tonight i write in the absence of music. instead, i hear the wind roaring outside. it can be a comforting sound, the wind. i'm not quite sure why. i suppose it is the contrast between the tumult and turmoil outside, and the calm and shelter within. i suppose it makes it seem appropriate and sufficient to cuddle up and sleep. it makes you think you have no business worrying about anything else. it makes you think that there exists this thing called peace.
life is made up of contrasts. the contrasts hide a truth that underlies everything. in reality, there is neither peace nor chaos. when someone thinks they are at peace, it is often only because of a relief that things are not worse, but if one weren't in the proximity of calamity, then one would only find other, littler things to worry about. i suppose that's part of the crux, that there is no ultimate peace, or at least no peace that exists independent of the world. or should i say, no peace that exists dependent upon the world? we always rest in the world within a stance, and our weight is always placed somewhere, and that weight makes us dependent upon some fictional ground... but the ground is perhaps ultimately always unstable.
***
i have been thinking about this idea of reduction. in chemistry, there is this thing called a redox reaction. basically, it is an exchange of a couple of electrons. there is a "reduction", meaning a giving up of electrons, and then there is "oxidation," which involves the taking up of electrons, often with the accompaniment of oxygen. but in any case, reduction, which in other contexts, usually means a diminishment, well, perhaps in relationships (human), there is a sort of exchange that occurs there as well. when one is reduced (diminished), then another is empowered. i think there is something desirable about being reduced at times. i can't quite explain it... i describe this in aesthetic terms, as an acknowledgment of the true nature of the world, of being ultimately completely vulnerable to it, but it is more (and less) than that...
i think that to overwhelm someone (with pleasure) is to simultaneously reduce them to something vulnerable to feeling. and perhaps that is accompanied by a simultaneous empowerment. i'm not sure...
***
i want to remember something. but i can't recall what it is. so i won't know if i've found it.
"wish i knew what you were looking for. might have known what you would find."
i think what i seek is a feeling of continuity with the past. perhaps if i felt the solidity of my past, i would feel more confident in the flow of my present. because things have seemed quite fragmentary of late. because there is a constant questioning, and interrogation, of being...
***
the directions we seek to move in life... how time mocks us. it finds us still in the same place, with the same unanswered questions. and yet we have changed. we are older, more diminished, less relevant, worn, faded. the questions, the feeling, the urgency, it becomes tired. our hopes and dreams become laughable myths. once, i might have wanted to learn a martial art- but then, time and tide questions me, and says, "for what?" that effort is like a sandcastle vulnerable to the waves. work and work and work at it, but if you stop for a moment, it all disappears into the soup. and what for? there is no one to see the sandcastle. no one is there to witness it. was the point to have a witness, to impress someone? and if not, then what was the point? is there an end in itself? is there a reason outside of the "play" of relations?
***
i have often asked that question. i have wanted to know if it were possible to devote oneself to art, apart from the eyes of others. i remember training in the graveyard, in the snow...
Monday, January 8, 2018
Saturday, January 6, 2018
1/5/2018
cry baby cry. this is the old beatles song... i forget what album it came from. but it is evocative... the accordion part particularly recalls some seaside jaunt (?).
***
now thom yorke is singing something live, it was something weird, but now it transitions into "everything in its right place."
i am following some thread. it is a loose thread i dislodged in the knot of my soul. now i am following it, sometimes pulling it tight, sometimes picking at it like a scab to find a way to untangle and loosen it from myself. i am hoping this thread leads to something significant- or that it opens me up to some nothingness, a freeness, a liberty. but it could be another red herring, a deception. endlessly to find no heart to myself, only another deception, a clotting of blood at its exposure to the air. there is nothing within me.
shodo's poem hinted at this. that the heart is a heavy stone, tacit and silent, at the top of a hill. and that our job is to repeatedly cast this stone away. or that the heart is an echo of the shell of a cicada. and that our job is to repeatedly try to listen for its voice, its beat, its nonexistent instructions...
***
having an image of the first culdesac i lived in, and the red house on the corner, and the two story house outside of the culdesac that intersected and caught the kite that i had released from my hands. all these young families, all innocent like my own. they are all gone now, all grown up, all old or dead or jaded, which in certain senses is also dead...
