Cat e ceasu?
Am 24 de ani.
The fucking wastelands.
Nu am timp si rabdare. Trebuie s-o vad tot timpul. Trebuie s-o simt la marginile pielii, s-o vad si s-o ating tot timpul. Nu conteaza ca e iluzie. Nu conteaza ca e varianta ieftina. Imi trebuie. De fiecare data. Nu mai am timp. Nu pot sa stau sa aflu. In fata ochilor mei va sta doar ce voi chema. Pentru ca destul. Pentru ca gata. Pentru ca nu mai avem.
The fucking wastelands.
Nu mai am timp. O sa ma scald in lumina ei constant. E reala fix cat vreau eu sa fie reala. La fel ca toate lucrurile.
Dar spre deosebire de timp.
Da' s-a terminat. S-a terminat de cateva ori si se tot termina.
Si tot incepe de fiecare data. Deci cum reincepe? N-are sens niciodata. Si totusi se duce. Normal ca filozofii s-au blocat la timp. N-ai ce-i face. Faptul ca incepe de fiecare data. Nu poti decat sa i te inchini. Iata aceasta forta mai mare decat fortele. Nu e pentru cuvinte. Normal ca s-au blocat.
Ce mistere cosmice sa cauti? Iata, timpul. Si cu asta s-a terminat.
Si dupa aia incepe.
Uite-l cum se duce. Si de fiecare data aceeasi sansa. Si de fiecare data acelasi nu. Nu mai am timp.
Si nici macar nu stiu cat e ceasu. Atata lucru?
Showing posts with label scriituri. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scriituri. Show all posts
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Thursday, September 10, 2015
are we having fun?
Sometimes at odds with the value of being constantly present. It's really only a matter of whether or not you have a nice place to go to. Happiness as the drug of choice. You get high on your constant ability to choose to be happy. If done correctly, it can be the right kind of madness. Rarely done correctly. Mostly ostriches putting their heads in sand. Difficult to place blame though. Ultimately, as in Infinite Jest, "it is simply more pleasant to be happy than to be pissed off."
Difficult to make a case against pleasantness. But I think I know a guy or two that did. Only the idea is that you go through so much unpleasantness so as to achieve the right kind of madness.
Your madness.
Difficult to make a case against pleasantness. But I think I know a guy or two that did. Only the idea is that you go through so much unpleasantness so as to achieve the right kind of madness.
Your madness.
Monday, September 7, 2015
The Drop
Jamie, from The XX, remixing Gil Scott-Heron's I'm New Here
The drop is not something particular to all the shitty music we hear nowadays. Beethoven had drops. Beethoven had sick drops. Dropped it like it's German. It just took about 30 minutes to get to it and you never knew where or when or how it came. They called it, Der Surprisen Droppen.
People don't like surprises nowadays though. Surprises are upsetting. So then you get the drop for sure. You get it when you want it, and you're sure you're gonna get it. Every time a victory. No room for disappointment. No time for disappointment.
I want it now and I want it the way I know I want it. I know me. I'm the guy who likes it how he likes it.
Do not stray from the certainty of The Drop.
Friday, September 4, 2015
disparaturi (2)
Capitalism is turning into fascism. I don't know if it already was, or is. This is probably something that can be discussed and is discussed at infinite length in macro and micro terms. But I'm only really interested in the micro aspect. The relegation of personal responsibility by virtue of a higher authority that displaces or dissolves your own system of values. Thus your actions only exist as an extension of the manifestations of a higher power.
Azi am fost muist la munca. Am dat muie si trebuia sa ma simt prost da' m-a durut la pula. Ca nu e treaba mea. Si nici numele meu. Si nici viata mea.
The question of either playing the game, or contemplating it with disdain from afar. The value of engaging in discourse. Null? Only insofar as you forfeit hope. And hope is forfeited. In macro terms. What do, what do. On the other hand, the danger of liking the game too much. Another illusion. Another dream. The question of either being in the dream, or contemplating it with disdain from afar. The question of being alienated with a mask on, or being alienated in darkness.
Only one hope, that of ripples echoing into the distance finding similarly tuned ears and eyes and even then it doesn't really amount to all that much. Other than a beacon constantly emitting a distress signal, looping "There is a way, there is a way, there is a way". Only no one knows what that way is. And no one would tell you. No one could tell you anyway, all the one ways that exist are all custom-fitted to the one carrier. It is not transmittable by words. So then the beacon says "Search, search, search". Even if you don't find it, a life searching is better than a resolved complacency. What people admire in other people as a sort of dignified complacency.
Look at him. He is so calm and collected while shoving piles of shit down his throat from mentally inferior defecators that happen to be the assholes and not the swallowers by virtue of sheer chance. Only they will let you know, there is no such thing as chance, you have simply not worked hard enough. Look at the grace with which he perfectly places the feces into his oral cavity. Such dexterity. Such wonder. His mother takes great pride in his ability to ingest shit. Best in the county, my son is.
How funny then, that pride in distant disdain is just as bad as pride in shit eating.
Azi am fost muist la munca. Am dat muie si trebuia sa ma simt prost da' m-a durut la pula. Ca nu e treaba mea. Si nici numele meu. Si nici viata mea.
The question of either playing the game, or contemplating it with disdain from afar. The value of engaging in discourse. Null? Only insofar as you forfeit hope. And hope is forfeited. In macro terms. What do, what do. On the other hand, the danger of liking the game too much. Another illusion. Another dream. The question of either being in the dream, or contemplating it with disdain from afar. The question of being alienated with a mask on, or being alienated in darkness.
