Samesuch nonsense.

(Dec 17. 04)
It is Dianne’s birthday today and I have forgotten. I am forgetful, illusions are funny that way, they, these phantoms (dogbodies) have an Maccabean hold on me, Saint Thomas not withstanding, or standing, knee-knocking, scouring the Holy land for dissenters such as I, Oedipal eye. The only confession I have to make, if I have one at all, is that I am disorganized of thought. Unlike Saint Augustine (not Thomas Quinoas) I scrum through the verities of life like an allegorist with thumb-joint firmly embedded in this indentation that serves no other purpose than to hold in place these Oedipal eyes (I). Opaque and rimmed with ice-skins as they are. I am no apologist: I have no apologies to make, except that I am unapologetic, and for that I offer no apology, none whatsoever.

"Having been discovered by you no trick was necessary for the others to find me. The difficulty is now to get rid of me."
THE CRUCIFIED.

What an eloquent self-reference to the scornfulness attributed to genius. No never at all: this far-too imaginative decrying of the hysterectomy of modern thought run riot with envies and poisonous transcendence. Metaphysics is the search, the lollygaging, for some excuse to be fraught with despair and self-righteousness, nothing more. Never getting it right, that is all we have to despise ourselves for; not ever, not ever once or twice, have we accepted our smallness in this ‘the best of all possible worlds’. When we do, we false-prophets (a cold and cruel Nietzscheanism) will finally be able to see with a joyous Borgean clarity and circumspection, not a moment before.
That was a most felateous statement, I said. What you offer with one mouth, you take away with another. This ambidextrous (ness) that moves mountains of thought has no such business in the lives of simple men. Rigor mortis is nothing more than a Grecian frieze held aloft in a scab-bitten hand: those who see it see through it, those who do not are fools, simpering and twittering in the crawlspace of thought. Why must this ‘no dust bin’ edict, with its insistence on standing at attention, evoke such joyousness in those of us who have had the licescales scolded from our eyes? Perhaps it’s the crucified in us, brooding and punishing, that permits such privilege. Perhaps even more, those chaining spirochetes that encourage a syphilitic mind. No one but he, the Dionysian, knows for certain. Nor would I care to, even were I able to navigate my way through the cob webs and canonical debris that litter and arrogate this most precious of places. Vagaries and marrowbones, these too will pass, in a blaze of glory (one hopes) for those of us Druid with stigmatic palms and tannic breath.
What is it about Joyce that so passionately (irrevocably) fascinates me? The language-games ballyhooed on the coattails of Wittgenstein (or was it the reverse)? Stephen Dedalus’ travailed philosophy concussed in the grave-clothes and guilt of a maternal shamefulness? Those maggoty dogsbodies ripened with arraignments, yet rotting at my feet, feet lousy with cornhusks and applesculls? Why arraignments, with this legalese (ease) that seems so unapt and dromedary? The in between (ness) is where the real work is done (Finnegan). Awakening with my lips smeared and whored with menstrual blood and rhododendrons. Some say tea is best boiled then steeped in (a) crockery, lid removable at one’s ease and pleasure. Bloom’s teeth jimmying free a kidney stropped and skillet-fried with lardy butter pats culled from between Molly’s tessellate leg scabs. Scummy with it all, night tremors soiling the perineum that bivalves her hastily eloped sleeping-drawers. That cunning-linguist Blazes Boylan ferrying his mandibles in place, readied to inebriate the nethermostmouth of dear hysterical Mrs. Leopold Bloom, opera singer. Her, Molly, her labia (majora and minora) scallion green from too much fiddle flummoxing, erstwhile, Bloom lip-smacking a rare treated kidney pie without the crusts. Stephen fending off the vulgar entreatings of a razor-cleaned Buck Mulligan, eyes crenellated with fly’s bodies. Kafka notwithstanding, should one imply with a politeness generally reserved for Hanna and Martin, that such nonsense is not atypical and commonplace in such circumstances? These fucking crawlspaces will be the death of me, of that I am certain.
What is it with me on this the birthday of my dearest sister, the one, and only one, perhaps, willing to acknowledge the Icarian fragility (such a thing?) of my wings? This thinking thing I attribute to my Id hasn’t a fucking clue what it’s up to. Id-eology is a samesuch thing, I suppose. Requiring, (we) must add, a paucity of thinking that verities have no right to acknowledge or aver to. Joyce would never aver, ever, not even when pressed to by Nora’s soliloquent ‘we’re starving in this fucking cold fallopian tube you so revengefully refer to as our home ‘(away from home, self-exile execrating an otherwise warm Italian ambience). God only knows what Lucia would have thought, tethered as she was to her patchy-eyed father’s writing-board. The polygamy of words, that’s what Joyce was after; after all, wasn’t that the raison de etre (ether) Derrida was getting at before he leapt through the ontological hoop into Hiedeggerian nomansland? A clapboard house has more structural integrity than a positivist’s titterings any day. Russell should have known better, the sentinel philosophical mutilator that he was.