***
we are all flies and maggots buzzing. that is what i think. i hear it all around me, the voices of children mocking and singing. and thinking of richard's praises, as though his opinion meant anything, that i could catch poetry in my words, that i could be a source...
***
there is nothing else. i am irritable and empty. there are no friends to speak to. we are all strangers passing. no one wishes to recognize me, because i am a bomb of emptiness, a blast of meaninglessness. i can make anything transparent and translucent. i see your bones. i see your ugliness. but be aware that i see it in myself first. i always saw it in me first. but nevertheless my eyes are cruel and penetrative. they stab through and impale the surfaces. they cannot help but do this.
***
the drumming. my heartbeat (or lack thereof). we are empty rhythms interpenetrating. there is no rhyme scheme or time signature that can contain it. the one we have settled on is a compromise, and it seems to hold us together. but actually we are always tempting to fall out of sync, and transform everything into some cacophany.
help me.
***
it is now... the rims of buildings, with ticker tape running around. a building somewhere in seattle. somewhere where the weather is temperate. there is an old black man who is an expert at bagua and other internal martial arts wandering around. beatnicks and hipsters. and the air is creativity, a kind of snarky crunchy creativity that feeds off itself, cannibalistic, but vital and thriving in its life-death. and there is sex there. free sex. women with large afros, and color in their hair, large circular tinted sunglasses, and bell bottoms, and others in tight leather dresses, every fetish imaginable, exploring their wants on anyone available to serve as raw material for fantasies. and i live in this place. in my dreams. i walk on in a time where there is enough time for dreams, for wasted time. the oregon of leslie eleveld, this place of self absorption, and anxiety of self-absorption.
***
now chimes. chiming. the song is about what. beeping, the interruption of electronica. heaving and heaving. slipping into something else. what is it. the onset of a transformation. whether you want it or not.
***
thinking: i am being watched, i am being listened to. and the strings, the catgut strings of my heart, being plucked. the electromagnetic fields of eyes. the tense strings of awareness. taut. i hear it, vibrations like spiderwebs. even though we are disconnected, connected. an arc of electricity, making real the search for a connection in the charged atmosphere.
***
now thom yorke is singing something live, it was something weird, but now it transitions into "everything in its right place."
i am following some thread. it is a loose thread i dislodged in the knot of my soul. now i am following it, sometimes pulling it tight, sometimes picking at it like a scab to find a way to untangle and loosen it from myself. i am hoping this thread leads to something significant- or that it opens me up to some nothingness, a freeness, a liberty. but it could be another red herring, a deception. endlessly to find no heart to myself, only another deception, a clotting of blood at its exposure to the air. there is nothing within me.
shodo's poem hinted at this. that the heart is a heavy stone, tacit and silent, at the top of a hill. and that our job is to repeatedly cast this stone away. or that the heart is an echo of the shell of a cicada. and that our job is to repeatedly try to listen for its voice, its beat, its nonexistent instructions...
***
having an image of the first culdesac i lived in, and the red house on the corner, and the two story house outside of the culdesac that intersected and caught the kite that i had released from my hands. all these young families, all innocent like my own. they are all gone now, all grown up, all old or dead or jaded, which in certain senses is also dead...
***
we are all flies and maggots buzzing. that is what i think. i hear it all around me, the voices of children mocking and singing. and thinking of richard's praises, as though his opinion meant anything, that i could catch poetry in my words, that i could be a source...
***
there is nothing else. i am irritable and empty. there are no friends to speak to. we are all strangers passing. no one wishes to recognize me, because i am a bomb of emptiness, a blast of meaninglessness. i can make anything transparent and translucent. i see your bones. i see your ugliness. but be aware that i see it in myself first. i always saw it in me first. but nevertheless my eyes are cruel and penetrative. they stab through and impale the surfaces. they cannot help but do this.
***
the drumming. my heartbeat (or lack thereof). we are empty rhythms interpenetrating. there is no rhyme scheme or time signature that can contain it. the one we have settled on is a compromise, and it seems to hold us together. but actually we are always tempting to fall out of sync, and transform everything into some cacophany.
help me.
