Tuesday, 31 August, 2010
Monday, 30 August, 2010
Aus dem Postsack!
In all the time I've been writing this diary, I have never received more than one e-mail in response to one entry. Until today.
Some political strategists suggest that for each e-mail one receives, there are a certain number of people who have been exposed to your message (or whatever) who didn't bother to respond. At least that's how they extrapolate how many people represent a particular viewpoint.
Since I can't recall the representative factor from their formula, and I'm not one of those Site Meter freaks, I can't calculate just how many people will read this, but I can tell you that regarding my diary entry from yesterday a grand total of two people have bothered to reply with helpful comments via e-mail.
E-mail number one from *shitforbrains@yeehah.cum:
E-mail number two from
*leavethedriving2me@unlessiamdrunk.de:
_____________
But I do get it. And the mask, as of this evening, is back on.
I really don't prefer theatrical production as a modus operandi for day to day living; such behavior often backfires and has led to the diva overpopulation. But the only way I have found to be strong enough for what I need to live - not to mention what everyone else needs to tolerate me - is to embrace the mask on the mask that I have to don just to leave the fucking house.
All the world's a goddamn stage!
* The given pseudonyms have been resurfaced to suit my opinion of those hiding behind them.
Some political strategists suggest that for each e-mail one receives, there are a certain number of people who have been exposed to your message (or whatever) who didn't bother to respond. At least that's how they extrapolate how many people represent a particular viewpoint.
Since I can't recall the representative factor from their formula, and I'm not one of those Site Meter freaks, I can't calculate just how many people will read this, but I can tell you that regarding my diary entry from yesterday a grand total of two people have bothered to reply with helpful comments via e-mail.
E-mail number one from *shitforbrains@yeehah.cum:
Hey Davidly could not you have said you dont (sic) know how to write.Hey Shit for Brains: Great point, but is that a question?
E-mail number two from
*leavethedriving2me@unlessiamdrunk.de:
david, simpering will get you nowhere in this life. stop being a crybaby!Okay, Leave the Dry Heaving to Me. You also make a considerable suggestion. My guess, however, is that you meant to say "whimpering". And my name is davidly you turd.
_____________
But I do get it. And the mask, as of this evening, is back on.
I really don't prefer theatrical production as a modus operandi for day to day living; such behavior often backfires and has led to the diva overpopulation. But the only way I have found to be strong enough for what I need to live - not to mention what everyone else needs to tolerate me - is to embrace the mask on the mask that I have to don just to leave the fucking house.
All the world's a goddamn stage!
* The given pseudonyms have been resurfaced to suit my opinion of those hiding behind them.
Sunday, 29 August, 2010
Schreien Mucksmäuschenstill
What the fuck!?
Irrespective of their power, the moments always lapse. In spite of invaluable friendships that carry me to this here and now, I remain bound to self-imposed outsider status. I feel like I belong more here than there, but am overwhelmed by the haunting sense that I still don't belong anywhere. At the end of too many days reigns the sensation of a missed connection so profound that it feels like failed opportunity before it's even presented itself. And my having said all of this will not change the fact that at the end of the day, the feelings that dominate are expressed in the first person singular.
Momentarily
Thoughts scribed here - now in words - are already too far removed from their original conception; not being expressed. Even if the essence is the same, something is hidden behind words, imprisoned by obscurity for so long that perhaps that certain something doesn't even occupy the hidden space anymore.
Words are evaporating ideas. Because certainty is in silence, their resonance is elusive.
Somebody said that words are only really good for avoiding the truth. I dunno; that's a tough one. I don't think there'll be enough evidence to determine that until well after the last lie has been told or the truth has been laid to rest once and for all. Not until the last desire chokes the last survivor to a bitter and lonely, circuitous death. Either way, it doesn't look all that good.
For our feelings might be killing us and as soon as they cross our lips, or appear from the ends of our fingertips, they've already done their damage. And, anyway, I can't whittle, dissect, dissemble, shape, sculpt, or apparently even savor. What? The? Fuck?
Perspektiefa
As the days pile up, so do the weeks and months and years, and all of my memory gets lost in there somewhere. Someone else said that we can't truly remember. That memory is a lie. I'm not so sure. To confirm such an astonishingly simple yet still astonishing supposition we'd have to remember exclusively in real time. And then we wouldn't be remembering, now would we? Whichever way you look at it, chances are - you still can't keep the events in order.
Tell me how you really feel. I can't. What the fucking fuck?
I like to think that I care. Unfortunately, caring is for worriers who have nothing better to do with their time than self-flagellate their psyche with a caterwauling o' nine voices. So when I do say that I actually care I am giving voice to all of the lies which have come to represent a truth I can only know without uttering a word; before the voices cry out for expression. Don't everybody talk at fucking once!
Irrespective of their power, the moments always lapse. In spite of invaluable friendships that carry me to this here and now, I remain bound to self-imposed outsider status. I feel like I belong more here than there, but am overwhelmed by the haunting sense that I still don't belong anywhere. At the end of too many days reigns the sensation of a missed connection so profound that it feels like failed opportunity before it's even presented itself. And my having said all of this will not change the fact that at the end of the day, the feelings that dominate are expressed in the first person singular.
Momentarily
Thoughts scribed here - now in words - are already too far removed from their original conception; not being expressed. Even if the essence is the same, something is hidden behind words, imprisoned by obscurity for so long that perhaps that certain something doesn't even occupy the hidden space anymore.
Words are evaporating ideas. Because certainty is in silence, their resonance is elusive.
Somebody said that words are only really good for avoiding the truth. I dunno; that's a tough one. I don't think there'll be enough evidence to determine that until well after the last lie has been told or the truth has been laid to rest once and for all. Not until the last desire chokes the last survivor to a bitter and lonely, circuitous death. Either way, it doesn't look all that good.
