secret terrorism from the secret diaries of a loud mouth
I realized today that the only meaningful lesson I've learned in my time is a respect for the length of a life. Paying attention to that is just about the only thing I can find important. The rhythym and elastic expansion in time of our lives together and apart are what make time and, of course, life meaningful. The hard part, and what I haven't yet learned to do, and what I think I want to do, is to understand things in relation to the length of my life. It doesn't matter if none of us (or only those unfortunate few) know how long we'll live. The perspective I want isn't strictly determined by the actualities and vicissitudes of a particular time slot. It's more that ideality stretching into the future, a possible lifespan yawning open into the gloom and shine.
Seeing things in the right proportions is the hardest and, maybe, the only valuable skill.
To events. To the events.
I've become so hate-filled it's hard to believe. For me, at least; though perhaps not for the unconcerned onlooker. The kind of vitriol I have can be summed up in the violent scrawling of "kill bitches" on property other than my own. Or, further, the wretched desire to blot out all thought from my life and just spew violence and hate out of my eyes, my lungs, my hands, and my head. Where has self-control and my modicum of decorum gone? Well, friend, it went wherever my heart and amazement at life went. Which is to say, it went just about directly to hell.
Just about the only thing getting me through the long sleepless nights is Lee Hazlewood and thoughts of friends. And Lee Hazlewood hasn't failed me yet. You can count on that, all day friend.
(Detachment: Despite having come to understand what 'heartbreak' really is, I still have periods of cold lucidity wherein 'analysis' takes hold and my bile subsides (if only momentarily)).
But, new horizons and new scenarios await. A house has been procured, and all that stands between it and myself is a thesis defense and two weeks of sleeping on a couch. Not too bad, not too bad at all. To a new city and, hopefully, an anaesthetic deadening of the hole in my life.
I've yet to soften.
A goal: To be this soft with my failures.
"Star Friendship.—We were friends and have become estranged. But that was right, and we do not want to hide and obscure it from ourselves as if we had to be ashamed of it. We are two ships, each of which has its own goal and course; we may cross and have a feast together, as we did—and then the good ships lay so quietly in one harbour and in one sun that it may have seemed as if they had already completed their course and had the same goal. But then the almighty force of our projects drove us apart once again, into different seas and sunny zones, and maybe we will never meet again—or maybe we will, but will not recognize each other: the different seas and suns have changed us! That we had to become estranged is the law above us; through it we should come to have more respect for each other—and the thought of our former friendship should become more sacred! There is probably a tremendous invisible curve and stellar orbit in which our different ways and goals may be included as small stretches—let us rise to this thought! But our life is too short and our vision too meager for us to be more than friends in the sense of that sublime possibility— Let us then believe in our star friendship even if we must be earth enemies."
Above, below, and all the way through I'd like to think better about it all.
Tequila, beer, violence, and hatred.
My pants are covered in blood that I'm not sure is mine.
My ex-girlfriend sees fit to have a new boyfriend.
I don't have a place to live in September.
I don't know what I'm doing with my life, my love.
My hands, my feet, my shins, my head, my eyes, my heart hurt.
Basically, your lifestyle.
I'm sick of who you are and what you say.
Generally, a refrain makes all my bad opinions into poetry.
I've realized, and have been realizing for quite some time, precisely how awful my writeups on this website are. I would like to request a mass deletion of around 40% of them, but I feel that a record of my atrocities should be kept, if only to encourage me to produce something better (this archivist's desire is mitigated by my unrealistic worry that recent 'coolings' of my awful writeups will encourage similar laxity and ease of thinking). My Hegel writeup provides an excellent example. Such arrogance. Even the jokey kind of arrogance I continually put out (and what I do is rarely anything but this kind of thing) is enough to make the skin crawl when read with 2 or 3 years of distance. But, again, to see myself and my motivations so obviously laid bare is a good purgative exercise: it encourages the excision of even this joke-arrogance from my tone. Encourages but probably doesn't facilitate, because, at bottom, I'm nothing if not arrogant and over-proud.
Perhaps I should try and produce some very excellent Hegel writeups by way of apology and recompense. Praise to the highest, to Hegel, and to the insights of history (without which: nothing)!
Here, a little choler. Maybe more than a little.
(This is from a less than clear-headed night time writing binge; a perfect example of how I've become a raw seething nerve ending of vibrant loathing. Bad words, true, but true words, also true. A bit of a character study today.)
Yeah I'm still hate
"In the beginning there was nothing, but it was fun to watch nothing grow"
Fuck why can't I get over it already.
Well I can't.
I now have allergies. I sneeze a lot.
What's really real is this.
I'm moving. I'm never going to see her again.
She's got a new boyfriend.
I'm still having fun but it's stupid.
How can it make me hate a place?
But yeah, I'm still hate.
I've been thinking about all this (obviously: I'm incessant and fixative... I sit and think about things for hours when I can't sleep. I tried to think of the adjective describing a series of four wars between Genoa and Venice in the 1200s/1300s for a full hour the other night; I couldn't sleep. Turns out there isn't one. Or, if there is, notify me and I'll be very grateful, trus'.)
So I think about all this and I come to the conclusion that I can't stand the niceties.
The fundamental difference is an appreciation for decorum.
I just lose my whole shit.
But it's like maintaining appearances on the other end, it would seem positively British if it weren't that the indecencies were other than mine, which is to say, hers.
I mean I know I'm "on the rebound" (!) but I seriously am not even interested in the entire field of 'special relationships' (aside, maybe, from those which exist between corrupt politicians and moneylenders). After sleeping in another girls bed a coupla times I wasn't even really motivated. How did this happen?
Have I ever even had a friend? It's possible that I haven't. Entirely possible.
I can't sleep.
But I really can't sleep, at least when I want to.
Why this impulse to stay awake when there is nothing to do. Always with this shit.
I'm sick of all the responsibility dodging I see around me.
I'm sick of it in you (the general 'you', including any potential General Yu), and in me.
But yeah I'm still hate.
I'm still fucking vitriol.
I'm still a cut nerve.
This shit doesn't cease.
The good thing about Lee Hazlewood is that he makes me happy about it.
Like look at this line:
"Probably the only comforting thing about losing someone you love is when you discover there are so many others ridin' the same train as you"
Check this one out, from a song entitled "I'd rather be your enemy":
This is how I've come to think. Jesus.
How can it make me hate a place and other people?
"And one day I'll turn around and she'll be standing there, and I wonder how she'll look, how she'll act, what she'll say. I know what I'll say; and I think I'll write a song about it"
Embittered, I realize why I wouldn't want to be around me either.
"In the end there was nothing, but believe me, it was no fun waiting for nothing to end"
(Well, not really, I'm a bit more collected lately. But only a bit. Increments, friends.)