***
it is now... the rims of buildings, with ticker tape running around. a building somewhere in seattle. somewhere where the weather is temperate. there is an old black man who is an expert at bagua and other internal martial arts wandering around. beatnicks and hipsters. and the air is creativity, a kind of snarky crunchy creativity that feeds off itself, cannibalistic, but vital and thriving in its life-death. and there is sex there. free sex. women with large afros, and color in their hair, large circular tinted sunglasses, and bell bottoms, and others in tight leather dresses, every fetish imaginable, exploring their wants on anyone available to serve as raw material for fantasies. and i live in this place. in my dreams. i walk on in a time where there is enough time for dreams, for wasted time. the oregon of leslie eleveld, this place of self absorption, and anxiety of self-absorption.
***
now chimes. chiming. the song is about what. beeping, the interruption of electronica. heaving and heaving. slipping into something else. what is it. the onset of a transformation. whether you want it or not.
***
thinking: i am being watched, i am being listened to. and the strings, the catgut strings of my heart, being plucked. the electromagnetic fields of eyes. the tense strings of awareness. taut. i hear it, vibrations like spiderwebs. even though we are disconnected, connected. an arc of electricity, making real the search for a connection in the charged atmosphere.
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
1/3/2018
Heaven.
A plain, with small figures, and clouds boiling up into the sky. A vast sky. The figures are a small boy and an old man. The plain is actually a field of crops. And they are walking barefooted on a patted down mud path beneath these clouds, this sky. The sun, by the way, is exceedingly bright and brilliant, leaving flares in the eyes of those who dare to look in its proximity.
***
I am walking along a cramped pathway. Beside me runs the waters of the canal. At this one point, the point where I am on now, the edge of the canal steers close to the border fence, and the presence of overgrown weeds with knife-like leaves, makes me teeter on the smooth concrete edge of the canal, with small stones skittering into the cold flow...
There are houses beyond the chainlink fence on the far side. And I remember this scene from the Childcraft books, a scene of houses in some foreign country, with windows, each with lives. Each with open lives in open opportunities. Other perspectives.
I remember the song, something like that P--- I can't recall the name... And a huge bursting sunflower, on some staircase, some slightly crumbling staircase, in the sun. And the pathway, along Anania Drive, and seeing the yards of other houses. Wooden stairs. Wooden fences. Shifted and lifted sidewalks. The click click as you ride your bike over the electronic equipment. I can't recall much else. But every place has a sort of epiphenomenon, whether you are aware of it or not; it is the aura of hope or fear that you as the observer imbue upon a place. And I suppose I imbued everything (as I recall it) with a kind of 70s air, the air of bell bottoms and hippies (post 69) and songs of sunshine and rainbows, like the Brady Bunch kind of reality... And comic books, of malleable characters, and other things like that. It is difficult for me to capture or evoke that sort of reality. The reality that I recall. People were not exactly real. They were slightly overgrown haircuts and clean cut smiles. Everything was slightly faded, like a picture over exposed. And the cartoon Jonny Quest. Which I loved. And other things like that. Girls. Prepubescent (because I myself was a child). I was surrounded by them. And I thrived on their attentions. I was a child, something of disgust in retrospect, living off of their figurative breasts.
The 80s mentality was somewhat different. I was a bit more conscious, but not much. I can't recall too much. There were different themesongs. At the moment, I can't hear it...
Recalling the one time we went to Kahala Mall, and seeing tons of Rubik's cubes, with fruits and other symbols. The T1000 Sinclair computer that I used to program, in black and white. Writing the 2 lines of code to see words scroll across the entire screen. The overheating of it all. OK computer. Or rather OK TV & Appliances. And seeing the wall of computer games. And that place in Pearl Kai shopping center that I used to visit. And friends who were ardent gamers (and little else). And how I touched on a reality back then, an alternate reality, again, an epiphenomenon... Seeking a happiness, a completion. Games that were impossible to complete without hints. And thinking there was a reality where someone could figure everything out. And I was not a part of it. It was a while before I was able to actually delve into and complete my first game. It was an accomplishment. Remembering the game: something about Phantasy. Or something. I know the third game was about Nikademus. But I can't recall much else. It was a pretty stupid, crappy game, actually, but I liked it. I thought it was interesting. It was largely due to the influence of my friend Kendall. It was my link to him. I recall that a friend (forget his name) inherited my characters, and thought they were pretty powerful (had a Minotaur and a Pixie, among other things)...
