Countless emotions and energies to process into myself. Where’d they all come from, and why am I under their siege? Now in the clarity that comes from externalization (in this case mid night writing) I feel like the answer is clear—they never were allowed to dissipate, be absorbed, or prosorbed: taken forward into evolution. They were just unspoken, unheard tragedies that linger on and even grow as weak generation after weak generation defers dealing with them. Well I am not one of those weak generations, so I am under siege by not just the breadth of genealogical back-log of lingering negativity, I feel as I’m under siege by my own generation’s weakness to deal with these energies and a bad karmic flow of it. They (my generation) are grand escape artists, except that there is not art in it, and there is nothing grand about it—at least on the individual level where countless individuals slink into prefigured norms such as pointless unneeded work and then private-indoor bread and circuses, mostly generated by the entertainment aspect of the culture industry. They escape themselves, and the obligations of the
People don’t know how to unplug, they just replug into a relaxing aspect of the same Matrix they were trying to escape.
I really don’t know where to put the suicidal energies. I have hundred of poems inside of me, but I fear to even begin writing them for the OCD that is so close to me will start telling me they are less than perfect and will stay my hand from releasing
The fucked up thing about language is that I don’t even know if this is what I’m thinking. It’s just the logic of language dictating the linear word “flow” come out in a certain way. I want this to be readable, but asdlfkjsflkjdsflsdkasfdfsadfladsj; feels a bit more expressive of me but less of the reader. Who the fuck would read this? And I don’t say that in a self-pity kind of way. I have no desire to read other people’s works. I think basically all written works and to get even larger—all human inventions, all human work, all human pastimes—are all a bunch of shit. I have little desire to toil through my own writings and expressions, no matter how decent and insightful they might be, and I have even less of a desire
Am I now a different character in an existentialist’s play? I don’t have a name for them, but I think I used to be one of the characters with great anxiety but also great love and hope. Now I am the cynical misanthropic one. I hate the word misanthropy and I hate that humans thought of it, obscuring that there are people who hate humans. Be proud of hating humans! Be a human-hater. I am even more proud because I’m both a human hater and a human lover. I hate most humans’ ideas and lack of thought, and there behaviors linked to their non-reflexive. I hate this in myself. I hate their sheepishness. I hate this in myself. I hate how their norms and ideas invade me and create a plaque. I love the human spirit, and its spontaneity, and that it breaks free from the countless generations of damage and shit all in an instant, when two or a group connect and come alive, or when an overpowering biological environment surrounds an absent human and brings them in to full, undeniable presence. This I love. I love the joy found in children. I absolutely fucking hate the control of authorities, I hate the weakness and pr
And so I write aphorisms, a lazy mode of expression.
We must do our part, and not just part of our part. And you must do your part, and not just part of your part.
I’m sick from being around people who think with their logic and not with their love.
Usually they are too weak to look up to somebody that is above them. Doubt in the sky doesn’t come from eyes raised but from eyes lowered.
No one else can say whether you’ve won or lost because they don’t know what you’re journey is playing for.
We are so successful as a protest force because we are not protesters, we are revolutionaries with a vision of a future that doesn’t end in our mass extinction.
I am a nomad and I forage for revolution. 2019 this fruit is ripe—join in and bring your own fire to counteract the Earth’s blazing fever.
Wild Earthlings with their wild Earth blings. (picture forthcoming)
I can’t escape it. I agreed I’m in the immanence, and only in the immanence. And the immanence—the Universal self-containing totality—is imploding.
Anyone you have to push to do the right thing is not a friend, they are a vulnerability in the enemy’s campaign.
Road blocking is an end in itself—an end to cars.
The real problem is when we let the matrix enter into us.
Fight for the living.
Figure it out when you get there, or you simultaneously disrespect the integrity of both here and there. #immanent #nomad
There is no theory of immanence—only the theoretical is theoretical.