Moreso more.

(Dec. 20. 04)
It is some 20 degrees below the measure at which water freezes, add to this, this thing called ‘wind chill’, and considerably more inhospitable. I gleaned, as I have, this climatic information from watching and listening, attentively, to the meteor-predictor who comes to me each morning issued through the convex-microwaves of my television. It is, or so it seems, not the predicting that I am after, but rather the microwaves, which help to augment the pigmentation in my winter-pale skin. In the Sudan, the weather is much less inhospitable, yet children starve and emaciate with an urgency that is, albeit, less climatically challenging, yet incalculably more abhorrent. If these white splintery things should appear again today, arrogating what may prove to be a labor-intensive trudging to the doctors, I will be none too pleased. Perhaps one with such tittering complaints should shut his crust-hole and be mindful of his manners. Not now, nor ever, to the best of my recollection, having suffered from emaciation, I should revisit my place as a complainer in this, ‘the best of all possible worlds’, and get on with it. Those very things we choose to complain about, often with an incessant ass-headed (ness), being the insoluble indicators of our comfort and privilege in this world. Blood-born contagion and starvation not figuring into the complex, I should count myself among the privileged, larded as I am, with a contentment a Sudanese child hasn’t the option of complaining about.
We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have (…) The rest is the madness of art.
Henry James
I am subject to two principal dispositions which change quite regularly (…) and which I call my weekly soul, one finds me wisely mad and the other madly wise, but in such a way that madness wins out over wisdom in both cases…
Rousseau
The belief in truth is precisely madness.
It is not just the wisdom of the ages but also their madness that bursts out in us. It is dangerous to be their heir. (Thus Spoke Zarathustra)
Nietzsche

The last madness which will remain with me will probably be that of believing myself to be a poet.
Nerval

To create a class or sub-phylum of society for the sole purpose of casting demons upon it, is not simply reprehensible, but dehumanistic. The mad, so culled because of their resistance to societal norms, are such a class or sub-species. Not of their own doing, as many are inveigled with a chemical imbalance that forces a disengagement from so-called rational interactions, these miscreants and pariahs are subjugated to a strata lower, and often less privileged, than those of a house pet. I have observed people who treat their cat or dog with more respect and compassion, than they would (and do) a schizophrenic foraging through the garbage bin behind a McDonalds for a hastily discarded Big Mac, desperate to stave off a hunger that dilates and lacerates a ulcerated stomach. A society’s worth is judged on the mercies it shows it’s less fortunate members; not, as common moralities would have us believe, in how much we can screw out of the other person without incurring the ire and distemper of the judiciary. If Foucault were with us today, he would most certainly choose madness over a gonorrheal essentialism that abrogates common decencies. I myself, being such a miscreant, find the thought of madness quite inviting, at least in this ether of suspended-arrogation, I could live immitigably and with (un) brocaded self-autonomy.
Swift has sailed into his rest;
Savage indignation there
Cannot lacerate his breast.
Imitate him if you dare,
World-besotted traveller; he
Served human liberty.
W.B. Yeat’s Version of Swift’s Epitaph
The temperature to day was screaming. I fought and thrashed my way up and downtown in a futile attempt at locating a small sum of money that was to put sustenance in my belly and benzene and ferricyanide in my lungs. Lungs, I must confide, already scorched and limed with some 30 years of persistent tobacco use. As it now stands, my forage was blighted with rumors of failure and stupidity, leaving me cold-tempered and bloodied-red in the face with this thing called ‘wind chill’. I now have, it is true, a skull occluded and torpid with ice-spurs. Perhaps tomorrow’s weather, if it comes at all, will be less distempered. I have no reliable notions on this subject whatsoever, notions, for the most part, being highly overrated and inconclusive in matters such as these. Tomorrow being my brother-in-law Jon’s birthday, he having reached my self-same age, I will place a call and wish him all the happiness and joy that seems necessary.