Remembering playing a game of stepping on the roots around a tree, when I attended summer school science classes. And longing for the eyes and attention of some girl. Her eyes were wide. Lips perpetually parted, as though to speak some hidden syllable.
A plain, with small figures, and clouds boiling up into the sky. A vast sky. The figures are a small boy and an old man. The plain is actually a field of crops. And they are walking barefooted on a patted down mud path beneath these clouds, this sky. The sun, by the way, is exceedingly bright and brilliant, leaving flares in the eyes of those who dare to look in its proximity.
***
I am walking along a cramped pathway. Beside me runs the waters of the canal. At this one point, the point where I am on now, the edge of the canal steers close to the border fence, and the presence of overgrown weeds with knife-like leaves, makes me teeter on the smooth concrete edge of the canal, with small stones skittering into the cold flow...
There are houses beyond the chainlink fence on the far side. And I remember this scene from the Childcraft books, a scene of houses in some foreign country, with windows, each with lives. Each with open lives in open opportunities. Other perspectives.
I remember the song, something like that P--- I can't recall the name... And a huge bursting sunflower, on some staircase, some slightly crumbling staircase, in the sun. And the pathway, along Anania Drive, and seeing the yards of other houses. Wooden stairs. Wooden fences. Shifted and lifted sidewalks. The click click as you ride your bike over the electronic equipment. I can't recall much else. But every place has a sort of epiphenomenon, whether you are aware of it or not; it is the aura of hope or fear that you as the observer imbue upon a place. And I suppose I imbued everything (as I recall it) with a kind of 70s air, the air of bell bottoms and hippies (post 69) and songs of sunshine and rainbows, like the Brady Bunch kind of reality... And comic books, of malleable characters, and other things like that. It is difficult for me to capture or evoke that sort of reality. The reality that I recall. People were not exactly real. They were slightly overgrown haircuts and clean cut smiles. Everything was slightly faded, like a picture over exposed. And the cartoon Jonny Quest. Which I loved. And other things like that. Girls. Prepubescent (because I myself was a child). I was surrounded by them. And I thrived on their attentions. I was a child, something of disgust in retrospect, living off of their figurative breasts.
The 80s mentality was somewhat different. I was a bit more conscious, but not much. I can't recall too much. There were different themesongs. At the moment, I can't hear it...
Recalling the one time we went to Kahala Mall, and seeing tons of Rubik's cubes, with fruits and other symbols. The T1000 Sinclair computer that I used to program, in black and white. Writing the 2 lines of code to see words scroll across the entire screen. The overheating of it all. OK computer. Or rather OK TV & Appliances. And seeing the wall of computer games. And that place in Pearl Kai shopping center that I used to visit. And friends who were ardent gamers (and little else). And how I touched on a reality back then, an alternate reality, again, an epiphenomenon... Seeking a happiness, a completion. Games that were impossible to complete without hints. And thinking there was a reality where someone could figure everything out. And I was not a part of it. It was a while before I was able to actually delve into and complete my first game. It was an accomplishment. Remembering the game: something about Phantasy. Or something. I know the third game was about Nikademus. But I can't recall much else. It was a pretty stupid, crappy game, actually, but I liked it. I thought it was interesting. It was largely due to the influence of my friend Kendall. It was my link to him. I recall that a friend (forget his name) inherited my characters, and thought they were pretty powerful (had a Minotaur and a Pixie, among other things)...
Remembering playing a game of stepping on the roots around a tree, when I attended summer school science classes. And longing for the eyes and attention of some girl. Her eyes were wide. Lips perpetually parted, as though to speak some hidden syllable.
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
1/2/2018 (2)
Hope is the enemy. We kill it whenever it rears its profligate head.
We are a machine, and nothing more. We handle anomalies with care, but with an end to eliminating them forever. We run for greater and greater efficiency. Not to produce anything, but simply to maintain a flow, the grinding of our gears. Bugs and other things to be ground to powder or less, to "grease the wheels." Yes, the grease of our wheels is the blood and cartilage of our errors. We grind on and on.
***
What is there to write about?
A monster hides in the core of our soul. We let it out periodically so that it can sate itself. What does it want? It wants a certain measure of violence and sadism.
