Monologue: Conversations with Oneself

This is the beginning of something beautiful.

I hope you realize.

Cause if you don't,

it's waste,

made filthy by selectivity.

What's necessary can't be chosen:

when will you understand that?

We must not be looking at the same cause,

for if we were,

I truly would be free,

united with my God,

without hesitation,

without angst,

without you.

this mass of physical energy all twisted up in it's experience : as if it's being vomited up by something.

i've been feeling this way all my life. even as a child, i felt myself vacillating between being god's erection and his compulsive gagging at the sight of this bright satisfaction. glorious weekend moments of contemplating the multi-dimensionality of this strange new life i was being introduced to were paired with deeply disturbing fits of crying before school. the beautiful moments were as they are now: deeply unconscious. the painful ones were likewise as they still are now: deeply conscious.

a consolidation of vibrations, i find myself bored and repulsed by others that take themselves seriously. they seem so pathetic: expressing opinions as if they actually cared about anything, talking through emotional lapses, and quite simply–taking themselves seriously. billions of years. billions of people. billions of experiences. billions of same. billions of different. how could one be sustainably identified with their self-importance in this swampy soup of whatever? everyone's cares seem so small and stupid.

then i think of my talk of helping others, or rather directly acting to provide others with food, water, health care, and education. how could that be meaningless? could it really be? this is the great challenge. everyone else i do and think is so clearly empty. but could this action/choice on a daily basis truly be something worth doing? could this deserve even a slightly serious attitude? the best i can do otherwise is just an uptight social concern for approval or winning.

punctuation

puncuation is really important. no. really. it's really important.

you can't just let other people choose the flow of the sounds you present to them. that would be like writing melodies with no rhythm---truly a despicable act in the mind of a drummer.

moreover, when reading, ignoring the punctuation of the writer (or assuming he meant to write it otherwise) is like watching tv while listening to someone. it's dick...languid...and totally inefficient communication. punctuation often says more than the ideas the words represent. and especially if you like to say odd things?

seriously, go bialetti

a human friend of mine carved this to me in a digital block: "there was just something in the tone of your writing that made me sad and made me think you were unhappy, angry with the world"

i think i'm about the same as I always am, which is generally pretty "happy." maybe that's not in a traditional sense of the word though. i am certainly always baffled/entertained by, and questioning of, experience---which is stimulating and causes me to smirk and giggle. does that mean happy? one might would guess to oneself that everything i write has a certain fibrous quality to it---like central american meat---but in that case, i would challenge them to use a knive and his or her molars. of course, i'm not Ruth Chris or one of those other popular philosophers, but i'm free and pretty like the devotee of delphi.

perhaps my seeming obscurity (which, I find to be quite precise) and caustic sarcasm towards you-and-i-don't-know-who at times leaves people not having my experience to feel a bit disconnected or put-off by me. this is silly. i obviously want friends if i am communicating.

but seriously, get a bialetti italian percolator (class series)! i swear you will never want to drink that nasty drip coffee (which uses more coffee grains to make less worse-tasting coffee and creates the gross oils that make me sad in three hours) again.

tu peux peindre et réfléchir?!?!

Bending backwards to track myself, I repeatedly find myself with a sore back. Moreover, the idea of hunting oneself is slightly repulsive. So, must I quit this non-sense? What would that mean? I don’t believe I know of another honest manner of being in the world. Would I not just be doing it, even when I was choosing another method?

No. I can be an artist! Oh, the glory of committing oneself to nothingness! It’s not even nothing. I mean it’s nothing. There’s no statement. You get to spit in the face of the philosopher, and not only act like you don’t see it---you literally can’t see it. Uhhnn! Yeah! Eat that talkface! I can’t see you and I have no idea—what that means!

The comedian knows though, so he’s the worst. I can't do that. He’s too much of a bitch to actually practice thinking, so he just chooses randomly.

Ooh, but the politician knows too! Yes, but he actually admits what he wants (to himself) and then he picks. I don’t get the politician; how does he think he really knows? He just says it really hard?

And the rhetorician? He’s always talking and writing essays about things he believes to be true. There’s no way he could be thinking, he's always building. But he says that he’s thinking. Oh, I see! He’s just not pretty enough to be a politician!

Damn’t! I’m doing it again! I pray to God to save me from my error, but he says I’m doing all Man can do. How can that be? All I manage to do is think or make art?

Three offerings from my first week in Paris, the second time (but posted 4 months later):

August 28, 2007

One:
Well, I have been feeling pretty alienated here in this foreign country, so, to comfort myself, I stand in front of the mirror (incompletely)—staring deeply into my eyes—and repeat the following until I start crying and forget who you are:

I would be careful if I was you.
I am careful having been you.
I was careful when I was you.
I had been careful being you.
I will be careful when I am you.
I would have been careful when I had been you.
I was being careful when I was you.
I will be careful having been you.
I am careful when I am you.
I have been careful being you.
I was being careful after having been you.
I had been careful having been you.
I will have been careful being you.
I was careful when I had been you.
I would have been careful having been you.