(Dec. 21. 04)
There are crackles of ice on my window. If a Starlet were to fly onto the pane it would surely bust its neck. This thing in it’s throat, a Starlet’s throat, that’s summons up such beautiful noises, this singing or warbling or what have you, is called a syrinx. I know this as I have read the dictionary, often. Syllepsis, putting together, as in a grammatical construction in which a single word is used in a syntactical relationship with two or more words in the same sentence, though it can agree with only one of them in gender, number, or case. (Ex.: either they or I am wrong). If it weren’t for my thoughts being syncopated, as they are, with OCD, I would be a much flatter thinker, I suppose. This high-reutilization of generally unobfuscal ritualization and redoing, can get quite tiresomely over-determined. I, for one, reuse (better yet, emissary) an over-sylleptic recidivism that puts considerable strain on my syrinx, to put it is so many words. Jon has reached my age today, forty-six and counting, backwards now perhaps. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich seems reasonable. The garbage truck will soon be here. I have garbage; therefore I must attend to its discarding. A simple, yet ossifying complex example of an Aristotelian syllogism. Sophistry, so I’ve come to learn, has its purposes in a society such as ours; especially when there are crackles of ice formed, as they are, on the glazing of my window, as such. Enlightened thought is certainly not what it’s made out to be, not by a longshot. The garbage-conveyance that carts away the wastes of my meager existence, will soon be crimping ice beneath its hard-rubbery tires, so I best act swiftly.
Incidentally (nothing is incidental, or an accident, but always a collision with something with a much bigger head and a stronger neck) I haven’t a driver’s license, so have no idea how to convey one of those dutbintrucks, none whatsoever, sadly enough, not at all. Several years ago, if I recall, three younger woman, all in declension of my thirty or so years of age of the time of which I am writing, crimped my hair one freezing-cold February night just before my thirty-something birthday. I being inebrious, and smitten at the time with one of these three young woman, one who’s flame-reddened hair droves nails into the base of my neck, could have cared less. So much so, in fact, that I fell asleep, that very night, and in a tragedy of dreams that served no other purpose than to further inflame an already aching heart, micturated into my trouser-bottoms. Redness’, so it seems, does that sort of thing to me, regardless of the texture of my hair. This statement, I believe, is not one that could be further explicated by an Aristotelian syllogism, by no means. Philosophy, so I have come to learn, rather slowly, I might add, is nothing more than a fractious molestation of words, concepts, and whatever you may have at hand at the time. Furthermore, it is in no way or manner capable of altering the fabric of society, not in the least.
I have a masterful headache. This blade-to-the-hilt (ness) that is making a mess of my thoughts, is, to say the least, quite extraordinary. I am finding it a worthy adversary, one that tests my capacity for suffering. As far as I understand it, suffering, as such, is predicated on the skull’s ability to fend off unconsciousness with skillfully palming phrenological hands. By this I mean I have no fucking idea what it is I mean, or for that matter, don’t mean. Most of life as I experience it, so it seems, is a fretful waste of time. More than one chemical imbalance is more than any one person should have to put up with, surely. Driving the dustbintruck would be, of this I am quite certain, a spiritual experience of rich extraordinariness.
From the Central library I have borrowed a collection of plays by Dario Fo. Once I have read them, and time permitting, I will make comment of them.
A cloven-in face, as she had, reminded me of a mortuary’s spade, earth and worms clinging to the blunted edges of the enshovelment. This blunting, I am to gather, is precipitated by a constant knocking against stone and bone-fragments, many of which have yet to be digested by the earth. As for the worms, they are a natural phenomenon of graveyards, and as such, permitted their indelicacies. A mason’s beveled mortise rake, such as I have seen on street-trams and buses in the city of Toronto, are generally more roughly hewn. These men of mortar and stone, indigence of such countries as Italy and Portugal, tend to have broad-swaying backs and equally broad hands, hands, so I saw, milky with dried strictures and stone adjustments.
It is well past midnight, as I can certainly tell from the cracking noises and jimmies that are presently at issue from the cracklings formed like stars and scratches on the sculls of my windowpanes. If this is the case, which I assume it to be, all things considered, as they must, then it is time for me to seek the comfort and cheap solace of sleep. Resting at ease on the bed-set table is an orange-covered book entitled ‘Critique of Cynical Reason’ by the inimitable German literary/philosopher Peter Sloterdijk. I will get to it in due time, or when Adorno deems it appropriate reading. He, Adorno, being deceased and therefore unable to deem anything fit for reading, should really have no say in the matter, none whatsoever. This orange book, which as luck would have it, has been translated from the originary German into English, is sub-plotted, if that is the proper term in these matters, Theory and History of Literature, Volume 40. Orange, so I have determined, is a lovely colour for a book, especially one in-translation, as it is. My father and a neighbor of his, two doors up the street (a south to north trajectory, if I recall correctly) would chew with great relish on charred duck skin, which they, and others I gather, referred to as ‘crackling’. It is a small world, in deed.
