The Anti-Blog 4

Today, I found a website about found grocery lists. There truly is something for everybody on the internet. It’s right here, by the way.

I was fascinated by its fascination with the small, mundane accruals of the small, mundane people; I found it an apologia for the things that are regularly overlooked because they are microscopic in size. Those things which we hold in mundane contempt; that which we would call “taking things for granted” and I discovered it for the most mundane or reasons.

I suck at grocery shopping.

Of all the prosaic reasons to find a prosaic piece of collage art as a website and time capsule, I chose the most prosaic of all. The act of improving my grocery shopping game. it’s weak as fuck.

I walk in there, grab a basket; sometimes, I walk in and see the rows of color; the masterfully arrayed stands with conical colorful shapes; I see the ovaries of trees and vines and all the things borne above and below the earth in their gaiac majesty. I look at the long aisles, filled in an organization that speaks its own secret language; a dewey decimal system for the soap-opera masses; with the images and needs painted explicitly and somehow not at all far reaching enough to be meaningful.

Condiments, such an all-encompassing statement, and yet most of the condiments cannot be found in this section. There are condiments like dressings, or cheeses; there are condiments from other countries; there are ketchups and mustards of course; your rap-beloved Grey Poupon’s aligned on shelves, sometimes haphazardly, sometimes in martial beauty; geometrically arrayed to portray a sense of order. These next to peanuts and various things that the grocery store actually wants you to buy; snack packs of various nuts; spatulae and frying pans; the off-brand grocery store snack foods and off-brand colas that are as much a mainstay of the US as those more generic panegyric subjects like Mom’s Apple Pie, Baseball, and rampant Xenophobia.

I walk into this place, arrayed with a market psychologist’s precision, and I am lost in this city of food. I am lost among the avenues of fruits. I stumbled, recently, picking out a fresh food bag; I stood there, smiling the way you smile when you know you are in an embarrassing situation, but showing your embarrassment would be tantamount to acknowledging your embarrassment; and the jacketed indifferent people, wandering in their own non-synchronous rhythms watch in mild amusement at the putz fumbling with dispenser so he can grab a cucumber he will fail to cook, and will eventually go to the compost pile for reasons unknown.

I find myself lost in fluorescent lighting; the re-usable bags; the circular logic of prepared foods. The day old sushi which is eaten only in the most utilitarian of circumstances. With the mayo spicy and yellowed dripped onto the just shy of vibrant tuna nigiri; and the way overpriced cool tasting sticky rice that is no subsistute for the good shit. No dreams of Jiro would ever concoct such mundanity.

And then onto the cheese section, where a glorious array of various shades of yellow, red, white, and speckle make themselves known. One can get lost in a cheese display, if one is not lactose intolerant (which I am not). One can finger lovingly the displays of brie and gorgonzola so crisp and the vermont cheddar that needs be extra sharp to be consumed by my mallet-smashing-watermelon subtlety of palate.

Onto to those red glaring meats, and tupperware collections; anterior and posterior to the frozen-fish, sitting freshly cut; breakfast wares and pork-cut gone wrong hot-dogs all arrayed to entice.

And then I wander, allegro, across the remaining aisles. Anxious and grateful at the ability to shop for groceries, even though I don’t know what I’m looking for. Making sure to stick to a budget that, somehow, I exceed, by only the slightest of margins that will still manage to shame me with my limited ability to budget.

The embarrassment as I search for frozen fruit and the carbs, pretending my macros are a consideration, when I really feel broke. And, after rushing like someone who made act 2 way too long through the climax, I get some yogurt and granola and go.

So, to make a more balanced solution, I looked of grocery lists. I’ve never felt my age more; I’ve never felt so mundane and simple as to search for something like a grocery list.

But then I found this site. And I saw that mundanity, in a row, is quite beautiful. To see the pathologies of man writ small, in various colors and lined papers and stick notes and hotel stationary; objects as diverse as lotion, get-well cards, margarine, bananas, condoms; doctors stationaries; index card; kisses in red-lipstick for loved ones; parmesan cheese; glimpses into character; little peeks behind the curtain of mundane life.

And, for a moment, it feels like an aesthetic, greater than itself, but no more than itself. For a moment, humanity is a single plural strain of existence write large across the planet.

But then I remember, it’s just a bunch of groceries.