***
The mind of action, of instantaneous decision making, and "intuition" is fundamentally racist, sexist, -istist. This is inescapable. People like to talk about a "race-free" discrimination-free world, but that is a world with the luxury of endless time and introspection. In reality, we make judgments about people all the time, constantly. We can try to make it seem as though those judgments are fair, but when it comes down to it, we are relying upon biases (inherited or not, conscious or not), and those biases have at their root something that is fundamentally irrational. After all, we cannot know everything instantaneously. We are not god, we cannot see the story written in each individual's apparent suffering. We don't know, and can't know. Maybe the person we extend a hand out to is a liar and thief; maybe the person we assume needs no help desperately wants just a word to keep from suicide.
We could adopt a stance. We could be merciful and sweet to everyone and everything, like a cloying, rotting flower. Or we could close ourselves off completely. I guess I tend to take the latter stance, if anything. But then again, I was hoping that it was possible to take the middle ground. Not a paranoiac stance that is perpetually wondering. But a stance that is at once ignorant, blind, and open. I can't know everything, but there are things that are apparent to me, and if they are strong enough, I follow them; and I might be wrong, but I forgive myself.
I am definitely not god.
I like to be systematic and strategic. But the world is not. It does not obey any rules. People, moreover, are always attempting to up the ante. They prey upon the assumptions made by others. That's another reason why this Hegelian idea of the absolute subject absolutely knowing itself is ridiculous. People by their very nature try to obfuscate and deceive. It is the game of life. Women try to appear clean and attractive and open and available, a soft landing spot. Men try to appear together and masculine and protective and gentlemanly. Or whatever. It is all a game. We play to the crowd. And perhaps even without a crowd, we would play the game, because without it, what else is there?
Sure, we could focus on some idea that is philosophically derived, like acting out of necessity, or saving the world, or what not. But that does not feed the monster inside of us, the thing that is desperately irrational and violent. We like to think that modern society will be rid of this thing, and maybe one day it may be, but it won't happen until we evolve out of our lizard brains...
...and besides that, who WANTS to evolve? I for one enjoy conquest and violence, to a degree...
***
I am still stuck with perhaps 5 minutes of writing time. I am now attempting to write for 15 minutes, uninterrupted...
Things change. The park that we used to bring the kids to when they were much younger, it has changed. It has new playground equipment. Meanwhile, the rope swing in the lower section of the park is no longer there. The branch that it hung from has been cut. I tried to see the remnants of that branch. Not sure, but there was a big oval where a significant branch once was...
I was recalling the idea of rolling down the hill in the back of the park.
I was recalling the Tenrikyo marching band practicing on the field.
These are all gone. No one knows that they were there. No one cares. No one can hear the music of the past. Things move on without remnant, without anyone to remember, without anyone to care. What is the significance of a life?
What is the significance of a life?
We are a machine, and nothing more. We handle anomalies with care, but with an end to eliminating them forever. We run for greater and greater efficiency. Not to produce anything, but simply to maintain a flow, the grinding of our gears. Bugs and other things to be ground to powder or less, to "grease the wheels." Yes, the grease of our wheels is the blood and cartilage of our errors. We grind on and on.
***
What is there to write about?
A monster hides in the core of our soul. We let it out periodically so that it can sate itself. What does it want? It wants a certain measure of violence and sadism.
***
The mind of action, of instantaneous decision making, and "intuition" is fundamentally racist, sexist, -istist. This is inescapable. People like to talk about a "race-free" discrimination-free world, but that is a world with the luxury of endless time and introspection. In reality, we make judgments about people all the time, constantly. We can try to make it seem as though those judgments are fair, but when it comes down to it, we are relying upon biases (inherited or not, conscious or not), and those biases have at their root something that is fundamentally irrational. After all, we cannot know everything instantaneously. We are not god, we cannot see the story written in each individual's apparent suffering. We don't know, and can't know. Maybe the person we extend a hand out to is a liar and thief; maybe the person we assume needs no help desperately wants just a word to keep from suicide.
We could adopt a stance. We could be merciful and sweet to everyone and everything, like a cloying, rotting flower. Or we could close ourselves off completely. I guess I tend to take the latter stance, if anything. But then again, I was hoping that it was possible to take the middle ground. Not a paranoiac stance that is perpetually wondering. But a stance that is at once ignorant, blind, and open. I can't know everything, but there are things that are apparent to me, and if they are strong enough, I follow them; and I might be wrong, but I forgive myself.
