that only the damned will be saved?
Sometimes I look inside myself and see only darkness. At other times I look inside myself and see only light. In medieval times, this sensation would have been a matter of morality. Now it is a matter of post-structuralism.
Cynicism is always circular.
Circles are cynically mathematically normative.
To be able to be honest is to shoot domination through its heart. “Truth to power,” they say, and there’s something to that. The problem is that “truth” to power is rare, while the rationalization of truth to power is not.
1. I have not made a things list in a long time
2. I used to drink more coffee than I do now
3. I miss Joe’s at the University of Chicago
4. Sometimes I just miss the University of Chicago
5. Sometimes I also miss the New School, even though I’m a student
6. I feel too damn old to be a student
7. I am scared shitless by being as old as I am
8. I sublimate disappointment
9. I have a more “addictive personality” than I like to admit to myself
A. I have not deployed hexadecimal in at least a decade
B. I sometimes miss computer science
C. I am rotten at managing money
D. I am rotten at managing input and suggestions
E. I sometimes want to kill my boss with my bare hands
F. I sometimes just want my bare hands to kill
Rather often I fantasize about stopping everything but one thing in my life.
– Just academics (paying for the rest and living with loans), or
– Just work (forgetting any career or personal goals), or
– Just photography (forgetting all of fucking reality), or
– Just writing (forgetting how it was always slave labor)
I can not be a monk because I don’t have any kind of moral-conceptual asceticism in me, but dammit if I don’t wish life were simpler. When I’m happy I often claim that life is simple but of course to do so is to suspend disbelief for a moment so that you can watch the movie of you and finally enjoy it for a change, for a brief moment. In truth, everyone knows that life is as complicated as is living.
Right now I am sure I can hear the gears of “now” turning to keep up with the present, which is itself undergoing constant digestion and deprication, and whose remnants continue to fall into the abyss that is memory. The fact that the present is infinitely renewable does not ameliorate the tragedy of its perpetual decay, nor of its embarrassingly conspicouous idiocy.