This will be quick but unfortunately it will be honest. Honesty is like a child you get to be the parent of because it was so good for those few seconds you forgot to pull out. Yeah, … everyone says that they want honesty until they are hit with it. Then they want to run away, and forget that they willing took or gave a hot load.
Great googly moogly
I’ve been listening a lot to Howling Wolf lately. This is the song I will write this post to if you want to listen along
Please hit play
I have a weird relationship with my own demise because it’s not an oppressive worry. An eternity of non-existence will be a welcome rest. I’m a high-functioning depressed person who finds life beautiful. It’s an odd conundrum to be in. My natural disposition oscillates between brief moments of ecstatic experiences to epochs of melancholy. I don’t find much in life cheery, or worth getting excited over. Life is painfully beautiful as are people too, being that they are extensions of this mystery. Living under the strain of such a conundrum is difficult because the horse-shit is so much more apparent.
We suppress so much of our sincere emotions in order to increase the potency of our dreaming. Often we are much too involved in our bullshit to notice that someone has extended us a hand in friendship. (I include myself in all of this. I’m just as full of shit as the next person, but I guess at least willing to openly admit to it.) Right before our eyes, something beautiful is dying (I am talking about Time). Do you remember these words from Andrew Marvel’s To My Coy Mistress
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song;
I see in a lot of blogs the same sit-at-my-table-at-lunch cronyism, and sycophantic praise reminiscent of high-school. There are more sales-people on WordPress than bloggers. By sales people I mean people trying to sell you an image of themselves or of a fun-house version reality or an actual material. Where are the truly original voices looking to actually communicate? I came to WordPress, with the childish idea that a community of bloggers wouldn’t be plagued by the same holier than thou mentality.
I don’t think I am being so clear. I think I am coming off rather curmudgeonly. Let me put it this way. One of the major themes of 20th century literature was Alienation.
- Stephen Daedalus in Joyce felt alienation as a result of religion
- Jake Barnes in Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises felt alienation after the horrors of war
- Meursault in The Stranger felt alienate from life
- Jay Gatsby has cut himself off from his Past
- Mallone, Malloy and any Beckett Character is alienated
- John Banville’s characters in the Sea and in Ancient light etc
I can go on. Alienation is large part of the modern day experience. We can debate the reason why all night, which would be helpful as the neighbors are fucking and I can hear it through the wall. Yes , Yes Yes!!!! lol I want to scream: STOP ASKING HER THE SAME FUCKING QUESTION!!!! (old joke)
Sorry lol, this is surreal. You know there is a philosophy in this, that the absurd and realistic always go hand in hand and you have to laugh lol
Ok I can see the effects and continuance of this alienation I guess is what I am saying on a lot of blogs. The Blogosphere is the bastion for free thought and individuality it was pegged to be, and that kind of scares me. It’s like watching someone you love or like grow sick before your eyes and in their passion, in their suffering you start to wonder how much of the good times were true to memory, how many smiles were put in there by invention? How much of what you cared for was really real? Soon enough illness robs you of that presences and we are thrust back into our solipsism and loneliness, and writing non-sensical blog posts when you should have been asleep long ago.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Did you know tom waits was heavily inspired by howling wolf ?