Photo-graphic

I forgot where or when I took these, if you can find the reference I'd appreciate a comment for citation purposes. These were taken from my laptop from a film short I saw depicting various images of Japanese erotica. 

Here we find a Japanese man entranced by the power of love that the lovely lady's heart emits. Together, they seemed to have reached a level of radiosextivity.

Here, the man miscalculates the heart; thus they are not radiosexactive. He's as hot as a chipmunk in a sock, but she is not having it. He takes a very, very deep, deep breath, and attempts to re-direct the situation into a mutual plateau by going in for the neck (clever chap). Will this maneuver work? perhaps, so long as he takes it nice, careful, tender yet firm.

Guilt? What have we done? It's ok, it happens to many men. What is really going on here? This certainly has more mystery than a Mona Lisa half-smile. Drop a comment, what is your take?

What did she cut? Why so serious? These questions and more seem to go through this seemingly blank veneer, for under the guise of calm, this femme wonders why she wore a santa suit. Where did the idea of a fucking santa even come to Japan? A seasoned picquerist such as herself cuts off ties to her surroundings, only to find that the outside somehow seeps into her mind.

Reference(s):
In the Realm of the Senses

It's a nasty thing being a human

My day starts as it breaks. The sunrise coats the dark as I gather my bearings and brush the mucus from my mouth while I shower, getting rid of natural odors from my abnormal sweating during hot summer nights. It's a nasty thing being a human. 

Construction work being done on the road alters commuters route(s). The bus I am on must make maneuvers around the renovations, which means I must take a detours. Public transportation gives an opportunity for one to temporarily be a sort of pg-13 voyeur.The driver snakes through alternative routes 

I remain in a state of half-sleep-half-awake until I arrive at my destination: a cup of coffee. At the shop, there's news about a shooting in Kenya on the television; no one pays much attention, it's routine—there is little meaning in a ridiculous situation when everyone is accustomed to everything. The only "normal" reaction to a ridiculous situation is a ridiculous one. Most of them face down nose in cyberspace and I feel suddenly down cast; I rush to grab the phone from my pocket. No text. No missed calls. No status updates. No chisme. These little nothings cover a larger nothing. It feels good to avoid the void, until it comes rushing at you 100 miles per hour, engulfing your sensations and subtly causing goosebumps and a sensation of absurdity similarly reflected in the tele. 

Re-Covery

I am about to enter a period of decimation. 

This word, recovery, however, holds much significance at this point, for I am about to cover material which I will have a lifetime to examine and re-examine--a decision to consider and reconsider as to the appropriate time to open up for revision.

But once again I am going to re-cover the loneliness I was growing rather acquainted with. The void in my chest, in your chest as well, that tends to get covered with TV programming, text messaging, gossip, etc. I was growing acquainted with this nada, but life calls and I must enter the race once more, which requires a certain degree of amnesia, a certain degree of recovery.

Re-covery.

Ironically, the term connotes positive affiliation; my macbook dictionary defines recovery as “a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength” with synonyms such as recuperation, improvement, convalescence.

A return to a normal state. a return. What causes the departure? And why the return? What is a normal state? I wouldn't mind an in depth examination of these questions some day. At the moment, I humbly believe that the departure highlights a point of no light. A void. A nada. A loneliness. A point where everything is uncovered in nakedness. Lot's Wife. Eve. The mind's “eye” uncovered by the "I". The departure highlights a movement toward a somethingness. A realization of a nakedness, a nothing, a no-light, that has been covered, and re-covered, with a valueless existence.

The departure and a look back, a return; a decimation (for I argue that only a tenth is destroyed, or rather, transformed and re-transformed). Is it that the departure is too painful? Thus the return is yearned, i.e. the “normal” state, the recovery? Could it be that “recovery” does not connote anything positive?

I think I'm in perpetual recovery mode.
The echoes that bounce from my own walls become haunting banshees while the mirrors reflect a ghastly existence; and together, this “voice” and my “image,” reflect the uncovered void. A mere conditioned reflection decimated by the very loneliness that works hard at covering, and recovering, its own madness from the world. 

Aye, there's the rub-a-dub-dub.
Three madmen in a tub.

There is the irony folks.

The very “logical” and reasonable systems, e.g. law and justice, are mere conditioned reflections of a manifested voice working hard to cover up it's own illogical conclusions. The law is mad, but under the guise of law, all seems well. You cover, and re-cover, your madness by an obsessive compulsion to seem normal, to avert weirdness, to avoid a mistake that could reveal a vulnerable point (an entry into that no-light).

