Friday, February 20, 2004
(10:13 AM) | Anonymous:
Posts deferred.
I’ve been having strange experiences lately. Nothing actually dramatic, nothing worthy to be filmed except the stranger falling in that dinner, that was dramatic. All the same (God, I don’t even know what that means) life has felt strange and I want to call it sublime but my fear of heresy stops me. I don’t know if I can describe these experiences (perceptions, apperceptions, cognitions, thoughts) and my writing always comes out less than I would hope (I’ll confess, I wish I was a great writer, I wish I had the ability to control or lose control; whichever makes good writing) but I’ll try merely for the sake of not being forgotten by those who read.I’ve read 3 books in a week. I feel like a schizo. All these ideas in my head, Zizek, Derrida, Kant (WTF?), God. Who the fuck am (the computer wants me to change this to “is”) I? Sometimes at night, when I talk to people (at least I hope they are people) online I wonder how much of many of my thoughts are mine, if the process is mine, if there is any goodness in those thoughts belonging to me. This thought always comes to me when I’m on the train, what am I doing this for? This thought always comes when I’m trying to get through Kant or Derrida or Heidegger or God, when I am always fighting the nausea that the motion of the train causes (I think anyway, it could be what I’m reading, or the fact that I never sleep enough). This thought always comes when my face is pressed up against the window, my scarf a makeshift pillow and my coat a blanket always too hot I often wonder if I look like an old, overweight man trying desperately to make love to some beautiful young girl. My spine always feels like its about to pop when I sleep on the train, not pop like fingers pop but pop out of my body, sometimes it pops down sometimes out but always this pain. It makes it hard to sleep in bed too.
The other day on the “L” a man was drunk and preaching about the Church. He said that whenever two men come together (always men?) that God is there and therefore it is the Church. Like the PTA, at least that is what he told the man sitting next to him who was polite enough or cruel enough to engage the man in conversation. He then began to chant “No sex for you. No sex for you. No sex for you!” very loudly and violently. Everyone, including myself, looked away or pretended that this was all the same. Maybe it was. Damn me for not talking to him, to be cruel or kind. I wonder if I read Derrida as badly as I read the drunk preacher.
I have a fundamental distrust of people who don’t like sex. Actually, to be quite honest, I have a fundamental distrust of people who don’t have some kind of obsession with sex. I wonder what that means. Actually I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it does.
That drunk preacher, I named him Dionysus (you may know his revels, how he called me to the impossible that could be if I would let it), is stuck in my head. I don’t know if I am thinking about him or if it is Kant, or Zizek, or Derrida, or my mother (Mother, can’t you see that I am burning? With what? Lust? Where is dad?).
I can’t write well. I don’t have the wisdom for it but I swear I try, I swear. Is plagiarism really illegal? If so, I don't think many are innocent.
UPDATE
This wasn't a cry for help, a plea for understanding, an invitation to critique my life or anything besides something I wrote. I hope you enjoyed it, instead of worried about it. Now go have sex or something, it is Friday for God's sake.
