It happened once again. I should say that it's about to happen. Nothing has happened yet although I'm pretty sure that they know it'll happen.
There is a scene in the movie Talk to Her (Hable Con Ella) in which the main character is listening to a singer in a garden of some sort, surrounded by people who are listening but are not really hearing what he's saying. The man is so moved by this singer's song that he begins to cry. The man singing sounds like he's just lost love and that he now realizes that he'll never get there again. It's a lament. I have no idea what he is singing about but I swear it chokes me up every time I hear the song.
For some reason, this man's pain is beautiful.
I get sick at the idea of someone constantly there. But they pander. They convince. We'll be happy. I don't know. Yes we'll be happy. Well what about my needs? I need loathing, I have no choice.
Sweetheart, we all have a choice.
I'm beginning to think that's not the case after I say hey why not, sure come on over, I'll grow to love you, but I have work to do, yes I want to sleep, but I can't now. Okay sure. It'll end badly, it always does. Consider yourself warned.
You don't mind? Oh, you don't believe me. Okay.
My guilt is absolved.
But why do you do this?
I can't help it. It's in my nature, says the Scorpion to the turtle.
Stickboy's Journal
My Podcast Link
09/21/2004 00:22 #35322
My Dog Walked Me Home09/18/2004 02:59 #35321
JUNG, who knows Jung, very importantDoes anyone know a substantial amount about Jung's theory of the Collective Unconscious, and would like to briefly describe what people are constantly telling me that I walk the line of everyday?
If not that, can anyone suggest THE book, his book, to read about this? (ex. Existentialism, read the Myth of Sisyphus) I have piles of anthologies to read and yet, I'd love to sneak in some Jung. I admit, when it comes to psychoanalysis, I know about my mind as much you do . . . of my mind.
sqb, didn't you mention something about this one time or another.
On another but maybe completely related subject, I truly believe that I can make things happen if I subconsciously think about them. (FUCK oxymoron) Within reason of course. But the, man I'd like to meet someone who . . . and then BLAM, shit happens more than you know.
Shit like that. Are perhaps all the planets are aligned. Where's Mars these days, that fucker bastard always messes with my mind.
If not that, can anyone suggest THE book, his book, to read about this? (ex. Existentialism, read the Myth of Sisyphus) I have piles of anthologies to read and yet, I'd love to sneak in some Jung. I admit, when it comes to psychoanalysis, I know about my mind as much you do . . . of my mind.
sqb, didn't you mention something about this one time or another.
On another but maybe completely related subject, I truly believe that I can make things happen if I subconsciously think about them. (FUCK oxymoron) Within reason of course. But the, man I'd like to meet someone who . . . and then BLAM, shit happens more than you know.
Shit like that. Are perhaps all the planets are aligned. Where's Mars these days, that fucker bastard always messes with my mind.
09/06/2004 01:26 #35320
Ajayoh, my bad . . .
It's a shame though. I get this perverse kick out of freaking people out.
It's a shame though. I get this perverse kick out of freaking people out.
09/16/2004 18:31 #35319
Dramatically Simple Typingwhere have i been.
this is not a list and believe me, I truly adore (or abhor?) lists. But then you get into ranking and what's important to you, knowing that you may one day show this list to a third party (the first two being you and yourself). No my brothers and sisters, this is not that.
where have I been.
When asked this or contemplating this, you are diving into your STOP. I'm preaching again. Not to you, because who knows what this will do to you. Inorder to really capture you I must write a play about this whole experience although watching someone on stage typing is not exactly nail biting theater.
But wait.
Scene one.
(A man sits at a table center stage - 27/28, hair a mess, five day old beard which looks like he has not shaved so that he can go to the art opening on Friday night in the hip part of town and show off his new shirt he just bought and really fit in a conglomerate of people who all claim to have their own mind in-tact, he is shirtless, he has cuts on his arm from an accident he has easily gotten over, he wears jeans with holes in the knees. His space is disgusting - books everywhere, papers, laundry, a bra from someone he dated for two days three months ago is visible, along with five layers of shirts hung over his chair. A leather jacket with a beat up motorcycle helmet lays on the floor which stares back at the audience.
he is typing fast then nothing, fast then nothing. There is no expression on his faced. He rubs his eyes. He types faster, standing up as if playing a piano. He stops claps his hands and looks forward at the audience.
He cracks a smile. He stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.
The phone rings, he picks it up automatically then hangs up immediately. Starts typing again. He shakes his head maniacally. Deep breath. Gets up moves downstage stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.
A horn is heard and then a car crash. He returns to typing faster, and faster. Sirens are heard, then silence. He screams loud. Gets up, walks to downstage center and stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.
He reaches into his pocket still staring and pulls out a syringe. He takes off his belt. Sits down and ties it around his arm. He places the needle on his arm.
He is interrupted by an alarm clock. Without missing a beat, he gets up, throws the syringe upstage, grabs his jacket, and his helmet and a shirt. He exits stage right.
One minute passes and ge comes back in, and while standing, he types. He looks up. Smirks. Exits stage right.
Blackout.)
Nail biting?
It's not real after all.
where the fuck have I been
this is not a list and believe me, I truly adore (or abhor?) lists. But then you get into ranking and what's important to you, knowing that you may one day show this list to a third party (the first two being you and yourself). No my brothers and sisters, this is not that.
where have I been.
When asked this or contemplating this, you are diving into your STOP. I'm preaching again. Not to you, because who knows what this will do to you. Inorder to really capture you I must write a play about this whole experience although watching someone on stage typing is not exactly nail biting theater.
But wait.
