(Jan. 13. 05)
A crone gray morning sky; too much gray in this world for my liking, a sheerness of ice, scar tissue, glissando. Crone’s teeth as would have it, embossed, evilly, on the cowling of my cigarette package. This gorehole, a most inhospitable sight as always. Pyorrhea, a still life of blood, grave injuries to the chewing machine as it is. This day brings with it nothing, as far as concerns me, which is of little importance as is the case. The world being, as it is, all that is the case sadly enough. Such a cruel indifference this sky has. If there were clouds, which there are none, they would be smeared, like a pox, in the cataracts of the sky, eye-sores, cysts, irremovable, a scullery, as would have it. My telephone ring-rings and I, as is the case, always, so it seems, ignore it. Telephones are for the weak and lonely, none of which I am, or make claim to. The scrotumtightening snotgreensea cowering in my goreholes, much like the other, so I’ve come to learn. I am scolded by my own hand. This revisiting of childhood shamefulness and guilt is most draconian, though I persist just the same with the same scolding. A sun, as there may be more then the one, is beaming, gently, with midwifery’s softened hands, finger pads exculpating me of all evilness. This julep-mint balm, for chapped lips such as mine, is to be embalmed to the coetaneous roughing, scabbing, of my own chapped lips, as directed for medicinal purposes. It would not, so I gather, be a sumptuous spread for toast or melba. I recall, from past memories, a canoeist spreading Mcurdies Bear Oil, a fly repellant, on his morning toast, resulting, as it would, in blindness. Being sightless he had to be hauled, by hands blistered raw by wooden paddles, out of the forest, tributary, by his fellow canoeists. A none too easy task, I would imagine. Best to keep with the freeze-dried vagaries of food, as they are much less cumbersome and weighty for portage. It is time, as it is, to unease my self from the latticed wooden skeleton I sit on while writing this murder of words. Today, this day in recession of many, I will complete, if possible, the reading of Raymond Queneau’s We Always Treat Women Too Well, and be done with it. I would like to begin reading, soon, Peter Esterhazy’s Celestial Harmonies, as I need constant distraction from the vagaries of my life as such. Today I will try, with avarice, to put a halt to this incessant scolding by my own hand, as it is, the world being all that is the case as Wittgenstein so alluded, incorrectly so.
The impetigo seems to be in order, this being the case, as it is. This corpse-bag, I. If I were to be, as I am not, understood, this nonsense would not be so bothersome as it is. All such senselessness, such avarice, would be done away with, vaguely, for the time being. I cannot, nor would I, think of a more pleasant and delicate enjoyment than to swim, seal-like, in the snotgreen, scrotumtighteningsea, just for a moment, no more. Such, I gather, is not a pleasantry that I will, nor should be, permitted to enjoy, not in this, the best of all possible worlds so it is. Sleeping, I have reasoned, is coeval with death, the two being synonymous, at most. In the morning, perhaps, I will skillet-blacken a kidney, perhaps a liver, and begin my day, as one should, with fierceness of spirit and a satisfied belly. This all began, if you recall, with my testament to the cookery of Sir Dylan Thomas’s liver stropped with whiskey and lye, as would have it. A most indelicate repast, best enjoyed with a bottle of sherry, an onion, perhaps, boiled to a placental mush, savored, then expectorated for good measure, as it should.
(Jan 14. 05)
What is morning but the absence of night? I am older, more aged than I look,from the outside. It’s the inside, the viscera, entrails, messed, as they are, that is where the real work is done; all else is deception. No two ever the same, so it is. Sleeping is life, wakefulness death. This, so I have come to learn, unhappily, is the way it is, or should be, or will be, the world as it is. Consciousness, this whorish inconvenience, is much overrated. Perhaps all this, this whatever it is, is a clever illusion, nothing more. Who’s to say? A phantom or a ghostbody, they have no say in. Bearing witness to other men’s suffering, never my own, silently, for fear of reprisal from a phantom or a ghostbody, shaming me, mother’s them both, but not knowing the difference.
