Empty Days

Saturday, September 18, 2004



What about it.

Exhausted here - fingers stiff from typing for all the chatting, heh.

The janitor destroyed another spot of greenery around the building yesterday - I don't know anymore if it's his decision or the landlords' - I would think it's the janitor because he's one lazy fuck for all I've seen of him - taking care of whatever beyond washing the staircase must have seemed like too much of a chore so he just cut it down. Maybe.

Either way it's clear that this place here is going to get worse and worse - no real point to get upset about it so I don't. I wish I had any real desire and energy to look for something else. But nothing gives. I was thinking about house-sitting some countryside home over the winter but I am not sure I'd be able to find such a possibility just from the newspapers or the internet. However the most important is the desire for change - which eventually would push me to create opportunity or jump on some, but it's simply not there so far.

Nothing I do can give me that desire, it seems.

It's a sort of mental exhaustion that's been growing ever since I returned from my little trip - I thought it would be the exact opposite, apparently I was wrong.

The trip did not give me anything beyond a clear realization that I am not up to any real-life challenges. I can break away for a short while but I am always back into my usual mental hole thereafter. I am glad I did go - but I also understand now just how much of an illusion that was, in terms of expectations and goals at least.

Being realistic simply means facing the inner self just as it is. Mine barely exists and has no push of its own - no matter what ritual dances I perform around this waning heathen.
The campfire needs constant care and new wood to keep going - likewise I need quite a bit more than just my own burning power. I need something to give me strength and there's just nothing in my world that can give me that. In fact there is not much of a world to look forward to in any case.

Perhaps human society is nothing but a pile of wood to burn - and every individual fire feeds from it. Perhaps I am only describing my vintage weakness.

Nothing gives.

Friday, September 17, 2004



Not on the map.

I experienced dim instantaneous recollections of my life in Paris this morning - this due to having chatted with some random Frechman from there. Ah - what can I say - at least it was a life. As opposed to what I've been carefully mimicking ever since in replacement of the irrevockably lost.

By which I certainly do not mean that if I were magically transplanted into Paris now it would make any sort of difference - as a matter of fact it would not, given gravely changed circumstances that have passed in between.

There is no such thing as Paris - there is only *my* Paris, and it died.




Real life erupting into politics - rare sighting.

HAMILTON, N.J. (AP) - A woman wearing a T-shirt with the words "President Bush You Killed My Son" and a picture of a soldier killed in Iraq was detained Thursday after she interrupted a campaign speech by first lady Laura Bush.

Police escorted Sue Niederer of Hopewell, N.J., from a rally at a firehall after she demanded to know why her son, 1st Lieut. Seth Dvorin, 24, was killed in Iraq. Dvorin died in February while trying to disarm a bomb.

As shouts of "four more years" subsided, Niederer, standing in the middle of a crowd of some 700, continued to shout about the killing of her son. Secret service and local police escorted her out of the event, handcuffed her and placed her in the back of a police van.

Laura Bush continued speaking, touting her husband's record on the economy, health care and the war on terror to those attending the rally in this suburban community of 90,000 people near Trenton.

She made several references to the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, and noted that many in New Jersey, including some in neighbourhoods near the firehall, lost family members that day. [...]



Sure of course certainly no doubt indeed so how else oh yes - huh? ;-0




Alcoholics Anonymous.

Instead of getting drunk or high all day long - I am chatting. No real difference here, the forgetfulness it creates is pretty impressive. Sure enough I had to go through the usual initiation process of getting spammed and cyber-spammed right out of my mind - which finally gave me the brilliant idea to update my profiles on the web by carefully eliminating such bad words as "female" or "single" as well as the name of my town where so many people are languishing in search of unrequited love and sex - better not let them know I live there too :-0

Obviously I had to remove the photo as well - stupid me to have put it there in the first place, heh.

In the end, once you remove all references to everything remotely sexual (marital status, gender, photo...) all is left are your so-called interests - with the proviso that my interests are a front rather than the gist.

Nevertheless I was still able to strike up some meaningful chats with random folks - which is a good average given all the spamming in between. Females are still hard to catch though - either they want to flirt (can't oblige) or they're so spammed-out they won't talk to anyone at all, including my harmless self.

Ah well. It's a mad-mad world and I am an alcoholic anonymous - there are millions upon millions of us, lost mindless souls.

Recent topics: old Norse sagas, Quran and religion, China and Japan, the meaning of life :-0

Thursday, September 16, 2004



I will probably never move from here.