Scene one.
(A man sits at a table center stage - 27/28, hair a mess, five day old beard which looks like he has not shaved so that he can go to the art opening on Friday night in the hip part of town and show off his new shirt he just bought and really fit in a conglomerate of people who all claim to have their own mind in-tact, he is shirtless, he has cuts on his arm from an accident he has easily gotten over, he wears jeans with holes in the knees. His space is disgusting - books everywhere, papers, laundry, a bra from someone he dated for two days three months ago is visible, along with five layers of shirts hung over his chair. A leather jacket with a beat up motorcycle helmet lays on the floor which stares back at the audience.
he is typing fast then nothing, fast then nothing. There is no expression on his faced. He rubs his eyes. He types faster, standing up as if playing a piano. He stops claps his hands and looks forward at the audience.
He cracks a smile. He stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.
The phone rings, he picks it up automatically then hangs up immediately. Starts typing again. He shakes his head maniacally. Deep breath. Gets up moves downstage stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.
A horn is heard and then a car crash. He returns to typing faster, and faster. Sirens are heard, then silence. He screams loud. Gets up, walks to downstage center and stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.
He reaches into his pocket still staring and pulls out a syringe. He takes off his belt. Sits down and ties it around his arm. He places the needle on his arm.
He is interrupted by an alarm clock. Without missing a beat, he gets up, throws the syringe upstage, grabs his jacket, and his helmet and a shirt. He exits stage right.
One minute passes and ge comes back in, and while standing, he types. He looks up. Smirks. Exits stage right.
Blackout.)
Nail biting?
It's not real after all.
where the fuck have I been
09/05/2004 14:49 #35318
Vacation that few experience“Life begins on the other side of despair.�
- Jean-Paul Sartre
Some people have it, some people don’t. This is not to be confused with the idea of an IT that creeps in into your psyche with one word, or one vision, or one thing that starts the ignition; please, do not confuse that IT with what I’m talking about. And yet, there is a correlation there, which will be explored.
Thinking can drive you mad, that’s a reason people don’t do it. Then again, some people are just not capable of that, alas. I say alas simply because you do not live unless you know, or rather see the breaking point. Once you see it, and stay there for a minute, you have two choices: you can either kill yourself as compared to defining the absurdity (for you), or you can go beyond that and experience a new consciousness.
An analogy . . .
There are those who can afford to go to go on vacation, but the time has to be right and you must know where you’re going. It’s essentially this: say you go once or twice a year to the beach or mountain of your choice. After a while you start cursing the place you reside because this paradise is just that. The drive there is awful and grueling, but once you’re there, you feel as close as you will come to clarity.
So you remember this vacation while you’re at home, at work in school, and that life you lead gets difficult. The normal person will accept the fact that what you experienced is indeed a vacation, but then you don’t. Why shouldn’t it be that way? So you strive to stay in that paradise, but for the meantime, you merely visit. One day though, you will live there, in your paradise and all will be right, for you.
But you then realize that the amount of money you need to stay there is indeed immense, and you curse that book, that bum you once talked to, that class you took for letting you even know about this paradise. You begin to envy those who’ve never considered even finding out about it, for they are ostensibly the lucky ones.
Start saving. In the meantime, the drive to paradise is an inferno.
If y'all have no idea what I'm talking about and are curious, please by all means, let me know.
Oh and Ajay, apologize for freaking you ouu [inlink]ajay,109[/inlink], and not to pick on you brother, but look, one day I'll write about how my day sucked or was great or that I'm pissed of at my friend for not even considering sleeping with me, but until then, I've got other things on my mind. Please take no offense to this. I am merely clarifying.
How ironic, yes . . .
- Jean-Paul Sartre
Some people have it, some people don’t. This is not to be confused with the idea of an IT that creeps in into your psyche with one word, or one vision, or one thing that starts the ignition; please, do not confuse that IT with what I’m talking about. And yet, there is a correlation there, which will be explored.
Thinking can drive you mad, that’s a reason people don’t do it. Then again, some people are just not capable of that, alas. I say alas simply because you do not live unless you know, or rather see the breaking point. Once you see it, and stay there for a minute, you have two choices: you can either kill yourself as compared to defining the absurdity (for you), or you can go beyond that and experience a new consciousness.
An analogy . . .
There are those who can afford to go to go on vacation, but the time has to be right and you must know where you’re going. It’s essentially this: say you go once or twice a year to the beach or mountain of your choice. After a while you start cursing the place you reside because this paradise is just that. The drive there is awful and grueling, but once you’re there, you feel as close as you will come to clarity.
So you remember this vacation while you’re at home, at work in school, and that life you lead gets difficult. The normal person will accept the fact that what you experienced is indeed a vacation, but then you don’t. Why shouldn’t it be that way? So you strive to stay in that paradise, but for the meantime, you merely visit. One day though, you will live there, in your paradise and all will be right, for you.
But you then realize that the amount of money you need to stay there is indeed immense, and you curse that book, that bum you once talked to, that class you took for letting you even know about this paradise. You begin to envy those who’ve never considered even finding out about it, for they are ostensibly the lucky ones.
Start saving. In the meantime, the drive to paradise is an inferno.
If y'all have no idea what I'm talking about and are curious, please by all means, let me know.
Oh and Ajay, apologize for freaking you ouu [inlink]ajay,109[/inlink], and not to pick on you brother, but look, one day I'll write about how my day sucked or was great or that I'm pissed of at my friend for not even considering sleeping with me, but until then, I've got other things on my mind. Please take no offense to this. I am merely clarifying.
How ironic, yes . . .