The Anti-Blog 3

Man, spam can suck my ass.

Well, actually, nah. I’ve written about it before, but there is something weirdly magical about good spam; GOOD spam. Like Zoltan Papp who I swear is just 3 sentences away from writing some masterful goddamn science fiction stories a la conspiracy theories. Or the infamous Nigerian Prince con mucho dinero qui just needs you to wire some cash so you can inherit it from him, regardless of the internal contradiction that presents.

But now this anti-blog thing is getting spam, and it is mildly frustrating, to put it…mildly. Blegh.

I’m all for that sexy poetry spam where it’s a series of words that don’t really make sense, arrayed in a beautiful colorful word salad and all that makes sense is that the words are multi-syllabic masterpieces of sound and that’s about it. Carburetor switch valve sorry for the ectoplasmic refraction beam; light at the end of the tunnel but only killswitches on the anterior side of nowhere’s seti alpha v crazy. It’s an orthogonal retrograde of amnesiac surrealism pressed against the grey stone tilt of some jojo reference I don’t have time for.

Sorry, where were we?

Eh, I don’t know. I was too busy making word salad.

Ah. No. I lost my train of thought.

Should I end this here?

NO.

Well, if you insist, me.

What was I talking about?

Oh, right, getting spam.

Getting spam is great…if you get other attention too; but I don’t.

Spam is the only attention I get. Comment after comment of spam. And that means someone is reading it, and maybe I should show compassion to those people.
Those People are salesman, after all. They are trying to convince me to buy a product because they see a need – poor viewership – and feel in their automaton hearts that they have the solution.

They don’t. It’s spam. But it’s the the thought that counts.

But is spam something that can really think? Well, no, but it’s not meant to. It’s meant to push a product that may or may not work, and get money into the hands of the unscrupulous and scrupulous alike. Spam isn’t always illegitimate like Jon Snow; sometimes Spam is just some trashy e-mail meant to sell you a thing, sent to a million people who are likely to purchase it.

Sometimes, Spam is thought about heavily. It has meaning. Someone thought about, probably for hours – maybe even longer – the arrangement of the font, how colorful it should be and every little detail, just to make sure it would ping on your email and grab your attention.

There is something admirable about that.

Because, when it’s not a scam, out and out, that means someone cared enough to make sure you would like to read that. Someone put enough care to grab your attention to make sure you wanted their project; and, because this theoretical spam is by a marketing team, it is because they recognize in you a potential client. They know something about you that you may not even be aware of.

But perhaps in sending it it was too generic; perhaps they did not put enough thought into make the email seem real. One man’s spam is another man’s treasure…probably. And at least with spam attached to something legitimate, you know someone is thinking about it.

I can’t decide if that’s sad, or beautiful.

Probably both.

Oh, whatever, spambots, enjoy the algorithmic content you glean from this website, and have all that fun.

Peace

The Anti-Blog 2

I’ve been hit. Help.

You ever get a wave of involuntary memory, like a Proust orgasm and you suddenly feel very distant from your memories, like they are all something explicitly in the past; and yet they are also right in front of your lived-in body, moment to moment on the cusp of revelation; and all the feeling is suddenly overwhelming you and falling on top of you; and you have no choice but to feel the memory as if it were this infinite moment where the past collides into the present – where all time is laid bare like sushi on a japanese woman – and the unfeeling lurid tongues of men in suits runs across your body and you don’t know what the feeling is supposed to evoke; whether it’s some meaningless trite sensation of thereness; or if its an uncomfortable violation of yourself; that moment forever lost now replaying violently on the theater of your schull. Endlessly repeating some tangential sensation of oneness and care and hope.

Yeah, me neither.

The Anti-Blog 1

This blog is about nothing, and that’s the way I want to keep it. Insert Seinfeld bass intro.

Honestly, this blog isn’t about things, it’s intentionally not about things, because things are points in time, vectors that cut off those beautiful unknowns in the distance; they make myopic the masses and make circumstantial the consequential….unless they don’t.

Uhm….that means something. Probably.

What is the point of a blog anyway? I mean, nowadays blogs are about things. You blog about how awesome you are trimming your cat’s ball hair (of if you’re a vet, their balls); you blog about how to maximize your SEO to make those sweet sweet ad-dollahs baby. Cha-fuckin’-ching.