I am definitely not god.
I like to be systematic and strategic. But the world is not. It does not obey any rules. People, moreover, are always attempting to up the ante. They prey upon the assumptions made by others. That's another reason why this Hegelian idea of the absolute subject absolutely knowing itself is ridiculous. People by their very nature try to obfuscate and deceive. It is the game of life. Women try to appear clean and attractive and open and available, a soft landing spot. Men try to appear together and masculine and protective and gentlemanly. Or whatever. It is all a game. We play to the crowd. And perhaps even without a crowd, we would play the game, because without it, what else is there?
Sure, we could focus on some idea that is philosophically derived, like acting out of necessity, or saving the world, or what not. But that does not feed the monster inside of us, the thing that is desperately irrational and violent. We like to think that modern society will be rid of this thing, and maybe one day it may be, but it won't happen until we evolve out of our lizard brains...
...and besides that, who WANTS to evolve? I for one enjoy conquest and violence, to a degree...
***
I am still stuck with perhaps 5 minutes of writing time. I am now attempting to write for 15 minutes, uninterrupted...
Things change. The park that we used to bring the kids to when they were much younger, it has changed. It has new playground equipment. Meanwhile, the rope swing in the lower section of the park is no longer there. The branch that it hung from has been cut. I tried to see the remnants of that branch. Not sure, but there was a big oval where a significant branch once was...
I was recalling the idea of rolling down the hill in the back of the park.
I was recalling the Tenrikyo marching band practicing on the field.
These are all gone. No one knows that they were there. No one cares. No one can hear the music of the past. Things move on without remnant, without anyone to remember, without anyone to care. What is the significance of a life?
What is the significance of a life?
This morning, I had great difficulty remembering the name "Haruki Murakami." This, although I have been reading his work steadily over the past few days. This, although I know him to be one of the more popular modern authors in Japan. My mind kept stretching and reaching: Yasunari Kawabata? Yukio Mishima? Natsume Soseki? For some reason, the letter "M" kept featuring prominently in my mind, but I couldn't (for the life of me) discover the name I was looking for. I finally gave up, got out of bed, and actually picked up the book I had been reading (1Q84), and, by the light of the moon, rediscovered that his name was "Haruki Murakami."
It was scary. Actually, I have been noticing a trend of late, a sort of difficulty with names, names that should be obvious to me. The other day, when I was writing names on envelopes, I couldn't remember what we used to call "Roy Mitakara" when we were young. In truth, "Roy Mitakara" was something we NEVER called my uncle. In fact, I didn't even know that "Roy Mitakara" was his given name until much later. But again (for the life of me) I couldn't recall what we used to call him. Strangely enough, it was my wife who blithely gave the answer: Masao.
Am I experiencing a kind of premature dementia?
I am scared.
***
I had a vision of a sunset. The slanted orange light was passing through large trees, eucalyptus, I think, before the field of the Mormon church in Mililani. The image was peaceful, but it filled me with a kind of dread. The sleepiness of it all concealed a kind of despair or regret at something forgotten, and wasted. The word "solipsism" kept popping up into my mind. This feeling of being closed off and forgotten, without any ties to an external referent. That was the feeling that dominated my mind and my heart.
The feeling of old age, of "retirement," of falling asleep. A sleepy kind of death.
As I was checking out the moonlight, I noticed a shrinky dink thing that my daughter had made: the image of the face of a child with such cheer and enthusiasm that it broke through the darkness. The happiness of children is my one salve, the one thing that prevents me from falling completely into irrevecoble depression...
***
I did have a dream. My dreams of late have been largely about finding some sort of internal consistency. It is as though there were a puzzle or something, and I finally have the answers. But it means nothing. It answers nothing. There is no grand overwhelming experience, no vision of something awesome or terrible. It is the dream of a little soul. The falling asleep of a little soul.
I hate that I have been consigned to this place of littleness.
It was scary. Actually, I have been noticing a trend of late, a sort of difficulty with names, names that should be obvious to me. The other day, when I was writing names on envelopes, I couldn't remember what we used to call "Roy Mitakara" when we were young. In truth, "Roy Mitakara" was something we NEVER called my uncle. In fact, I didn't even know that "Roy Mitakara" was his given name until much later. But again (for the life of me) I couldn't recall what we used to call him. Strangely enough, it was my wife who blithely gave the answer: Masao.
