Post X

I built a fascist ideology to save just for myself. I've seen all the films I must see and will demonstrate consequent knowledge (such as there is) in the following notes and draftings.

I spent years writing inside a terminal. Many instances of just a note or two viewed in sequence makes itself a journal. One that's even on exact mark with this blog. It's a mass resurrection in this very post of ran-over and re-puzzled jottings into publication-sufficient fodder.

I admit it--a blog is still a very scary place to look upon, but in keeping with the overall body of work I'll keep building, even if I'm not sure where exactly to go. All I see now is the sky. I wish to be left alone; let me stare and stare some more. I'll will things to change into their ideal form, like in the dreams that follow urination. All I know is the things brow-beaten in. I am only my sticker-price, not what else you've said. All we've seen is the blood of dead ideas floating down the main thoroughfare. You know this as well as I. But your sickness leaves no choice. Our death would never change the course of life. All I can see is this line of thought conceived years ago. All I can feel is the mania in the words said then.

Nighttime stills coinciding with emotional sameness. A page of The Lord of the Rings, then falling asleep. Drinking two Modelos, day after day, then repeat with two Old Mills. Forcing changes to find the necessary answers. Finally a better tasting beer at a place made for friday nights. Writing down every single interest you have to get out of the boredom of it all. For a reason, delaying post-interval Andrei Rublev, not watching Last Tango. Still not aware of tone. First Seti then New Coke; we stare at the puzzlement on Mackenzie Davis then Kerry Bische then the other. Back to Nocal, finally. I read something Saturday. The title possibly Modern Theatre of France or French Modern Theatre. I read it Sunday, too, though in a worse way. The sanitized early-00s library with extensive magazine selection. No way to read one and escape the bit. I read Ars Poetica:

To look at the river made of time and water

And remember that time is another river,

To know that we are lost like the river

And that faces dissolve like water.

To be aware that waking dreams it is not asleep

While it is another dream, and that the death

That our flesh goes in fear of is that death

Which comes every night and is called sleep.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

I'm behind; I don't ask for another history, but that's just pride. I need to write directly to the source. Evolve to the modern practice. If it's a Bergman film, make sure it's interesting enough. The bends of the road keep the driver on her toes, constantly reassuring herself, blocking out the warningless signs in front of her. She brakes harder than advised at the bends, the bounds of expected wear and tear exceeded. The stateless existence interferes with progress. In a seeming sort of way, the reptiles packed tightly in one large vat, their streamlined lifelessnesses increasing efficiency for all those involved. Keep wooden boxes upon your feet. The scaled coffins will keep you asleep. I moved the mouse right. I'm hungry right now. It's just a very small portion of the very large snowball that's still accumulating size. What is the final solution, without alcohol. Not so dulled anymore, just dread that follows euphoria--the leftover stoned diaphragm. I've been sitting here too long. I doubt there's any predisposition at all. The scale blurs at the extremes. Now having re-reached the can't read state I can say it's only a meager effect. I like to think that if I did open a book, I would have some sort of sensation. I like to imagine things. You're reading this for the wrong reasons--though it could be argued (and very well) that I'm writing this for wrong reasons as well. Not just the not right, the perfect and diamond-cut, wrong. I'm always looking around into precisely wrong places.

Vitti walks through Sicily, going from one building to the next, destination-less, haunted into boredom. A feeble Sandler rebuilds into form. The presiding moral abyss leaves Jack to go through. Our simple needs privacy and support sometimes leave us, and with it morality. Walking through a park to keep to basic channels.

Tagging behind, not pouting, but slowed by physical limits, compensation only through exertion. An unfamiliar story still faithful to itself, a familiar story faithful to its familiarities and its medium's necessities. A car swerves out of my lane, though I don't swerve. A boat with some passengers; just boaters and a body of water. Overall, news is good. I'll spare the rest for fear of serious degeneration.