I am responsible for nothing; not even this nonsense. Had Hitler been a better artist, he could never have imagined man’s inhumanities to man. Artists have an infantile need to re-imagine the realities they have been expectorated into. Existential insecurities, reassigned, freed, and in the end, destroyed. This, I am afraid, is the folly of the artist: never progressing beyond a childish incoherence. Communication is possible only when words have lost all meaning, the writer, regressing, just one word behind imagining genocide, this wolf in sheep’s clothing. Another insufferable paragraph, suet, cauterized, as it was, on the tip of my tongue. This tenuous hold on consciousness seems, as it is, to be the one thing I have worth giving up; tomorrow, if it comes, being a simple reiteration of what has passed before it, lips chewed purple, scolding, so the difference, is meaningless at best.
(Jan 15. 05)
The sky, even though it is blue, azure, cerulean, is meaningless at best. Not even an ocean, bluer than God’s eyes, is worthy of metaphor. All miming incoherence, lips chewed purple, nothing more. As children we mimic, like monkeys, little inconsequential apes, what we are fed through the senses of touch, hearing, sight, and smell. We give back as told, what we have learned, been told to learn, nothing more. Any creativity, imagination, is shamed and beaten into resistance, as compliance, never individuality, is desirous, nothing more. When we reach adulthood, beaten and exhausted, things change, and the miming stops; we give back nothing except our own vomit, a mark of our individuality; lips chewed purple, yet bluer. It is one month, to the day, that this bastard child, a monster, was given birth to. I can’t go on; I must go on. This blue sky, so indifferent to my indifference.
"O Lord, to paradise admit
All of us, who sin and suffer!"
…The polisher with his big spoon
Stuffs his mouth with millet’
And fellows in the street
Sing to the accordeon;
And bitterly the comfort drips
On the souls of all who suffer;
And the boy, half-octopus,
Beneath his blanket shudders.
Moscow,
January 7, 1941
Aleksandr Sergeyevich Yesenin-Volpin
All of us, who sin and suffer!"
…The polisher with his big spoon
Stuffs his mouth with millet’
And fellows in the street
Sing to the accordeon;
And bitterly the comfort drips
On the souls of all who suffer;
And the boy, half-octopus,
Beneath his blanket shudders.
Moscow,
January 7, 1941
Aleksandr Sergeyevich Yesenin-Volpin
We, all, lowing like cattle before the skullhatchet puts an end to breathing, exhalations, respiring, pulmonary thumping. I will kill you, the murderous crone that I am, with my words, and nothing more. I am, perhaps, a scatologist, a collector of rotten feces, balanced, nimbly on the tip of my nose, gorholes, both of them, not apertures as once thought. Today is the first day, as it is, can only be, of the remainder of your death. This regress, skullhatchetted, into the arcane moment of life, or is it, as it should be, lifelessness disguised, cowering, as death. Only Virgil, and he alone, can guide us through this Dantean hell, this life not quite lived. Lived, as one dies, cold, stammering, and indifferent to it all, in this, the best of all possible worlds, so I was told to learn by others.
I don’t recall anything, as there is nothing to remember. Memories pay false witness to remembering, adding to the illusion of being something rather than nothing at all. These apertures through which souls and dogsbodies pass unnoticed, scolding this meaninglessness that knows no better, nor cares to. Feeding this insatiable hunger for more (of what) through this gorehole where food and liquids are added and removed at will, so it seems. This too, nothing more than a flimsy illusion of something rather than nothing, a regress into madness. Thirty days passed unnoticed, yet leaving an indelible mark on my thoughts, just thoughts, nothing more. Can it go on? It can’t go on, it must go on. It will go on, or there will be nothing, disguised as something, a memory, perhaps, not worth the bother remembering.