I mean, you know, you blog these days because blogging is now a viable opportunity to make moolahs. Which, in this day and age, is actually a reasonable goal.

And I think to myself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3yCcXgbKrE

And, for a while, I’ve been in this mindset of “I want to blog because blogging can be profitable if you are good at it” but then it occurred to me: i’m…not, good at it.

I mean, if I really put a good faith effort – if I dotted my Srunk & White T’s and crossed my SEO eyes – if I…I don’t know, listened to Income School and made my content good and saleable, then that premise would be just fine and dandy.

But I can’t, at least not yet, for a few reasons.

Reason 1: I get in my head about it

I find socialism to be dumb as bricks in its most extreme incarnations (fucking honestly), but I also can’t bring myself to write content that I don’t feel strongly about.

I’m probably a fucking hypocrite for saying it, but when I write in a purely commercial context, it is hard to feel like I have soul in the game. If I rationalize it to myself, it’s possible, don’t get me wrong. I been on that grind honey, and it’s 100% possible lemme tell you.

But it also feels…manufactured.

Don’t get me wrong, if you find joy in copy-writing, or technical writing; if finding the quickest route from Consumer A’s wallet to Company B’s bank account gets you going; if the prospect of finding the Mot Juste of advertising is your Joie De Vivre with that vestigial R, and you like that shit, really, honestly, that’s amazing.

I will never fault someone for hustlin’ and likin’ it. And it would be dishonest of me to say “Who, me make money by writing convincing copy? Never. I have SOUL IN THE GAME. MAN”. That’s kinda fucking bullshit. If I could enjoy copy, I would go balls deep into that process. The prospect of putting words to paper and also then converting those words actionably into monies for which I can then purchase goods and services from other Copywriters gets me all tingly inside as a prospect.

But….

I’m not there yet.

I get so in my head about the reality of it; am I excited about writing this thing because the words flowing from my word processor are words that I care about; are these flowing fluid alliterations meant to sell you a product my soul; or am I just a fucking shill pushing a product to convince you you need something more?

I never genuinely know the answer. And I ain’t gonna lie, it’s troubling.

So, I started this free-writing thing so I can…be more comfortable with the prospect of putting words on paper in public.

I think this is like… the first, second, THIRD time, third, really Eric? Honestly. This is the third time I’ve tried this, and that’s upsetting.

But I need to do this because.

Reason 2: Being naked is awesome

Ahh, I’m gonna need to rephrase that somehow.

How shall I put this? Any written endeavor, or musical endeavor, or artistic endeavor requires that you strip down in front of a lot of people. For better or worse consciously, and with the expectation of being judged for it. People are….less than forgiving of others on the internet.

And over the last year, it is has become increasingly evident that people are looking to pick a fight. I’ve watched as the situation has deteriorated rapidly. People are angry, and they want to hurt.

If there is a group of people I want to drop trough in front of less, it would be y’all. And that’s not just because I’m a fan of being publicly decent.

Y’all – the vast internet wasteland – filled with time cubes and hate mongers and neo-nazis and Anime Fans and Social Justice and stupid critical essays on why the Last Jedi is a dumpster fire and people being systematically abused by poweful systems and capitalists and communists and stupid people who think they are smart and smart people who think they are stupid and people who casually overlook the impact of stalin and mao and people who are cool with the situation in flint and people who like to argue because they like the feeling of being angry and people who are justifiably depressed.

It’s a lot. And it’s scary. And it always feels like i’m going to be stepping on a lot of toes. I don’t want to step on toes. But I’m going to, whether I like it or not. That’s just how existence works.

But man, I don’t like the thought of it.

And that’s kinda messed up because:

I want to be more than invisible

So we come to the squeeze. I’m not afraid to admit I’m egotistical. I think it’s egotistical to think you’re not egotistical, and then do things that support that idea, even though, deep down, you one hundred percent are egotistical (didn’t I just say 100% ffs?) so I’ll be straight: I want to be liked, I want to be loved. And that shouldn’t be a radical fucking statement, but it is. It is because it is Gauche AF to admit that you want things like “being significant” and “being cared for”.

Or maybe I’m just fucked in the head. We may never know.

But in all cases, I see myself as having pussyfooted pretty hard. And this meandering answerless blog with shit content is my answer to it.

Because if I can’t meander meaninglessly across vast tracts of the internet wasteland, anime, art, literature, music, and all the things I love.

