk about everything. What is life's import? Feelings. What is a feeling? A thought that has value. How can I write about feelings when I'm on caffeine? Don't I remember any feelings? You can't feel until you feel again. X can't be remembered in a Y-mode. So the writer must attempt to always cycle through all the feelings. Or, get deep into any one. It's possible not to care about text. But some do care. They're forced to care. They don't have your (psychotic) detachment. It's sort of killing you. Some people are controlled by what they read. They can't feelingless-scan. So don't worry about people not caring about your text. Some will be forced to. And others will want to. Or often be able to.
I want functionality. I don't care who she is-if she can't function, she can't do anything for me. Do you have a bad attitude toward women? No-I don't like non-functional guys either. John doesn't do much for me. I want geniuses of expression. Flat affect dulls my sensibility. I want charisma and grace. So lie to her. Who cares. Your task is not to tell secrets. It's to keep secrets. Except the obvious ones-the fuck-mouth iis my ticket to getting a book published. The complete hook. "Lez had a fuck-mouth. Since before he was born." That is a key opening. How can someone stop reading after that? But what comes next? Are you going to write a biographical novel? No-experimental. Vignettes.
You have the ability. You just need a vehicle. Something to run with. You can write at full quality and entertainment level. Really? Like DeLillo? Yes-your actions are just private thoughts instead of dramatic plots. But you need to figure out how to lock on to actions. Is the life of a would-be rock star entertaining to read about? Putting the stuff on your website. Let the readers watch your novel coalesce. Let them participate.
We have emotions, so they must be good and useful. The capacity for evil arises from repressed emotions, not from real emotions. Lack of emotions is the true danger. Think about thinking.
Writing is the most explicit thinking. Maybe entertainment isn't what it's about. It's not about making the reader feel good. It's about the truth of the writer's life. Expressionism. But the writer is a reader to. He wants impressions created by himself. He has to figure out what he wants. Or he has to invent his wants. Does all your writing wait inside you in a queue waiting to unfold? Or is it highly situational? Or both?
Children should know what adults think about. We have to tell them. The more I contemplate rape, the nicer to f's I actually become. It is therapeutic to give in, during fantasy, to your worst potentials, your violent impulses. We each have the capacity to be evil. No one is an exception to this. If you can't even bring yourself to fantasize about rape, how do you know how anti-rape you actually are? The current regime of culture is not working. It's ironic that they "protect" kids from sex in school, while at home, fathers are fucking their daughters. Let's not tell these girls the truth about sex. Because they might grow up without morals. The problem of pathology. We don't know what causes it. Childhood pain. But to fix it we must talk about it. Will that fix it?
The artist walked around, looking for inspiration. Mainly he was inspired by people-people of the female persuasion. If you're going to deal in beauty, why not deal in the most beautiful things?
(She wanted to fuck without condom. So they needed to get tested. But would they trust each other to verbally report the results of the test, or would they need to see the forms?)
He did actions. His life was not shit. He was just used to his own actions, and so thus did not realize they were ripe story-material. If college campus was utopia, why didn't he write about utopia? She had too much life for him. He didn't know what to do. He decided to only write fiction. Enough journal already. He needed some cash. Even theoretical cash. Which journal had no grasp of. But a story. He could win a contest or something. First he needed to find a woman. How could he write a good sex story without having sex? Maybe a self-love story was the key, though. Enough sex has been written. We want some auto-eros.
M'ing is a strange activity, if you think about it. Triggering fantasy using visual aids and lubricants. He used to focus on the body feelings. But recently he's learned to focus on the f's images. Wallow in the glory of their visuals. Their bare naked legs, asses, etc. It was a simple discovery. You want the woman, not your self. Your body will take care of itself. Appreciate the beauty.
God and neuroscience. Consciousness philosophy. You don't even have to imagine the circulatory system. Just *see. Look at your mind. The room. What you are capable of perceiving is the determinant thing-it's how "complex" your brain is. Perfect. I'm not a decorative poet. I'm instrumental. I have a project. To fulfill god's plan for me. To fulfill fated freedom. I wish. I am to be. I'm here to live. I don't want to be vocationally functional. To be useful to the system. I want to be dysfunctional. To disrupt business. Anti-biz. To show people a different way. If this is the best you've functioned-that's pretty sad. Write your way to freedom. Reading is good when you're unable to write. Against Judy-to read is to die. To write is to live. Reading is forced restructuring. It is dependence on someone manipulating you. Writing is freedom. It is not manipulation. It is creation.