(Dec. 22. 04)
Today’s sky would be best described as pork-gray, boiled out of recognition. Notice that I use ‘out’ instead of ‘beyond’, being as I am more at ease with the syntactical mismatching of words than with their congruency. It has come to my attention over the years, years spent championing a grammatical theory that no one else seems to have encouraged, that most people not only distrust the meanings of words, but fail to use them propitiously. I, I am afraid (which I am not, afraid, really) am such a one. Let me suggest that many people, having porridged the insides of their skulls with alcohol and amphetamines, to name but two such porridgers, have a fair to middling capacity for ratio-social-interpersonal-intercourse. As I have alluded to in a previous dissertation, most things are incommunicable, and as such, not worth the bother. On this fair to middling morning a skillet-fried kidney, in recognition of the centenary of Bloom’s day, some six months late albeit, would be a most propitious morning fare. Then perhaps for dinner, or supper, if you prefer the English idiomatic, Dylan’ s hastily excised liver, besotted and ravaged as it would be with whisky and gizzard stones the size of one’s thumb, washed down with tap water, as I drink nothing more adventurous or astringent.
As a way of ridding myself, even momentarily, of a constant self-admonishment, I purchased 18% table cream for this morning’s coffee. The key wording here, I suppose, is ‘table cream’, suggesting as it does that it is not suggested for coffee, but for strawberries or shortcakes best eaten from a bowl placed on a table in front of oneself, i.e. ‘table cream’. As it now stands, it has soured my stomach beyond recognition. I distrust myself often, and cast self-doubt on most everything I do with spuriousness that is most unsatisfying and tiresomely over-determined. The prophylacticity of my mental health, or equilibrium, if you prefer, is at constant issue with this over-determination, resulting in a self-porridgization unimaginable. Smoking, so it seems, lessens the effects of this spuriousness. I am off, now, to the Thrift store where one is encouraged to buy things second-hand. I wonder, well not actually wonder, but suggest, whether Moore had a second-hand; and this being the case, was he aware of it? Struggle as he did with the simplest of physiological verities, he would most probably have struggled with this quandary too, I would imagine.
If I had to tell what the world is for me
I would take a hamster or a hedgehog or a mole
and place him in a theatre seat one evening
and, bringing my ear close to his humid snout,
would listen to what he says about the spotlights,
sounds of the music, and movements of dance.
Czeslaw Milosz
No cracklings this morning, just a stream, some rivulets, of ice exhausted and inveigled by an early summer solstice. All things, the psyche included, edge towards entropy wrote Freud, whose exact words I cannot recall with any certainty at all. Moore, I might conjecture, would have made a terrible phrenologist.
There is no moon in the sky, but simply a faint glowing, a murmur that hints at the merest possibility of a there being a moon, albeit, hidden in the invaginations of a whore’s skirts. If this moon or the possibility of it, mere as it may seem, is the case, then we may attribute to it a name thereby assigning to it the property of a common noun. If this is not the case, then the aforementioned hypothesis is nonsensical at best. Now the sky, which is the harbor for the moon, its mooring, so to speak, has a name, ‘sky’, which engenders it with a feminine nomenclature. As such, it is not simply a mere possibility that it exists, but a fact of words and nature, if you may. If this attributing can be twinned, so to speak, with the probability that there is this thing called or referred to as a moon, then the nonsense is unattributable, and therefore null and void.
It was drawn to my attention by a dear friend that if I were to remain seated aboard an airplane for the remainder of my nature life, and that airplane was in a constant circumlocutional trajectory around the periphery of the earth, taking into consideration, as we must, the recurrent passing-through of time zones, each one crossing out or negating the one preceding it, time, as we understand it, would be moot, and I would cease to experience mortality. If this is not, nor ever could be, the case, then the entire Aristotelian explication is, at best un-syllogistic, and therefore moots.