Then what is the goddamn point?

I don’t know. But maybe if I write it out, I’ll find out.

And then I can do something meaningful.

It’s snowing on Mt. Fuji

To Be and Not To Be

To be and not to be, that’s a better question. Without which not, sine kwannon; all the time in the world sitting upon the edge. Precipice, precipitation and the precipitous collapse of meaning, dangled upon the edge of the end of the world, internally assonant, and just satisfying enough to crave that all encompassing desire for death. The pursuit of the void.

My headspace looks a little weird right now, I hope you will excuse me.

I muse, tonight, on a topic I have mulled over mindlessly – and mindfully – for some time now; still not concretely set upon an answer that would satisfy the basic urge that drives me, but still pleasantly placated by a sad thought: we are all doomed to be forgotten.

Not just forgotten, but non-existent. One day, we will cease to exist in sum. Our atoms, which were once star dust, which were transmogrified into us through some strange probabilistic magic, and will one day be not us again, will cease to hold meaning in the curious knot of consciousness.

I haven’t decided whether it terrifies me or not.

To be and not to be, again and again.

What if it is scary. Is all the nihilistic depressing outlooks warranted? Well, maybe Nihilistic, because nihilism is simply the absence of meaning: it holds no moral quantities whatsoever. It is a philosophy bereft of that thing we call inherent meaning. It is not the ideology of despair, but an ideology that precludes ideology: a paradox. My favorite kind.

Because paradoxes are unanswerable. They are the stuff of which god is composed. The atoms of contradiction. Those sweet freely flowing nothings that are everything’s by their very nature. An ideology that precludes ideology is ideal, because it holds no pretense at being the correct one.

Correct ideologies, are dangerous.

Correct ideologies dictate that that comma splice is evil; that semi-colons serve a specific purpose; that the rallying cry of the period is the death knell of the living sentence. That pulsating series of imperfections that dies in a little black hole at the end of time.

When an ideology is pre-supposed to be real – whichever shitty ideology it is – they all are, really – then the things that surround it are negated. The things that are not the ideology become objectively evil. It is monstrous. To make something that has no inherent meaning a bad thing. How can people be so attached to this?

Well, the reason is often comfort. It’s nice to believe that good and evil exist, that people can be bisected, bifurcated, and otherwise boxed into simplistic moral categories. That people are not composed of a series of actions, strung along a narrow conception of chaotic time; that things are categorical, that they exist as they are. That there is no need for paradox, because write and wrong are the two things that exist, and one is preferable to the other.

Fuck that.

Fuck it up its butt. Fuck all ideologies. Ideologies are fucking awful. Ideologically driven mindsets are painful and childish. They require reducing the world; putting it through photoshop, cleaning the stretch-mark scars on reality’s body. It requires that reality be modified, and altered – contrast added, curves enhanced, symmetry created – and that the rest of it be discarded. Then, when being processed into that idealized image of self, compressed, degraded, pixels removed. The warts all gone, ideology is there, beautiful, and unblemished by moral compromise. Because that’s the way it should be, Ce n’est pas?

I can’t abide such willful ignorance. I am prone to my fancies, and I am imperfect, and unqualified and unquantifiable. Reality is not attached to the circuits of meaning man constructs to comfort himself in the face of a broad, enormous, unending panoply of space, and planets and action. Reality is plural and unanswerable and all those things that make us uncomfortable.

It scares me, sometimes, when I think about the fact that we will one day cease to exist. That one day, there will be a nothing where we once were.

And, at the same time, it’s kind of beautiful.

Optimistic Nihilism. An approach to meaninglessness that I prefer. The world ends, nothing follows, let’s assume. Then every bad thing is gone, every good thing is gone. People are not real, or they are, or both, as I like think, and then we wink out, and cease, but we don’t leave, we simply change. We simply become that which is not otherwise, and it’s beautiful.

We rise and become everywhere like so many things that have already passed, and then, if this nihilistic show is oscillating, we do it again, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. I fucking hate those dead, desiccated things.

So I ask, to be and not to be, that’s the question. And I don’t need an answer.

Thought and Sentence Fragments

I suppose it is rather absurd for me to lament feeling lost, considering my usual schtick.

Tonight, I am up later than intended here, in this digital expanse that is nowhere in particular. I am here because I must be, and because flexing muscles is necessary to avoid atrophy, even the ones made of neurons. I also need sentence practice.