Imagine if you coulud have jumped from childhood to now. Full skill, full freedom. Computers, instruments, car. Books. What the fuck. It may as well have happened. Did ages 14-22 really happen? Did that stuff actually occur? Not to me. Those were other me's. I am the only me. This-now-me. The future me's are virtual. They don't exist. But they're realer than the past me's.
review of World History and the Eonic Effect, by John Landon
"A Book Important Enough that I Will Tell You About It"
by Len Rely
When you read this book, you feel wrapped up in the struggle of world history. And you should, and you are. You feel like you have finally found a voice of sanity, against the dogmatic darwinists, and the fantastic diests. A third way. Directionality, without a director. Without teleology. The social is our subject--values. A value-free objective theory of history would give us a less meaning'd flatness of time, where we could not say what was good, and what was bad. But some know. There is freedom, there is equality, at least a bit of it, these days. And when the social tends towards these things, we say it is good. There is creation, artistry, and some can perceive it. This book just keeps going on and on, meandering through all the intellectual and material craziness of history, and it reveals to you what you yourself would know had you read as much, and with as much vision, as Landon. We thank him for this work. I dare say, if you read this, your symbolic prison of intellectual confusion based on an entire culture of deception and blindness, will be exploded, and you may now be in the position to understand woman and man, and to bring to light a new age, where myth no longer rules--where nerve and creativity rule, unhindered by all the false theories of history, of reality, that are so seemingly easily undone in the course of this expansive, illuminating work. Great show.
hmm... book reviews. What else does a character do text-wise?
perhaps s/he writes poems...
god may be a girl-
let us remember, now, who the child is
she wants to give the boy
a gift of a world,
a world to play with,
and say with
but she can not remember
her own childhood to him, at
least not yet, until he learns that
everything that happened around,
must have mirrored her own childhood,
for she was born, wasn't she?
she learned to count,
learned her bignesses and amounts
and if he counts no longer
except to count change
she can still count higher
being god and semi-deranged
from the pain she's seen take place
and he has learnt to accept the world,
or at least deflect it
-he was once dreaming of riches,
and now his dreams remain
except the richness is in laughter,
and the dreams,
not quite as plain
these words, too complex for you to
understand, too beautiful for you to
grasp, which, coming your way,
impinge upon the fastness of your decline
say that you, in youth, could feel true joy,
and the worst pain; say that, if you but
only knew truth, and wanted to
get more
you woldn't have behaved as you did,
you would have accepted the temptation,
to become who you thought
was the true love for me
false expectation of true bliss
always a question, and answer, away,
at least that's how it seemed
the most desperate among us
seemingly indifferent to his own action
the most fulfilled one in life
being she who god will bring your way
to ask you why you're here,
and all the other things
you chose not-
the things, which instead,
others got
range is not my problem
I have from the sub-atomic bass
to the screaming stratosphere
in my music
in my life
my problem is more one of complexity
I don't know enough theory
rather, I know that theory is exploded
and patterns have come to rule
I know that the truth isn't coded
and directionality and return are some of the tools
we don't know what we're playing
rather we know because we feel
but what the end result creation means
I leave that to the children to decide
the children of the future
nothing wrong with a little automatic recharge
a little rhyming in your head
what do you think poetry is for-
so people will remember you after you're dead?
nope not no
it's about now
and if you're alone and silent you can do it
with writing I may have a chance to become good.
it's symbolic, so there are no limits.
I pretty much symbolically progressed
along the lines there were to progress over
and I had the access to libraries and stores
and the time to read
all I wanted to do was read
even on vacation
in some exotic land
I'd be reading science fiction
what would you rather be,
a poem or a story?
