when you are in love with someone.... your own mortality is not so frightening (to paraphrase j. buckley)

woke up roaring, reverberating, revolted by the last moment

that we each spent sailing in a flunctuating, flickering time

couldn't you have swam the sea to meet me, 

why didn't you erase time quicksand time?
give me immortality in a moment

of intimate mingling!

your eyes have the lens cap on 'em, though,

god damn, you're such an invulnerable ocean

you just expound on dead philosophers

then pound on my body

while i drown

"if i had wings like noah's dove,

i'd fly a river to the one i love"

The Right Interpretation of Mary Sharma

I wonderwander. Amidst the great achitecture of language, I construct fragments and hope for pellucidity. I ask questions, I ramble on, I reiterate, I fumblemumble.

The desire for Communication: the reason I claw my skin at night. But throughout the daylight hours, I am curiously silent. So fucking detached, I cannot find an interpretive community. I felt real wistful when I read that Herman Melville was so giddyglad to know that Ralph Waldo Emerson appreciated Moby Dick. Melville felt that Emerson understood everything that Melville was trying to convey when writing that long book.

Never underestimate the soulorgasm that occurs when you realize that someone else shares the same interpretive lens as you. I want a pen-pal who understands my poorly-constructed words. Don't we ALL? We sigh romantically when songs and movies supply us with the hope that TRUE LOVE WILL FIND US IN THE END! We are bombarded with images of an everlasting love, an everlasting love that denies the borders separating human souls. We fall for the popular discourses on love. How can we not? It sounds so pretty to belong, to have a space within the crushoftime. To forget our meaninglessness within the broader universal landscape, we must construct our little Babel of love, we clamor for pure communication. But maybe everything is lost in translation, lost in the troubling space of hermeneutics. Maybe love is a naive idea. Nonetheless, I am enchanted by the idea. Just like everyone else, I want someone to fall in love with me and know me as I am. 

9/20/2010

Postmodern Suicide Letter

I am overstimulated, swimming in images of anorexics and sounds by My Bloody Valentine. I cannot sleep anymore so I watch a film. Yes, a film--a collage of more images.

I like to watch The Long Goodbye or The Gradute. I relate to the protagonist's overall indifference and dislocation. I don't dig teleological narratives anymore. I wander in films... immerse myself in an image, in a feeling, in a flicker. So I guess this shows you that just because I like more avant-garde films doesn't mean I'm any more intelligent than the viewers of He's Just Not That Into You. Either way, we're just fucking spectators. The Dziga Vertov group failed. When watching films, we're much too masturbatory and voyeuristic to "engage in a discourse about the representation of the Holocaust" or whatever.

What was the Holocaust again? A song by Big Star, right? Fuck history. I'm running away to my own private diegesis, with my music and my favorite films. I'm killing myself in images and sound, such beautiful images and sound. Radiohead, MBV, early Godard (before he became all political), Big Star, MASH.

In one of his digressions, my English professor told us that if we kill ourselves, we should make sure to choose the carbon dioxide option, and to do it while listening to our favorite songs. Not a bad idea, really. My death is just slower and less dramatic. Either way, suicide is painless, just like that Mandel guy said! That is not to say that the suicide feels good...or bad. I am neutral, numb, indifferent, and overstimulated At least it won't hurt when I finally end, right? Instead of taking that dose of Advil my sister took awhile back, I'll take a tranquil dose of The Long Goodbye and Bob Dylan's "I'm not there," and e-ven-tually, I won't be there anymore.