Jungian Sidewinder Durations, Ornaments, and Imitations

Oil, essentially, hedges bets that engine size and aromatic output will make big cities smell like French whores before long car-dicks compete for the stinkiest automotive necessity for fucking.  Guilt is wastefulness, the feeling that overcomes the binged spirit, if only it weren’t ad encouraged to binge on commercial things!  Spoiled children feel rebellious and act lazily.  Tanning sidewinder feeling/sensing Jungian law, radiating the Sun of this world below gets the wrong idea about Omar Rodriguez Lopez, General Schwarzkopf, and non sequiturs.  “Do not, I beg you, look for anything behind phenomena,” Goethe, from Decline of the West, Spengler, O. p84. “They are themselves their own lesson.” Denial of my own Jungian intuition takes me outside the red zone, another football Sunday brain scrape. I’m imagining contusions in running wonder pads.  Rhetorical cynicism silences what was never there to begin with, and from nothingness, disbelief suggest zee polish antithesis, a cleansing.  In situ machine errands spin me, describing a sentient clock ticking, tocking, or cycling?

                What is not good?  That which is open to debate (‘that’s rhetorical!’).  High-demand serum, high-potency essencier (attuned to the local freakwensee) that the local freak went to see, attuned to the particle vector vibrations, nose all atweek.  Feel-good ways blast awhile before regularity claims subservience, nowowned by me, completely fragmentary to debate, taking both sides, seeing Janus, possessing and being possessed, giving and taking, no apologies, we all strive for our own perfection, even if it be at the hands of another (et tu…?)  Interference…thoughts…feelings…action necessitates…

   

             Christmas durations adorn a Douglas Fir, decorated especially for the 25^th imitation of the December imitations, desinence (“termination or ending; as in the final line of a verse”).  What luxury for the worth of sacrificial ideals? What slaughter, what umbrage would abdicate duration of loss-leadership?  Hard-heart distillation, off with the head, keep a little tail for complexity, aging potential.

               Go on, Tight-face, you emotionless, detached wad, you easy reader.  La fin du monde, celebrating civilization’s end, my New Year conflict resolution, tomorrow’s ornament, imitation, mirror modification.  ‘“I’m afraid,” she whispers. “Everything. My face in the mirror—when I was a child, they said not to look in the mirror too often or I’d see the Devil behind the glass…and…” glancing back at the white-flowered mirror behind them, “we have to cover it, please, can’t we cover it…that’s where they…especially at night—“’ Pynchon, T. Gravity’s Rainbow, p444.

               Who’s baby?  Whose interpretation?  How can I get through to her, especially at night, surrounded by cats, the Devil’s intermediaries, walking in her father’s footsteps, blind, smarting...

                Meanwhile, I run around photographing fall forgiveness, a rainbow in the sky, hoping to capture God’s abstract sense of humor, aperture gaping, making a change to make it seem as though there had been no change.  What is Forever maintaining?  Keeping it up… I pledge allegiance to a ghost in the night under covers.  I maintain there’s nothing I could know for Thomas’ sake.  Damned if you know, blessed if you don’t.  Hell, my primary education, kindergarten, where I lay smack.  Bully Bestoy, racing marbles, who’s first?  There can be only one in series and sequential imitations.  Dusty dreams, old saws, my problematic wing, more garments, more pests (pestilences, I think, they want me dead).  The sacerdotal mass debater, objection homily, on encouraging differences, schisms, leaving behind hot Aryans.

                

112815 who are you?

Who is my audience?  What is an audience?  A people who hear!  In this medium, who read?  What does read mean?  Read: come again?  Like readmission, ‘let me in again!’  I remember this one time at Brown when I got kicked out of a Santigold Spring concert because I wanted to go from the quad to grab my flask, but the gatekeepers were like, ‘no readmission!’ and I’m like ‘are you high too? This is Brown University, educational institution, and isn’t reading your mission?’ I grabbed a fistful of tickets from the stub bucket and took off running, but I wasn’t about to get lost, so I was escorted out. “You’re outta here!” I remember this one lady in a yellow staff jacket saying like a baseball umpire as I went back out the gate, and there I was alone in upper Providence killing time.  Oh well.  I got my rum.  Early mushroom memories. 