I am, at the worst times, rather prosaic.

I recently discovered I’m fond of the word Synovial Fluid; I don’t know why. It just rolls off the tongue. It is also, evidently, the fluid in between the joints of magisterially named Phalanges…uhm, fingers, and is what causes that satisfying cracking noise, when you crack your knuckles.

Synovial has all the sexy phonemes in it: Sin, o, and vial. No tortured baby cows involved. It has a nice onomatopoeia flavor to it. Fuck, onomatopoeia is a pain in the ass to spell.

I don’t know why I do things, sometimes. Other than a need. Need is ultimately something I find incredibly interesting for incredible non-reasons. First off, what is need, really?

Need is like, this illusion we maintain, well, partly, we do need to eat and shit and shit like that. But often we don’t really think about the things we really need. We don’t just need to survive; we are human; we require multitudes of needs.

We require needs that often seem more like wants. Sometimes we need to take risks. We need to walk to the edge of a jagged cliff, a face of certain doom, and look over the edge. We need to know that that cliff is sheer, and that it entails pain. We need to know that failure is a part of a possibility when jumping off the cliff.

And we need to know that, once we step off, our wings can unfurl.

Perhaps that is overly optimistic of me. Perhaps the wings we believe are just those lies we tell ourselves to keep ourselves in the comfortable anticipation of a jump.

I’m in a very not knowing mode tonight, and I’m doubting my expressions. But I’m feeling it, regardless.

I’m just letting my thoughts go, a little bit. I hope you don’t mind. If you like James Joyce, you may even find some tangential comfort in the freeness. Or Montaigne, whom I love, despite morally opposing his central thesis of failure.

When we enter the mind, are we going to a different place? Is the internet a geographical location? Am I a bit crazy, and sleep deprived. I would argue, all of the above.

I wonder what it takes to get me to be un-self-referential, and actually go with the flow. Perhaps it takes courage, or some other unidentifiable quality of honesty that doesn’t really give a fuck, and doesn’t need to deflect uncomfortable impulses because they tickle like an open nerve ending, suppurating slightly in a sphincter of pain, but inverted. An anterior position and an exposure to light.

Emptiness of a certain variety scares me. Scares, scares, double dog dares. Witches, the scottish play; tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Perhaps peut-etre est un mot prefere; Yo, I want to get those accents down. French is beautiful and that beauty is uncreate. A verb from long ago that isn’t long ago.

Why are these public? Montaigne wasn’t genuinely wandering the corners of his mind. He was precise, needle like in perambulations. His circumlocutions weren’t circumspect. He wasn’t trying to appease some sense of ego. He was trying to capture, like the best artists, that elusive moment where the past and the future join.

What happens when I want
a haiku of beauty in
this blog of no form

But that’s not a very good haiku. Haiku is visual. It arrests the sense with delicacy and sweetness.

I wonder if Basho ever got down on himself for silly reasons. I wonder if, in composing his best 16 syllable gems, he would doubt his ability, and suddenly write a series of jokes in haiku form to calm himself. I wonder if Murasaki Shikibu had a sense of humor. She comes off as a very sad individual.

Then again, she doesn’t feel the need to sit at her desk at midnight, and type out a series of thoughts that go nowhere.

But then again, neither do I.

Trying too Hard

I’m trying too hard.

