22nd August 2008

LS tried to coerce me into communication a little earlier. She'e not even the most diabolical cretin of the bunch, contrarily, she's a beautifully stoic mentalist, still, the fact remains, in ignoring her openings, I'm cementing my protest against the drab migrant scum I'd have previously deigned 'friends' and whom, illumination later reveals, have less in common with my true friends than leprosy does a slew of plankton. So, my arm wouldn't yield to the cleaver - and this is supposed to be a commercial kitchen - I cauterised it shut using one of the gas hobs from the stinking kitchen at my house. The drearily arrogant cunts with whom I cohabit have somehow managed to idly prise a cupboard door from its hinge, so now it dangles, obstructing the thoroughfare through the kitchen. Preemptively, I announced my resignation from kitchen use upon returning from a brief sojourn to see it had deteriorated, as suspected, into an unsanitary holocaust of accumulated crockery and stoner-grub residue. So my arm's sealed with fire. I'm taking grangantuan doses of codeine on an hourly basis to curb the pain and ensuring my fingers remain active so as to maintain bloodflow. Every time I visit a new place with an expected stay of around two weeks, I'm gonna establish a bank account, which will remain dormant, merely so as to provide authentification of address for library registration (say I'm staying at a hotel, I just state the number of the street, omit the hotel name), enabling me to exact enormous and serial library heists. I need the money, so I'll purposefully select towns reputed for their repository of first editions andrare titles. Bacchus called; regrettably I ignored the call, but only because I'm in alcoholic rehab, and he's one of the most careerist dandies I've yet gathered to my circle. Jesus. I even got bored of carving off my own forearm. I wonder what no-brainers, non-sequiters and non-events might stir my opiate apathy to spasmic deliverance tomorrow? I guess my jettisoning of the socially-lame scabs I'd good-naturedly invested so much in prior to this recent breakdown, is something of a pre-emptive strike - having had two days off of work and nobody but Uncle Patch attempt to contact me and lure me out for shindigs, tomfoolery and/or skullduggery, - I figured I'd counter-reject them in a way more wholly nitrous manner - total annihilation of their existence to my conscious being; contrasting my entirely conscious rejection of them to their mindless, careless, thoughtless rejection of me. At least my action denotes a choice having been made, rather than an absolute negation of choice. I used to care about being liked. Being loved is far more desirable, I've erased the former from my Christmas list. 'Like' is such a saccharine compromise. To 'like' is to evade commitment to a cause, to veneer one's surface approval over a matter perhaps worthy of further investigation. It also pays lipservice to that hideously outmoded Libran deity The Dichotomy - some pedal-powered vehicles have more than two wheels, okay? And 'hate' is not the opposite of 'love' any more than 'unlove' is the opposite of 'unhate'. Fuck, is love a process or a state, or both? This is why I take codeine, I find my mind submits generously to a plateau of higher symbols less awkwardly grounded in semantic ping-pong. I guess 'love', needing sustenance, air, flow, like any aerobic organism HAS to be a process, in order to stave off stagnation. The illusory notion of love as a static principle is doubtless the seed of so many whithered romances, degenerating nuptials, as though the wedding band and accompanying legislation becomes a substitute for the essential glue, frisson, maintenance, that initiated the whole marriage process in the first place. Jesus, I wouldn't want to marry anyone any more than I'd want to score my abdomen from the perenium to the septum and fold me in half like some Siamese Only Child of Self Love. Fortunately, you see, I can barely suffer myself as much as I can anyone else. And this vital distinction between me and any other nameless, pontificating loser is significant, in that it means I truly cannot lose, the only conceiveable loss being, in whatever dimension, I happen to be granted the mantle of immortality. We, humans, depend on death to justify our lives as much as the inverse of this is accurate. These twin bookends of pre-mortality and death contextualise our daily endeavours, and lend their acting-out some momentum, if not urgency in those in pursuit of ambition's wry folly. If death didn't factor, the ultimate end, then the only existing tense would be present. Ok, I gotta sleep. Tonight's homework, contemplate the notion of Death Dependency. I find if you situate an idea at the forefront of some imaginal landscape, - the terrain on which ideas are realized, or at least tangibly rendered, as though a terrain emanating from every angle beyond the sphere of one's brain, I guess where Rimbaud and Blake meet Neuro-linguistic Programming; for me this place is visual, geometric, mountainous, deserted, pastoral, arrid, exotic, perhaps akin to my understanding of Australia's landscape and climate - immediately prior to sleeping, it will frequently feature in that night's dream. Fix an idea or image in your dream capsule (directly before the pineal gland?) and watch it grow tentacles and exact gleeful polynarrative mangling of your dreams tonight. Steaming eyeballs of the captives, karamalata irises, burnished skin, hair bunched in a fist like the stem of an onion, he who dares glance into the cauldron prior to immersion is the recipient of great and dismal wisdoms...