October 14th 2008

Lying in bed just prior to firing up the laptop and beginning to write this, the anvil-weighted reconciliation hit me - that I'm probably by now, utterly constitutionally-disinclined towards emotion. I suspect I may have inadvertently intellectualised my route out of emotion. Having been consistently devastated to a whithering and impossibly painful degree by LOVE, or my interpretation of 'the bearing of a feeling of love for someone', the last instance being exceptionally bludgeoning, my reckoning is, decanted all of my capacity for emotional connectivity into a generalised and decompartmentalised sadness, whose stoicism flashes through with the occasional rearing of anger, the basest, perhaps purest emotion (aside from an impossibly de-politicized love. Classical love remains just that: the deomain of bardic scholarship). Aware that a fundamental component in my grand thesis and life objective has been for a long time the decompartmentalisation of separateness, as metered out by received wisdoms, my current hypothesis is that i may have achieved this to some disturbing level of accomplishment. Cool. So, when an employer has delivered a scud of a denunciation, trashed your character, made ruinous assertions as to your motives for remaining alive, and concludes the assault with: and how do you feel about that? In recent months I've been prone to consider the question. In such circumstances my initial responses are more intellectual: rather than feel anything specific or clearly delineable, I THINK you're a dickhead who relevance in a social Dawrinist sense is negligble. Existing in a plural dimensonality prohibits me from FEELING anything about this, Boss. Sorry if I've deprogrammed myself so wholly that I'm capable of contexualising your affront within the monotheistic system of control you inhabit, even sorrier if work is your only context. And again, sorry for not feeling anything other than the routine boredom that graces me like a veil upon entering the work premises, and which itself has become so routinely, that I'm bored of its particular brand of boredom. Etc. So yes. through a combination of active and positive deprogammatic procedures (either/or is moribund, clearly) and systematically annihilative romantic encounters, I truly believe I've been rendered spare of emotionality - or perhaps I've manifested a new internal language of emotionality so armed with refractive irony, red herrings and evasive tactics that its cyphers are incommunicable to those still trapped in the paradigm of hand-wringing sentamentalism, me-culture, victim bullshit, faux-empathy and shrink-baiting. Perhaps having encounter pretty much most conceivable formulae of disappointment in encounters with other reputedly 'emotionally mature' creatures, my final roll call of response is one of desolate, arid, sardonic, bleakbleakbleak laughter at the absurdity of their, and our, self-importance. Even when masturbating, the erotic is now divorced from emotion; where once I saw titillation in denial, in a the slick nylon of a football shirt brushing past my skin in the school changing rooms, I now see hollow emptiness, as I know that the contents of the football shirt are now professionally impersonating their fathers, down to the very molecules of his biography, being too scared and shamed into idiocy by the status quo of averageness, to prise himself into any more fluid realm. Now, when wanking, it's purely over the physical, the act of fucking, mechanical, relentless, without care or compassion, a flickering eclipse, twelve frames a second of occupied negative space, twelve frames a second of unoccupied, gaping daylight. And yet even now, I know, through the bluster and the polemicizing, that, The Kiss, yeah, that act, would satisfy me more than anything else, and render fucking an indulgence. The tenderest transmission - The Kiss - is also the harshest, way more intimate than the act of vain fucking, breathing one's spirit and love into the orifice from which a creature's entire repertoire of audible expression emits: anguish, joy, laughter, perhaps the only thing I've ever allowed from my deepest marrow to stifle a laugh, is a kiss. The intervention of some boy's lips on my own, whilst otherwise in the throes of hilarious caustic trills, is amongst the most permissable things imaginable on this desert of no hope. But none of this makes me particularly conducive to a relationship. And again, the motives of so many for entering into a relationship are a dependence upon the archetype - coupling is what has always occured, either to present a convincing argument (he's COMPLETLY heterosexual!) for one's aspiring presidency of the universe, or merely to ensure a regular fuck without the ritual humiliation of wooing and courtship becoming ritual. I suspect the only circumstance in which I may be complimentary to a romantic relationship would be as collaboration in activating change on a mutually internal and external basis. We will never, collectively like to concede that at best, we are currency. To me, as a creature that for whatever grotesque reasons, wishes to remain alive a little longer, it seems laughter is the only honourably legitimate response to such realizations (literally, to make real), and when the vital essence in that whooping cackle of mine desiccates like all else, to infinitely timeless space dust, then so will my lanky, twitching corpus. the act of typing this even reckons my physicality next to that of a preying mantis. And perhaps the young I'm eating is literature, in this vengeance text.

One of my central projects this year, is to compile an encyclopaedia comprising a paragraph for every conceivable circumstance, and thus, in my old age, when weariness transmutes into apathy, have an available compendium of everything that may have occured throughout my life, with the sole task needed to complete my written autobiography being to select and correctly juxtapose the paragraphs, and omit only those paragraphs detailing events that didn't happen to me. This Encylopaedia Biographica, could readily be transferable to the text of any sentient creature. I should register a patent. Naturally, the circumstances portrayed would be outlined in the driest, most clinical text, so as to ensure little-to-no authorial slur on events, merely the empirical data. Dependent upon the presumed renaissance of my emotionality, years down the line, as I recognize a tirelessly lonesome fate for the central character in my autobiographical text, I may just interpolate some emotional responses to the empirical data, as footnotes to the outlined circumstances. Either way, I may also write accompanying volumes drawn from the same encylcopaedia, titled: Aspirational Autobiography, Internal Autobiography, etc, and may even write the autobiographies of people I've never met, and who therefore can be presumed to exist. Perhaps in a year, once it's compiled, I may construct a series of unrelated, contradictory chapters, each spanning a year, and opt to live out the circumstances detailed in these chapters, radically altering the course of my life, annually, by pure action, steadfastly refusing any external intervention but that depicted, to interrupt my pursuit of these depicted ciecumstances. I don't see how a project with no communicable measure of success, can fail. Surely the perfect rationale on which to act.