Everything is so clear & breathtakingly beautiful… I swear, this is what life is for. May the whole world someday feel the same, especially everyone I care about.

That’s all.

Fashion is quite strange indeed. I often have no idea.

Okay, I am in a vile fucking mood. Who wants to kiss my ass?

don’t . fucking . lose . sight . boy

seeks to reach out and touch, inappropriately, everyone in the room. Beneath the surface of the pages lurks an homonculus that seeks to digest its auteur, with or without taking care to segregate and protectorate the reader.

Death to our endless list of knitted friends!

—

“Trust no one so long as you live, boy. Not even me.”

Too many, sometimes. The loss of naivete is also, to some extent, the loss of normal social function, or at least the ability to engage in it (whether or not it actually inheres in one, which is a totally separate thing). I remember when I was with J— there were always so many things I wanted to post, largely because I couldn’t say them without causing earthquakes that I didn’t want to cause. But of course if talking causes earthquakes then so does posting. At some point in life you have to weigh the stifling sensation of having to keep your thoughts to yourself against the possibility that you will create even bigger unhappinesses that you absolutely don’t want to create.

There is an entire universe of “hidden” posts that never make it here. Someday after I am long dead, I sincerely hope that someone reads all of them. (I do keep all of this stuff archived as well.) The thought that these things that I meant to say will eventually be heard is beyond comforting to me. It is perhaps the happiest thought of which I can conceive.

It’s too bad we can’t read everyone else’s thoughts. This is less because I want to be able to read other peoples’ thoughts than because I want them to be able to read mine. By the way they react, I would know who was on my side and who wasn’t, who I could trust and who I couldn’t, much more than by simply reading their thoughts.

is a troubling thing in general, full of wicked-fast surprises and cosmic shifts for which one is never prepared. Tonight I am not prepared for anything. There are an infinite number of things I’d like to express, but I’m not really able to get any of them out, and they’ve all been said at varying times and places in the past anyway, so it begins to feel like repeating myself.

Not that repeating oneself isn’t also the stuff of life—it is.

—

Things I hate:

– sociality
– anti-sociality
– self-sufficiency
– interdependence
– religion
– atheism

—

Things in the world that I know for sure:

—

Things in the world that I don’t think I have any idea about:

—

The old inner conflict of the blog is back. :-/ The axiom of this inner conflict is that the things that need most desperately to be discussed and communicated are precisely those that can’t be because to do so endangers everything else in life.

The blog is thus a space of possibility that is, frustratingly, never fulfilled.

at which one has to decide whether to trust oneself or not. They are never comfortable and never happy.

Working like crazy on a paper since maybe just after noon. Before that I was at work. I had to get up at 6.00 to get there that early.

I will get up just after 6.00 in the morning tomorrow, too and will go to work until noon, then straight to school where I will work continuously until 6.00 in the evening, after which I’ll go to class until late, after which I’ll work some more.

I am clearly insane to have signed up for this sort of thing.

The thing is that the sound idea, the well-understood relationship, and the perfect analogy are not enough to make an argument. The explication is at least as important as the logical structure, if not moreso. Truth does not inhere in well-reasoned discussions—it has to be called forth from their depths by incantation. The Pope himself can neither exorcise nor bless without the aid of sacred and magical words. In this at least the Pope and myself are no different.

The thing is that the idea, the relationship, the understanding is not enough. The explication is at least as important, if not moreso. Truth does not inhere in well-reasoned arguments; it has to be called forth from their depths by incantation. The Pope himself can neither exorcise nor bless without the aid of sacred or magical words.

or angry or anything. It’s more that today I am just weary, losing patience with everything. It all seems to require an immense amount of effort and concentration and humor. Sometimes I just want it all, everything, to be my way, and while I fully realize that I can’t simply dismissively demand this of everyone with any expectation of getting it, I am sometimes tempted to try.

Or it may be that I’m tempted to try not because I actually want anything, but rather because I want to be turned down for everything in the world so that I can make accusations without having to suffer the indignity of their being baseless.

Okay, maybe I am just in a bad mood. God, I don’t know. And weary, too. How’s that?

human emotion?

Not me.

I am a fairly intent Marxian: I tend to argue that nearly everything in the world shares a deterministic (i.e. being fully determined) relationship to extant modes and relations of production.

I am, however, wearing post-structuralist socks: I deeply suspect that modes of production themselves are actually fully subjugated (without such things being obvious at all) to lexicality, semantics, and analogics.

—

The wind and the police actually often sound the same. These are apropos of each other only if the police are (as they often claim to be) like the wind. Otherwise the phenomenon is just, as one initially feels it to be, uncanny.

I was musing on the degree to which good scholarship and good writing aren’t necessarily the same thing. From there I began to think once again about public intellectualism, which led me to wonder whether or not one can participate in such a craft without first engaging wholly with the work of one’s peers so as not to be ungrounded or materially naïve.

An impossible task, I soon realized, since they are (quite literally for all intents and purposes) innumerable and not at all even discretely enumerated nor dialogically compatible. The same is true, only to an even deeper extent, in the academy. Not only has “philosophy” been broken into a hundred different major fields, with mathematics and its epistemology literally universes removed from literature or sociology, but the subfields themselves have taken on subfields, and within those there are subfields of subfields. What, precisely, is the meaning (or, indeed, the destination) of knowledge produced in this way? The answer to both questions, precisely, is obscurity and little more. Rather than “finding truth” we are simply splitting its sole mediator, understanding, apart into irregular fragments and spreading these ever-tinier, shattered bits haphazardly and irretrievably throughout space and time. There is no way to reverse this process.

I wonder if there aren’t those rare few who manage to achieve a kind of transcendental leap into truth through some mystic, similarly obscure behavior or epistemological process. If they exist, however, they’re incommunicado for the academic, whose wavelength must be regularized and fully articulated, as compared to the pi-like irrational function that like a cryptographic key encodes the universality emanating from the savant, a stream of unintelligible oneness hidden beneath the veneer of primal time, unavailable to the academic or the “public intellectual” but absolutely transparent to the lunatic.

The question of the nature of intellectualism in the present remains, of course, unanswered.

—

This has been yet another post that I don’t fully understand myself.

—

Thank god my PC power cable is here. I thought I’d lost it.