I've lost you.

Let me give an example: When a solitary figure holds a mirror to society, he is deemed mad. His or her rants are conspiracy and/or lunacy. The uncovered madness, due to a loneliness that is no longer covered, shows itself, but the gavel recovers. Law and order laughs in this persons face,  it fines said person, or issues a cititation to said person for, say, being a public nuisance,  and all is recovered.

 It's a sickening pattern, and it's genius.

I must sleep now. It's going to be a long Fall.

Goodnight sweet ladies

goodnight, goodnight.

References:
Mac book Dictionary

Blake's “Proverbs of Hell” in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Hemingway's “A Clean Well-Lighted Place”

T.S. Elliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” / “Hollow Men”

Nursery Rhymes

Shakespeare's Hamlet

Black (\/\/)Holes

Though I probably learned how to read in a formal, normal, situation, i.e. the institution, I don't recall being cognizant of reading except when I was on the move.

I don't remember why, but it was in a tan station wagon.

We were going somewhere, I don't know where, and I sat in the back of the station wagon. I remember my parents talking to each other (once upon a time) when I started recognizing patterns and symbols, such as a backwards “L” and “G” at a 76 gas station, or the yellow golden arches that made me wonder where the rest of the colors went and that resembled a pair of pointy cat ears that I would draw, at least when I wrote an “M.”

It was a time of freeplay. ah. ah. I. I say. I say sun. muh..muh...Muckdonald Duck. El Chicken Loco. Tony the Tiger, they'rrre grrr..iiime a break gimme a break. Daffy Duck: once you pop, you can't stop. Taz. Devil. Evil. Speedy. Transformers. Retransforms. Reformats. Formers. Form. From. rom. Robots in disguise. Can you hear me now?

I hate to admit it, but I'd have to say that I partially learned reading through the (m)advertisement industry (Alas! now you know why my writing is so great), but I guess on that same note this highlights the ideology of institutionalization: being waist deep in the big muddy; however in this theatre of operations, you don't need a “big fool” telling you to “push on”, nor, if effectively implemented, are you aware that there is a theatre, and indeed, you might even reason that there probably isn't one at all.

In fact, the “normal” situation would require that you go with the flow, as though there is really nothing going on other than the conspiracy you are constructing in your own mind.

Reading about Happy Meals came in similar familiarity as in repeating Mama.

I continue to read on the move; I read at bus stops or while riding the bus. Sometimes I read while walking. You may call this “distracted living” or “distracted reading” (perhaps still “strategic” or even “managed” reading?). There exists a number of issues with reading in this manner. The quality of comprehension and analysis may become poorer. One must learn to extract the essentials and never mind the rest. What is the claim? I don't need the details. Et cetera etc.

The current techno-digital age makes the idea of distraction and short-attention span something rooted in the information overflow which starts after that slip out of the maternal womb: Separation anxiety. Disconnect. Disco. Disc. Net. What is the claim? I don't need the details. Et cetera etc. (Here I've opened another can of worms: the longing for a black hole because of a personal black hole, a void, overfilled with noise. sexual innuendo intended (do we want to get properly /de/fucked?). I miss the olden golden times. Nostalgia fallacy. What is the claim? I don't need the details. Et cetera etc).

But it's the little things that count, supposedly.
The details.
The description of a landscape in a text that correlates to the mood of the character.
The quote you can utilize to support your claims.
Closely reading an ad, detecting the subtleties, and di di, di di, that's all folks!
(this is the proper noise. this is noise-wisdumb. this will help you de-fuck).

This “new” phenomenon of surge of information calling our attention and competition for our eyes, for me, started in that tan station wagon.

At times I feel I'm in that metal machine: a metal womb. It feels more lonely. I wonder what else I might have picked up that I'm yet cognizant of, or what kinds of things I might've soaken into the background, perhaps it's nothing but a black hole. Ads are black holes. Hyperlinks are black holes. Reading is a black hole.

My thought is a black hole.

I'll tell you more about this some other time, I've got to go (@).


References:
Looney Tunes

Advertisements
Pete Seeger, “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy”

Camaron Que se Duerme...

It was a morning of revelations.

In a state of half-sleep, I thought I heard my mother's voice, she asked...when do you go in to work today? I muttered something and dozed out.

