Weldersguide.

What does it mean to want something that badly and then to have it and to try so hard to be present in it and to succeed to some extent, to really be there in the flesh and being there while it is happening and observing it all, or not even observing, but just trying to be and to do, doing the best you possibly can to not be trying to document it for some future remembrance or something?
and then to start all over again?
to go back to wanting it so badly that you start to understand that the want is as much a part of you as an arm or as a leg or as a liver? it is an artifact and you have to understand that it is you. it is not a choice or a behaviour, you are it.
my brain is my body and my body is my brain. my brain is like my hand or my leg or my liver. my dick is my brain. None of it is bad or wrong. But you have to be careful with it. You are a social animal. There are social consequences. Respect and Responsibility are also parts of your body.

and if that's the truest thing you have with someone? with a particular person?

You are your behaviour. There is no distance. Behaviour is a physical attribute. The things you do are your body.

I just keep wanting things to get simple or to have a plateau where I can just sort of coast or something. And it's not realistic in a lifelike way. It is realistic in a fantasy-deathlike kind of way.. Because that is what death is. That is when you are just coasting. But you are coasting through non-existence, in which, of course, non-consciousness is implied. I mean.. you continue to exist in that the particles which once made you up are still there, even if they are chemically changed by the processes of decay, they still exist, the matter and energy which made up what you once called "you" still exists.. just not in a way which carries the inertia of "you" being "you" any longer.

I think about wanting to have a steady relationship of being in love and it feels like a faraway dream like that. And it makes me realize that I have some urges which are heavily influenced or mitigated by some pretty interesting cultural fantasies which are deathlike and empty or hollow for a thing which is needing to be alive right now.

Being in love is not about a plateau. I mean.. I think you can build something. I think about riding my bike in the summertime around Portland and thinking about what it is like to be BARR. I think about what it will be like to decide to get drunk one afternoon at the half and half when I don't have to work. I hope I can find a way to play these songs right. And consistently. It's so hard not to get lost in it. Or to have the music get lost from me. When you do it in front of other people, it's so hard not to pay so much attention to them that the music slips away from you and you're left there dangling its skeletal words and notes and wondering what is going wrong right now.

I hope I am not using these ideas about evolutionary biology as comfort food. or as anecdotal sensations to make me feel alright with the nuance and confusion. Because these ideas really feel so good to me right now. To be an animal and understand it and understand that this understanding is not separate from what it is to be an animal. That the mind is the body as much as a hand is the body or a foot is the body or a liver. That agricultural arrogance is problematic and distracting and that I am not here to rule nature or to be separate or dignified above it. That I am a part of it and that all of my behaviour is a part of it.
To have weird ideas about spirituality is as much a physical trait as is to have brown eyes.

We are our bodies. We are in love with one another.

(I always want to say "We are are bodies" because It's Hilarious.)

it got so out of hand this afternoon. i felt humbled, but humiliated. like it was done forcefully.
i think it was because i uncovered a secret arrogance in myself. or because my assumptions about another human were quietly proven false. it was nothing, it wasn't a big deal. it was casual and social and simple.
i think i have a fever, too.
i felt it yesterday, but didn't realize it was what it was.

it's hard to go home alone.

i mean, it's hard to know that nobody is going to step out for you. you have to put your own neck on the block. every single time. it shouldn't be such a hard thing to come to terms with. i know it rationally, but it's hard to get it to become permanent inside of me. in my 'heart'.

my house is empty and i'll go there after work and have a fever. i miss the girl from last summer. it's a pretty raw sensation lately, and it would be easy to make a joke about how dramatic that sentiment sounds, but it would also be a pre-emptively apologetic falsehood. it is an assumption of and an expecation for the worst in people. there's not even any furniture in it. except for two bedrooms.

i am willing to do less and less to comfort dismissive sarcasm.

i could drone on and on. about how humor has its place. and how it's a useful tool for sequencing emotions and for the appropriation of adequate social resources toward the places and people where comfort is most genuinely needed. but private hurts are private hurts. it's hard to joke about them right now with this hot vaccuum in my ears.

"As confirmed by a conspicuously underreported autopsy, Schiavo feels the same about her current situation as she did a year ago."

- BEAST

there has to be a way to make this work.
ladies having babies. that isn't waiting for something to fall in the wind.
i mean to happen and see it happen at the same time. is that the wrong idea?
i have discussed this before.

it's hard to believe that it has always been this way. i mean at least as long as we have been recognizable as human. every person coming out of another person.

the motion of fucking. the repetition. the desire to repeat a repetition. the imitation of functional behaviour.

there is a narrative and i am sick of it. i am not the first to say it. i am sick of being in love with it.

They were.. we were watching an old movie, but simultaneously, we were also the actors in it, which was strange. in a house in the forest sort of, orthe savannah or something... part of the house was missing or something. because we were inside, but so were the bushes and trees. there would be rustling and someone unfamiliar held a rifle and shot it. they were cats. harbingers of something awful or an army unto themselves. we had to kill them or be overwhelmed by them or something. but we knew that it was a movie. he missed a few of them, and my character had a cable with quarter inch plugs on the end of it. my character would whip the cats, twice each across the back of the back. the metal plugs cut across their backs at speeds high enough to leave huge deep gashes which would start to bleed seconds later. i saw this happen three or four times and couldn't stop thinking about how old this movie was. i walked up to B.H., i think, and wanted to say "I'm afraid that these animals weren't treated very well." but I started sobbing so hard that it was difficult to even get the phrases out accurately. somehow they found my concern cute, but i felt absolutely devastated and heartbroken by it. the cats would begin to bleed and then lick their cuts and try to bite them closed. their little mouths were soaked in their own blood.

was like that of a cringing, clumsy dog, who is always anticipating a blow, welcoming it even, and in a way that makes overwhelming the desire to strike him. His generosity was still more irritating. It was so helpless and unselfish that it made her feel mean and cruel, no matter how hard she tried to be kind. And it was so bulky that she was unable to ignore it. She had to resent it. He was destroying himself, and although he didn't mean it that way, forcing her to accept the blame."

- Nathaniel West, The Day Of The Locust

N, if i were in danger, the most important thing i would tell you is that the self is slippery.
that one is incapable of perceiving, in any concrete capacity, the details of one's own being or existence or experience.
It is impossible to witness, in any way which is free from intentioned distortion, the representation of the self.
It's like a bad analogy for the heisenberg uncertainty principle. velocity and location. seeing and being.
a wiseman with a good deadpan would raise his eyes to you for just long enough to say: "this is the essence of joy."
(this is the essence of compromise.)

I am this growing thing.
My arms can grow more hands.
My head, my scalp can grow new layers to cover over my hair.
My mind can grow anecdotal analogies like a hundred thousand severed-and-twice-regenerated tentacles, suckers wrapped around a cold stone - though believing it to be a warm starfish.
This music is flirtation.
This song is a flirtation.
These words, they are flirtation.
An Unnecessary observation on an unreciprocating habitat.
Your love is not returned but for one another.
Your love is not returned but for one another.
Your love is not returned but for one another.
Your love is not returned but for one another.
Your love is not returned but for one another.

"Outside is pure energy and colorless substance," he said. "All of the rest happens through the mechanism of our senses. Our eyes see just a small fraction of the light in the world. It is a trick to make a colored world, which does not exist outside of human beings."