Sunday, January 14, 2007


Fuck memory lane. This recent wallowing I seem to be doing in some ancient historical past has got me buggered and annoyed and so I shall tell it rather blithely to go take a rolling hump at some other quantum state of reality and I shall look instead to something else.
I wonder, what else there is to look to sometimes. State of the world in flux, state of reality in question, state of mind

There is a power in being able to completely step away from the truth of things. To adumbrate in plain view of everything as it moves around you and to enjoy and amuse in the same game. I spend far too much of my time contemplating my own amusements, and why not? Truly, why not, isn't this mysterious existence we have gotten ourselves embroiled in about the day to day amusements that drive us to keep going day to day? Take it away and all that is left is hollowness, shells of empty flotsam moving for no purpose and towards no end; or maybe all towards the same end?

Maybe it is me. I think about that and think about that. Maybe it is my own indolence that has me feeling so terribly pissed about everything and anything. I walk to work. Everyday I walk to work. I walk from work. I walk to work. I walk from work. My art studio stares at me emptily for I haven't visited in two months. My instruments sit and gather dust. Even my poor vibrator is neglected on my bed stand feeling sorely angry and underused, and I am just rage, and anger, and burning, hatred, need, pain, all manner of things that make me feel everything and nothing. Welling emptiness, no, this is not it. Something else then.

There are the faces as I pass. I walk down the street this morning past construction workers doing their work. They turn their faces on me, sneer at me, smile at me, look at me as some illusion, some out of place object that is loathsome to them for invading their country and spreading with impunity the imperialism, shackles, the language I force upon a country with a history richer then my own homeland. Does that make me the oppressor? If I no longer want to do it does that make me the oppressed?

Lies, and truths and meanings obfuscated by my own spinning mind. I look upon drunken ramblings about my own reality and scoff at myself. Such a stupid silly girl, I should give it up. Give up drinking and just do what is required. Accept the lies. Settle into the working world and be content with doldrums. There is simplicity in that. Perhaps that is what I'm missing with all my little rambling on my future-past. Simplicity. The quiet comfort of waking and doing nothing by lying about and reading, eating chocolate while absorbed in a book, listen to music and settle the mind, watch a movie while I hug myself. No, I don't think that is it either.

Something else then.

If in our history there is a writing of our future then what does that mean for me? Should I think perhaps on Mircea Eliade and his view upon time? We choke on all of our history, the line that builds and builds and builds without ending. It causes forces we cannot comprehend because as beings we cannot comprehend time unending. Let us celebrate in a pagan ritual and destroy the world, bring about our own apocalypse and let it wash over us, the end of all things. And I will sit there until the end of the world sit and wash and wait and wonder and renew. Bring about the ending and on its very heels those same heathens will spin and dance and fuck into the very center of the earth and restore, recreate, clean, pure, slates upon which to write a whole new history. But only for a time because the end will spin round again and we can destroy and create at our own leisure and it will be good.
Come, let us do it then. Let us end and begin and end again. Destroy our histories and be free of them. Rebuild, renew, phoenix-like rise fresh and pure without the muck of insanity that is our own past. I'll meet you at the bar on Renaissance Street and we will drink with the Babylonians who are waiting there.

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