In a rush to leave home a little early in order to try and get a workout in before work, I gathered my things and caught a shortcut down the railroad tracks that take me to that hellish bus stop that takes about an hour, that is always running late, for a bus to arrive. 

This time, however, I was early. When the bus came, out of courtesy I gestured the go ahead to an elderly lady whom was also waiting; She did not move. The bus drove off. I waved and hollered at it, but it kept moving,

My mother's voice chimed in, camaron que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente.

I grew hot, raging. Why didn't she move! I looked at her, wondering, and she just returned a blank stare; then I thought about the asshole bus driver and then re-directed anger towards him.

I then realized the only anger to re-direct toward the inside; why was I so upset? Should I be angry at the world or at myself?

The moment reminded of a scene in A Scanner Darkly, where the lines “the pain clears away the cobwebs” are uttered, and afterwards there occurs a flash, a moment of realization, whereupon one understands that the anger directed at another, brought about by the pain, stems from oneself. It wasn't the bus driver or the elderly lady; It was my stupidity.

I need a car and I need more money. Why haven't I acquired those things? and many other things? Perhaps my ambition for money and cars is not strong enough. Perhaps what I want is unrealistic, because what I can afford right now seems very little. Shall I take these as a blessing?

The pain clears away the cobwebs.

The pain reveals what is concealed.

no pain no gain.

In this way, it would seem I have experienced utter institutionalization. Circumstances seem to condition one to take their carefully crafted feelings of cruelty out on local citizens, i.e. "I feel wronged and I will take it out on the first person I see." This is blind fury. This is counterproductive-revolution. This is madness. This is two people fighting with each other for no apparent reason, or rather misplaced reasons.

As a Piscean, I sit back and allow the corriente to take me. Shh, ma. I want to go with the flow. I like sleeping, at least for a little bit. Wake me when we get there. I'm tired. Let me sleep. Things make more sense there. I don't feel in control there, yet everything seems ok. In this world, I am in control, in control of that which gradually crumbles. The dream world makes as much sense as the real world. What's that? Another shooting? What's that another kidnapping? What's that? Another corrupt official? What's that? Another war? What's that? Hu? Wha? Wha..z..

ah...but the world has its nice-ness to it as well; it's a matter of finding it or working at it. Mama said there'd be days like this.


References:
The Zodiac
Popular folk adages
Richard Linklater, A Scanner Darkly (2006) / Philip K. Dick

The Shirelles

I've much left to go; it's very dark in here.

Entropy, from the Greek root “en” (inside) and “trope” (transformation), in information theory, is a measure of uncertainty in a random variable. I know very much about very little, I think this might have to do with entropy. From what I understand (which is close to nothing), entropy has to do with properties of gradual decline in order, i.e. chaos and disorder.

Some (random variable) argue that in order for creation to take place, there must be a destruction of some sort, or rather, some sort of entropic transformation.

Today was a day of entropic expenditure. Energy was pulled from me in various ways. I was stretched thin and bloated to the point of exhaling "theories" on words and philosophy (the art of argument of what words mean and the reasoning therein). I shifted from one mode of thought to another, never fully developing the icebergs I mapped out to those asking for an outline.

poof! I uttered once and Pff! I scoffed another time.

I felt like throwing up; my body was sweating. I was hot and cool. I grew dizzy. I had trouble breathing as though I had a mouthful of cotton.

I made sense of all these things under Entropy; there is a change occurring, though I've yet to formulate an idea of why or how.

As though instinctually, the first thing I did when I arrived home was throw up. My body was asking for it. Since I had eaten very little all day, I found this strange because I reasoned that my body needed all the nutrients it could absorb.

I wish my mind could do the same: I mean throw up. Purge the impurities. But it all remains in the brain: deep memory.

All that stuff you try to forget and cannot formulate yet never going away and receding into memory banks that slowly blur into the background.

Somehow, I feel that this entropy is only the beginning.

The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry (Hemingway).

Indeed, there is a crack in everything, or you will crack sooner or later, and "that's how the light gets in" (Leonard Cohen)

I've much left to go; it's very dark in here. 

"O faithless and perverse generation"

 I woke up "late" today, but I think I needed the rest. It's nearing the afternoon.

I crash around this part of the week; I mean, after a weekly routine of waking up at 6:00 am by an alarm clock, leaping out of bed like a horse from a starting line, taking a whiz, dressing up, brushing my teeth, washing my face, force-feeding (because I need to eat something), rushing out to fight traffic to get to a place where essentially I (you) make lots of money for somebody else and are asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so, how in the hell would anyone enjoy a "good" morning?


