Again I ran out of images, thus I'm strapping this entry with the rejected version of an earlier experiment, which I beg the viewer to refrain from sincerely enjoying.
Dear diary,
I recall my younger self as a person who wakes up worried about school every day. Homework and tests and bullies and pressure from authority. What a waste of energy; what a waste of life.
Now I’m middle-aged but I don’t feel middle-aged. I don’t think about myself as middle-aged. I feel even much younger than I was—I feel trapped in adolescence. But I speak of myself as old, because I assume that the world sees me as a curmudgeon, as someone totally outmoded: I have the aura of oldness to anyone who’s well-adjusted.
Nowadays I wake up every day with the same murky sentiment: a mix of exhaustion and desperation. Overabundance of energy plus panic about the lack of opportunity (nowhere to spend this energy, so it gets wasted in worrying—and in writing these stupid introspections); also the entirety of my neurotic amalgam is draped with a big wet blanket of sadness.
Do I really feel this way, or am I only saying so because I like how the words sound?
I think I really do savor despair, manic dizzying fear & exasperation. But isn’t it strange that I can’t even avoid doubting the layout of mine own inner landscape? I’d assume that the one thing an error-prone solipsist could say that she knows for sure is the way that she feels. Perhaps I should no longer claim that I know nothing.
It’s because I wake every day in this fog of angst that my obsessions are basic. Today my first thots were about flux. The same old mulling over how things change. First I said to myself: These thots are boringly familiar, therefore they’re not worth writing down. But then I reflected: And yet maybe that’s exactly the reason to record them. So I’ll note them down below, if I can ever get past this introductory material. Another problem is that the intro raises more thots, like: Isn’t it interesting that one can argue with and end up changing one’s mind? For, being its own devil’s advocate, the mind changes itself.
Also I like how every idea, no matter how wrong it seems at first, can be presented in a way that makes it feel right after all.
So, as I said, I was thinking about flux. How one thing becomes another. The timeworn enigma. Being an human atheist created in the image of God, by the hand of God, for the sake of destruction, I have no choice but to think about sex. Change occurs via sex. And what is sex among humankind? Poles and holes. Two mortals get close, closer, closest, and then they make the exchange. But “close” does not mean mental intermingling. True closeness only occurs when you converse: when you listen, heed, when you read a text; say, the Bible: then your mind merges with the mind of its author, and you become a new genius.
But physical sex is just inserting a key in a lock. Or like a train entering a tunnel.
But the train doesn’t exit out the other side, as it would if the analogy were exact. Instead, it screeches its brakes and comes to a halt, then begins to back up. Back and forth it repeats. And this farce continues until…
In order to conclude that last sentence, I had to skim thru all my earlier paragraphs and reread what I had written, to get the correct phrase. Above, after saying that the mortal participants of the sex act in question attain the state of “closest permissible,” I concluded by announcing “an exchange is made.” And now I’m ashamed, as I see that this truth is just plain wrong. There’s no exchange, but a volley. Seeds and egg: Infinite arrows bombard one helpless bullseye. An exchange would require reciprocity: both parties would offer myrrh and both would receive it. But, in sex’s case, one party shoots its myrrh at the victim’s frankincense, in hopes of striking gold; in other words: to get rich quick; which means that a child is conceived. It is born on Christmas day, and you immediately put the babe to work. The coins that it earns are invested in the U.S. stock market, and the interest gained thereform can pay for your nurse. Old folks are never not in need of nursing. Thus saith the LORD: In less than a millennium, all souls will either be working as nurses OR in need of nursing. That’s why I chose as my motto: Nurse or be nursed. (Prove my prophecy false.)
So that takes care of sex. The only other way to bring about change in this world is by eating your loved ones. I’m not talking about cannibalism – that would violate the code of good manners – no, I’m referring to plants and animals: they are your beloveds (for every thing that lives is holy), and you consume them. Their body is broken for you. Their blood deflects God’s harsh judgment by cleansing your sins, which is why the biggest bird and best beast to be born – the Christ Plant, also known as: The Tree of Life – died saying “Partake of my flesh: take & eat the forbidden fruit” (for God only acts and IS in existing beings).
But it’s weird to consider that plants are lower than mammals, and sea creatures (monsters of the deep) are a little lower than the angels. Because a man can eat a plant, and the plant becomes a man. In other words, an essence ascends the ladder of being, by way of rearrangement of its atoms. And yet a tyger can devour a whole herd of men, and all those men then ignite the fiery eyes and brain of their devourer. That is, higher things get sorted into lower beings. How can this be? Maybe my reasoning is wrong: maybe a tyger is neither higher nor lower than man. But if a sea person climbs aboard heaven’s ark and devours one of Lord Jehovah’s pet angels, those little cherubs that swarm around him in the apple-shaped force field, as depicted in Michelangelo’s comic on the ceiling of my earthly parents’ church…
And didn’t John the Baptist survive on honey and locusts? And isn’t the Promised Land rumored to be flowing with milk and honey? Now both of those two-term phrases contain the same ‘H’-word. Apparently when you pair this substance, which is basically vomited by bees on the regular, with nutriment from cows, you’ve got a marketable combo; whereas, when you try to sell it as a packaged deal with insects, nobody wants it. The happy few grin and bear it. (I don’t wanna say “The only souls who enjoy the latter are those who drown folks for a living” because the word baptist does not mean…
I gotta go now. I don’t care if any of the above makes sense. And, no, I shall not add a closing parenthesis.)
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