08.25.07
Posted in Personal at 8:19 pm by Moody
Enough of the heat, the clinging clothes damp and as effective for baking and retaining juices as foil in the oven. Enough of the thick, wheezing humidity of yet another breath. Enough of capitalist saints and all the other unoriginal sinners clambering up from the pit of because, clamoring for an angel dusted slice of the rancid old pie in the sky. Enough of the quasi-mystical bullshit and the crap monkeys. Enough of the warm soda that was cold only five minutes ago. Enough of the dog days and the catcalls and the birdbrains. Enough of the short tempers of long days. Enough of ennui, apathy, and bored stupidity. Enough of baseless religion and debased politics. Enough of hunger and uncertainty. Enough of debt. Enough driving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, … fack and borth…. Fucking hell. Enough. Enough! ENOUGH! Enough of the dreamless silence, the suffering through thin hours of anemic disillusionment as the big hand and the little slowly wrap around the heart, choking it with relentless anxiety. Enough missing what never came to be; enough missing what did. Enough wishing that wishing mattered. Enough feeling faint beneath the weight of all the beauty “out there” — out of reach, among and amongst the stars, in the abyss of infinity. Enough of the sore throat and the repressed tears, the sublimated anger, the diverted stress, the deferred break down. Enough of bad stars and goat songs.
Time will never give up its triumph over the ephemeral. Nothing good or bad can stay. Everything passes, and in this way the universe goes. So it goes. Gonzo.
Listening to: Porcupine Tree - Sentimental
via FoxyTunes
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08.06.07
Posted in Personal at 5:02 am by Moody
A series of television channels flicks by at the usual pace of an artificial heart. But what is displayed is not the usual series of images one comes to expect from television. It’s not children, cleaning products, food, news, graphics, models, cars. The channels are from a mind. There is a significant degree of apparent randomness and apparently non-sensical juxtaposition that even the most aggressive channel surfing cannot match. There is, it would seem, an inscrutable symbolic theme, akin to an artistic vision, avidly attempting to reveal and realize itself. This vision, this theme, is totally unconcerned with points of reference such as hope or despair. Indeed, emotions irrupt into the totality of the moving pictures only as an effect generated by the alien act of an erstwhile objective observation, whose root source is a disease of time and space, a Möbius strip calling itself “I”.
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08.05.07
Posted in Personal at 5:16 pm by Moody
Reading Italo Calvino’s Mr. Palomar. The pendulum swings. The weekend draws to a close. I’ve decided to write an entry, though I’ve little I feel like saying. Call this a housekeeping entry, or a vague nod that says I still know the world’s there and here I am — now I’m down in it. The pendulum swings, but so slowly. Letters pile up in the in-box from people I really want to talk with, people I’ve effectively ignored for all these months gone by, hoping (vainly) that they understand why. How is it I feel so guilty for being in such a bad place? Bills pile up in the mail box, blood letters from the green machine. The pendulum swings, but so slowly that it feels like suffocation.
Advice to would-be bloggers: The saying, “Nothing is True. Everything is permitted”, is misleading. The days left to this blog are numbered. I do not know how I’ll pay to renew my lease with my host. Right now, even after having worked some 50+ hours last week, I’m not sure how to afford much of anything. Little things, like going out for a movie or going to dinner, buying an album or a book, leave me fearful. Yet, we cannot go without the occasional niceties; we’d go crazy without a break. So, we went to the most recent Harry Potter movie and waited in line at Midnight to buy the final book of the series (which I read in a few days). So, I got a new album: Opeth’s Blackwater Park. So, we now have some quality coffee. So, we’re planning on going to dinner somewhere nice, some Japanese restaurant. And so, we’re going to go to the New Pornographers concert at the Music Box at the Fonda.
But will I ever write to my friends? Will I ever answer a letter? I hope to do so before I die.
Listening to: Opeth - The Funeral Portrait
via FoxyTunes
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