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vanishing-hour · 7 years

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7:15, upon the sounding of Weiss’ Passacaglia:

You are not the person you used to be - you cannot become the person you once were. You are you as you wake up each day — you are you as you choose to live and through how you choose to create and depict yourself.

A SELF-FASHIONED MASS OF CREATION. STOP.

TAKE IT AS IT COMES. STOP.

8:37, upon receiving a text message:

If we conceive of products of industry as armaments designed to further alienate us from society, then the following becomes clear:

We speak more than ever, but no longer to each other. All our voices become lost in the mediating process, refracted and abstracted via industrially formed communicative mediums. These mediums operate under the veneer of connectedness, but are ultimately concerned with seeking power and control; their overseers shape and direct our discourse, establishing parameters within which the illusory conceptions of freedom of expression and individuality arise. From what was once the lack of ego, there is now the “I” of power; “I” speaks power and “I” is power. To speak as a subject, to converse and relay opinions is necessarily to universalise one’s own subjectivity. To have an opinion is necessarily to disengage, to dislike, to negate the world from which we arise. What “I” say, what the “I” speaks applies to all. To remove the I, however, to remove the subject is to remove ourselves. If one is to stand around a corner, the other side of the wall does not exist until one has taken the steps towards it. No, but this depends on experience not the reality (?) that exists within the mind. What would then happen, say, if another is standing around the corner? The confrontation of two universalised subjectivities - four in a house. Two-hundred on any given street. One-thousand in a neighbourhood. Intersection. Six billion possible confrontations.

10:33, upon stepping outside, a sketch, a sensation, sensibility:

Are we not gifted with some unique kind of spatial memory that transcends temporal borderlines? What else can explain a certain area or city as feeling like ‘home’ or a place where one can entirely belong and melt away into the sounds of passing cars, doors opening, and a jug falling off the side of a ruined outdoor table setting?

Barthes paraphrases Socrates and mentions the atopos — the undefinable, the unclassifiable, but if there is more than one place that will feel like home in the course of one’s life, then is there a classifiable type that appeals to an individual’s disposition?

10:35, upon the viewing of a poster:

A humanely humorous work of anti-war sentiment operating under the veneer of poetry.

11:44, noticing my thoughts to be distinct from my words:

It is an indescribable feeling that looms over me; almost resembling a visceral feeling of dread and utter helplessness. It has overcome me before, but this is noticeably different; a hollowness, a constricting echo chamber. While for the moment I am relatively pain free, I am fearful that it is only a transitory and furtive moment of respite in and amongst the vicissitudes of life. I feel as if a friendship that is true and pure should not bog itself down with the kinds of preconceptions regarding their own natures.

For the moment, all that keeps me alive is the hope that I may one day experience something other than the Black.

Why must I not speak? What have I allowed myself to become? Poor, poor Lion of the West - dethroned and thrown into the wilderness to fend, naked and alone! Woe!

15:13, a storm approaches, looking forward toward a night without stars:

When looked at from a glance of time above,

Our births are but a sleepy forgetting

Our lives, a brief wait in the drawing room

Our deaths, the final debts we all must pay.

To seek below that which rests in the heart of Man,

Wait only you can thro the pangs and darts

That life so readily inflicts.

Wait you must, no other choice you have,

Till the hour at which you will greet our Artifex.

16:21, on the remembrance and return of pain:

The following applies to all things: when we lose something, it is not the absence of the thing in itself that grieves us, but how the object itself made us feel. Once more, it is the return of the ego. Εγώ. The subject-object relation. Unbreakable. “To grieve something is inherently a selfish act” it has been said.

The same can be said of illness and the loss of one’s bodily autonomy.

But how to deal with it, then?

Remember that what you have control over are your thoughts, opinions, and perceptions regarding external events. What if I am self-contained? Existing solely within myself?

Find new ways to relive those emotional sensations and impressions, but remember them for what they are: ephemeral, fleeting, and passing moments of time that plague the one who forgets we are caught in a position of vulnerability that is not quite possessive of tomorrow yet certain of our time in the yesterday.

Unbound.

16:50, the key is to read and apply both:

YB BH MJ GN AC UC BH AH AC GI IZ. STOP.

20:55, the night music of the streets of the city:

It is night; the street is filled with the sounds of music emanating from small windows above the bar opposite. It sounds terrible. A mass of offensive white noise. Perhaps Adorno could decipher its meaning. I just shudder at the thought. Boisterous chatter from the tables beside me, it is the season of Advent, after all. At once, the chair is pushed, sirens rush past, and the raucous screams of inebriated youths pierce my own version of silence.

Heart rate increases. Throat closes. Hands cover the forehead and slide down the face. The body trembles. Overstimulation does not equate to the overwhelming feeling of sensory overload. I take a stand, though an unconfident one. Back streets get me home. I get into bed (notice the iceberg). Perhaps with sleep the new morning will bring solace (?).

12:35, upon regarding the seeping moonlight dimly illuminating the form of my immediate surroundings:

I read somewhere that if we are to exist as foils for the world, to capture and measure its bounds and edges, then it must first be shown that the world itself possesses its very own form. I lift my knee and the blanket itself changes material form, but does not lose its blanketing quality. There are far too many facets to understand. What of the unreliability of the senses? I can barely see through the darkness, yet my mind knows there to be a form to the room, to the outside. But what of conceivability as probability? In the moment before I open my front door, there is sunshine, hail, rain, and darkness all simultaneously occurring on the planes of (meta)physical existence. But what of the open door? What of he who knocks at the door? I have not seen them, but my mind knows someone to be there. Can I trust it?

4:53, the sun is due to rise in opposition to the Moon which remains luminary and steadfast. Two eternal glows.

A fumble in the dark.

The postcard from her reads “c’est la nuit qu’il est beau de croire à la lumière”. It is from Edmond Rostand, from which book I still do not know. I have not asked. I have never needed to know. I am understanding the evolution of myself, of my mind. Reading those lines seven months ago instilled in me a feeling of expansive ease, as if the distance travelled by the postcard was the unit of measurement by which I could measure and quantify my own sentiments.

Sudden elation.

The heart warms, mellows in this body (this mass of self-fashioned creation).

Now I am not so sure I’d agree.

It is still night and I am seeing this light she speaks about, it is beautiful to witness, pretty to think about. The illumination of form, of my form, of the bed, of the room, of the outside. To witness the celestial brilliance of both heavenly glows should surely bring solace.

7:15, upon the sounding of Weiss’ Passacaglia:

I am reminded of the guilt — of those I have hurt in some way, of those I continue to hurt in thinking such things, in allowing such thoughts to persuade my actions. To go on living as feeling undeserving of the quiet elation one encounters in life — to disbelieve in the possibility of satisfaction and doing well by and for others. My back seizes as I try to lift my torso from out of the bed which for the last nine months has come to represent the antithesis of sleepy forgetting and nightly respite and rejuvenation. Instead, the idea of sleep only guarantees the swiftness of the passing night and the subsequent resurrection of feeling.

“Surely the work of demons! What else?”

Is this to be looked forward to?

#creative writing #fictocriticism #writing #mine #experimental writing #thoughts #my writing

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