I hated when stories were imposed on me in class
they always seemed creepy
though I didn't necessarily like the poems
at least the ones fed us in school
on the street poems were good
and now I is the one making the poems
so I hope I'm not a burden on the youth
if they're forced to read my truth
to compose another elegance
one in addition to what's come before
one adjacent to the others of now
we must use all we know
we must write with things in mind
and we do not have to make explicit what we are talking about
those who want to know can find out
we merely have to play
and yes the practice was painful
the patterns came hard to our bodies
our minds have had music from perhaps before birth
but to reach the avant garde?
apparently it's inevitable
if you're of the you-know-what type of mind
you know what?
it's who I'm talking to
I could be talking to the next me
I could be setting a mind's preconceptions aside
and making a new master free
poems say things
that prose tends to not
music can say things
it shows what you got
now a life as a whole says the biggest
a life with series of roles
reveals who is biggest
in import
however that you define
popularity?
that's the wayward youth's fascination
power?
that's the high strung adult's awful non creation
influence, the scholar's dream?
usefulness, the scientist's beloved?
or do you define life a bit differently,
do you define words a bit differently,
than whatever taught you how to do?
a genius could have been teaching you
yet, I say,
he didn't show you this,
unless he did,
and all that this poem has un hid
was before your eyes before
all that I struggled and did
is to you just a little more
of god's name
(not the same)
you're allowed to keep going
write more and don't look back
at least not yet
the words you just wrote will be safe
they are doing fine
but it's still you and you're still writing
because now is a writing time
I'll write you a poem
on what topics of import shall it be on?
tell me your favorite things
or least favorite makes no difference
and I'll then
bling a bling bling
cash ain't my main thing
but if you give me some I'll sing
for you
and write it down
so you'll remember
yes, I remember an occasion
on which I said yes
but it was to a silence,
and an observationality, secret
and why do you write that way,
what is your intent
do you want us to sway
do you want us to know what you meant?
and what's so special about rhyme?
it's called coincidence
it's not design!
or maybe it is..
how could a peep such as me
profess to know the secret of all that is?
so I've learned to write
through whatever ways
and now I fight
thoughs I tries to plays
and now I'm light
and can sing all days
and now I write
about you as well
always
yes-I remember an occasion
on which I said yes
but it was to a silence
filled with secret observation
we're all going through what we have to
and no one understands
and now you are reading this
(it's when it looks how it is)
I can remember our chat
and you will discover where what's at?
turn everything into a question
use poetry to solve the case
forget about the punishment and obsession
join us here in our writing
here and you're fighting
and I could have acted I suppose
if I were a different peep
we could have racted without clothes (ract: interactive act)
as if skin were totally deep
porn I know not what that is
but I've probably been in some
life I know not what it gives
but it involves going out some
I once was bling a nice boy
and I didn't say bitch or slut
but language bling has got its way
and those aren't the worst
blinged things i've learned
how to
over-poke say
glimpse choke my way
I didn't invent
pleasure that sick
dick down your throat
I hope you are willing
bling choking's not fun
when the breathing is done
by the dick owner
and you gag up his cock
bling he's fucking your head
and sometimes you
bling wind up dead
extreme focus
hone in on a poem
make it so good
it can stand alone
say they want you to write about reality
but one's reality is self-dependent
dependent on who one is
and where did "who one is" come from?
it came from who other people were
we are each different
though subjectivity can appear generic
generic subjectivity
says why write anything more?
so much has been written
well do you know what?
I do/don't care
they could have written the Bible for all I care
I will write my own
I will reinvent not a wheel
but a world
they have fed you info
with respect to the latest theory
all your education long
at some point you become a producer
though your feeding may even intensify
as you learn to create
but practice can preceed theory
some people may have been practicing on you
things which theory cannot account for
I'd like to practice on you
this is not my poem
my poem will be amazing
it will tell the truth brilliantly
this is just some ordinary speech
what I would say
how I would play
what is its worth?
maybe not much to me
but maybe, to thee
it can be something true
what does it matter who
planned the experiment
that is your life?
you are the subject
maybe no one knows your truth
maybe no one is looking
maybe you were alone with your youth
and no conspiracy was cooking
why am I poeming?
because i want to get into poetry school?
or because I am driven?
(or driving)
but as for the public-
the medias are pornographic!
bodies, not minds are the focus
minds, if so, in the service of pleasuring the viewer
the aura of power around the peeps on teevee
pornographic imagination behind it
wanting to show you all they can
but being censored
sublimating their desire in a show
of whatever
we're all going down
and writing whatever form
helps you come to terms with the
things thats is
other peeps is likes you
just remember that
of course you get better than your teachers
if they have been honest
and told you all they know?
you will surpass that
unless you can't grow
I need interaction with writers
like I need to see
how peeps who know how to talk
talk to each other
I mean really know how to talk
and how many are the walks
and so on
all the things to know
peeps aren't just talking
saying what they know
they're trying to do things
influence the discussion
influence the other peeps