Concerning some over-determined notes I used to call Journal

I used to write in a journal 2 different times. The first was in the terminal, the other was in notebooks. I ran out of them months ago. Habeas corpus hiatus. No longer do I glance upon newsracks and see the newbegotten halcyon of wished-fors… I see the great wideness unpresent before. The newcency of this millennium--a new 2001. I read the words and sentences on pages. When does it end? I read Twitter in total regression. I see everything as I did before the 4chan turn. No longer do I render the scenes of neatness into isolated personhoods. I stick to the gleaming reaction of the turntables. Of Edward, himself, and his wishes…

Reflections on Dishonesty and Hatred

The grooves of life held but not long for this state. The green leaves placed just long enough. The poet, a national villian, who keeps to his piece. The hymnal, just out, a windy blowing just across one lot. A promise made to the citizenry: One day they’ll all come home; we will live together again. There are the ones who are writing this all, and also the ones running pickups. 

A heart beats as its progeny wishes. Lifelong habituals, quickly speared and de-cycled. Time which is unto itself–the crypt and its keeper’s royal ordainment. A life beyond its own presence–a new motion arc. 

Not any dueling set. Just life stuck in a place. A whirling similar.

April 2

For some reason writing isn’t the plaid fortune it was before. I guess I used to bunker down in and kick away at one of the drafts. That system, since dismantled, hasn’t been replaced. 

There are things I care about, that I could write of in detail. Saying how and why, the particulars, what it makes of the life I lead. However, those things are not of interest. How do I make statements that bear the spirit of our shared existence?

The things that are the most difficult tend to have the most resonance. Posts are frequently rote regurgitations. But lifeblood stuff is not so easy to identify. It escapes and lingers ever after. 

So what is the same about this year and the last? I lack the pressure of the made… but what is the same? I put myself on, and make my way through..

2023-05-08

There is a nice way to characterize the life that is both led and desired. All those involved will face the eminent consequence 

I’m not saying the beauty should limit our aspirations or lifelong physical demands

Our nicest processes say unequivocally there is a great beauty found outside our soul (our one and only)

Rounding the demonic curve, you know how to swerve away, a completed fullness of itself… Not so quick this time..

12:24 PM Wednesday, April 5, 2023 (CDT)

I remain loyal to a continuous spread of language as a base for expression. When you think of something and all that’s returned is a blank outline, how does that make you feel? 

There is a batch of little things that is significant to the overall arc. Each rational belief submitted squares itself tethered to the average. The theoretical stakes now glide to the horizon of the actual–an accumulation too big and too wide to wash away. 

One out there still has the power to transform all these wisening beams into a beachfront scroll. How do we sequence these events of life together–what’s leftover of the long night’s dream? A new stream of letters, addressing lives future and past. A universe backed and steeped against any unbalance; its strands asserting a collective reaching toward a more regal plane, such that they are never seen as particular but as a single collected point inside the dream of the never-world. Disjoint stacks that bleed across the edges of a one-piece; we finally see the new one-life unfold into the wide open space.

Big movies

A transition to paragraph form. Matching subject and construction. Always on the computer, looking out windows; the views are the same. A high baseline of things to look at in direct frame. Attractive people and long takes. An embarrassing or lost sense of humor. My enthralled 2020 self. Once the period is passed it settles into the familiar. What was once moving, but now is not thought of at all. 

We must find the emotional initiative that guides life through cinema. An interest abstracted into nothing; moments of sufficiency, rendered by forced recreation. There is the new classical acting style, a direction encouraged by the simultaneous joys and difficulties of something grounded; the layers of your psyche are peeled away as an experience slips on.

The single unbroken relation

What is it that determines the structure of today’s writing. Is it the quest for unbroken relation? The obsession with truth? Refusal to accept reality?

The newest generation writes auto-fiction. The words on the page are not a relation to reality; they are reality. The question is:

What other things relate to this current state?

There are other interesting things that go on. But what things occur as usual? I still dutifully read things without the immediate sensations of a bookish child. There have been 8 so far this year, but only The Burnout Society found total quality. The others managed infrequent flickers (liminal trash). But I still continue through.

The new period is total fascism. A lovely mode within the unnecessary and trivial…

I return to the museum of art–reconciled after years of ashy avoidance. The modernity died in Aspen, to great disgust. We still are in wonder; is a return to our godsent and heroistic vector assuming itself? Does it now stand again, in its place of tapestry and goodness? I stare, only finding clarity escaped of blanketed sunlight. A final gleam by our great beloved. A straightened screed for the prim and proper. The things we state and declare mean less, blended into the background. A nice friend on the street corner makes his greeting. Only a brief encounter, but weighing enough to follow with rapturous shake.