Reference:
Charles Bukowski, Factotum (1975)
George Lucas, Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (1983)

Learn to Unlearn

I caught the northbound route.
I sat next to a young girl who held a text titled
 The Western Tradition.
She dipped in and out of a section called
"European Family Structure."
Her name was Maria from what I could read
In plain Engleesh

(con)Figuring This Out

The previous post was a rant, and this one isn't one as well.
That being said, there is nothing outside the (con)text, so don't read too much into it.


Reference(s)/Allusions:
Derrida, Of Grammatology (1967)
Derrida, "Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences"

• "If this is so, the whole history of the concept of structure, before the rupture I spoke of, must be thought of as a series of substitutions of center for center, as a linked chain of determinations of the center. Successively, and in a regulated fashion, the center receives different forms or names. The history of metaphysics, like the history of the West, is the history of these metaphors and metonymies. Its matrix-if you will pardon me for demonstrating so little and for being so elliptical in order to bring me more quickly to my principal theme-is the determination of being as presence in all the senses of this word. It would be possible to show that all the names related to fundamentals, to principles, or to the I center have always designated the constant of a presence-eidos, arche, telos, energeia, ousia (essence, existence, substance, subject) aletheia [truth], transcendentality, consciousness, or conscience, God, man, and so forth.
• The event I called a rupture, the disruption alluded to at the beginning of this paper, would presumably have come about when the structurality of structure had to begin to be thought, that is to say, repeated, and this is why I said that this disruption was repetition in all of the senses of this word." (http://hydra.humanities.uci.edu/derrida/sign-play.html)

Nietzche, "On Truth and Lies in an Extramoral Sense" 

• "What then is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions - they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins."

Plato, Gorgias and Protagoras

• Socrates: Words which do what? I should ask. To what class of things do the words which rhetoric uses relate? 
• Gorgias: To the greatest, Socrates, and the best of human things [...]
• Gorgias: What is there greater than the word which persuades the judges in the courts, or the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly, or at any other political meeting?-if you have the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your slave, and the trainer your slave, and the money-maker of whom you talk will be found to gather treasures, not for himself, but for you who are able to speak and to persuade the multitude.
• Socrates: Now I think, Gorgias, that you have very accurately explained what you conceive to be the art of rhetoric; and you mean to say, if I am not mistaken, that rhetoric is the artificer of persuasion, having this and no other business, and that this is her crown and end. Do you know any other effect of rhetoric over and above that of producing persuasion? 

"Rhetoric is to Justice what cookery is to medicine"

The Beginning is the End is the Beginning

First,
an invocation:
In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God, and...since we tru$t in God...in the Word we too shall trust the absolute symbol-signifier.

Well now comes an expression of depression. A cathartic Virtua-fart exhaling the good and the nasty. o que pedo? I want to write in blood and guts through digitized text inspired by holy texts. This is LA crypto-cult. This is my mind slowing down low low and feeling high high: Starstruck. and dazed and confused and blah blah blah.

I read a passage today that sparked millions of thoughts buzzing in my brain and, if expressed, would've sounded insane,

as though possessed and driven mad
by an idea.
Burnout Brainfry.

Think about it; I'd be in the psychiatric ward (or maybe I already am?), or if I play my cards right, I'll be placed upon a pedestal, peddling that "oceanic" stuff Freud talks about, or whatever else it is that helps people get through nowadays. 

Here's the ink transmuted into 1's and 0's:

"Beauty! I can't bear the thought that man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom...what to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind, beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? the awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man."

-Dmitri Karamazov

can you dig it? boys with tits; equality does not seems like it.

I was on my way to the market holding Dostoevsky's epic. The AC at Ralph's brought a moment of relief. I walked over to the magazines behind a harlot. She seemed familiar, then it dawned on me. This harlot navigates through various channels signaling desire and curling her index in my direction. She sirens from magazine racks, showing the condition of a seemingly perfect physique, perhaps a heavenly body?

I recognized her from the gym.

She works out with a behemoth; She enjoys it. She loves it. She desires it. She likes it. it's full-filling.

Anyway, back to my original point, which is no point.

References/Allusion:
The Bible
Brother's Karamazov

The Smashing Pumpkins
Saussure
Reassure
&
Unsure