Honestly, I normally pass out and wake up confused about whether it’s dawn or dusk. Luckily, I have bright fluorescent lights and I’m too afraid to leave my room so it doesn’t really matter. When I do get a sense of empowerment I tend to just make a cup of coffee and go to sleep.

Two:
If you do not travel to at least one other country and submit yourself to seriously learning another language, then you will live in an itsy-bitsy-tiny-wheeny world. One’s limits are always absolute in the play of language, yet with only one language (the native tongue) an individual’s limits are not only more restrictive, but worse—transparent. This animal lives in a very dark world. While he can smash his symbols together to make art, he only has a few crayons and a very small coloring book.

Three:
What is offensive? I believe it is that which one names when he or she feels incapable. In response one becomes defensive: “I am capable, you mother fucker!” The issue is therefore: is defense real power? Does defense manifest real capability to perform that action which has been challenged? Or, is it the simple statement of incapability?

Huh, bitch? That’s what I thought! My kids are gonna eat razor blades for breakfast!

nauseous

what will i become if i continue to treat people the way i do now? isn't that strange to read aloud? it sounds bad. i didn't mean it in a bad way though. i was just asking.

i feel frightened of being judged by those who will read this. in fact, i don't want to write in this moment because i am afraid someone will read it. fascinating.

i dont want them to see into me. it feels as though i must perform for them. who? i am not sure. but i feel as though i must be careful in expressing myself, or else they'll find me. and yet, i really just want to be found. moreover, this whole little exercise i just went through probably revealed more than i could have ever imagined.

god hopes i'll hope to believe in him. structure gently reminds me to seek it. intimacy is getting closer to telling me straight up to sit still and surrender. the silence doesn't say to me. and i really dont know what i'm doing.

may i choose the path of the familyman sooner than later? the prepwork makes me nauseous .

Me mañana Austin love.

Yes mam, I feel good. Uh huh. It’s on. I’m in the path and everything be aight. Life is so beautiful it almost gives me a headache. The colors are like, “BLAM!” I just love this shit.

I am so busy right now. I am always so busy right now. I wonder what that’s about?

I want so much…I want everything that can possibly fit in me. That’s where Aristotle and I differ…I am into the moderation thing…but only so long as it enables me to absorb as much as fucking possible. Yes sir. The only reason I want to be healthy is to take more information, to know one thing more intimately, to love more people, to love one person more passionately, to live longer/deeper/harder/richer/more-beautifully-peacefully, to speak clearer, to think clearer, and on and on….until life becomes so thick, so refined, so grimy, and so fucking ill that puking remains.

Someone asked me if I liked something the other day….I like everything….really almost everything.

I just prefer salad, butter, Dionysus, petite women, chocolate, extended aerobic exercise, mineral water, stretching, hip hop, late fifties Coltrane, red wine, heavy whipping cream, contemporary French and German philosophy, winning, being alone or rolling around on the floor with a pretty girl, and Abraham.

I can do without all those things though. Cheap cooking oil really sucks though. I’d rather get a boyfriend than have to eat food fried in cheap cooking oil on a regular basis.

oh the glamour

http://www.pacolink.com/pix/2006_12_31/index.html

i love you

11pm. I drank to much coffee. My whole body is shaking. Urrrr….Ggzzzzh. Dididit…

I have no idea what the hell to do my life.

I used to interrupt critiquing myself in the mirror by asking: “when will you ever be good enough?” Then I might cry or just feel eternally trapped for a few moments. Right now I can’t even get myself together to judge myself. I want so badly lately to feel like I need to be something or be accepted by someone. There are little spills of loving someone deeply and wanting things to be more pleasant for them, but overall I just feel like busy nothingness or not-busy nothingness. I want me. Why can’t I have me? I want someone else. Why can’t I have someone else?

The lack of foreknowledge and planning makes this whole thing appear haphazard, but I also sense a pattern…it just can’t be deciphered…maybe…or maybe its just jargled chtonknarg. One thing is for sure, damn’t: Personne and Nadié won’t stop sending me memos in alien scripts.

I get so frustrated with this communicating thing, I just want to draw circles everywhere and then break them. And then, much later, run around screaming and cutting myself with all the perfectly round soft pieces of straight lines. And then, but at the same time, be very quiet and very alone forever.

Have I mentioned lately how desperately I would like to be held, cared for, and accepted by someone?

