The colourful texts

To notice and become acquainted with something, one must notice and become acquainted with its absence.

– Axiomatic-quote-by-me-stolen-from-various-quotable-people

Because I had a flurry of inspiration, and because I haven’t written a line in recent weeks, as the lazy man that I am, I decided, forced myself to make immortal those shadowy shining thoughts of mine. Here is what I felt and thought late into the night of Saturday the 28^th of November, while gliding swiftly down the dark unknown streets of another world (that wasn’t metaphorical btw, just my way on the highway).

In narrative prose. (if that means anything)

He hurried past the unwelcoming blocks, those that followed the misty mansions that exhaled greater dread. He moved swiftly and thought. And he sang as well, to cover the fear in his heart.

But the road was long, and he had not yet reached known territory, nor could he recall that which he had passed before. So he continued, half detached from the unpleasant reality that surrounded him in the invading present moment. And as he moved on, he looked to his left and to his right, in search of something…not something interesting, not something entertaining that could busy his mind and make him forget and not worry; no, he was looking to face it, face the fear, and talk to it. So he stared down the lanes that fell into oblivion, those to his right. Those dark allies, dark roads to unknown lands, were full of fright.

And they brought fear to his heart, darkness and brooding unhappiness. He was in the night, in the cool air, past a great evening of satisfying content, yet the spleen had overtaken him. He walked on, yet still the dark lanes that fell, deep, into dark lands, into damp and dank putrid waters of hate, of hostile plague-ridden swampland, still did they leave an imprint in his mind. It was worrying and it carried him forward, to known territory. Yet, evermore did those haunting thoughts overcome him, overwhelm his mind.

And he knew, presently, that a forest lay at the bed of the steep road. He knew that after the interminable and blinding dark fall, came a terrifying forest, a black forest, full and empty, and damp with the icy marsh. And in that forest, beyond that forest, yonder lay something. But the something way nameless; so absent from reality was it, that only ’something’ could keep it in existence. It was a fear and a hope; a nightmare and glorious dream; the damned fate of the future, yet the comforting memory of the past. It was the unknown, the mystery, the lost, the forgotten, the forbidden, the empty vessel, the bodies of dereliction, the voices of broken hearts and joyous songs of success.

But as his certainty was cemented, as he became absorbed by his new conviction, so did he know as definitely that it was only a one way road, that could not be climbed back up. He could only stray blindly down the path, but never would he succeed in turning around to see and reach the lights of friendly lamp-posts that could shepherd him home.

It was indeed home where his destiny lay that night. And, after all, where can a man go if his home is out of reach? What will he then call home? What will man do when his home is cast from his eyes, when he is banished from the comely welcoming, comfortingly familiar places that keep the treasures of his being? What would he do, if he could not walk down that one dark lane that was not full of fear – the one lane that led to a known location, a place devoid of doubt and mystery, of painful unknown?

So it was that he strolled calmly under the protective glare of guiding lights, along the wide road, to a dip in the road that brought him to a familiar place, where a bed lay waiting for him, with sweet dreams and some succour to keep him alive.

Lab fright & hope part II

Each and every day can be a wretched one, including those where my nemeses are absent. Today, for example, I kept continuously high spirits in spite of the depressing work forced upon us. I am truly scared of my binomial partner – I feel I have experienced a inkling of the fright that drove Polanski for some of his masterpieces. He was Russian, I believe, although he didn’t exactly look it. His behaviour was normal at first, but it rapidly became clear that he was inferior to me in the realm of chemistry, and that he was not particularly interested in scientific rigour. Taking a turn off the track, I might just point out that I do not worship scientific rigour, nor do I praise most scientific attitudes, but here it was a case of carelessness, total disregard for perfection and a recipe to earn us poor marks for the practical work. This Nikolai was hard to frame, and I will remain conservative as long as I have not drawn a sharper portrait of him, but he appeared flagrantly mischievous. He took a number of risky initiatives; ones that I, being schooled in the art of utmost prudence in a laboratory, have come to treat with disdain: such faults are proof of idiocy and unworthiness.

We took too long to complete our work, albeit due in part to me, who cannot accelerate my working pace in such situations; nevertheless, I led the whole ordeal from start to finish, and solved the two problems that were posed at the end entirely on my own.

On that note, I am inclined to feel a touch of pity or regret for him: for I have already lived though the unpleasant experience of being totally useless with Tommy in physics. And so I remain conservative, reminding myself that he may unveil a glowing demeanour and brilliant intellect when the circumstances permit it.