(Jan. 16. 05)
A blue Gauloises Blue morning, in this, the best of all possible worlds. No cornflies swifting, nor bluebottle’s, just a simple, cogent blueness, a pleasant refraction of light, a montage, bird-like, yet bluer, as Wittgenstein might have said had he. The thesis must come to an end. I have spent too much time as it is rehashing thoughts that were never hashed to begin with, just musings, nothing more. Time, having no essence, is meaningless, so on with it, before Heidegger intervenes and sullies the whole endeavor, as he would, were he not rotten in the ground. A stone’s throw away from a Masters, yet nowhere near an ending, so untimely. Today, the first day of the day when you put an end to this philosophical-ninnying, abruptly, ending, yes I said yes I will Yes. A mouthful of Molly’s soiled undergarments, or Plumtree’s potted meats, miring the softness of a too soft mouth with delicate aplomb, bird-like. I am to see a film today with a dear, dear friend, whence men abrogate and sodomize one another without consent. Or is it men of cloth, supplicants, sodomizing little boys, those entrusted to their godly care? Almadovar, he has seen this, not only in his mind’s eye, but also in the horror of his dreams.
My eyes are green, scallion-green. Not blue-cobalt or turquoise like a mountain lake, avian-blue, yet bluer. Hazel-blue, sclera, snot-green, flecked with dirt, muddied, turbid, roiling. Nile-brown, or is it Ganges, necrotic with the stench, mortified and scabby; lice-scales, flittering, in an alabaster whiteness, whiter than a priest’s robe, so it is, that white. Platonic-blue, sodomy-blue, the Form of forms blue, yet bluer, still. Too much blueness for my liking and not enough greenness, death’s ripening, in this, the best of all.
This envy, a jealousy I have, of Blazes Boylan’s blissful assignations with Molly’s netherparts, undergarments hiked up around her throat, warbling madly, seedcake seed everywhere. Not even the good manners, as it is, to lave his privates with lemony-scented soap, purloined from poor, cuckolded Leopold’s greatcoat pocket; the nerve of the man, this Blazes Boyland, opera enthusiast, sodomer of Molly’s nethermostpart, a most indelicate arraying it must have been.
I am joyfully joyless. Constipated with thought, yet stanched with fecal matter, these intestinal verities being the only true representation of who I am, or care to be. Bosnia, the Sudan, Rwanda, Chile, Peru, Argentina, Guatemala, El Salvador, the only ones that have any real idea of what’s goes on when the lights dim and cunts start flapping. CBS, NBC, CNN, FOX, the cunts of media, emissaries of hared and racism, the father figures that beat carefully manipulated images, these simulacra, into heads eager for some once-removed, though quite entertaining just the same, schadenfreude, these inexpensive, skilful douche-dramas. One too many airplanes flown un-Christianly into an office tower full of faceless, nameless, simulacra, images scripted to fit the girth of your television set, fire-jumpers exciting an otherwise boring, dissatisfying day, in this the best of, so it is.
I have bedsores from not sleeping. I have straight teeth from one too many thumps to the gorehole. I have a gunnysack for an ass, fattened lardy with cream custards and chocolate eclairs. I have a bald spot covered in hair. My eyes, green as the snotgreensea, are flecked with evacuents that have been emancipated from the clutchings of my ass. I am on probation for my prohibitions. I have bedsores on my face from head-butting the pillows. Need I say more, I trust not. Wittgenstein said, with a crack-addict’s acumen, that the object of philosophy is to stop doing it, this awful state of affairs. It is never too late to learn a new trade, perhaps an avocation or hobby. This I have learned, culled, from past experiences, all to few so it seems, I’d say. If I had more of them, more experiences, with fucking and other such indelicacies, things as they are, or could be, would be much different, of that I am quite certain. No two fucks the same, identical, yet dissimilar. A philosophical ass-fucking, as suggested by Deleuze, seems quite in order, if, as it is, we are to get out of this mess me have created and promulgated for ourselves. No two the same, sodomies as they are, being none too indifferent to similarities, as such. Borges was blind, but I am sightless. Eyes, also, so I gather, are goreholes, plain and simple. Hands and feet, perhaps, nothing but poorly executed maul-sticks, locutions not worth the hurry or bustling. Eight minutes past two Amerindian, time for the nightly disengagement from it all, it all, of course, being it all. Consciousness, as I have alluded to, being a grossly overrated intentionality. No, nothing better, yes, than a crumb-bed of Plumtree’s potted meat and the scurvy of Molly’s sullied under drawers, indelicately tethered in the crowns of one’s pyorrheal masticators.
