The access to the editing and creating of entries is still blocked. Why must it be so?
I have not yet ordered my next volumes of Anais' journal, and I'm already missing reading her. « House of Incest » is beautiful. Someone talked about surrealism and The Clockwork Orange and 2001: Space Odissey of Stanley Kubrick were "too surrealist". I can't but pity him. What kind of poor sould, lacking of the skills for insight and meditation can't enjoy the lax embrace of surrealism? I have found that surrealism wraps around me, and that I can touch meanings embedded in the flowing, liquid words, where emotions, actual feeling and emotions and internal turmoils are finger- and brush painting upon pages with overflowing aquarelles that run over the lines of material definitions, make semantics escape the closeted, solid world of "things" and "facts of the matter" and become the giant array of meanings of the emotions. The warm ignorance of unknowing things, of learning them from books and words, but not by the rubbing on the flesh, the touch, the gust of air trapped midway in the throat, the flaring of nostrils and the widening of eyes. The dropping of eyelids and the tingling od the skin. The feelings that surpass fear, joy, apprehension, aversion, happiness, hate, excitement. Travel and travel into the dreams, past the meaning of Atlantis to the meaning of the water surrounding and engulfing the dreamstate where the turmoil swirls and reigns.
I feel understood.
I miss her.
Ma belle Anais.
Sunday I finished a journal book. I'm carrying a new one in my bag, which still bears no words. Not yet. My thoughts are growing and becoming ripe. I'm filled with so much deception, so much hurt and anger, and I do not wish to start a journal rattling about such things. It took me seven days to complete my reccount of such terrible happenings, and I cried every second for giving my dear journal's last, innocent pages to such wrath. It felt so bad, but I had to take it out of my chest. My words, like poison ivy, ran up the inner covers of the journal and stopped short from pasting additional pages to complete in full, hateful and painful detail the entire length of my deception. Like a Book of Judgment, a reminder for the next time I place my confidence on someone, the next time I allow someone to reivindicate past mistakes. There are flaws of character that shall never be forgotten nor forgiven, for they have no cure. Immaturity is one of them. Hyne, such hatred keeps eating up my heart, as my mind places a finger on that page of my life. There have been others who have poked my tolerance this week. Impertinent proding into my personal life, details that are not as starstruck as outsider, ignoring eyes would hope them to be. Sucking for inexisting words, for concepts and stories that would match twisted, sick, preconceived. misogynistic ideals of unnatural, primitive, deceiving, selfdenying romanticism. The anger again, the hatred. What do you think? How many times must I ask you to wake up and smell the coffee! The youngsters rush head first into their own deception. Old I am and I stand on my mountain, my rock after smacking my staff on their hard heads that would never listen the words they wish not to hear. Misplaced goals and grandeur. "Talk to us about life, Master". "Feed us with your experience on sex". I keep my tongue. Words are futile for those who wish not to understand them. Even silence falls on deaf ears.
I understand now why so many youngsters commit physical, intellectual or emotional suicide.
I look around me then. Yes, I could have been diagnosed as psychologically unhinged, but I am not dead. When I walk among men, I walk among walking deads, zombies by choice. The stench of their death, rotting upon their skins and minds chase me with the disgusting tones of imbecility, ignorance, irrationality, uncare, shamelessness, corruption, immaturity, unawareness. There was a mind in each of these heads that was widely awake once. I weep and mourn the death of so many ideas and believes. I mourn the death of human sincerity, the honesty towards oneself. I weep for the loss of touch with teh self, and in each corpse I mourn the mangificent, delicious person that could have been, from which I could have learned and which I would have loved so dearly. From close and from distance, I love violently those few still alive. My fingertips touch my lips and I mutter a prayer in deep gratitude for the glimpse of them I have gotten. Their live minds are the lanterns that light the dark waters of this unforseeable river of life. Lo there, they make it so beautiful. I love each of them, for they make life this beautiful river of floating lanterns and dragonfiles that draw upong the factual and material world a beautiful surreal universe of delight. From my high, lonely, snow capped mountain that baths in thescent of shy, fresh grass and tiny wild flowers, and the scent of nocturnal jasmine, I find tremendous joy in the beauty still alive and drawing such excitement on life. I pity those who let themselves be dragged by the darkness that miss the glimpse of such a breathtaking sight.
30.06.2008. 9+10.19.9+1.10.1+0.1. I have started my Year One. Numerology once taught to us by a professor at the Economics university. Meaning? A hard year. It is strange though how this year has started for me with enlightment. I wrote to Sandy how I felt rooted in light and filled. Sense of purpose, direction, balance, style... all have flowed to me. Rocky economical start, but that can be easilly arranged, right? Practice simplicity, wisdom, selfcontrol. Rationality. My closet is bursting with clothes. I don't need any more. There are books that gather dust, which I don't like and have no purpose taking precious space of my so scarce shelve-space. Seek to sell them to a used book bookstore. Shed, shed, shed. My year is starting, and it is time to clean out all I have no need for. Save the sweet memorabilia, but let go of the clutter, of the excess that drags you down. Let it all go and start fresh. Weekends of sorting and throwing away and giving away, selling and dumping and keeping are ahead. So much work... it is time to tune and align everything in my life with the new premises that rule my mind. Time to institute changes at the office as well. Let the bunnies go? It is certainly I possibility I've been considering. Seek a more green&glass approach. A flow between the soft decontracté and the elongating, curling, stylized art nouveau. There's a world of posibilities open and I'm eager to fill my mouth with them, dip my nose in them and have them sting my gums. Like a wolf biting into life, a cat eating the soft flesh of light.
Life is Magnificent.
