I feel rather literal and prosaic these days, but perhaps this is not a bad thing -- it is too easy to get drawn in by poetic language, to the point that one becomes hypnotised by one's own notions about the world.
Poetry is all very well but it won't pay the bills -- nothing really does.
To realize that most people are satiated -- either by their own preoccupations and forms of indulgence or their terrible misfortunes -- is to realize the redundancy of poetry. We are all already entangled in a poetic mesh and some of it is not to my taste, but, to the person completely enmeshed, aesthetic taste is irrelevant. They are simply absorbed in the fibres of life because they have to be.
There's no use talking about different states of being as pathologies either. One man's poison is a another woman's bread and butter. The aim to live safely, with one's life plotted out, is the direction of civilisation. I used to think people had to constrain themselves to live this way, for instance by applying foot binding from an early age, but it turns out the excruciating hardship was almost only in my head. Being indoors under the fluorescent lights is gravy for some.
I had to cure myself of universalizing tendencies, just to perceive this. But the truth is, I ought to have cured myself long before, in fact the minute I realized that others were not on the same level as per my own particular ideas of Cloud Nine.
I've never wanted recognition, but an encounter with the fundamental lifeforces -- life and death. I guess people are taught these days that what they should be craving is financial recompense -- recognition being a bit too earnest, a bit too narcissistic and too nineties. The ladder to recognition is fraught with weird excesses and identity politicians pulling your legs down all the way. Critical thinking is unheard of when power and ambition charge into the fray. "Ah, me! My, elemental identity! It;'s gotten overshadowed again. A great, galumphing ape took all my steam. Actually, colliding with another identity is not the same as having your identity tortured and so long as there are people taking up your case, your identity remains intact -- although, regrettably on a lower rung of the ladder than those clambering up on other forms of steam.
Your identity isn't being tortured. You don't have a tortured identity, just less of the limelight. We can see your untortured identity quite clearly just by the amount of lights already focused on it. There is is --- and VOILA!
Scrutinizing the feminist lists is like viewing a lot of un-tortured identities. They're un-tortured for all sorts of reasons, mostly through having a good job and being able to indulge in petty power speculations. There's no grit, there's not guts to this. I don't see any rite of passage. There's no taking of the bull by the horny, horn, horns.
Blandisme is the new US politically correct -- or perhaps I was always late to this party. Even moral indignation seems on helium these days -- so shrill it resonates on wavelengths yet unheard.
Clambering skywardly whilst giving lip service is the new genteel.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
I never wanted any of this, but a rite of passage. If the forces facing me were intense enough, I would KNOW.... I would KNOW something because..... I would know.
I held back and prevaricated, creating various reasons not to move on forward -- beecause I was waiting. Every pressure to comply with getting under the electric lights met my resistance. I wouldn't do it. I didn't want to meet the spotlight, but to sink into the darkness until finally I had encountered dragons.
To want what others want -- the high appraisal of a fundamentally half-done identity -- was impossible. I had to burn and scauld myself and combat things.
But then the goal of having recognition becomes less important, nothing really. What is the appraise of those half-baked?
Truly, the half-baked are insane. They want only convention in one of its forms: the old state of affairs dressed up new. They make sandwhiches for their potential hubbies and have no notion that reality and fame don't coincide.
When one's reality is filled up, what's done is done.
I no longer wish to clamber forth and honestly I never wanted that for me, for anybody else I've cared about.
Time to revolt.
Poetry is all very well but it won't pay the bills -- nothing really does.
To realize that most people are satiated -- either by their own preoccupations and forms of indulgence or their terrible misfortunes -- is to realize the redundancy of poetry. We are all already entangled in a poetic mesh and some of it is not to my taste, but, to the person completely enmeshed, aesthetic taste is irrelevant. They are simply absorbed in the fibres of life because they have to be.
There's no use talking about different states of being as pathologies either. One man's poison is a another woman's bread and butter. The aim to live safely, with one's life plotted out, is the direction of civilisation. I used to think people had to constrain themselves to live this way, for instance by applying foot binding from an early age, but it turns out the excruciating hardship was almost only in my head. Being indoors under the fluorescent lights is gravy for some.
I had to cure myself of universalizing tendencies, just to perceive this. But the truth is, I ought to have cured myself long before, in fact the minute I realized that others were not on the same level as per my own particular ideas of Cloud Nine.
I've never wanted recognition, but an encounter with the fundamental lifeforces -- life and death. I guess people are taught these days that what they should be craving is financial recompense -- recognition being a bit too earnest, a bit too narcissistic and too nineties. The ladder to recognition is fraught with weird excesses and identity politicians pulling your legs down all the way. Critical thinking is unheard of when power and ambition charge into the fray. "Ah, me! My, elemental identity! It;'s gotten overshadowed again. A great, galumphing ape took all my steam. Actually, colliding with another identity is not the same as having your identity tortured and so long as there are people taking up your case, your identity remains intact -- although, regrettably on a lower rung of the ladder than those clambering up on other forms of steam.
Your identity isn't being tortured. You don't have a tortured identity, just less of the limelight. We can see your untortured identity quite clearly just by the amount of lights already focused on it. There is is --- and VOILA!
Scrutinizing the feminist lists is like viewing a lot of un-tortured identities. They're un-tortured for all sorts of reasons, mostly through having a good job and being able to indulge in petty power speculations. There's no grit, there's not guts to this. I don't see any rite of passage. There's no taking of the bull by the horny, horn, horns.
Blandisme is the new US politically correct -- or perhaps I was always late to this party. Even moral indignation seems on helium these days -- so shrill it resonates on wavelengths yet unheard.
Clambering skywardly whilst giving lip service is the new genteel.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
I never wanted any of this, but a rite of passage. If the forces facing me were intense enough, I would KNOW.... I would KNOW something because..... I would know.
I held back and prevaricated, creating various reasons not to move on forward -- beecause I was waiting. Every pressure to comply with getting under the electric lights met my resistance. I wouldn't do it. I didn't want to meet the spotlight, but to sink into the darkness until finally I had encountered dragons.
To want what others want -- the high appraisal of a fundamentally half-done identity -- was impossible. I had to burn and scauld myself and combat things.
But then the goal of having recognition becomes less important, nothing really. What is the appraise of those half-baked?
Truly, the half-baked are insane. They want only convention in one of its forms: the old state of affairs dressed up new. They make sandwhiches for their potential hubbies and have no notion that reality and fame don't coincide.
When one's reality is filled up, what's done is done.
I no longer wish to clamber forth and honestly I never wanted that for me, for anybody else I've cared about.
Time to revolt.
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