I am satisfied that the negro guys who moved in upstairs are indeed quite popular drug-dealers: towards the evening begins the junkie visiting hours, some of the clients mistake the floor and knock on my door, others loiter downstairs not yet allowed to go up.
Every night towards 2am there is a teenage philippino boy waiting for them in the entrance-hall : he's very polite and quiet, i've run into him 3 times already, since i also roam around at night. I suppose this boy is a low-level distributor and our negroes are his bosses.

This is the first time that we've got something like that in the building. The previous janitor tried hard to avoid renting to dubious tenants that might entail police presence. The landlord doesn't understand any of this, being a rich jew who only needs his cash on time. The current janitor could care less though - but he might create problems for himself if he slacks too much on these things.

I am looking towards some colorful little happenings related to these fun guys (by the way: they're being very discrete with their stereo - they play it all night long but no bass to rock the walls).




Swamps of glory.

I have a hard time being alone with myself these days - or with this apartment or both... That's why as soon as I wake up I fire up the computer and get distracted with shadowy stuff. But I am not working on the bike and am not looking to do anything real - something is literally gagging all my energy or faith or will and I fucking don't even know what that is.

Perhaps I resist too much acting in a way entirely contrary to my mood and lying mind - it might just be the only way to break the spell, to just act mindlessly and see that things still can be done despite this hole, and maybe restore some faith and some direction.

I am too afraid to be desperate at the moment.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004



Song for my mother.

Where must I go to find enough space to feel
so I might cry hot tears
and let my heart deeply see
the pain of destiny rolling over
those near me - where may I love
without words of comfort?

There's no ground to stand on and be
overtaken by pity and yet not fall;
there is no sky high enough to see
all the way to the end of me.

Calling from the heart of life
the pattern of destiny sets its course -
If only i could feel beyond my woes
as if transplanted into another.

Returning from the long road ahead
I went back and was brought forth
into what has no time yet lasts into death -
the pity of another's life peering into me.

I don't know how to see without understanding.

Destinies interwoven grow from one generation into another
sprouting through the stone of separate minds
inexplicably bound, setting the ground
for the flow of life without consciousness.

There is no love without that ground
and no ability to feel without roots
still green from father to son
from mother to daughter
generation to generation
all the way to the immemorable first
life as love carried through and passed on
ad infinitum.

If only I could feel without understanding.

Rich with the soil of generations one becomes a seer
knower of things to pass
inside the circle of destiny
reserved for the family line.

So little time left between us
calling the last meaning
into presence, one's soul.

If only I could withstand that feeling.

*

Adapted from Old Norse.




Fragments.

My bad tooth is giving me hell - will have to go pull it out. A root-canal would cost around $400 and the money is not there, quite simply. My parents might insist to pay for it though - for some reason they have quite a special relationship to my bad teeth, probably because it's a genetic feature and they feel responsible. If I just go and pull it out they will take it as a personal offense and a hostile action on my part.

*

I've been seeing a lot of them lately - my mother is having nightmares because of this, heh. The more I explain to her my view of life, the more depressed she gets. The problem is helplessness and the burden of what has passed before. These things never die - it is a neverending story and a sort of freak-show. But that's reality as we've always known it in here.

*

Been doing some white-nights chatting. As a result collapsed in the middle of the afternoon and slept some hours to recover. I don't feel like sleeping nights because I don't know what to do with the days and would rather feel dazed and somnolent than needlessly active and refreshed. In fact, whenever I am not actively engaged in some entirely useless activity, I immediately fall into the pit of my current inner state.

It's a bad murky state these days.

Can't even raise enough hope to trust again in the liberation powers of travel etc. Perhaps I simply need to pull myself out of this rut and break away from the environment again - yet at the same time I have a nagging feeling that something important is being decided inside somewhere and the accompanying murkiness is just bubbles coming up to the surface.

I'll let it forment for a while still.

*

I've been repeatedly entertained by a wanna-be hacker trying to fuck-up my icq chats. I hope this teenager will grow up strong and healthy, once he'd have defeated my uncomplicated computer facilities at such a critical age of his mental and emotional development. Heh.

Monday, September 13, 2004



Watch your step (sign in subway cars).

Contact is too easy on the internet - it is always false for that reason.

Chatting pushes some emotional buttons but the one thing to remember is that the whole thing happens between assumed personae - not persons.

Once you meet the prototype face-to-face, you are able to measure the gap. This is a mutual process of course.

Yesterday I went to meet an armenian guy who told me pretty nauseating stories of ethnic wars he's fought in - he also loaded me with inordinate amount of nationalistic talk but I did not protest, since he was willing to die and kill for these ideas many times over. We were both kind to each other and completely unable to create contact. He is entirely hidden within himself - yet I was still able to glance some of his being: a battered kid and a poet nearly crushed under steely armor of realized will-power. I hope he will find somebody to love him despite this.