(Jan. 17. 05)
A harsh Castilian sun, searing the undersides of my labium. So this is the sweet succor of a hornet’s sting, a Goytisoloian bite in the nethereass, so it is. I am under siege, tittering like a stammering fool, the stammered that I am. This cuneiform head of mine is dullard with thinking thoughts. On the intelligence coition scale I rate unremitting, perhaps savant or musing- miscreant, not much differentiation in the scaling, so it seems. Unemployable-savant ass-callused to the chair, writing this drivel with impunity. I am, so I am, quite the fortunate one. Today being the first day of the infinite regress, again. Corn-tipped fingers tap-tapping the alphabet out like some Pavlovian dog with a slavering tongue, livid with delight. Meat-worms, there are those, so I’ve heard, scrubbing the gums and soft tissues in this mawhole that thinks it’s a mouth, a gorehole, nothing more. Why such punishing indelicacies on such a warm Castilain day? Anticipating the anxieties that will cauterize my insides to the Form of all forms, tallow-light flittering in Plato’s sewer, unreasonable reasonableness, so it is. Lest we forget, with a convenience unassailable, that he, the Greek, was the forebearer of Christianity as we know it today. The Form of forms, so it is, the precursor of God and Christ.
The moment is ripe, belly-swollen, for a Heideggerian leap into the ontological fray, teeth gritting the dirt that settles like scullions in the trap of my mouth, gorehole, maulhole, there being, as there is, no difference between the two, sadly enough. Who knows the difference? Certainly not I, I that am, sadly so, I am. If it weren’t for Icarus’ valiant flapping, the Wright brothers would be brothers, nothing more, unlike the Brothers Karamazov, to whom the world was a cheeky fuck in the ass.
A night colder than Dante’s hell, and these eyes, frozen shut, no tears of contrition or sadness, just Popsicle-scabs, ducts frostbitten, goreholes like scullery whores all in a pretty row. Who thinks up these things, these silly little maudlin things? Dante, or Dostoevski perhaps, Proust, silly little Parisian cunt, one interminably long dull repetitive rehashing, the same fucking poor-me, look at me, until the corkboard separates from the wall-seams, bastard Parisian fuck. I do (confession is good for the soul, so it is) like the cheeky little fuck in the ass, genius that he was, not I, of course. A mouthful of generic Sherry transubstantiates the fucking hell right out of you, one last kick at the Eucharistic-can, so to speak. The ghostbody of Christ, a slight of the hand, no less, this blood into wine, or is it the other way round, as it could very well be, transubstantiated as it is. A tricky business, this alchemy of the soul, as Jung would have us believe, cuckolding fuck that he was. Adler’s maulsticks must have made his attendance at the Viennese’s PA quite the challenge, I can well imagine. They say, whom, I haven’t the slightest, that his idea for the notion of the Inferiority Feeling can be traced back to his own struggles with trundling clubfeet. Interesting notion, if not a tad extroverted and bullying.
Genetic considerations. We pointed out long ago that to be human means to feel inferior. Perhaps not everyone can recall having such a feeling. Possibly some feel repelled by this expression and would rather choose another term. I have nothing against such substitution, especially since I see that various authors have already made use of it. To put us in the wrong, certain clever people have figured that in order to arrive at a feeling of inferiority that the child must originally have had a sense of high value.
Alfred Adler
I don’t recall anything, as there is nothing to remember. Memories pay false witness to remembering, adding to the illusion of being something rather than nothing at all. These apertures through which souls and dogsbodies pass unnoticed, scolding this meaninglessness that knows no better, nor cares to. Feeding this insatiable hunger for more (of what) through this gorehole where food and liquids are added and removed at will, so it seems. This too, nothing more than a flimsy illusion of something rather than nothing, a regress into madness. Thirty days passed unnoticed, yet leaving an indelible mark on my thoughts, just thoughts, nothing more. Can it go on? It can’t go on, it must go on. It will go on, or there will be nothing, disguised as something, a memory, perhaps, not worth the bother remembering.