So, getting back on track, I have been telling people in Paris that I plan to become a diplomat. Although, quite honestly, I think if I tried to tell them in French everything I just wrote in English, they would be convinced that I was confused and I wasn’t actually meaning to say what I was saying. (That last sentence would be so much cooler if English had a real subjunctive---Anglos are so lame…I am like totally going to only write in Spanish and French when I get big). They’ll see one day though…I’m going to make such a mess of French that the structure breaks down completely and we all get to see God naked and spread.

Trip7 @ Flipnotics…8pm Sunday January 14th (2 days after I get home)! Plus, it’s FREE for those who don’t give cash love offerings to the band and don’t feel guilty about not buying anything from Flip’s!

ouais, j'ai mangé le miroir. et quoi?

Rhyme my letter backwards. One week mas. What’s it gonna be? Each week is always so different that I am excited to see what the next one brings. Moreover, the last week is often the best since I can actually speak the language at an acceptable level by then.

I have numerous dates with French peeps to trade speaking in French and English. It looks like I will meet a splattering of personalities. Yes! (I’m pulling down my fist with my elbow half-bent, really fast and with glee)….my first one is in 40 minutes.

Alors, je suis allè au musèe Pablo Picasso cet apres-midi. Freak. I like him.

Who peed in that one weed?
It’s a filth, filthy lie that urine helps plants grow.
Sodium bicarbonate…that’s good for my mouth.
Sodium lauryl sulfate…that’s bad for my mouth.

My children will most likely be very difficult teenagers, unless, I am a ruthless dictator from the very beginning and they expect nothing less. That means bleach baths and eyebrow shaving every other night.

I haven’t been exercising here. Can you tell? I’m not sure if I can tell? And that’s a problem, cause I thought it was REALLY important. This goes for sitting too. I really don’t know if I can tell a difference. Shit. What am I going to do then? I have to have something to believe in? Right? If God can’t at least give me sitting in silence and running, than that’s just bullshit. Could she really want me to not believe in anything?!?!

I’m like a helium balloon cut loose…they have to pop eventually? Or maybe they don’t, I’ve never actually seen one pop when it hits the edge of the atmosphere. I bet it just keeps going till it reaches the end of Universe. Then, it waits for all the other balloons to slip themselves off the wrists of little children and live in the freedom/alienation of endless nothingness. Whoo! Come on guys. It’s fuckin great once you get used to the constant darkness and not being able to breathe!

I highly, highly suggest that everyone listen to Dr. Octagon more often.

day before the last

its the last before the last this evening. i met austin girls and ended being with them the last two nights. weird.

i stayed up all night and went to a brazilian dance club. dope. never seen anything like it. dope. most eclectic mixes i've ever heard. crazy brazilian drum shit mixed with old school french music into rage against the machine into the ramones into james brown with house beats. and the crowd was a fascinating mix. had to wait for the morning metro home at 530 and didnt sleep until 7am. woke at 4pm and was sick. drank a bunch of really strong coffee and everything worked out fine. i really want to be open to everything, but partying and me dont mix so well. i am tired and i wish i would have stayed home and practiced yoga.

missed the train tonight so i am staying at my friend's......the others are watching sarah silverman on the other laptop......

they cant tell im building a fort, and i quite honestly, i forgot until right now. its getting big though, i dont even know what it is yet. that worries me a tad, but then i realize i've never known, so perhaps that will be the case forever. fuck. but i want to understand. the really frustrating thing is that i feel like i am building the fort no matter what i do. therefore, even if i try to quit, i am still building the fort. fuck. everything fits into the fort. what an inescapable bitch.

i cried for the first time in a long time the other night. it was because i love lia so much.

good luck everyone. i hope all your lives work out as conveniently as possible and you may casually accept and ease into the various conditions.

yours
angelo

It’s Christmas at 11:59PM. So, Jesus was born today. Cool. I am listening to Elliot Smith on my personal laptop computer 2006 years after homeboy was born. It’s funny being with all these secular European people who think the religious Christmas thing is even dumber than most Americans think it is. They, however, don’t think its dumb to set up dead trees in their houses and make themselves feel guilty every year about having to get other people gifts. I personally prefer the myth to the guilt. Tell me some stories about saviors and pretty afterlifes. You can keep all the built-up expectation for imaginary ideals in this life (e.g. the perfect gift or the perfect Christmas morning). Although, I do like the trees—they’re pretty. Plus, the Romans were into them too—I like anything the Romans did.

Okay, moving on…women, that’s my next subject. Nope, not gonna talk about that! Well, I will say that I want to marry one and make babies. Then, my family will cook and eat fantastic dinners every night, drink red wine (including the kids), play board games, read short stories and poems out-loud (in all kinds of languages), eat great cheese and chocolate, pray out-loud, drink espresso (not the kids), laugh, cry, play music, do yoga, perform family plays, sleep all-day sometimes, hug and hold each other a lot, go on walks in the woods, do anything else that we think seems fitting to who we are, and then watch each other die one by one.