To answer my own question, reading was not their mission that day, it was to secure borders.  (Borders® is a funny name for a bookstore, shouldn’t it be Borderless?)  I understand we are all working in a closed system, necessarily, for the physical laws of conservation of energy to work as scientists know them.  Am I the only one who doesn’t want to get physical?  Let’s not get rough.  Meanwhile my hair’s thinning.  But why should I care about what anyone else thinks when people don’t care about what I think?  I used to be a trendsetter.  It was all a trick.  It was a mind game.  War crime mines destroy gams.  Why would anyone manufacture mines and who else would bury mines for their intended use?  Under duress I could understand, but who wants to expose another to duress?  Ask Duracell I guess.  Min-D cup Gams blow up, doll.  This is what I think, like Jane’s Addiction, that Sex is Violent! (Admit it, Ted).   Who’s Ted?  Says Dave, “See, I brought a vibrator for my girlfriend in a sex shop in New Orleans on the way to a sound check. I was showing it to somebody--"Look what I bought!"--and I turned it on about a foot away from the pickup. It went "Neeeowrr!" It was the coolest thing I ever heard. I Velcro it to the side of my amp and use it for "Ted, Just Admit It" waving it all over the pickups with the echo and wah going.” Guitar Player, 1991.  Who doesn’t love a good vibrator story? Useful too, audience!

One problem I have is that I have all this old shit writing from the past eight years saved up and I suppose that’s called hoarding.  I want to get rid of most of it now.  Much of it is tied to not particularly good memories, like this one lonely memory of crapping into a plastic bag because I had diarrhea from taking three antibiotics for chlamydia and my roommate who let me sleep on the floor of his high-rise apartment occupied the bathroom so I had no other choice.  Bury me with it.  I passed this test of being to think rationally on the spot and solve a problem I had never been exposed to before the time-limit expired and my friend made an embarrassing discovery, and really what would the consequence be?  That I’d have to hear about it for as long as I knew this friend, as a competitive male, this type of information is not to be kept confidentially, and I really hate redundancy, even though I often live it in action, not in imagination.  And although this piece of fecal history resurfaces, this is the first admission.

The Lord of Fuck understands the risks.  There are some dirty, cheap whores out there who want it in the ass for Five Guys.  That’s how good those burgers are.  I was only horny the first time, but she was horny all the times.  It may not have been what I wanted, but it was what I needed in retrospect. I was looking for a dirty, cheap whore, and in another way I was a DCW myself, but that’s not the way it was in my mind when I approached the situation.  I hadn’t conceived of a world in which love was to be so toxic before, but this was because of phallic hubris.  I didn’t think! I was drunk! I was a willful idiot!  Thinking highly of myself, despite lust, an animal nature.  I thought ‘lust for life’ was supposed to be a good thing, but I’m just discovering that entire concept is based on a fruity Iggy Pop song and an old moving portrait of Van Gogh by Kirk Douglas.  ‘I’m not your audience!’ through denial!  What does the Lord of Fuck understand?  Don’t drop the bowling ball!  It’s Saturday!  

30th Birthday Playlist!

Modern Media!

Movies:

Big Eyes

Caterpillar

Detroit Rock City

Willow Creek

Creep

The Atomic Cafe

Emerald Forest

They Live

Music:

Robert Hunter songs

David Lee Roth – California Girls

Atlas Sound

Panda Bear – Person Pitch

El Guincho

Diane Coffee

Nada Surf

Radarada

Violent Femmes – Add it Up

The Internet – Ego Death

Grimes – Art Angels

Words:

Cartouche – a hieroglyphic oval with a horizontal line at one end.

Tai-gi-tu – Symbol for the concept of Yin and Yang

Book:

Woman on the Edge of Time

Artist:

Julia Fullerton-Batten

Simple Movie Idea:

Carpool: A collective group of friends, semi-environmentalists, and semi-hitchhikers set in various cars, bars, and cafes.  Just trying to get places in no real rush.

