Getting started

I don't want other people to be participating in my experience except sometimes when I hear music. I think I hear it better than they do. I know how to enjoy it better. Or my past has prepared me better for it. I, according to Lacan's conception of the ego, is an other. He puts it in italics in the printed Seminar II. And I'm telling you, that when I write this paragraph, the "I" has past. Music only once pulled me to desire invitation to shared experience, but that one moment pervades in recollection.

And in reading sometimes we feel that we are having a shared experience, lest we think only one person ever reads anything. There doesn't seem to be any question in my mind that Freud was an artist. He would like to have been called Science. He would have liked a lot of things.

Wah

Have you ever talked to someone who complains about a negative response to the question "how are you?" If you don't answer with a positive, some askers of the common question will take note and judge you. They are people who have no regard for the arbitrary nature of mood. Keep saying "not too well" or even a simple hand gesture of so-so, dear compatriot. Confront those inquisitive souls with your unarticulated slump; they deserve it.

Thick and Thin

State of ignorance. New state.
Cannot clean. Stains strong.
Jump back.

After Going West

Watched a Marx Brothers post-Zeppo movie called Go West. Laughed to myself, with Groucho, who laughs for no one. The music, as always, gets long sometimes. But I do enjoy seeing Chico perform at the piano, hearing Groucho sing sweet nothings; Harpo's best instrument is the horn; the harp part of this one is colder than some others, stalwart as ever. Harpo playing the harp becomes so serious, you wonder if maybe the whole thing is quite serious to him above them all.

Even Groucho for that matter. Or any matter.

Lethargy Takes Time

Starting out with a word, you might get a little sick. It could mean anything, which word you chose. Could it mean nothing? Regurgitation comes to mind. Fire. Fire is a good word. Good word to start a story with. Fire. Then the rest of the text has to utilize some definition of that one first word.

Lethargy means I'll never right that book, unless one day I burn all this and move on with the life I intend to lead.

Eye Captain.

This chump ain't bad. He ain't good neither. Or not better. Least far as I can see.

Now, as though now itself were a character in a small story, took a break. Down he sat upon a ledge. Traveling, he thought, is the best possible incurrence of my youth. Some sort of an empire withheld him from standing. Who are these people, the word lingered in contemplation before falling out of sight. Some new motherfucker, calling himself now, bust onto the scene.

Farmulation

We smoke. We drink. We try and get together. It takes time. Too much time. Forcing places from one fucking memory into the next. Integrated pornographic cheese.

Still Stickin

Carl G.J. said that the act of separating oneself from the world, the act of individuating yourself, is an act of hatred. I don't like hatred, but I do like to think about people in terms of how to be different from them. I guess I only want to be different from the methods I despise in people, and not the people themselves. T'would be pretty silly to wish myself a non-person. In looking for differences you can appreciate the similarities you stumble upon. No methods of verification, no guarantees, but we manage to communicate or at least live as though we were communicating.

I try to get my thoughts to other people, my resolutions and stabs at irrationality. If rationality exists, and I believe it does, then I can't possibly do anything to disrupt its existence. It must be persistent in all cause and effect and in all interpretations of cause and effect. We say, "that didn't follow" or "that is random" if a person says something which appears to come from nowhere in the present. Even our note "rationality has little to do with spontaneous occurence" has been reached rationally. It was based on the thought that no reason can be found for a thing that has nothing to do with the subject at hand, or the natural order for all you know. Rationally we assume - that's knowledge. Rationally we reject mere assumption, if our rationality is to hold. There is a reason (if a choice was made) to assume or reject, whether we assume or reject assumption or anything, conceptual or not conceptual.

Lennon's on Sale Again

I feel that Stephen Colbert has deconstructed the real interview, but not before Jon Stewart seriously toyed with it. Whatever. John Lennon, "Doin' what he was doin'" as he says in Watching the Wheels. Someone trying to save him from ruin. He could have used saving. It's things like his death that cause me to focus on reason as a problem. The reason for Jesus' death is very well captivated by the Gospels. For John there is not anything so spectacular. Well, genius though he likely generated, John Lennon was not the only Son of the Almighty. That does not mean he was not sacrificed.

That is, it does not mean that John Lennon's death has no meaning. Meaning seems reason enough to believe there is reason. Undisputed meaning is reason enough for life to be. Searching for meaning. Do you know what a mean is doing constantly? Meaning. Mean.

Making CDs and Love

A fantasy in numbers of unworthy women.
"What's that?"
"It's nothing." Three times well, a nearly deceased method of social chastisement.
Too bad he died like a martyr. Or was it not too bad? He couldn't subscribe to "It's just what the nation needed" but someone else probably might disagree. After all, Franklin was not the one there. He decided to tell the story once again as though it had never been told. "My parents. This is kind of bizarre or it was for me at a time... My parents drove past the place where John Lennon was shot ten minutes before it happened. They drove by the Dakota. They made a point of looking at the building because they had been the night earlier. Some Bernstein party.
"Anyway they had been the night before and now they wanted to see it, so they went. That fuck was waiting in the bushes."
"He never had a daughter," Judy suddenly realized, "I would like to hear what she had to say about him."
You know what entered Franklin's head? "John'd be glad he didn't have a daughter because, well, damn he wouldn't want her going around talking about him to trash!"
Franklin sipped a glass and edged forward, spilt a little onto his chin. "I peed my pants."
"You're retarded." Judy knew that he didn't like being called that. He said he didn't like the word. What a crock of shit, she thought. If they act like whores they call them whores. "Get over it," she added.

This Gives Me

I'm soft. I keep forgetting. I know I'm not always soft. I do things that most people will live in fear of all their lives. Still here I am soft and even scared of being seen. Never scared of making myself seen. I'm real good at that. I am practiced.

But to be seen. Just to be, and then seen. I have no butterflies but one to torment my stomach. And so now you are aware. And I am aware. And I wonder at how you may look at him.

I scream, "this has little to do with me as much as anybody." But, sadly, men talk of butterflies, to avoid the inevitable. Mine alone is alone. Wouldn't that be something if it were true? No it would not. It is only something, false as the something it came from. "Mine alone is alone" refering to some inner creature, said to move stomachs to anticipation and lightness, or anxiety, in flutters. A whole bunch of them, I said, is more preposterous than just one.

About the butterfly, was it a butterfly?