Only one hope, that of ripples echoing into the distance finding similarly tuned ears and eyes and even then it doesn't really amount to all that much. Other than a beacon constantly emitting a distress signal, looping "There is a way, there is a way, there is a way". Only no one knows what that way is. And no one would tell you. No one could tell you anyway, all the one ways that exist are all custom-fitted to the one carrier. It is not transmittable by words. So then the beacon says "Search, search, search". Even if you don't find it, a life searching is better than a resolved complacency. What people admire in other people as a sort of dignified complacency.
Look at him. He is so calm and collected while shoving piles of shit down his throat from mentally inferior defecators that happen to be the assholes and not the swallowers by virtue of sheer chance. Only they will let you know, there is no such thing as chance, you have simply not worked hard enough. Look at the grace with which he perfectly places the feces into his oral cavity. Such dexterity. Such wonder. His mother takes great pride in his ability to ingest shit. Best in the county, my son is.
How funny then, that pride in distant disdain is just as bad as pride in shit eating.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
disparaturi
Toata lumea zice intr-una ca viata e scurta. Si dupa aia iti dai seama de fapt ca e lunga. De fapt e destul de lunga. Te grabesti sa ajungi la sfarsitul ei si dupa aia iti dai seama ca oh fuck. Mai e o gramada. Cineva trebuia sa zica ceva. Ca acum e complicat. S-a terminat de vreo doua ori si de fapt tot merge. O fi bine, o fi rau? Si de unde atata inertie? Au terminat la magazinu de inertie, nu mai au. M-am dus ieri si am cerut si au zis. Ca nu. Ca nu mai e. Am intrebat. Mai aduceti? Nu stim, au zis. Baga-mi-as pula. Pai si cum facem? Au ridicat din umeri. Si magazinu de inertie tot romanesc. Deci nu stiu, da' la un moment dat tot tre sa aduca ma gandesc. Ca altfel mergem asa pe fara? Nu cred ca merge mult asa, se strica. Deci sa le mai scriu un mail zic. Sa ma plang.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Infinite Jest #1
If, by the virtue of charity or the circumstance of desperation, you ever chance to spend a little time around a Substance-recovery halfway facility like Enfield MA's state-funded Ennet House, you will acquire many exotic new facts.
That a little-mentioned paradox of Substance addiction is: that once you are sufficiently enslaved by a Substance to need to quit the Substance in order to save your life, the enslaving Substance has become so deeply important to you that you will all but lose your mind when it is taken away from you.
That no matter how smart you thought you were, you are actually way less smart than that.
That over 50% of persons with a Substance addiction suffer from some other recognized form of psychiatric disorder, too. That some male prostitutes become so accustomed to enemas that they cannot have valid bowel movements without them. That a majority of Ennet House residents have at least one tattoo. That the significance of this datum is unanalyzable.
That sleeping can be a form of emotional escape and can with sustained effort be abused.
That logical validity is not a guarantee of truth.
That it is statistically easier for low-IQ people to kick an addiction than it is for high-IQ people.
That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt.
That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness.
That most Substance-addicted people are also addicted to thinking, meaning that they have a compulsive and unhealthy relationship with their own thinking. That the cute Boston AA term for addictive-type thinking is: Analysis-Paralysis.
That it is simply more pleasant to be happy than to be pissed off.
That 99% of compulsive thinkiers' thinking is about themselves; that 99% of this self-directed thinking consists of imagining and then getting ready for things that are going to happen to them; and then, weirdly, that if they stop to think about it, that 100% of the things they spend 99% of their time and energy imagining and trying to prepare for all the contingencies and consequences of are never good. Then that this connects interestingly with the early-sobriety urge to pray for the literal loss of one's mind. In short that 99% of the head's thinking activity consists of trying to scare the everliving shit out of itself.
That the people to be most frightened of are the people who are the most frightened.
That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable.
That a little-mentioned paradox of Substance addiction is: that once you are sufficiently enslaved by a Substance to need to quit the Substance in order to save your life, the enslaving Substance has become so deeply important to you that you will all but lose your mind when it is taken away from you.
That no matter how smart you thought you were, you are actually way less smart than that.
That over 50% of persons with a Substance addiction suffer from some other recognized form of psychiatric disorder, too. That some male prostitutes become so accustomed to enemas that they cannot have valid bowel movements without them. That a majority of Ennet House residents have at least one tattoo. That the significance of this datum is unanalyzable.
That sleeping can be a form of emotional escape and can with sustained effort be abused.
That logical validity is not a guarantee of truth.
That it is statistically easier for low-IQ people to kick an addiction than it is for high-IQ people.
That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt.
That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness.
That most Substance-addicted people are also addicted to thinking, meaning that they have a compulsive and unhealthy relationship with their own thinking. That the cute Boston AA term for addictive-type thinking is: Analysis-Paralysis.
That it is simply more pleasant to be happy than to be pissed off.
That 99% of compulsive thinkiers' thinking is about themselves; that 99% of this self-directed thinking consists of imagining and then getting ready for things that are going to happen to them; and then, weirdly, that if they stop to think about it, that 100% of the things they spend 99% of their time and energy imagining and trying to prepare for all the contingencies and consequences of are never good. Then that this connects interestingly with the early-sobriety urge to pray for the literal loss of one's mind. In short that 99% of the head's thinking activity consists of trying to scare the everliving shit out of itself.
That the people to be most frightened of are the people who are the most frightened.
That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable.
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