Dissect and Sever

I could have seen Ms Chi today. She would have bought me food, and we would have laughed about something absolutely ridiculous because that is what friends do. I got a call about an hour ago, letting me know of whatever it is they were doing, but I can't bring myself to get out of the house. There are things I must do. I must save the term and stop being a child. I know for a fact that it'll be difficult for a person like me to straighten out.

Apathy is lethal. It is also contagious. It was when I got sick on my shoes that I knew I had to fix this. I've getting progressively unhealthier in the physical sense, but that is the least of the troubles. I'd also lost interest in my studies, thinking only of leaves and draughts and a different Arcadia - that in which Truth exists - reading different books, keeping Worlds at arms distance; for each man, woman and child is a World, but I won't speak of it right now.

But how could I do such a thing? I'm all words, little action. I'm too familiar with the bad old ways, which involve hazes and staying in bed for hours. The truth is, there is an answer: finding someone who is more or less an equal. It has been done - once, with Nancy, that sweet boy. I saw more than half of myself in him, and there was a part of both I did not like: that excess of woe, that Edgar Poe fixation on the dark, negative pulses. So I severed what I had left of sadness, and I haven't had it since. Sadness is an inferior emotion, and we would all be better without it. I am personally glad to be rid of it.

There is another feeling I must do away with: that of being purple and gold, of knowing oneself better than all the rest. Perhaps 'knowing' is not the correct word, but the point stands: one truly believes himself superior, and the notion is inevitably made Fact by Conscience itself. So I've found a second Mirror: smug, skeptical, insufferably knowledgeable, not unlike myself, which I will be using but not pursuing. This Attic face (and what a sweet-looking face!) will be but a tool for my own self-improvement. I will watch, not touch, speak without influence and inevitably dissect.

Dissect and sever the concept of superiority. I propose this for myself, and though this Apollo may remain abrasive, furtively violent in his elitism, I have decided to be rid of this. It is not the time for lovers, nor for attempts at loving. This has cost me many a mistress or friend, which is unforgivable. Though I do find him attractive, both in the aesthetic sense and on the fact that he reminds of myself, I do not want him. He takes pride in the parts I will be amputating.

A Study on Aestho-Autogamy

Which is an homage or imitation of the style of the late Mr Flann O'Brien, contemporary Irish author and prime theoretician of aestho-psycho-eugenics, a science of the senses. To engage in such endeavour I have fashioned a figure based in both reality and fiction, a main example of the latter being the human devil Fergus McPhellimey.

In order to construct the figure of the mystic, I have built the concept not on the necessarily literary, but on the physical-perceptive.

Nature of variables: visual, auditory, olfactory.

The mystic knows of runes and numbers, taking into account the Good and the Bad Numerals, the separation of the odd from the even. Thus, his view of the world is made not from the mere set of eyes, but from a collective of the aforementioned. His knowledge of the preternatural sciences allows him to operate a rudimentary Aleph, stored only in the contours of the brain.

Physical description, literary version: The mystic wears without malicious intent the face of the god Apollo, patron of light and knowledge, which women of impressionable character find invariably irresistible. His skin is honey-gold, and his hair, of a nondescript brown shade, is particularly vulnerable to strong winds. He dons a jacket of dusty quality and mass-produced origin and, having deemed the use of beads insensitive to the gypsy class, keeps his wrists bare. Conclusion of the foregoing.

Moste Versatile Bacterium

August 19.

READ EPICURUS.

To do.

The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow as suggested by one Fionn Regan.
I wonder what'd be like to stay at Dylan Thomas's. He did. I was not watching.

As things go, the boy with brown arms has chosen a career in A. If he knew half of anything, he'd picked a way from all things drab and ended up an ARTIST, however destitute. One can just know he'll be asked to make ugly things. Supply & demand call for industrialization, a depersonalization of the former good things, voluntary obliteration of the self. But ART is its own master, and the Roman law maxim on blasphemy was this:

Let the gods avenge themselves.


Friday, August 20.
Could Pythagoras be labelled a theosophist?

Perhaps, perhaps not.
He belongs to a different class to, say, Krishnamurti, so obsessed with "the" teachings (in reality, pertaining only to him) and not actually doing a thing.

"To end all war, all men must unite," he says; I paraphrase.

In the real world of true things, men unite under flags, with which he disagrees. But more importantly, men unite against a certain Other. The point stands that it is much simpler to form a group against something rather than for it. The world of conventional politics revolves around the notion of gathered hate; out of hate, for hate. What of love?

People disagree on what should be considered ideal, or important. Curiously, most people hate much of the same things. It is understandable.


September, the Third.

Imagine the Holy Marriage of Yersinia pestis and facebending jack of all trades, master of none E. coli hisself.
What of it?

E. coli, moste versatile bacterium, is able to mutate into very nearly anything.

The Yersinia-Escherichia union, contracted for purely diplomatic reasons, will be the end of the world as we know it. I am not lying about this.