(no subject)

[kingtycoon]

I am bored. It is an angstful day for no reason, I guess. No reason. Operations and sales are fully committed, they're on the busy season, I answer calls and plan the curriculum and hope that someone will want help with something. It doesn't come up. I had to do a hard reset on one of the servers today and no-one even noticed. It's like that, dullsville.
But you know what - fuck all that, let's get down to it, why don't we.

Because after all this isn't even a paraphrasing of the story, not even a moment of it, this is off-camera action that speaks to an otherwise inexplicable motivation for my character. Rather there's a whole other me, that's true/real/factual that comes alive sometime on the bus coming home, bored at last of the internet, bored of gathering angering information, tired, hungry and thus pure, tired, hungry, exhausted and half destroyed - this is my favorite of myselves, it happens. Perhaps not very adroitly discussed here, at least not lately, but there is that self, deranged and drunk, wandering in the dark closer to dawn than midnight, raving, possibly, amazed and animated, walking - hungry, tired, destroyed and unflagging. That's the self of my selves that I wear best, the punished, penitent madman in the wilderness. Can I tell you how I came to this? I cannot, but I can tell you of moments observed when, with beatified sensibilities I've observed sublime interstices of ordinary moments and been drawn up and into the supernal, transcendent holiness (for real holiness) of human existence. Sometimes I get there, to it, but always deranged (deranged by my own hand mainly) and desperate, the extra, perfect edge of Wanting and Needing are the warp and weft of this particular tapestry. Images, you know - it's when, by whatever power of excision lies in the bottle, the erasure of identity - and the atavistic driving urges of necessity loosed, that's when the self is subsumed, the faulty, unneccesarry force of experience and history is stripped away and there's a mass of wants and eyes and senses - that's when the world is reduced to what it is, images and the impressions given by images, everything is merely as it appears and has no meaning. Nothing can be inferred, nothing can be teased from these pictures with reason or doubt - it's only happening.


This is the sublime self I prefer for myself experiences without impressions, the disassociation between sense-data and experience. These are things that happen, but they are not things that happen to me.

Can I tell you why this works? Why I like it and why it's better? I can't. It's just purely bad luck that my best/favorite self is the drunkest one - but you know, I'm a capable sort and not eager for ruin, so it's kept in reserve, mostly, once, twice a year? I'm allowed to pursue the honed and sharpened sense-self.

Which is a relief in it's own way, because the opinion-self, the reasoning-thinking waking self is rather damaged, harmed and tired. Exhausted. By sad happenstance I miss the transfer, have to walk the miles home in the cold, steaming halfway up the hill, I have to take off my hood, and it's a grim bleak journey in the late Cleveland Autumn. Shaking out the sentiments and attitudes that grow and snarl up within me, the many, many things that I find distasteful or purely hateful, they're all there, nerves bare in the blistering wind. How I hate the car, how I hate the politician, how I hate the gun, the dog, the many, many things that can be had or bought and how I hate so many things and they're all of them just things. Possessions, the only things I hate are things, so that's in my favor. I'm calm, calmed after an hour walking and I come home and light incense and candles, listen to Gershwin, fix myself some soup and start painting a picture about witchcraft.

The thing is, I realize, that I'm too far deep in my own counsel, I couldn't, if you asked me, explain what about any of this is interesting. What is it that is interesting? Hell if I know, I figured out to just do whatever the fuck I want to do, and I have no goddammed idea if it makes sense, if it has any virtues or if it's just the most mundane thing ever. What's even interesting? Can you tell? I feel, now, just this instance, stunned and dizzy, doubtful of the virtues of anything.

Comments

[fordmadoxfraud.livejournal.com]

How many paintings do you have now and where are you storing them all?

[kingtycoon.livejournal.com]

I think 50+? About that, they're stacked up on a shelf in my closet, but some of them are hanging on my wall.

The more I work on these, the more I think they're a first draft. That I'm going to redo the whole thing with the knowledge and skill that I've gained doing it once.

Fact - I was bummed about having blank white walls, so I started painting.

Fact - It's easy being alive.