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Four abstract snapshots from various patches of my twenties.
In chronological order.
IN ENGLISH
June 2006 Everyone has some fraction of glory and yet everyone's rushing to some pawnshop to exhange it for a couple of curses. And of course I could go pattering on and on about the paradox of such a behavior being absurd and sensible, simultaneously, but when it all comes around it's all back to glory. Everyone has some fraction of it; not seldom it is a quote 'Everything I've done will some day match up to something that I'll do, for instance. ... Fuck it! A rising number of words ago, I dropped a row of three dots onto the paper: '...' and I prefer to see it as a piece of painting expressing the move of tapping fingers against some bloody surface.* No meanings no motives no marks especially no punctuation ones and of course there could be patter about the great war where queens Tragedy and Irony fell dead of each other's sword but I'm so packed up with void it comes out in tears I'm draining my latest obsession in the one to come resting the scent of yesterdays on a hanger that I pass by on my high noon walk to the bathroom . I am terrifically polite especially before myself despite the void coming out my eyes my arse * As Henry Miller put it, 'There is something exasperating about this movement, something abortively melancholy about it, as if it had been written in lava, as if it had the color of lead and milk mixed.' Everyone has some fraction of glory and yet everyone's rushing to some pawnshop to exhange it for a couple of curses. And of course I could go pattering on and on about the paradox of such a behavior being at the same time absurd and sensible, but when it all comes around it's all back to glory. Everyone has some fraction of it; not seldom it is a maxim 'Everything I've done will some day match up to something that I'll do,' for instance. ... Fuck it! A rising number of words ago, I dropped a row of three dots onto the paper: '...' and I prefer to see it as a piece of painting expressing the move of tapping fingers against some bloody surface. (As Henry Miller put it, 'There is something exasperating about this movement, something abortively melancholy about it, as if it had been written in lava, as if it had the color of lead and milk mixed.') No meanings no motives no marks especially no punctuation ones and of course there could be patter about the great war where queens Tragedy and Irony fell dead of each other's sword but I'm so packed up with void it comes out in tears One by one I drain my obsessions erase them under each other rest the odor of yesterdays on a hanger that I pass by on my high noon walk to the bathroom . I am terrifically polite especially before myself despite the void coming out in tears in turds in ink in words - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - On Necessity Fall 2008 Missions, there are, passing by handy, arbitrary nonetheless, and I sit on this seat exemplifying an indivisible unit of perceivable conditions – a necessity, so to put it – and count them, pretty much the same way I counted sheep at times when as a kid I laid in bed and couldn't sleep; pretty much the same impatient halfway grin there is on my face, so now as then, a grin of curiosity and of some other long gone and obliterated infantile perspective that has by now evolved to apathy; and hence, it works, my method, far better than it ever worked on my past nightime worries, it rids me of my present guilt – guilt of merely caring. –What is this? What is there to give credit to for this one and only gratuity, for this sickly clarity? Ethics? No… –Bad country! some loudspeaker there must be, somewhere, nearby or downtown, hissing, this miserable September night. Reset, I am, to the dazzling absence of habitual memories. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - On Time, alternative units for measuring It, and the possibility of crying when I'm wanking off Fall 2008 Y et another one day pass is moving towards its completionas a notion; Y et another one day pass is about to be cut offof what I am mentally qualified to perceive as present. This, I presume, is the most common engagement, so to put it, of mine: Diaries – timepieces of laid-back geezers – fairly human means to fairly human ends… Dancing on the ashes of imperia and idols, diaries and everpresent cigarettes I once wrote halfway through a little accomplishment of mine called All in all 'n' all in feathers which I have preferred to keep unpublished. Cigarettes, in this example, correspond to seconds: units of wide approval and use, that could, of course, be disassembled into further fractions, such as drags or even particles of mere smoke – an adoption of whom as units would, however, be either coarsely inadequate, because of vast variations as to size and, consequently, duration, or, respectively, synonymous to a sysephean relapse to chemistry. Diaries, as such, correspond to dates; days, months and years, that is. The seemingly sizable differences of these three components are of no relevance, because: (1) of what's common for all – namely, the potential to be understood not only on the level of perception, but further down-to-earth on that of documentation, which can be said to be 'perception in practice', and (2) of what differentiates them from seconds – namely, that they are negligibly arbitrary. The causal relation of these two rationales can be said to be reciprocal. et A correspondence to an imperium is the very notion of time; whereas the title of an idol is allotted Stephen fuckin' double-you Hawking. Dancing I am, as the laid-back geezer I am – my fingers up my nostrils, my hands shaking, my feet aching, my cock what keeps me from breakin' down. Down to ashes it has all come. Muted, one of a couple (not of a kind) of mutually muted fuckers. – Fuck! I cannot help but burst into pettinesses when I come to deny my frustration based on the fallacy that it is a sign of apology… passively positive… I sort of evoke yet another way of pretending I said nothing or at least nobody heard me… my whole history summed up within the burp of some drunk fuckin' ugly moron troubling the earth… There I go… the perfect unit for measuring time… But time, that sonuvabitch, knows of no measures… feeds all possibilities… expressive and delicate ones grow obese and ordinary… and I find myself amid a dazzling vortex of stains and reflections… wanking off… lifting a fistful of fibers against the ambiguity of my self-consciousness… Risingly abnormal, I proceed from groans of excitement to twists of aggression and eventually I stand six-feet-three-tall paralyzed and drool. Tears of a rabid oblivion shine on my face as I emancipate unto solitude, that most comforting of all cold opposing winds I have encountered. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - difference = freedom October 2012 Documented below is an attempt to validate the equation, duly deficient, and hence on target. Lie as it may what inevitable complexity what complexity I convey in the joy I display – I seem to extract, let's say – when releasing the beauty of those disarming contrasts that this world is urged to simplify under the label of Personality who could tell?
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Läst 932 gånger Publicerad 2006-06-14 16:20 
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