It has come to my attention (in a moment of in-vacuity) that the crumple brows at Cambridge would never have tolerated Wittgenstein had he not been a true genius. Had it been anyone else, even Moore, who spent an inordinate amount of time trying to freely determine whether his hand was attached as it was to his arm, they would have been summarily drummed out of existence. Derrida is another story altogether. To deny a man of such eloquence of thought and humbleness an ‘honorary’ is pure rottingness. Pure and simple. If I so choose to leap into the deconstructionist’s fray, I will certainly keep this in mind, even if mine mind is quite over-determined and shoddily equipped. Molly, I’m sure, would understand. Another day in a incalculable recidivism of mishaps scrubbing the food-worms off of the teeth of postmodernism finally coming to an inauspicious close.
(Dec 18. 04)
I have a menacing mind. This eviscerate minding, I can assure you, is clouted with nailheads, nailheads trundled in a scrap-barrel over-burdened with indifference. Its is Saturday mourning, and the sky is gray with nailheads. If there were clouds, which they’re are none, they would, no doubt, be as gray and bloated as sheep awaiting the cutthroat scream that puts an end to all that. I have begun reading Robert Walser’s The Robber and feel much the better for it. There, perhaps, was a mind as eviscerate as mine. More so, I would imagine, as his self-asylum was more pressing an issue than my obsessive malingering could ever hope to descend. High modernism, so they say, whatever in the name of phantoms and ghost-bodies this is suppose to mean. I much prefer menacing, as it is more indelicate and to the point. This brings to mind, as it always does, Busi’s Sodomies in Eleven Point and Bataille’s Story of an Eye, two invenerate and most ineluctable literary affronts. Storming, as they do, with such skillful and venomous indifference, the ass-fucking multiplicitousness of an aesthetic scrotus fraught with pre-castration anxiety. A gonorrheal Oedipus shaming the innocence right out of you; screaming, from a nethermouth sour with corpsegas.
R. D. Lainge was a morose bastard, I would imagine so, so drunken on the anti-ness of almost anything worth vilifying that he and Guattari must have intravenous (ed) a whole shit-load of anabuse just to get through the day. One Anabaptism too fucking many, requiring a chisel to decalcify the hypothalamic hardening of their dopamine receptors. What a fucking shame, yes I see, quite a fucking shame. What is this thing called Anabaptism, you might inquire, and what in the fuck is it doing in an otherwise coherent sentence? Because it came before the word anabas in the fucking dictionary, that’s how come. Now what in the name of horror is a fucking anabas, you might feel propelled to ask. Here’s the fucking definition culled from the dirty fucking dictionary that sits abutting my hard-boarded copy of Murphy, don’t even think of asking by whom, you guinea bastard. I’m not going to like this, but I’ll find the patience somewhere to jot it down for you cunts. An-abas: a fucking climbing aqueous plant of freshwater gouramies of fucking Africa and SE Asia, that can live for a long fucking time out of water, or some such nonsense. As for inquiring about the fucking gouramies, give it a fucking break, or I’ll fracture your fucking neck with a shovelhead you silly fucking cunt.
I got some of that gonorrhea shit skulking around in my brain, doing whatever the fuck it is it fucking does with such nasty fucking efficiency. Probably fucks up the dopamine receptors in the limbic region of my fuck’en brainpan, no doubt. Or maybe, so it may seem, the pineal glandular or that other fucking sinewy thing that scallops the thoughts together in my fucking head, as it is. I’m no fucking neurosurgeon, so what the fuck am I suppose to know anyhow, you stanching fuck? Fuck here we go again: what is this thing called ‘stanching’ you so sub-cutaneously leveraged into my thinking machine? Buy a fucking dictionary, a clean one, perhaps, not mine, and look it the fuck up for your fucking self!
That’s enough of that nonsense, now. Now onto more cranial matters, uneven and rocketed with a precision you could never, even in a thousand years, imagine. Nor fathom, perhaps. Into this, rocketed, into this, ‘the best of all possible worlds’, stanching as it is, clotting the too-few moments of genius that Shakespeare surely experienced at least once in his life. Monitor this, as it may, alas, deconstruct right before you very eyes. Let us (you and I) suppose that this is the case, this stanching, and that a playwright such as Shakespeare had a balcony of sorts, a parapet, perhaps, lets say (conjecture) a parapet, mason-gray and roughly hewn, and on this very same balcony he wooed with arms out-stretched, perhaps, lets say, akimbo, arms akimbo, a Juliet or a Desdemona or a Beatrice or some Faustian Margaret, how, then, in the name of all things sensible could he have written or composed, lets say, so many damn plays and sonnets without his hands attached to his arms? Moore, I’m certain, would have been confused inconsolably so.