I am hidden too - I was not looking for love, I was curious of measuring the gap. We will not meet again due to impossibility of making friends with women within his culture - and my inability to share in his nationalism. Heh.

*

But the inability to make contact is always bitter per se - no matter who with, really. Oftentimes when contact between internet personae is fine, it is better not to destroy it by coming face-to-face too soon - in fact it takes a much longer time on the internet than in person to actually find out who the other is and create a good understanding. It is much harder to peek through the false persona in writing than face-to-face - in live contact people spot out each other immediately, like dogs really. It's an instinctive and precise understanding that reveals all the possibilities or the absence thereof in no time at all.

But that's just a matter of watching your step - internet still affords some communication, no matter how shadowy in essence.




The uses of illusion.

I guess I can't sustain the illusion anymore - illusions work best when they're still untested, especially since they always hide some impossible realization within, and once you get down to experience this fact is revealed and pressed upon you with full force. Illusion falls to pieces but you've been made to apprehend something you never wanted to admit to yourself - it's a form of creation too, this venomous seed finally breaking out of the sweet fruit.

Yes, I will go on my next trip in due time - with the seed having spourted its first greens within me. It will be bitter-sweet and I will forget again and will remember again.

But the illusion is gone - promising new dawns. L'Aurore - by Friedrich Nietzsche, heh.

I will let the illusion fully die - it is still agonizing within me and wanting to hang on. I will give it enough time to die. Then I will be able to start out again.




The many faces of murder.

I can't get over this - likely because there is nowhere I can hide from the meaning of that ordinary fact of life. The feelings that meet me upon waking are similar to what I've experienced after I've been told the neighbour from downstairs has killed herself. It wasn't just a blatant realization of death but an acute feeling of my having caused it too somehow. All this somehow was not just guilt - it was a new take on emptiness, what an empty space death creates. Suicide is a murder - people don't kill themselves, they are made to do it by everything around. For that neighbour I was part of the world that killed her.
And now the tree is gone and that too is somehow a murder - not just by the landlord but by the whole world of which I am part. It's all a symbolic space. I don't know how to say this.

This is what I wrote in june:
Tree of life.

I had a moment of despair upon waking - the usual time for me, when I am open to the realities of my inner mind, defenseless against its never-ending conversation. And then I had a moment of relief.

There is a tree of life growing over my balcony and every day its sun-lit maze is filled with animals and birds - squarrels come to play in its branches and starlings and sparrows and even woodpeckers and red crested cardinals with their wonderously melodious chant. My cat actively participates in this swarming of life by chasing squarrels along the edge of the balcony and purring at the birds and jumping and meowing at all the excitement. But at this time it too was simply gazing at the tree from its corner in the arm-chair, content and at peace, while the squirrel sat motionless under the hot morning sun, among the busy-body birds, and stared back at us - me and my cat - with the distracted curiosity of the wild. And as I laid in my bed looking at all these comings and goings of various species withing a few steps it appeared to me that I too, the amorphous shape in my darkly artificial retreat, was somehow part of this same small circle of sun, tree, animals, life - I too, the big thinking ape motionless and observing.

The feeling reminded me of those familiar Renaissance paintings of the garden of paradise where, in a small frame, animals and the jungle-like nature are represented as the primeval abode of man and woman - and the two lone naked people in the paintings are always so closely surrounded by this contemplative diversity of species, a family of sorts. Including the snake - and the bright red apples, always within a hand-reach.
Yes, it's death and it's murder and this emptiness is evil somehow.

Sunday, September 12, 2004



I think the shock of return was a bit too much to take. I am having a hard time organizing another such trip because I know I will have to return and go through the same shock again. I don't want that pain repeated. Yet all this relates directly to the most important in my life - which is that I don't have any life at all, heh. Travelling makes me alive and makes me realize this fact with full force - I don't want to look, yet I have to.




Dissipation.

I did a lot of chatting on saturday night. Today I went to see one of the contacts and we had a beer. It was fun and instructive but essentially non-substantial. This is how it is with people most of the time anyway. The better part of this whole event consisted in biking really fast on night streets. All the rest will likely evaporate. I wonder what it would take to ever come in true contact with people - even if it's a guy, heh.

*

I can't put myself together - I don't understand why I am not leaving yet. Either I am exceptionally disorganized or there is some unresolved issue preventing me from focussing. I think it's the latter because otherwise this just doesn't make any sense at all.

*

One of my bad teeth is giving me hell. I think it will require pulling out soon. Maybe I should take care of this before I get going.

*

My parents are willing to feed the cat - the way is clear, I can get going any time I want. And yet instead of this I am wasting my time looking for new experiences etc. I do wonder why, really.





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