And yet, I still have not succeeded in bringing the most urgent thoughts to the surface: he scared me. I do have some more appreciation for Knife in the Water after today; I feared he may cause an accident or deliberately be mischievous. But now I remember Alberto, who’s personality could not be gleaned entirely from the hours of practical work at school, certainly he genius couldn’t. Moreover, he was particularly easy going and careless while manipulating substances with me; he was clumsy more than once, and also played silly games.

My seriousness in a lab is not the whole of me, nor is it really a chief part of me, but I have cultivated it from the day I planned on continuing in this academic direction. It is a necessary “evil” to be serious, austere and sharp in a lab.

Let us bring the carriage back on track. The important stuff I want to capture was on the subject of mood, as it often is. As I said initially, though Jenny, Aurélie and Lauren were absent, my mood still swung wildly like a pendulum. In the end, however, no pathetic idea from an unfortunate event was there to dampen my spirits; quite simply: if it isn’t there, it can do no harm – this was the case, for it has been my ostracism from the group that has smarted me the worst.

I do still have high spirits, and I think I may have the wrong idea of their origins: though I could easily be led to believe that my therapy had proven fruitful, I can’t help notice that I still have hope. Once again, it seems that hope is the little subtle devil who decides whether I am happy or not. I have hope, because I still have a chance to talk to them tomorrow, and give myself a chance to mingle; I also feel like I could help Tommy, which is a big step for me: to be the shepherd instead of the fool.

The false prophecy

I still can’t quite pinpoint the culprit, the parasite that is draining me, but something is, for sure. I can never hold on to moments of genius: glorious epiphanies and brilliant evidence. I can never remember long enough to make use of these things, to follow them through. Immediacy is of the essence: as I now write, I have already lost the feeling I had at the start.

So let us think about something worthwhile, immemorially important and useful. I decided to read a few psychology articles on wikipedia this weekend. This is a pass time that I gave up some time ago, and had tended to look down upon, just as I looked down upon psychology, but I gave it a go nonetheless. And, as was to be expected, I discovered many new things. I think I now know what my symptoms really are: if I were to be diagnosed by a psychologist, I think I would be labelled with: cyclothymia or bipolar II disorder. In essence, the former is a lighter form of the latter which is itself a less severe expression of bipolar disorder. But these two…“disorders” share a specificity: hypomania, an elevated state of being, where the mind and body are in overdrive. Hypomania betokens euphoria, intense happiness, increased creative drive and ambition; it brings about epiphanies – no doubt the very same kind that brought about Gabriel’s sad monologue in The Dead – of the highest order, bordering on delusion and overestimation of one’s abilities.

Here is what I have to say about cyclothymia and its diagnosis. Perhaps more so than with more extreme mental disorders, psychology becomes fallible when attempting to explain certain traits or habits of the mood in rational terms. Indeed, schizophrenia or other forms of psychosis have scientific backing, including evidence from studies that conclude that specific damage or unusual cerebral activity is responsible for the illness. Not so with neurosis. Only the early psychoanalysts were bold enough to claim knowing the roots of the ailment; today psychologists are not so impudent, but do presume too much in any case.

I am convinced that most so-called disorders are no disorders at all, but merely aspects of personality and reflections of life. For it goes without saying that a person will be confronted, day to day, with experiences that will either invigorate or depress, encourage or lower self-esteem. There are people, like myself, who despite their best efforts cannot avoid vain idealism; our breed is of an insatiable kind, content only with perfection, unable to appreciate fate or the present moment. I come home some days terribly disappointed at my clumsiness, my failure to conclude, to fulfil my dreams – and I have oh so many of those.

For the sake of clarity, let us take an example. I was brought into a group for practical work in physics. At the university, we do this three times, once a week for biology, physics and chemistry. I found myself in the last group (as I had not signed myself in beforehand), and interestingly in a group with 2 particularly pretty girls. As I happen to be more than untalented at the Game, no initiative on my behalf got us closer, and since we never worked together in the practical work (which was completed in groups of two), it took several weeks before our group of 6 finally got to know each other. Eventually I found myself having several friends in the university, and actually being on talking terms with a girl who I had practically been fantasising about only days before. Coming home that day I was suddenly the happiest man on earth. But two days later I was torn apart: the following day we all ate together, but I didn’t have anything to bring to the table. Coming away from that I felt like I had failed totally. On Friday I had refuelled, written what needed to be said and felt confident. But one of my friends began a palaver with the girl, and I was seated further from her. When the time came (a time that I had hoped for), I did nothing but discuss the exercises we needed to complete with her friend and she. I was like a machine, a soulless, empty, polite ghost who wanted to be ignored save for his help in solving the physics problems. I was sitting next to a beautiful angel, the likes of which I dreamt of, my sandy mouth impervious to food that I had wanted to eat, my communication skills petrified in terror. I was living a dream from a week ago, yet I was already unhappy. It had not gone to plan; I had failed.