(Jan. 16. 05)
A blue Gauloises Blue morning, in this, the best of all possible worlds. No cornflies swifting, nor bluebottle’s, just a simple, cogent blueness, a pleasant refraction of light, a montage, bird-like, yet bluer, as Wittgenstein might have said had he. The thesis must come to an end. I have spent too much time as it is rehashing thoughts that were never hashed to begin with, just musings, nothing more. Time, having no essence, is meaningless, so on with it, before Heidegger intervenes and sullies the whole endeavor, as he would, were he not rotten in the ground. A stone’s throw away from a Masters, yet nowhere near an ending, so untimely. Today, the first day of the day when you put an end to this philosophical-ninnying, abruptly, ending, yes I said yes I will Yes. A mouthful of Molly’s soiled undergarments, or Plumtree’s potted meats, miring the softness of a too soft mouth with delicate aplomb, bird-like. I am to see a film today with a dear, dear friend, whence men abrogate and sodomize one another without consent. Or is it men of cloth, supplicants, sodomizing little boys, those entrusted to their godly care? Almadovar, he has seen this, not only in his mind’s eye, but also in the horror of his dreams.
My eyes are green, scallion-green. Not blue-cobalt or turquoise like a mountain lake, avian-blue, yet bluer. Hazel-blue, sclera, snot-green, flecked with dirt, muddied, turbid, roiling. Nile-brown, or is it Ganges, necrotic with the stench, mortified and scabby; lice-scales, flittering, in an alabaster whiteness, whiter than a priest’s robe, so it is, that white. Platonic-blue, sodomy-blue, the Form of forms blue, yet bluer, still. Too much blueness for my liking and not enough greenness, death’s ripening, in this, the best of all.
This envy, a jealousy I have, of Blazes Boylan’s blissful assignations with Molly’s netherparts, undergarments hiked up around her throat, warbling madly, seedcake seed everywhere. Not even the good manners, as it is, to lave his privates with lemony-scented soap, purloined from poor, cuckolded Leopold’s greatcoat pocket; the nerve of the man, this Blazes Boyland, opera enthusiast, sodomer of Molly’s nethermostpart, a most indelicate arraying it must have been.
I am joyfully joyless. Constipated with thought, yet stanched with fecal matter, these intestinal verities being the only true representation of who I am, or care to be. Bosnia, the Sudan, Rwanda, Chile, Peru, Argentina, Guatemala, El Salvador, the only ones that have any real idea of what’s goes on when the lights dim and cunts start flapping. CBS, NBC, CNN, FOX, the cunts of media, emissaries of hared and racism, the father figures that beat carefully manipulated images, these simulacra, into heads eager for some once-removed, though quite entertaining just the same, schadenfreude, these inexpensive, skilful douche-dramas. One too many airplanes flown un-Christianly into an office tower full of faceless, nameless, simulacra, images scripted to fit the girth of your television set, fire-jumpers exciting an otherwise boring, dissatisfying day, in this the best of, so it is.
I have bedsores from not sleeping. I have straight teeth from one too many thumps to the gorehole. I have a gunnysack for an ass, fattened lardy with cream custards and chocolate eclairs. I have a bald spot covered in hair. My eyes, green as the snotgreensea, are flecked with evacuents that have been emancipated from the clutchings of my ass. I am on probation for my prohibitions. I have bedsores on my face from head-butting the pillows. Need I say more, I trust not. Wittgenstein said, with a crack-addict’s acumen, that the object of philosophy is to stop doing it, this awful state of affairs. It is never too late to learn a new trade, perhaps an avocation or hobby. This I have learned, culled, from past experiences, all to few so it seems, I’d say. If I had more of them, more experiences, with fucking and other such indelicacies, things as they are, or could be, would be much different, of that I am quite certain. No two fucks the same, identical, yet dissimilar. A philosophical ass-fucking, as suggested by Deleuze, seems quite in order, if, as it is, we are to get out of this mess me have created and promulgated for ourselves. No two the same, sodomies as they are, being none too indifferent to similarities, as such. Borges was blind, but I am sightless. Eyes, also, so I gather, are goreholes, plain and simple. Hands and feet, perhaps, nothing but poorly executed maul-sticks, locutions not worth the hurry or bustling. Eight minutes past two Amerindian, time for the nightly disengagement from it all, it all, of course, being it all. Consciousness, as I have alluded to, being a grossly overrated intentionality. No, nothing better, yes, than a crumb-bed of Plumtree’s potted meat and the scurvy of Molly’s sullied under drawers, indelicately tethered in the crowns of one’s pyorrheal masticators.