Places:

Tonga Room – San Francisco

The House on Garibaldi Street

App:

Periscope

Talk Radio:

Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me – George Clinton

Ancient Architect:

Bramante

Modern Artists:

Nash
Klee
Mondrian

Shazams:

The Rapture – House of Jealous Lovers

Joanna Newsom – Sapokanikan

Kurt Vile – Pretty Pimpin

Peter Gabriel – Games Without Frontiers

ROXY MUSIC – Love is the Drug

Big Sugar – Turn the Lights On

Dirty Projectors – Gun Has No Trigger

My Morning Jacket – In Its Infancy

Made Violent – Two Tone Hair

Chvrches – Keep You on My Side

The Bird and the Bee – Will you Dance?

Paul Heaton & Jacqui Abbott – The Moulding of a Fool

The Bamboos – Black Foot

Galactic DRAGNs and Future Taboo

Addiction compartmentalized, set and setting aside time to make the chemical shift recovery of a precessing gyroscope nutating off to Death’s cousin.

Big bangers smash the “prevailing cosmological model that describes the early development of the Universe,” against the alternate, Infinite Universe Theory / Continuous Creation Theology / or Steady State (politics), inspired in the “Dead of the Night” (1945), that blackbody redshifting away (or blueshifting towards) ab-ad infinitum, faithfully, passionately, and most importantly, without compromise, 3C 321 smiteth the DRAGN with the same oldness problem which I have a (Grand Unified Theory) GUT feeling started in the Gutenberg Galaxy with the formless potential of Anaximander.

The currency of expression, opposed to the current metric of productivity, also, “an opposite to the state of chaos, that of cosmos” (DotW p47) incontrovertible control, maintenance awake behind the wheel, and situationally aware? (I want you to be here but you’re not, you are haunting, ghosting, and white striping.) Anglo sentiments live within incontrovertible security locks, but are balding, fearful, yet strikingly aggressive when the guard’s guard is down, in the company of blood, or when there’s an opening, (a god to disrespect).  Becoming the proof which lies in the recesses of superstitious human thought, our mathematical make-up, our subconscious backdrop, what we’re supposed to do, how we’re supposed to look.  Follow instruction and master emotion or refute discipline and undermine your own true intentions, a hurricane in a teacup, a narcotic prognostication, future taboo.  Honi soit qui mal y pense.  “The highest to which man can attain, is wonder; and if the prime phenomenon makes him wonder, let him be content; nothing higher can it give him, and nothing further should he seek for behind it; here is the limit” (DotW p72) (“…the prime phenomenon is that in which the idea of becoming is presented net.”)

                With a head full of heedless security, not thinking about death, but the great West Egg/East Egg debate (new money vs. old), with a funny frying pan for a wife, and his luck from the presses, he wakes up with a hard-on he doesn’t know what to do with.  His wife, the old hamburger patty, repels, so he puts his muscles to work clearing the evacuation routes, make way for 7am traffic, 12/22/12, by shoveling the driveway of first powder.  Conservation of energy would suggest that he simply plow his wife, but he really likes his muffin, and he knows that the best things in life you have to purchase, family capital ‘F’.

                The Russian does not fight Capital; he does not understand it…a people which should have lived for many generations more without history was forced into a false and artificial history of which the soul of Old Russia was incapable… the Russian has freed himself from Western Economy. To him, thinking in terms of money is a sin…The sword is victorious over Money, the Master Will defeats the Plunderer Will.

                Money is for the man who knows not what he wishes to obtain.  What to watch? What to eat? Lasagna or quiche?  Why not both? What games are on? What games could we play? (Teikei?)

“Hateful Haiku”

Hate the referee

Who hates reading the rulebook.

Hate makes history.

                The problems many are possessed by, such as being in a way in which many celebrate the holidays through the giving of possessions produced by machines, efficient decision-making through Mecca, Morocco, and other markets.  If it weren’t for hate, nothing would get done…presumably, presumably I have to do something in order to live, but I have nothing to do but this corrupted poetry, mutated verse, and perverted refrain.  If the skies can open, so can I! As it is, I’m frozen inside my robes from the outside winter and I wish I had a retail flamethrower so that I could melt my future and run my present on coal.   “The machine forces the entrepreneur not less than the workman to obedience. Our unlimited need to serve, to follow, to honour someone, true as a dog, blind in belief in spite of all obstacles.”