To conclude this example, I should not forget to mention the most pivotal detail, that truly broke my heart. The girl, or rather both of them, decided to finally ask one of my friends if he would like to go out that evening, to have a drink in town. I was surprised, then, to find that they had been afraid that he might think them boring and not worth the effort; they feared that he would rather not go out with them. I could never have imagined them having such thoughts, but it was true. Predictable as things are, nevertheless, he accepted. But I was sitting by them all the while, at that moment concentrating hard on finding a formula in my mess of papers on the desk. She asked him; he accepted, and that was that. I was alone. I said nothing. I crumbled. I lost all my confidence. All I had to do was…invite myself, or ask permission, whatever you like. I did not. Did I think just as the girls had thought, that they would not want me, because I was boring and ugly? Had I just made the very same mistake that I had recognised in them seconds previously?

I got home that evening, medicated by a bout of training at the university gym, but I was sadder than I had been for a while.

Coming up for air

It’s been a long time, and of course I have to say: too long. Far too long have I tarried, slouched lazily and fearfully, and procrastinated – all the vilest things that make men imperfect. Today, as always, I write because terrible things have happened to me.

It was never new nor old, but thoughts are not immutable; thoughts come and go; thoughts float on the great shards of Arctic ice. So, what once was, is no longer. Thus have I forgotten so much of past wisdoms that carried me on a safe and confident voyage. Jennifer, Aurélie, Lauren are but some of the names which wrongly provoke tremors in my being. But, as usual, that does not necessarily mean that I am to run and hide, but rather embrace each and every event that folds out in front of me, use all the happenings of life to my benefit, and so to the benefit of others.

Amor fati, that is something I should not forget, even if it brings me down to the level of the sensible and humble man. Indeed, the belief, or rather resignation to the facts of life in a sense means giving up and letting go. But such a decision automatically induces a relaxation and less effort, whether that be for school, work, personal endeavour or for achieving some high idea. I have shunned my love of fate for a while, knowing that it could only handicap me in realising my goals, knowing all the while what sacrifice I was making: to climb to the top of the world; to become a great novelist; to be a big man, a superman – sacrificing joy and innocence.

It is late and I have little to say. That is indeed sad, that I cannot express from the profundity of my heart the most hurtful, the most beautifully deadly, golden riches that ornate each iota of my being. I have things to say.

So do most men, I suppose.

My philosophy. A first draft

My philosophy isn’t easy to coin, especially as I also feel doubt as to whether I should define it. I have this paradox of sorts about being moderate, being absolutely moderate. Indeed, being absolutely moderate would mean moderating my moderation. Do not fear though, I’ve seen plenty of examples of why I should not be moderate…so I suppose I’ll be an extremist as well…but only in moderation.

Seriously though, what I think I really want to be is an integral man, in every sense of the word; a complete man. My fear is that I might forget or ignore or turn my head and stop learning. Learning, I think, is the key: always continue learning, and remember never to maroon oneself on an island of belief. The island of belief could represent any philosophical movement, any religion, etc.

I also have an eye open, just in case, perhaps, my island isn’t as large as I thought.

Here is an allegory of the way I see it:

There are islands, small and big; some cut off, others linked with bridges. I don’t want to strand myself on one of them, and prefer floating above on an island in the sky, in reach of all the other islands.

Of course, I too think it would be foolish to assume that my island is any larger or better than any of the other islands. No, I know I could be wrong.

My island, the one of scepticism and total moderation, even of moderation of moderation, reflects the view I have of existence: the total chaos and meaninglessness. In that sense I am a nihilist, although I understand that it would be impossible for me to “practise” nihilism. I can be a nihilist in theory, but not in practise; for anyone who understand what nihilism really is, they should easily understand why the latter would spell my death. All in all, I like Protagoras’ phrase: “man is the measure of all things”. I tend to believe that all things, all ideas, everything that exists apart from ourselves are our own creations and inventions. Knowing this might shed some light on my view of things: I always say to myself:

– but in the end it’s just proof of the human genius, our power to create.