You can always pinpoint the exact moment you recognize that sensation – a confluence – a coalescing – too many thoughts all going a million different directions: I should do this, I should do that. I should be doing this right now. Why am I not doing this? Am I a bad person for not doing this. What is doing this? That word is losing meaning and I think I’m going to flow a little unpunctuated I’m a bit too anti-style and my blog makes no sense how taoist of me but not really that’s an an asinine remark I should be more considerate of taoism. Phew, need a breath here. There’s so much I want to do and I’m a perpetual commito-phobe; not because I think any things are inherently bad, but because I’m so crowded internally I have to do everything at once. It’s a great paradox, really, The harder you try, the less you accomplish. Try to do everything accomplish nothing. It’s all a matter of time, really. You can’t tell when i’m interrupted in a  sentence like this. I kinda suck at research; maybe I should fix it. Isn’t the semi-colon a nice punctuation mark? I have so much respect for montaigne, man, like you have no idea. This is trying too hard. This is like Joyce at the end of ulysses, but there isn’t enough to grab onto. No sensory details about that cypress on the edge of forever, nestled between a legitimate thought, and lilies falling from the sky like a shower of mid-light and John grant’s singing softly in his endangered dulcet baritones and Leopold bloom is there for some reason. This is too experimental. It isn’t edited enough. I’m not edited enough; I’m only restrained. Danger, danger, danger will robinson. Not enough hyperlinks. Too many obscure references, but not really. This paragraph has gotten frustratingly long, and unnecessarily meta: a biography of Eric’s writing style. Third person, ew, perhaps I should drift to that place called happy. There aren’t any cypresses there, and there is no reason for them to be there, but I like the premise. The palace of open spaces in that limitless unknown of the mind; not the brain, though, because the brain is finite, it is looped, it only suggests the lamniscate – which a fancy word for infinity – and it suggests it poorly, in a mirror, like a hall of them. These masturbatory exercises in form are frustrating to even  me. I can’t muster the energy for sarcasm. It requires too much from me. It would require sitting up straight in my busted leather chair, with a slight incline that’s just high enough to be good, but not enough to be endearing. I have to look at this constipation of text, and be ok with it, somehow, knowing that, at best, three people will read it. I have no point, but I find it more honest than having one. And perhaps that point is lost in today’s consequential lifestyle. Things not people, all that pretentious mess. And I watch it from my pretentious perch. a little white tower taken from some sci-fi poster on a van der graaf generator album that you’ve probably never heard of, and don’t need to have heard because prog rock is a pretty tough genre to stomach on the best of days. The desire to be consequential hampers everything. I need to improve, to genuinely improve. After writing this significant block of frustratingly non-dense text, with few allusions, I’m going to sit down. tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. It is always the horizon that intrigues isn’t it? The sun that  sits resting gentle despite the space of millions of miles, so far that light fails its instantaneous message to earth. The photonic necessity of earth is diminished by 8 minutes and my obssessive compulsive feelings, not disorder, never disorder, is about something less than that, somehow. Something more too. And I see all the oblique angles, all the lines that go nowhere. And this is trying to go somewhere. Trying to be something. Forcing itself to be clever, or witty, but it’s a giant block getting gianter, how many times do I have to repeat my comfort at being invisible, before it becomes evident i’m lying to myself?

Honestly, I don’t know. Once I stop trying thought, maybe it’ll get better.

To the Pointless: 2/28/18

Winter is dying, yo, and not just cause of Global warming.

The herald of the end times of sad times arrives on the doorstep and I am all for it. My seasonal affective disorder will not permit me to not get excited about the sun existing for longer and the dark existing for shorter. I can hear the sovereign desultory salutations of the first blossoms in the distance; I can hear that winged feather duster angel and all her glory as the seasons balance themselves out, and life becomes a tad more comprehensible for a time.

Or something.

I have problems with being able to express myself meaningfully and then not immediately backpedal or make light of it. I suppose it’s a sign of insecurity, but there has always been something that feels vital to the process. You know, sorta like how you have a nasty habit, and then you decide not to break it, cause it’s familiar.

But I do find a weird, perverse value in self-referential-deprecation of my own work, although it dilutes my point like roman innkeepers and falernian wine.

Falernian.

As stated this blog is pointless: its hardly a blog. I don’t have a reason to write, other than to do so. So if you’re reading this for any reason other than to look at the ramblings off the tip of a stranger’s tongue perpetually spinning, occasionally going for the pretty, you might be in for some unfun times. I do have things that are actually coherent. But there’s something enjoyable about meaningless nonsense too.

Except for Finnegans Wake, which is distinctly unnonsensical. That portmanteau works.

Maybe I could go all mezzanine like Nicholson Baker and introduce extensive footnotes at the end of my blogpost that end up diminishing the value of my insights, as perpetual lists of contrary evidence array themselves in neat little formations that frustrate and amaze.

Maybe  I could go full joyce and slip into dedalus labyrinths holy shit I just realized his name is dedalus and the labyrinth is his mind and all its weird references to art and life and everything oh my god I just had that realization now now now now and now i’m quoting Molly Bloom too unsubtly for my taste but hopefully at this point you do begin to realize that you need space in your writing. You need periods, man.