-- « Every schilling you save puts a man out of Work for a Day. »
- John Maynard Keynes
I have not yet ordered my next volumes of Anais' journal, and I'm already missing reading her. « House of Incest » is beautiful. Someone talked about surrealism and The Clockwork Orange and 2001: Space Odissey of Stanley Kubrick were "too surrealist". I can't but pity him. What kind of poor sould, lacking of the skills for insight and meditation can't enjoy the lax embrace of surrealism? I have found that surrealism wraps around me, and that I can touch meanings embedded in the flowing, liquid words, where emotions, actual feeling and emotions and internal turmoils are finger- and brush painting upon pages with overflowing aquarelles that run over the lines of material definitions, make semantics escape the closeted, solid world of "things" and "facts of the matter" and become the giant array of meanings of the emotions. The warm ignorance of unknowing things, of learning them from books and words, but not by the rubbing on the flesh, the touch, the gust of air trapped midway in the throat, the flaring of nostrils and the widening of eyes. The dropping of eyelids and the tingling od the skin. The feelings that surpass fear, joy, apprehension, aversion, happiness, hate, excitement. Travel and travel into the dreams, past the meaning of Atlantis to the meaning of the water surrounding and engulfing the dreamstate where the turmoil swirls and reigns.
I feel understood.
I miss her.
Ma belle Anais.
Sunday I finished a journal book. I'm carrying a new one in my bag, which still bears no words. Not yet. My thoughts are growing and becoming ripe. I'm filled with so much deception, so much hurt and anger, and I do not wish to start a journal rattling about such things. It took me seven days to complete my reccount of such terrible happenings, and I cried every second for giving my dear journal's last, innocent pages to such wrath. It felt so bad, but I had to take it out of my chest. My words, like poison ivy, ran up the inner covers of the journal and stopped short from pasting additional pages to complete in full, hateful and painful detail the entire length of my deception. Like a Book of Judgment, a reminder for the next time I place my confidence on someone, the next time I allow someone to reivindicate past mistakes. There are flaws of character that shall never be forgotten nor forgiven, for they have no cure. Immaturity is one of them. Hyne, such hatred keeps eating up my heart, as my mind places a finger on that page of my life. There have been others who have poked my tolerance this week. Impertinent proding into my personal life, details that are not as starstruck as outsider, ignoring eyes would hope them to be. Sucking for inexisting words, for concepts and stories that would match twisted, sick, preconceived. misogynistic ideals of unnatural, primitive, deceiving, selfdenying romanticism. The anger again, the hatred. What do you think? How many times must I ask you to wake up and smell the coffee! The youngsters rush head first into their own deception. Old I am and I stand on my mountain, my rock after smacking my staff on their hard heads that would never listen the words they wish not to hear. Misplaced goals and grandeur. "Talk to us about life, Master". "Feed us with your experience on sex". I keep my tongue. Words are futile for those who wish not to understand them. Even silence falls on deaf ears.
I understand now why so many youngsters commit physical, intellectual or emotional suicide.
I look around me then. Yes, I could have been diagnosed as psychologically unhinged, but I am not dead. When I walk among men, I walk among walking deads, zombies by choice. The stench of their death, rotting upon their skins and minds chase me with the disgusting tones of imbecility, ignorance, irrationality, uncare, shamelessness, corruption, immaturity, unawareness. There was a mind in each of these heads that was widely awake once. I weep and mourn the death of so many ideas and believes. I mourn the death of human sincerity, the honesty towards oneself. I weep for the loss of touch with teh self, and in each corpse I mourn the mangificent, delicious person that could have been, from which I could have learned and which I would have loved so dearly. From close and from distance, I love violently those few still alive. My fingertips touch my lips and I mutter a prayer in deep gratitude for the glimpse of them I have gotten. Their live minds are the lanterns that light the dark waters of this unforseeable river of life. Lo there, they make it so beautiful. I love each of them, for they make life this beautiful river of floating lanterns and dragonfiles that draw upong the factual and material world a beautiful surreal universe of delight. From my high, lonely, snow capped mountain that baths in thescent of shy, fresh grass and tiny wild flowers, and the scent of nocturnal jasmine, I find tremendous joy in the beauty still alive and drawing such excitement on life. I pity those who let themselves be dragged by the darkness that miss the glimpse of such a breathtaking sight.
30.06.2008. 9+10.19.9+1.10.1+0.1. I have started my Year One. Numerology once taught to us by a professor at the Economics university. Meaning? A hard year. It is strange though how this year has started for me with enlightment. I wrote to Sandy how I felt rooted in light and filled. Sense of purpose, direction, balance, style... all have flowed to me. Rocky economical start, but that can be easilly arranged, right? Practice simplicity, wisdom, selfcontrol. Rationality. My closet is bursting with clothes. I don't need any more. There are books that gather dust, which I don't like and have no purpose taking precious space of my so scarce shelve-space. Seek to sell them to a used book bookstore. Shed, shed, shed. My year is starting, and it is time to clean out all I have no need for. Save the sweet memorabilia, but let go of the clutter, of the excess that drags you down. Let it all go and start fresh. Weekends of sorting and throwing away and giving away, selling and dumping and keeping are ahead. So much work... it is time to tune and align everything in my life with the new premises that rule my mind. Time to institute changes at the office as well. Let the bunnies go? It is certainly I possibility I've been considering. Seek a more green&glass approach. A flow between the soft decontracté and the elongating, curling, stylized art nouveau. There's a world of posibilities open and I'm eager to fill my mouth with them, dip my nose in them and have them sting my gums. Like a wolf biting into life, a cat eating the soft flesh of light.
Life is Magnificent.
-- « Every schilling you save puts a man out of Work for a Day. »
- John Maynard Keynes
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