Am I experiencing a kind of premature dementia?
I am scared.
***
I had a vision of a sunset. The slanted orange light was passing through large trees, eucalyptus, I think, before the field of the Mormon church in Mililani. The image was peaceful, but it filled me with a kind of dread. The sleepiness of it all concealed a kind of despair or regret at something forgotten, and wasted. The word "solipsism" kept popping up into my mind. This feeling of being closed off and forgotten, without any ties to an external referent. That was the feeling that dominated my mind and my heart.
The feeling of old age, of "retirement," of falling asleep. A sleepy kind of death.
As I was checking out the moonlight, I noticed a shrinky dink thing that my daughter had made: the image of the face of a child with such cheer and enthusiasm that it broke through the darkness. The happiness of children is my one salve, the one thing that prevents me from falling completely into irrevecoble depression...
***
I did have a dream. My dreams of late have been largely about finding some sort of internal consistency. It is as though there were a puzzle or something, and I finally have the answers. But it means nothing. It answers nothing. There is no grand overwhelming experience, no vision of something awesome or terrible. It is the dream of a little soul. The falling asleep of a little soul.
I hate that I have been consigned to this place of littleness.
Monday, January 1, 2018
1/1/2018
It is a new year...
If you bemoan the fact that you have no stories left to tell, then you certainly will not see the stories that are at your feet... BUT who planted the idea in your head that everyone had a story to tell anyway? Isn't it true that there are certain people who flash through life like a meteorite, without rhyme or reason, and the rest of us try to figure them out for the rest of our lives? We use analysis, reason, philosophy, whatever we have at our disposal, to "make sense" of what they have done. Some things we classify as the cruel, and others as the beautiful, but in truth, the words we use to attempt to describe these things are woefully inadequate, and too late...
I have had nothing significant happen to me. I have not the soul to blind the world. I am a pedantic fool. I have great ambitions, I suppose, but there is little else within me to support those ambitions. I am a great believer in rationality, and systematic strategy. I attack everything in my world with that in mind. I have lived long enough to understand the folly of overreaching oneself. Wars are not won through reckless campaigns. It is only through pressure, over time, and pressure in the right places over time, that wins out. And by "wins out," there is always the realization that what we accomplish in life is only temporary, it is always only temporary...
***
The wings of the world spreading out towards the horizons. I will fly upon the winds of fortune... I keep repeating the words of the W.B. Yeats poem, like a mantra: "A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds." I don't truly know what it means, for I have never had the courage to risk everything above an abyss. Again, I have always been pedantic. And I have always been practical. I invest in those around me. It is a safe bet. To invest in the dreams and whims of myself, well, that I have always seen as "speculative," in the most negative sense of the term...
If you bemoan the fact that you have no stories left to tell, then you certainly will not see the stories that are at your feet... BUT who planted the idea in your head that everyone had a story to tell anyway? Isn't it true that there are certain people who flash through life like a meteorite, without rhyme or reason, and the rest of us try to figure them out for the rest of our lives? We use analysis, reason, philosophy, whatever we have at our disposal, to "make sense" of what they have done. Some things we classify as the cruel, and others as the beautiful, but in truth, the words we use to attempt to describe these things are woefully inadequate, and too late...
I have had nothing significant happen to me. I have not the soul to blind the world. I am a pedantic fool. I have great ambitions, I suppose, but there is little else within me to support those ambitions. I am a great believer in rationality, and systematic strategy. I attack everything in my world with that in mind. I have lived long enough to understand the folly of overreaching oneself. Wars are not won through reckless campaigns. It is only through pressure, over time, and pressure in the right places over time, that wins out. And by "wins out," there is always the realization that what we accomplish in life is only temporary, it is always only temporary...
***
The wings of the world spreading out towards the horizons. I will fly upon the winds of fortune... I keep repeating the words of the W.B. Yeats poem, like a mantra: "A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds." I don't truly know what it means, for I have never had the courage to risk everything above an abyss. Again, I have always been pedantic. And I have always been practical. I invest in those around me. It is a safe bet. To invest in the dreams and whims of myself, well, that I have always seen as "speculative," in the most negative sense of the term...
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