I AM CLEPSYDRA ENTELECHY!!**the perfected water clock

                “What is important in life is life and not a result of life” (Goethe, from DotW p16).  If I had thought for a second that I could have died and kept on living the same way I was with her, I would have.  Fact is, self-preservation sympathetically catalyzes the strong to fight and the weak to flight.  Minute intellects regret life, romanticizing death’s door-to-door delivery service, sympathetic to the fight of the strong and to the plight of the weak, pity.  On the front porch in a rocking-chair, rocking a double-barreled shotgun to threaten the scalawag slyboot off mutton choppin’ like some blessed kike on Christmas wondering what it’d’ve been like to get it all at once, (What’s mine is hours, Eureka!).

                “Now! Mother.” stomped Shirley Temple’s brat form in black gloss shoes, white stockings, a princess dress, and a pink tiara, wanting her little pony in the worst way possible.  Goodie two shoes depravity, a comedian torments her cute curly-haired sensibilities to give her a good cry.  Lip smack, shrugs, like “What can I do?” making a waitress of a table-turner without the wit to retort.  Eating scum-sucking catfish for the price of heat, fever forever, homoeothermic half-shark, half-human, skin like alligator, at home with heroine and, ubi bene, ibi patria. 

                “A small number of superior heads, whose names are very likely not the best known, settle everything, while below them are the great mass of second-rate politicians-rhetors, tribunes, deputies, journalists – selected through a provincially conceived franchise to keep alive the illusion of popular self-determination.” (DotW p27) “Where there are no facts, sentiment rules.” (p30)

                The tequila mockingbird parvenu was a racy wonton dog, an animorphous mass of swiftly contested celebrity.  The punisher and the angel who loves punishment, naughty girl, the monster in the cherry blossoms, she glides though scenes, musing feelings, not screaming, although that would be a nice finish, bemused. Ender’s Jacuzzi, Pocono college beverage joint, perhaps Piggy the butcher would have appreciated more, loved more, wanted more, looking forward to the next rush, pushing the limits of cognition, memory, and memorability.  Ender’s mender, o so tender (cat soup, meat without wonder) Itchy + scratchy yellow-headed functionality, family tune din to a talking girl with her perky nub who positions bed knobs, polo painting scenes, and Libra balances with gold leaf, copper ceilings, baby, out at the club like a seal in the laser lit macabre, light glistening off blood glistening off silk sheets. Still strangely sensual without her facilities, hers was a history of having had not-not, oh yeah.

DotW stands for Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the the West, (1922).

Frankl's Logotherapy: The Meaning of Love

Man’s Search for Meaning:

An Introduction to Logotherapy

Viktor E. Frankl

p. 176-7

…According to logotherapy, we can discover this meaning in life in three different ways: (1) by doing a deed; (2) by experiencing a value; and (3) by suffering.  The first, the way of achievement or accomplishment, is quite obvious.  The second and third need further elaboration.

                The second way of finding a meaning in life is by experiencing something, such as a work of nature or culture; and also by experiencing someone, i.e., by love.

The Meaning of Love

                Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality. No one can become fully aware of the very essence of another human being unless he loves him.  By the spiritual act of love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in the beloved person; and even more, he sees that which is potential in him, that which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized. Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities.  By making him aware of what he can be and of what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true.

                In logotherapy, love is not interpreted as a mere epiphenomenon* of sexual drives and instincts in the sense of a so-called sublimation. Love is as primary a phenomenon as sex. Normally, sex is a mode of expression for love. Sex is justified, even sanctified, as soon as, but only as long as, it is a vehicle of love. Thus love is not understood as a mere side effect of sex but sex as a way of expressing the experience of that ultimate togetherness that is called love.

                A third way to find meaning in life is by suffering.

*epiphenomenon – a phenomenon that occurs as the result of a primary phenomenon.