It seems quite to the evidence that I am in dire and unprecedented need of rest, sleep perhaps. As there is no moon, as calculus has shown us, or if there is, hidden as it is in whorish enfolding, then it is safe to say that there will be minimal glowing recumbrances eloping through the retinue of my cracking windowpane (s). If this is not the case, and the moon is simply hiding for hiding sake, waiting to vaunt the procedure of my sleeping, then this is an altogether different matter, one that will need further explorations in order to encourage a recantation.
(Dec. 23. 04)
There is no sky this morning, simply an entrail-grayness that is mortuary (ous). Remaining abed might have been a better use of logic, or not, who knows. Yesterday’s inscriptions, or scribings (does it matter?) were proof of the rash inconsistencies not simply of my thoughts, but of the eloquence with which I express and scribble them. At this rate, and with such (in) eloquence, I can expect nothing substantiated from myself; nothing whatsoever at all. There are no birthdays in my family today, or if there are (is), I have forgotten about them. There is a bitterness to the coffee this morning, a tannic lye. This Eucharistic mourning is sadly ineffectual. Transcribesubstantiation, as Joyce might have phrased it if Finnegans Wake had been longer. I am at my best, I suppose, when I am culling, through what, is not important, just culling. They talk of culling the seal population, with stalagmite-bats and fists bloodied with murder. They also make passing reference to the culling through of files and envelopes, searching for a document that eludes circumspection. I, however, having OCD, cull through every-and-all-things with an urgency that is sickeningly ineffectual. This constancy, or interminable madness, is just one example of my disposition for over-determination (s). An emotional-parasite that enslaves, this unstoppable checking and rechecking, a high postmodernism (if that is what it is) that hobbles an otherwise distaff (ed) mind. The compulsive and so often enervating ritualization of the most simple undertakings; such as turning on and off the water faucet, or picking up a dropped pencil from the carpeting. These simple things, activities, encourage a paralysis in one such as I. If the recurrent compulsive ritualization is not done and carried through to its most illogical conclusion (there being, of course, no such conclusiveness) the mounting anxieties are unimaginable to one not so predisposed. Seritonin, or so I have been informed by my doctor, is the root-cause of this inconclusiveness. As would have it, my periodic table is fucked, I gather.
My trouser-bottoms, today, were drenched through to the marrow, my feet providing me with very little axial encouragement because of this inability to father them a dry environment in which to plod. This indifference, as it was, encumbered my trajectories throughout the day, making it not simply troublesome, but highly peripatetic. Neither feet nor brain seemingly in control, nor sympathetic to the one which was, I applauded their cleverness, and shod only in simple training shoes (none of which I do) I got on with the day. Once one acknowledges and accepts one’s arraignment in life, things and events and happenings, such as there are, are far less contusing and much more easily managed, if manageability is at all the goal of life. I would counter no, and suggest this is not the case.
(Dec. 24. 04)
Solipsistically speaking, I have imagined a blue-sky (ed) day. These never as simple as they might appear mental-constructs, have their shortcomings. If as the architect of not simply my own thoughts, but all thoughts in perpetuity, meaning, I suppose, both me and not me, though that would be tautologically impossible, as if we grant solipsism, then I am as equally capable of not having or imagining these thoughts, as I could very well think myself into non-thought, whereas I would be thoughtless, and therefore incapable of any form or manner of solipsism whatsoever, I could very well be mistaken. It is Christmas day eve 2004, of that I am reasonable certain. It seems that I have no verificant other than myself, sadly enough. This azure blue morning sky, prophylactic as it is, is quite amenable. A scold of fattened throat-cut sheep, bleating themselves to an early slaughter, have not, as of yet, clouded an otherwise tabala rasa (ness) of blue sky. And for that I am thankful. The one birth I know of in the next day or so, is that of Jesus Christ, and His was of an immaculate nature, and, I suppose, not a birth at all, but an occurrence or a happening, or, if you may, a conception. For the vast majority of the non-Christian world, this seems quite strange, in deed, perhaps even solipsistic.
Although I was the sanest…most sensible
Most reasonable of men
Others drove me to commit
The grimmest, deadliest,
Most maniacal, and yes, unbridled acts…
Witold Gombrowicz