For our feelings might be killing us and as soon as they cross our lips, or appear from the ends of our fingertips, they've already done their damage. And, anyway, I can't whittle, dissect, dissemble, shape, sculpt, or apparently even savor. What? The? Fuck?
Perspektiefa
As the days pile up, so do the weeks and months and years, and all of my memory gets lost in there somewhere. Someone else said that we can't truly remember. That memory is a lie. I'm not so sure. To confirm such an astonishingly simple yet still astonishing supposition we'd have to remember exclusively in real time. And then we wouldn't be remembering, now would we? Whichever way you look at it, chances are - you still can't keep the events in order.
Tell me how you really feel. I can't. What the fucking fuck?
I like to think that I care. Unfortunately, caring is for worriers who have nothing better to do with their time than self-flagellate their psyche with a caterwauling o' nine voices. So when I do say that I actually care I am giving voice to all of the lies which have come to represent a truth I can only know without uttering a word; before the voices cry out for expression. Don't everybody talk at fucking once!
Friday, 27 August, 2010
Mir sind die Trauben aber zu süß.
It's pitch black... but I can see the darkness. There's no air... but I can breathe. My face is buried in dirt, but it's not getting in my nose, ears, or mouth. It's just kind of smooth.
Wait. It's not my face that's buried. It's all of me. It's packed pretty tightly around me. But I can move... sort of. I can't move my arms, they're pressed down at my sides. But I can move my shoulders. Or wait. No, it's my head. Then my shoulders.
This writhing has a reason. It serves a purpose. Otherwise I'd just lie still and wait for the end.
One of the more intense dreams I've ever had involved a gigantic dark creature hovering directly over me, forehead to forehead, as I lay on my back in bed; it bellowed at me hatefully, "You're nothing but sludge!!" The setting of that disturbing drama has led me to wonder whether or not I was actually sleeping at the time.
If I am the projected desire of an invertebrate, then this projection is nevertheless all-too often a beam of darkness. I am a prisoner, yet genetically forbidden to remain in my wormhole. Or in bed.
But one ant was being dragged down through the path by another. It struggled to get free the whole way down the tree.
This observation reminds me of how I would often see one shit-faced drunk Korean trying to escape the grasp of his more sober companion in an attempt to return to the Soju-tent to drink yet more of that ethanolic-concoction distilled to kill the voices in his head.
So, too, must that ant have had high hopes. I suppose he might have been an intruder being evicted from enemy territory. But I like to imagine that it had some genetic defect which rendered it incapable of serving the virtue of that robotic game of community chest.
Are we these creatures burrowing through the dirt; crawling out of land and sea; marching up and down the trees; and buzzing in and around and flying high above the earth?
Does our future evolve to the efficiency of the hive?
From the Wikipedia:
But if you'd rather be a worker, I've adapted the requirements from the Wiki entry on that section:
This projection - be it darkness or light, or the mad voices from any number of other creatures coping with existence - will not leave me in peace.
Druck aus der Fleischerei-Zeit
Wait. It's not my face that's buried. It's all of me. It's packed pretty tightly around me. But I can move... sort of. I can't move my arms, they're pressed down at my sides. But I can move my shoulders. Or wait. No, it's my head. Then my shoulders.
This writhing has a reason. It serves a purpose. Otherwise I'd just lie still and wait for the end.
_______
One of the more intense dreams I've ever had involved a gigantic dark creature hovering directly over me, forehead to forehead, as I lay on my back in bed; it bellowed at me hatefully, "You're nothing but sludge!!" The setting of that disturbing drama has led me to wonder whether or not I was actually sleeping at the time.
If I am the projected desire of an invertebrate, then this projection is nevertheless all-too often a beam of darkness. I am a prisoner, yet genetically forbidden to remain in my wormhole. Or in bed.
_______
A Onetime Summer Observation
A path of ants was marching to and fro, up and down the trunk of an apple tree. They didn't need to think about it. Arbeit macht frei!But one ant was being dragged down through the path by another. It struggled to get free the whole way down the tree.
This observation reminds me of how I would often see one shit-faced drunk Korean trying to escape the grasp of his more sober companion in an attempt to return to the Soju-tent to drink yet more of that ethanolic-concoction distilled to kill the voices in his head.
So, too, must that ant have had high hopes. I suppose he might have been an intruder being evicted from enemy territory. But I like to imagine that it had some genetic defect which rendered it incapable of serving the virtue of that robotic game of community chest.
Are we these creatures burrowing through the dirt; crawling out of land and sea; marching up and down the trees; and buzzing in and around and flying high above the earth?
Does our future evolve to the efficiency of the hive?
From the Wikipedia:
The drones' main function is to be ready to fertilize a receptive queen. Drones in a hive do not usually mate with a virgin queen of the same hive because they drift from hive to hive. Mating generally takes place in or near drone congregation areas. It is poorly understood how these areas are selected, but they do exist.Sounds like singles' bars. Or Wall Street watering-holes; the Korean Soju-tent for the more affluent.
But if you'd rather be a worker, I've adapted the requirements from the Wiki entry on that section:
Honey bee workers sought. Supplicants will be:
- [adept at] keep[ing] the hive temperature uniformSo if I don't wanna impregnate some queen, I've gotta get a job? Seeing as how I've been avoiding both all of my life, I wonder what that leaves me. Does my form of expression make a damn bit of difference to anything?
- [able to] gather & carry pollen back to the hive
- [responsible for] most of civilization's food supply
This projection - be it darkness or light, or the mad voices from any number of other creatures coping with existence - will not leave me in peace.
Druck aus der Fleischerei-Zeit
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