<= 2017.11

[DECEMBER 2017.]

On the other hand we got a huge black radish delivered to the house, so I sautéed it with sesame oil and garlic and it tasted basically like a turnip with more bite, fuck yeah, black radish.


As if you’d outlived yourself, and your own fruitless remains were the badge of shame you were given to carry in public. All those years practicing attitudes in the mirror, playing chess into the night against hooded skeletons; and when you finally reached across the board, you found your opponent spattered with glow paint and held up with piano wire. Well, of course! It was always you making the moves on both sides. Outside it’s been raining for years.

If he clear-headedly knows that his present projects are solely the projects of his youth, how does he know that they are not merely that, unless he has some view which makes sense of, among other things, his own future? One cannot even start on the important questions of how this man, so totally identified with his present values, will be related to his future without them, if one does not take as basic the fact that it is his own future that he will be living through without them.

This leads to the question of why we go on at all.

—Bernard Williams, “Persons, Character and Morality”

Not Christmas but Yule. The dead walking around, the army of bad intentions at the top finally starting to shamble in the same direction. The early evening of drear-nighted December, freezing the mind’s stream—which I didn’t always know. I was fifteen years old and running a temperature of 101. I didn’t care. I was lying in an arroyo in the dark and everyone was out on the street looking for me. I didn’t care.

That was a mire, and no one less than me expected the climb out of it. Over the next few years I made a mechanism, let’s say, out of components near to hand (there was quite a lot near to hand, that can’t be denied). A kind of vehicle, a kind of self. A steerable boat good for twenty years. There was even a website, the entry to which read 404 Not Found—so Winnicott had the key to the whole production from the start. From 1997.

The components are still around, more or less as before, but I think the mechanism has come apart. The waters never led out of themselves. Despite that they’re nothing like they were.

Why You Left Social Media: A Guesswork.

Or D.W. Winnicott: “In the artist of all kinds I think one can detect an inherent dilemma, which belongs to the co-existence of two trends, the urgent need to communicate and the still more urgent need not to be found”; as juxtaposed with psychoanalyzing a child: “Here is a picture of a child establishing a private self that is not communicating, and at the same time wanting to communicate and to be found. It is a sophisticated game of hide-and-seek in which it is joy to be hidden but disaster not to be found.”

Isn’t it an abjection? Aren’t we ashamed?

sure, sure, but without social media would we even have met each other?

“I want to keep a blog about the occurrence of a certain sensation. To this end I associate it with the sign ‘S’ and post this sign on my blog for every day on which I have the sensation.”

The ground state is “die in the snow like Robert Walser.” Assuming you don’t wish to die in the snow like Robert Walser, you still have to work your way outward from that ground state, one step at a time.

<= 2017.11

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