I often think that many philosophers are the prime example of idealists who are simply good at explaining and justifying ideas they have. Take the example of Rousseau: he wrote that people were naturally good, but that man was corrupted by the world around him. In my opinion, this was the idea that Rousseau had because, as a child, he was perhaps relatively angelic and always tried to do “good”. With that notion in mind, all he had to do was use his genius and invent reasons, search for arguments that would heroically defend his idea. Today, we tend to dismiss this portion of his philosophy, since, through empirical study, we have come to a consensus where we all agree that many children, are inherently more “evil” than “good”, and that no dose of society or worldliness will change that.

My philosophy is one of total dismissal and total acceptance, because I can see that no philosophy can be trusted; yet, mistrust of everything leads to nothing, to inaction, to death, to the Petrified Man. At the moment, I’ve decided to make a choice: that is, to acknowledge that I know nothing, and that nothing necessarily has any meaning, but to set that aside and live my life like a normal human being, following one single principle: that of Truth. Why have I decided to follow that principle? Well, simply enough because the immense and scary vastness of the world is too much to cope with, and I fear that, as a nihilist and relativist I will lead myself into the pits of degradation. In a world with no values, it is easy to be led astray, when one can no longer take advice, ethics or morals seriously. In such a world, what would stop me from doing anything? What could justify killing or not killing? being kind or unkind? being friendly or selfish? being social or ascetic? indulging or abstaining? caring or being indifferent? To me, it just seemed impossible to go on living normally without a guideline to impose limits on me; that guideline is Truth because it’s the one thing I feel has been the most beneficial for me these last two years, and it’s one of those things I’m actually good at.

The magical ethanol

Last time I went on a…writing spree, I felt that my memory had improved, or that my thoughts in general were clearer. The immediate response to this idea would be to say:

– ok, well I better get writing again, then.

Well, it’s not that easy of course; I need to be pushed to strain my mind to write — an intellectual pastime that requires so much concentration. In fact, I have such difficulty committing myself, that my best work actually comes from school assignments (we are assigned dissertations circa once a month) and not from the posts I make on my blog or the pages I write for myself.

If only it were so simple; I can’t seem to find the energy or the motivation or the inspiration to swiftly guide my fingertips confidently over this glowing keyboard.

What I’d like to talk about is quite trivial, for lack of a bolder set of thoughts floating at the surface of my mind. I’m ever bemused by the effects of alcohol on my thought process, and even more so recently…although I can’t really explain why; perhaps I’ve slightly increased the dose. At any rate, what I have come to observe – or feel, considering we are discussing the realm of the intangible – is a kind of clairvoyance, a faster pace of thought, a racing thought that catches and scrutinises every idea that comes to my mind. I have a sweet spot, before the alcohol begins to confuse me, to sap my concentration, where I feel so much more aware and intelligent. It’s as if in my normal state I am blocking myself, and the alcohol is freeing me from all the intellectual fetters that I’ve inadvertently chained myself to.

Not so long ago, after having consumed a generous quantity of various rosés and spumante at a party, I suddenly thought to myself:

– Yes, alcohol really frees us, lets us be so much more honest.

That’s what’s important. It’s not for nothing that the truth is my guiding principle. And, unfortunately, I feel that despite all the effort I put into being honest, my neurosis always gets the better of me, and I end up remaining silent or avoiding certain topics of discussion. It’s easy to avoid lying, but so much harder to be honest.

To summarise, I need that touch of alcohol, the Devil’s elixir, to clear my mind of all the parasitical trappings that hold me back. Right now, I wish I could have two glasses of wine to put me back on track: I so want to write something meaningful, and the ideas are there, lurking, but it’s all muddled up and not vivid enough.

More cowbe–… poetry

A little perplexed reflection on happiness, just as any man who is lost would think and feel.

Oh, Instant joys
Where are you now ? when
I need you most?

Fast and fleeting
They flash by my eye
And dare not stay.

Like chocolate,
Like the sweet feeling
Of love I have;

Of love for you.
Bare and empty of all
My Love and life!

God where are you?
Why can’t you tell me?
The truth I need!

Oh joy, oh happiness, why can’t you remain?
I want you so, but so I see you’re my bane.
Redeemer, justifier
And criminal liar!

You hold me fast
In your bubble of bliss.
That is the last!
Until you go amiss.

Longings and desires

I’ve indulged a bit. At any rate, after Friday night, anything was welcome to bring life back to me, whatever the consequences. Yes, poetry, romanticism and wishful thinking are unnecessary, but I feel happy at the moment thanks to them — that is, happy enough not to be drowning as I was about 42 hours ago.

Biting lips for, perchance,
That you will take notice;
That you will pause and dance
With me forever in bliss.