This is taking its toll on me, both physically and emotionally. OCD-ing with constancy beyond measure,yet in some way inverted, I find myself edged into a claustrophobic corner, this state, so it seems, having some how annealed whatever middling chance I may have had for a chaste and normal existence. This is, most certainly not, at all, ‘the best of all possible worlds’, not by a long shot. At this point in the process, if that is, in fact, how it can be referred to, writer’s block would be a most enviable asset. I feel an occlusion settling in, a persistent and unyielding opacity riding high and mighty up the back of my neck, an invertebrate otherness that sees no justice in easing up on this crawling psychic pain that has limited my capacity to sleep, eat, breath, respire, excrete and stop writing. I need a rest, a high-Andean sanatorium rest. The Magic Mountain, equipped with a masseuse and a Joycean writing-board upon which to scrawl my meaningless evocations.
(Dec 19. 04)
A fresh snow, sharp as glass splinters, whitens an otherwise drab day. Generally snow, this Eucharistic blood-whiteness, wafer thin and best tolerated on the cusp of one’s tongue, elicits a despair that is not easily defended against, not even by those of us who make claim to an agnostic otherness. As this is the last Sunday morning before the virgin birth of Christ, a supplication altar (ed) only by the bending and contortion of one’s arthritic knee-joints might be in order. If God were to whisper into my ear what would I expectorate from this scullery between my legs? A monster child, no less, one febrile and scalded with fright. Dylan’s liver charred over a woodland cook’s fire, to collude the whisky and spotted dick into a fine and delectable mottled (ness). Pie crusts, no two ever the same, fork tined to create a serrated edging that bevels and roughens the lips. I myself, as it is, much prefer a lacerating toughness, one that simple mastication, with its surgical precision, cannot ribbon and shred to mandible bits, chewed, as they are, in the abattoir of a mouth seized up and weakened with food-worms and spirants. Dylan’s cirrhotic liver, scabbing and extorting a tongue bland (ed) with sameness, yet nourishing and encouraging a non-compliance and scurrility, one that best suits a disengagement from this, ‘the best of all possible worlds’. These glass splinters, white as death, crushed beneath feet unmindful of winter’s anger, will get me nowhere fast, trampling, as they do, through the first bite of a bleak, cold winter solstice, cruel with regret. Today I will eat something cirrhotic, perhaps some such viscera excised and tortured, culled from between scabbard red thighs trembling with the dull ache of birth. An expectorant, one that scours and deadens a too-delicate palate, one that has been fed on boiled cabbage and gray meat.
As time incurs its raking ire, it is exceedingly improbable that I will amount to anything more than a penurious nothingbody. Sad as that may seem, whorish men such as I have no scruples to contend with; we simply acknowledge our displacement in this world of images and hard-realities.
Walser’s prose work unsettles me; it is far too close to the marrow not to invite comparisons. Perhaps words, never as simple an innocuous as they seem, are only expressible in they’re utmost fragility by those of us blessed with a childlike innocence. A childishness so fragile and innocent, yet hardened and inured to the spitefulness of it all, eschewing any reasonable attempt at a reconciliation between disparate wholes. There are, if you may, no parts or half-pieces, simply a Spinozian one-substance that does away with any afterthought of a fractured or indivisible otherness. I suppose what I am so truculently alluding to is that psychiatry, as mollified and smitten with itself as it appears to be, has yet to discover an equitable cause and effect for creative mental instability. When it does, the asylum doors will come crashing in on themselves, a black cloud of fragile, desperate minds rushing into the medicament fray seeking refuge from a storming and inexpressible madness that stalwarts an impeccable solidarity with a Walserian otherness that shares no equal. This, I concede, is what so unsettles me about Walser, as so with Kafka, Dostoevski and Nietzsche, they’re kindred spirit (lessness) seeking neither refuge nor ascension.
My lips are chapping, hard scarabs of skin, bloodied raw, coarsening the perineum that separates my nose from the recession of my face. A most inhospitable wind, fore-pleasuring an awkwardness that never fails to amuse me. As much as I try, and I do, with urgency unparalleled, Mozart’s concertos and symphonies do nothing for me. They are, in the greater scheme of things, this branded music of the spirit, quite flaccid and displeasing. They seem to me (and you must remember, I am not worthy of your respect, on any subject) liturgical meek and uninvolved. By liturgical meek I mean scantly disguised as foreplay to stigmatic finger tapping that hardens the cones and stirrups in my ears. I have already had one surgery to correct an otosclerotic-bone and have neither the patience nor stamina to undergo another.