But I don’t know why I needs to be public. Maybe it’s  because i’m sick of bottling up my private little neuroses in some back corner, where it’s safe, and easy, and can’t be exposed to the light. Where those fingerprints of contrary evidence can’t touch its sullen exterior.

Someone’s talking about the Tao and doesn’t know it.

Maybe I could dip into some Zen Buddhism Koans for a change, instead of constantly referencing Taoism. Maybe I could talk about Sikh’s (pronounced Sick) or the Muslim folk, or my formally informal conversion to Hinduism (little heart eyes emoji).

But this nonsense is most assuredly nonsense, and I doubt it’s meaningful either. Unlike all of the above.

So, if you like that, we can be friends. Honestly, we can be friends probably cause you’re a pretty sweet person. Or maybe you’re a Nazi, that seems to be a common problem these days. That and the aggressive need to be right.

I need to be wrong more. Or at least I need to make the effort to let myself be wrong more. To be incomplete and unfinished.  A pastel painting where it’s half blank because the person who painted it has OCADD and is too distracted by their rituals to do anything about it.

Or I could try to be Montaigne, not quick, but definitely lovingly pointless in his desire to be insignificant.

I think its honest when artists desire to be forgotten. I think I’ve said that before. That said sad that before, and I think that’s actually rather pretty, in an off putting way.

But why do I feel you need to know this? Perhaps its to show off; I certainly seem questioning tonight. I feel like I’m trying to be David Markson and Kate at the of reality. Always revising some Wittgensteinian (I think a word) tractatus and the world is already the case, but you havent discovered the case yet, so it’s something like Godel’s incompleteness theorem.

And now my attempts are perspicacity are most certainly contrived, and that makes me sad.

But what is the internet other than a bunch of mindless or mindful rambling on topics that don’t really matter, for people who aren’t really there, to justify an opinion you don’t really Hold?
Perhaps that’s mean spirited.

Consistency seems to be a challenge for me. So let’s take bets on how long this goes. I’m not banking on it lasting more than a month, but i’ve been proven —

Stop.

and reverse

Light blinks

Turn

Is this wise. I don’t know. Is it healthy. An even greater, and more fraught question. Is it worth it.

Well, I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t.

The best things in life are worth doing poorly, or so I’m told. I wonder how many abstractions I’m missing in here. Probably a fair bit. this is, after all, a snapshot.

But I think a snapshot is worth more than the essay that it could have been. That’s not true.

And I don’t know what is.

To the Pointless: 2/26/2018

That song is rock solid I tell you what.

Here I am again, talking to air; and it feels…well, I don’t know yet. I’ll have to let my thoughts meander to the random corners and voids that have collected dust to let you know.

Run-on sentences, I got em.

I guess I should question the wisdom of posting what amounts to James Joyce’s process of recording the minds of his characters in a public space, when it could be such a private experience. But I also like singing in front of others, so perhaps a question of wisdom is the wrong thing to put forth.

I really appreciate Leigh Butler’s blogging; and not just because I steal her writing style a little more than liberally. If it was possible to accuse one of plagiarizing tone, I would most certainly be guilty.

But I think she’s a great blogger. I heart her Wheel of Time Re-read, and then super Meta re-re-read (oh dear) quite a lot, not least of which because it’s amusing and chaotic and not a little unlike my favorite stream of consciousness writer, except with significantly more intentionally cute manic-pixie-dreamgirlisms than is appropriate by some people’s standards.

I imagine her voice to be some kind of i’ve-just-drunk-way-too-much-coffee-let-me-enthusiastically-tell-you-about-it-in-far-too-much-detail-with-far-too-much-cute high pitched (it is not); and I like that it is self-consciously shameless. Paradoxes and self-awareness, I’m trying not to steal too liberally.

But most of all, I appreciate her ability expound on the topic about which she is writing as if she were recording a video.

She writes with the mellifluous quality of speech. Which, if you don’t know, is very difficult to mimic in writing. And before you tell yourself “nuh-uh” — I always imagine a tiny little guy going “Hey Eric, you’re wrong cause I said so” – let me explain.

Real speech is hella difficult to emulate because it’s so goddamn hazy and repetitive and obnoxious. I know every film student from Full Sail to UCLA thinks “I want my dialogue to sound like real humans talking” but no, fuck that, that’s fucking stupid.

