who cannot be understood by men. Ever. Any man that claims to understand women actually is either simply lying or simply dominating them wholly. For some, operating under the theory that to understand what women want is exactly to dominate them wholly, this makes perfect sense, but the theory is wrong. The more one dominates women wholly, the more they dominate you wholly.
Feminine “wiles” are actually metaphors for the male simpleton’s entrapment within structuralist mazes, for an undone, implicit deconstruction that must never be carried out until it is death to not.
Some of us have been there a few times.
—
It’s unclear what this post is about.
—
A hundred million years ago I was a kid. A hundred million years ago I heard my first pop song. A hundred million years ago I had my first bagel. A hundred million years ago I saw my first nudity. A hundred million years ago I had my first drink.
I cannot remember anything. I cannot remember a damn thing. It is all a fabrication; it is all a novel; it is all iconopictosemiographica haunting billboards and restroom stalls, unnoticed, passed over.
It is all garbage. It is all memory. It is all nothing.
—
There was a time when I heard pulp music echoing through my mind just walking around the streets. I was a flaneur without having heard of the term; I aspired to be a flaneur without realizing it, without ever succeeding. I was too shy and too repressed. Then, I was too angry. Then, I was growing up. It never worked out, and I missed all of those insights that every flaneur-imaginer is sure must present themselves in new wave inspired sequences and mise-en-scene to the achievers.
There are, of course, no achievers. This is not a world of achievers. It has been for millennia a world of adherents.
—
Garbage in / Garbage out
GiGo
GGiGo
KGiGo
GNUGiGo
—
A million years ago I wrote six books. A million years ago I was a University of Chicago graduate student. A million years ago I was a lone road tripper on the endless highway of anguish. A million years ago I sold my first stock options.
A million years ago I thought I understood it all.
—
I am getting older. Every day another hair turns grey. Every day a few more brain cells die off, become worthless. Every day the ocean of words dries a little. Every time its tide goes out, a few more perish, flailing and flopping on the shore of consciousness never to spawn, never to reproduce, never to perpetuate.
There is little time and motivation is also running out; I begin to descend into old-age truisms about things I want. I really want:
1) Blissful ignorance.
2) Healthy children.
3) To mow lawns and garden.
4) Just enough preoccupation to keep the world imaginary.
5) Just enough free time to watch football.
6) An unreflective, unconsidered life.
7) Automaticity.
8) A car that feels warm and cozy.
9) To be part of the problem, not part of the solution.
0) Salvation from hypocrisy and self-doubt.
These things come to everyone eventually in the form of a mature and wise senility. I am waiting on mine now.
—
Apart from the 20th century genocides, the invention of democracy may be the biggest tragedy ever to befall mankind. On second thought, perhaps even the 20th century genocides don’t measure up.
—
Iron cage? It is no iron cage. It is the rise of the self. Reflexivity. The “mature” western consciousness. The self is the tyrant, the self is the victim. The self destroys itself and everything it ever loved. The worst thing for the self is the self.
If only the self hadn’t ever invented itself, the self could have been preserved.
Who’s responsible for this?
Who’s responsible for every wholly satanic innovation?
The West!
The disastrous West!
The orientalist West!
The east-meets-West!
Fucking pasty white people and their pasty-ass God.
—
Rights? There are no rights. Rights are the sodden, downtrodden gods of the weak.
—
To paraphrase a prophet who built an ark, much later when he was posting online:
“Dear world: I really think you could have been more, but you have really let me down and I’m having trouble forgiving you. I can see your side of things, I really can, but empathy only goes so far. I have myself to think about. Wishing you the best, only not really.
No love,
Aron”
—
Underneath Facebook and MySpace is an undercurrent of sadness and regret. It is a compendium, a veritable telephone book of successes and failures. Instantly you can look anyone up and see: did they make it, or were they forced to become a mechanic or a whore?
The mechanics and the whores far outnumber the success stories, of course.
It is too intimate; it is too unguarded. Too much pity is required. That’s why I avoid the place; it makes me feel guilty for being successful in the same way that a wealthy man feels nauseous taking the trains at Penn Station in the winertime.