(Jan. 17. 05)
A harsh Castilian sun, searing the undersides of my labium. So this is the sweet succor of a hornet’s sting, a Goytisoloian bite in the nethereass, so it is. I am under siege, tittering like a stammering fool, the stammered that I am. This cuneiform head of mine is dullard with thinking thoughts. On the intelligence coition scale I rate unremitting, perhaps savant or musing- miscreant, not much differentiation in the scaling, so it seems. Unemployable-savant ass-callused to the chair, writing this drivel with impunity. I am, so I am, quite the fortunate one. Today being the first day of the infinite regress, again. Corn-tipped fingers tap-tapping the alphabet out like some Pavlovian dog with a slavering tongue, livid with delight. Meat-worms, there are those, so I’ve heard, scrubbing the gums and soft tissues in this mawhole that thinks it’s a mouth, a gorehole, nothing more. Why such punishing indelicacies on such a warm Castilain day? Anticipating the anxieties that will cauterize my insides to the Form of all forms, tallow-light flittering in Plato’s sewer, unreasonable reasonableness, so it is. Lest we forget, with a convenience unassailable, that he, the Greek, was the forebearer of Christianity as we know it today. The Form of forms, so it is, the precursor of God and Christ.
The moment is ripe, belly-swollen, for a Heideggerian leap into the ontological fray, teeth gritting the dirt that settles like scullions in the trap of my mouth, gorehole, maulhole, there being, as there is, no difference between the two, sadly enough. Who knows the difference? Certainly not I, I that am, sadly so, I am. If it weren’t for Icarus’ valiant flapping, the Wright brothers would be brothers, nothing more, unlike the Brothers Karamazov, to whom the world was a cheeky fuck in the ass.
A night colder than Dante’s hell, and these eyes, frozen shut, no tears of contrition or sadness, just Popsicle-scabs, ducts frostbitten, goreholes like scullery whores all in a pretty row. Who thinks up these things, these silly little maudlin things? Dante, or Dostoevski perhaps, Proust, silly little Parisian cunt, one interminably long dull repetitive rehashing, the same fucking poor-me, look at me, until the corkboard separates from the wall-seams, bastard Parisian fuck. I do (confession is good for the soul, so it is) like the cheeky little fuck in the ass, genius that he was, not I, of course. A mouthful of generic Sherry transubstantiates the fucking hell right out of you, one last kick at the Eucharistic-can, so to speak. The ghostbody of Christ, a slight of the hand, no less, this blood into wine, or is it the other way round, as it could very well be, transubstantiated as it is. A tricky business, this alchemy of the soul, as Jung would have us believe, cuckolding fuck that he was. Adler’s maulsticks must have made his attendance at the Viennese’s PA quite the challenge, I can well imagine. They say, whom, I haven’t the slightest, that his idea for the notion of the Inferiority Feeling can be traced back to his own struggles with trundling clubfeet. Interesting notion, if not a tad extroverted and bullying.
Genetic considerations. We pointed out long ago that to be human means to feel inferior. Perhaps not everyone can recall having such a feeling. Possibly some feel repelled by this expression and would rather choose another term. I have nothing against such substitution, especially since I see that various authors have already made use of it. To put us in the wrong, certain clever people have figured that in order to arrive at a feeling of inferiority that the child must originally have had a sense of high value.
Alfred Adler
I am far too cuneiformed to continue on like this, not for a moment more. I’m afraid, which I most certainly am not, afraid, in the least. Fear is a luxury I can ill afford. OCD, as it is, takes up most if not all of the fear I have been allotted, or permitted to excite, in this best of worlds. Having neglected, volitionally, to wear my glasses while writing this liturgical shite, my eyes have taken the liberty of crossing in on themselves with failsafe impunity. As would have it, sleep seems a most reasonable occlusion, a way out of the ocular terror that permits no rest for the weary-eyed such as I.
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