Because when you talk in real human speech, you sound infinitely stupider. There are uhms, there are ah’s, there are incomplete thoughts. It repeats itself unnecessarily. It’s uhm, it’s kinda, well it’s kind of redundant, and this redundant it’s also a bit stuttery, and you see, sometimes, well, I don’t know, it has filler words, and improper grammar; and it kinda just goes on, I don’t know, and there are uhm, there are, hmmm, there are a lot of pauses and it can get kind of muddled and yeah, I mean, you kow, you listen to human speech all the time, you can uh, you can -what was it? – you can sort get where I’m going with this what do you call it? Form and function?

That shit up there is OBNOXIOUS. Almost as obnoxious as spelling in anything in all caps, or spelling things in ALL CAPS AND UNDERLINING IT. And even more annoying than that is when you nail fuck a point into someone’s brain with aggressively self-referential material.

But if I’m shitting so hard on real-life speech, why do I like Leigh Butler’s impersonation of it?

Because she got the flow.

It isn’t real speech. It is very consciously unreal. But it has the feel of being lowbrow eloquent. I don’t consider lowbrow a dirty word, either.

Leigh butler manages to sound like your friend at the bar, who is enthused about their latest interesting discovery. She sounds as though she is telling you her opinion in the most honest, slightly loopy, and slightly a lot way. It has the quality of being unaffected, and very cognizant of it. It’s a curlicue of diagramming, and it’s relieving to read.

And it’s how my own voice sounds in my head. Despite the fact that, regularly, I’m monotone, and somewhat lifeless.

There is a richness to the imaginary timbre and pitch of her word ship; on the masthead is some reference to TV Tropes that feels intimately familiar, and also enlightening. This gift for self-referential behavior also allows for – circumspect and circumsomethingsomething – genuine recognition of faults, or errors in thinking, without ever being genuinely upset over the act of being wrong, or potentially incorrect.

Have I ever mentioned how much Academia tends to set me off in a white-frothing rage?

Academia takes an opposing approach: it wants to be right. It has to be right. It has to corner you aggressively with its overweening logic, and smash you into submission with facts sans context. You must accept the premise as true, after evidence is provided or be forever a stupid dickhead.

And academics would be the first to rebut this argument with a well reasoned – and unintentionally malicious – deconstruction of all the things I am intentionally overlooking in such a grossly generalized perception of the academic system.

But de rigeur of academia is the problem. It allows for no error. Not really. It’s the difference between theory and practice.

Leigh Butler – and the generation of bloggers who steal liberally from her style of writing *cough* – don’t have to be right to make a salient point. They just have to make the point nakedly, and with a sense of honesty, and perhaps minimal editing.

There is no moral requirement for me to explore my hatred of academia, or acknowledge that it is almost certainly an incorrect assertion; against which myriad evidence can be proposed in opposition.

But I’ve dealt with too many academics who act like the above for me to grant as much credence to it. As it turns out, anecdote isn’t plural for data, but it is a lot more compelling, for sure.

But when I have the opportunity to sound like a self-effacing, self-referential, highly insecure, slightly a lot person, with nothing to say, and I make a point, it’s a diamond. When an academic writes a word polemic against whatever they’re currently angry about, their brightest assertion is dust.

So, listen to the War on Drugs

Something Else

I’m in my  usual space tonight: unknown.

It’s a  space that has no collective origin; it is the uncreate center that the mystics discuss. It can be confused, but largely it is spacious and airy and real. There is a basic sense of floating, that accompanies me. And I am here on my chair, watching the nothing within me turn.

I’ve thought about my standards, lately, and have decided, somehow, that they are at once too high, and not high enough; some damning trapeze act across the trapezius, where pulling the octagonal black down just the wrong angle sets everything into imbalance.

A hell of a state.

It’s hard for me not to feel redundant, when attempting to be prolific, but even the greats are redundant, if you examine too closely. Those guiding obsessions that dictate every motion of the sidereal soul, sitting subtly sidelined, telling you the the truth, whether you want to hear it or not.

It is the feeling of being incomplete and too much; some Virginia Woolf platitude that’s been appropriated better, for good reason. The feeling of being unoriginal.

It’s a weird feeling, in the context of man, because it’s just the way we are; the eternal not-enough. The empty vase with claws that is digging it’s way outside you. The need to be, and the need to say, but never the satiety of a good meal, or good food.

It’s always elsewhere,