I’ve spent the better portion of today — about eight hours straight, in fact — reading about antiquity. Starting with Julius Caesar, I read every Wikipedia entry for the Roman Emperors ’till Charlemagne. After that I read of Hadrian’s personal life, and in relation I read about Alexander the Great, even though I’m familiar with both topics. I have a habit of rereading the same things again and again, typically it assists in my remembrance of matters, but also because revisiting topics with new knowledge further expands one’s understanding of context et cetera.
Anyways, after that I read a few pages of Guenon’s The Crisis of the Modern World before the noise from the television irritated me enough to cease, turn-on my PlayStation and play about twenty minutes of Skyrim. I’m bored of that, now, however.
I can only read in total or near-total silence. I can only write in total silence or whilst listening to music. Sound seems to be an oddity to me. I find it very difficult to engage with it. Right now I’m listening to Porcupine Tree — at 7:28 of Fear of a Blank Planet‘s title-track — and my attention is almost totally focused upon rhythm; the calming 4/4-timed outro with an emphasis placed on every second shoulder-hit upon Gavin Harrison’s Zildjian hi-hats.
Well, that was then — right now I’m onto “My Ashes”; the haunting guitar lead in the verses, around the five-minute mark coupled with viola, followed by the refrain et cetera. My attention is focussed still upon the drumming, but also the viola and synthesisers — and rhythm guitar — in the background. The overall trajectory of the piece marked by coarse post-jazz percussive technique. Why am I rambling about this?
I’ve been extra-ordinarily blue for the past week or so. I feel totally lost and adrift. I’ve gained weight, I’m still not employed properly, my videos and writing have been sub-par as of late, I just, right now, feel totally dull and grey.
And just as I write that, the line “…stop whining, please…” comes forth from “Ansthetize.” Fitting.
I’ve been going over my journal from last year, and there still are the lines about just wandering off one day with a rucksack and tent. I’d do it if I could figure-out a steady source of food and clean water. Part of me still wants to disappear into the wilds, perhaps to die alone and in peace, beyond the grasp of the world and all its annoyances. I’ve particularly come to detest my physical body — maybe that’s just this momentary melancholy speaking; I haven’t forgotten James’ words — and it actually hinders my willingness to even go out into the world and be amid other people. “What patheticism,” I think to myself. But one can’t ignore the brazen reality.
I’m crippled, fatherless, traditionless, leaderless, disorganised, and alone. I should be used to it by now, but there’s a crawling within me for something beyond; a hunger which hasn’t been sated. I wonder what for it yearns?
What’s the point in this exhibitionism, anyways? Why bother putting thought to keyboard in this rather vulgar, egotistical manner? Oughtn’t such things remain to the domain of the individual? Most certainly, though there is a transmuting quality to certain exhibition if done within the correct parameters. Or, moreover, the “laying of the bones bare” assists in their rejoining.
In other news, this arguing with antinatalists as of late has been quite interesting. They’re still wrong, make no mistake; suffering and happiness are both a part of life, therefore antagonism toward the former for its own sake equals antagonism to life itself — hence antinatalists worship non-Being in the Neo-Platonic sense; it is their god. Thus I call them evil; they indeed are; they worship death and, if they were honest enough to be logically consistent, they’d indeed commit suicide en masse as the penultimate rejection of life and its dualism. Such points, however, go right over their heads; as should come as no surprise. Why they even bother skulking around the internet in order to find people to keyboard-battle? I don’t know. Perhaps certain individuals have too much spare time.
I’ll leave more meta matters pertaining to West Coast Reactionaries and the like to this week’s Weekly Round-Up which’ll be done on Sunday as per newfound habit. For the moment, however, what could I say? We’re almost at seven-hundred words. We are now.
The chorus of “Sentimental” is wonderous. Pure white magic. Apollo be praised. What unoddity that I’m nearly to tears?
Nonetheless, I think it’s good to touch-upon the personal or whatever now and again; I don’t wish to foster some image of myself which betrays reality. Vulgar reality bests a clean lie anytime. There seems to be this emerging picture of me as some authority. I don’t like it. I wish for friends, companions; not “fans” or “followers” — what utterly vile machinations: what totally corrupt, abhorrent ideas. Palpably repulsive.
I long for some reality, some realness, some profundity, some virility. Yet I feel I should keel-over and die, to remove my presence from the world; to, again, disappear. This has been a consistent feeling for several years, now. What frustration!
I’d rather not go-on for much longer. It feels like a call for attention or “help” — “advice” — when that isn’t what’s necessary at all, but, rather, purpose and meaning.
I probably won’t do a podcast tonight. Only one person has confirmed their wish to participate to me, and we’re fifteen minutes to going live. Another day, then.