Look at me once and cry out for me too.
Fire in your eyes, bleed, fall and tremble;
Let them out, let them tell, let them scream
Let them yearn for what I resemble.

Before the landing you looked down
Did you scan, did you stare, did you frown,
Were you aware? What movement of life?
Your heart did it glow? of what was it rife?

***

Chestnut brown, you beautiful brunette.
I can see that hair fading away. Where
Are you going? Beloved one of mine…
Don’t run, don’t leave; why go now? I
Need you here; let me see you here;

The coat of silver swishes out the door;
Leather boots of yours move away. Why
Away? I’d plea all night and day for you
To stay!

Genderanalyzer got it wrong, but should I be worried?

We think http://thezoolooworld.wordpress.com/ is written by a woman (67%).
The funny thing is, I’m quite sure I often you the word ‘man’ when speaking about the human race — strange that it didn’t pick that up…

Also, this is what it says about Hrugnir’s blog:
We guess http://hrugnir.wordpress.com/ is written by a man (52%), however it’s quite gender neutral.

Freedom from fiendish fluff ( or: James Joyce writes freely)

Fleeting images pass, come and go, waver, swoop around my eyes. I want to freeze them, those thoughts need to be iced down to earth.
It’s quite annoying, when you know you have something important to say, and you can’t express it. But it’s worse when you know you have something to say but you can’t remember it, or piece it together. This is the challenge I face all the time when I want to write a meaningful text.
Therefore, since all my epiphanies elude my memory, I’ll have to content myself with a little solipsist’s palaver about language, English to be more precise.

After reading more and more information regarding Joyce and his writing techniques, the blatant evidence that my style is fake has finally drilled through the obtuse obstacle that is my thick head. The problem is that I consistently find myself trapped in conceit, fallacious impressions, etc. My “style” isn’t my true style, but a style that has been imposed, enforced in the most horrendously subtle and unstoppable way. All the mistakes I read, all the dim lessons I am taught, contribute to negatively impact my written work; even the most trivial and unimportant messages that have crossed my path have managed to find a comfortable resting place in my brain. And they won’t budge. So if I hear a journalist make a grammatical error, and then again, hear another journalist make a mistake, I find myself believing them.
When I think about it more calmly, taking some distance from it all, I find it hard to fathom how I could possibly have doubted Mervyn Peake to a CNN reporter in the use of the “all but” exclusion expression. In fact, this expression seems to have been tainted to the point where, within the realm of nonsensical illogic, it should be quarantined and never let out. I will make a stand, now: “all but” is an exclusion of the most definite kind; it absolutely rules out the object of the “but”. “I have everything in the world but not this”. Who on earth could conceive that it means “almost” or “nearly”.

Second raving rant.
In regard to Joyce, I came to a mini-epiphany and was quite delighted to see a man who had finally broken the laws of language, the barriers that most people are too fearful or unconfident to cross. He does not use quotation marks for the dialogue in his prose. I know that I have failed dismally in this respect: I have been the subject, the slave, the swooning shackled sleeper, chained to the evil demon, the dark thing, the large beast that feasts, the feasting, brooding fiend that no one controls. It has no name, but it is hazardous and ever-here. Anyway, now that you’ve all fallen asleep…I’ll just go on, regardless. So, yes, I should have known better, known better than to use stupid, illogical and ugly inverted commas to signal speech. But I didn’t, despite my knowledge of 3 other languages and their different grammars; I was too obtuse to observe the obvious. Anyway, from now on, I’ll make the mental note of always trying to decide for myself, press my watermark on every text I write, make sure as much as possible that I am not under the influence, not doing the suggested, but doing what I know – even if only subconsciously – is correct.
Commas, hyphens, apostrophes, colons; these are the tools of the trade. I am free to do what I want with them, and I hope I can do well.

P.S.: To Emily, not that you will read this, but I can always hope…anyway, either you know or you don’t…I just wish you could say something to let me know. But that’s the challenge isn’t it? We can’t expect to decipher other’s thoughts. I should probably be bolder, be braver; nothing matters after all, and I actually think that you couldn’t care less…so what excuse do I actually have to avoid you, to not be honest with you, to lie brooding wishfully the day that will never come, when I say that I love you?
The next stage in my hierarchical ideological development of thought regarding my feelings towards you, is to point out and ask,
–hey! what on earth am I doing? I don’t know you, nor do you know me; heck I can’t even be sure if you’ve even actually noticed me at school.
So, now that you know all the necessary particularities of this bummer, what say you?