So, Paris…I want to move here next year, if I don’t go to Egypt. Just watch me.

What am I doing with my life?

Aight, let’s go. As I dig into the spaces in between the larger cervices, I find little notes I wrote to myself along the years. I found one today and it was excellent. It told me that I wanted what I used to have, but that I gave that up. Moreover, it said that I can’t ever get it back because it’s different now. I couldn’t believe it at first, so I looked for another note to refute it. None. Next, I tried to prove the note was inauthentic: “This isn’t my note! I swear I didn’t write this!” To show how serious I was, I went ahead and tried to tear it up, but I couldn’t. I mean, I could have, but it would have hurt. And I would have been bleeding all over the place. I am staying in a guest room, you know; that’s just not polite.

After I accepted it couldn’t be destroyed and conceded its authenticity, I tried to remember when I wrote it. The problem was, when I wrote this note (and most of the notes I write to myself) I was in one of those external life-changing moods of mine and I wrote it in a rush, as a contrary view to the actions I was taking. You know, just a second thought I might like to remember. What if?

Well thank God I believe in Gospel of Jesus Christ and know everything is moving towards Salvation! It would seriously suck if I didn’t (or at least seem like it sucked). I can’t even believe God makes people choose other ways of perceiving life. It’s seems cruel.

What’s weird is that I don’t ever think about Jesus, don’t know if he ever existed, and don’t care. Weirder: I don’t even know what I’m talking about when I write the word God. And God still lets be a Christian. And anything else I should/want to be.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is: Thank you Jesus for being born on this day and letting me not care about anything while being tortured by the constant feeling that every instant is of the utmost importance.

Merry Christmas

okay. okay.

Me go to dope parties in Parisian apartments with beautiful foreign people. The Spaniards are great...Me actually able have a conversation with them. Me start internship mine today. Dope. Me have to read and speak in French. They me speak tres vite. Oh boy. Oh girl. Oh gosh. This fun. And me go already to me new home. Very nice. Very big. Wow! Oh yes.

and me get better at speak the french, everyday, little at little. yes.

and cell phone mine c'est 011-33-6-99-90-65-87. it free if you call me.

chao

2nd day

This is amounts to the end of the second day.

First day:

I learned that the French eat their bread without a plate. The bread does not go on the plate.

I rode in tiny cars.

I spoke French, badly. But the French loved it. Any French is better than no French. They feel free to correct you, and almost viciously they laugh at you. I like the French.

I went to the birthday dinner of Cecile's (the friend I am staying with) friend. The food was wonderful, very expensive, and the birthday girl bought my dinner. I like the French.

On the way home, we arrived at a subway stop just seconds after a man jumped into the tracks. Cecile saw the man caught up underneath the train. I didn't look. We left and had to walk a considerable distance to the next line since that whole line was immediately closed.

Second day:

Today I slept until 1pm and then drank a bunch of espresso. Yum.

The French have no problem alternating between bread, butter, stinky cheese, wine, and coffee. I like the French.

I got to talk politics with Cecile's family. They are well-educated on history and contemporary politics. Furthermore, they like to have heated discussions and pose tough questions to guests. I like the French.

In full, I like the French. This is gonna work out great!

J'arriverai

I'm getting closer. It's getting closer. We'll meet soon. Obviously, I can't see it, but I'm fairly certain it can't see me either. If I am not in it, with it, or ever there, then how can the future know me?





And as that completely unknowable comingness, does the Future/God see the present ripping open before it? Am I, as the present, actually getting closer? Or rather, is it that She feels me constantly tugging behind her?...Forcing material and sense out of the over-saturated-with-meaning nothinglessness.





God doesn't know me. God is always coming and will therefore never meet me. Prepare! The Lord is Coming! You'll be sorry if you don't, cause She'll never be here.

Je pars pour Paris en treize heures! Et j'arriverai, j'arrive, contrairement à Elle.

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This is what occurs when I avoid studying the History of Shi'ism.

Me First

Me first. No me first. No.

This is my blog. Welcome. Sit down. This is my chance to abandon myself to the lie of language. Who knows though? I might just smash it all up next to itself and watch it give to you. Not a good chance though. At least we will have records of what I lied about. And perhaps if you've heard the ways in which I cover myself over enough times, you might get a glimpse at the lie you associate with that which I really am and feel.

With this in mind, I am going to France in two days. Who knows what that means? I don't. But I will be there, moving through space like I do here. And as the planets shift around us and stars blow up, I will be lying in a different city, a different language, and a different bed (actually, just a bed).

Inspiration come over me and Jesus give me strength. The demons are a watchin' and they want to see me die/eat/faint.