portrait of the artist as a pretty sex object @ 12:15 pm
there has been lots of death
talk of death lately
I feel like I'm being tested
to be plain: I would never actively kill myself
and do my best not to passively do so other
I am living
even if I have no idea why and what-for
a good friend of mine, a deamon, once gave a man he knew cyanide and that man ended his life with it
the action haunts his living
all of his family is dead now
some people I would say "death is the best thing for them"
but probably not "death is the best thing for you"
it is tricky to judge the worth of another's life
apparently I cannot even judge my own
so what can I know?
I don't know why they are alive
in algebra, in algebra
sentences that do not rhyme
I see no sense no sense no sense
this boy in front of me is ostensibly pretty
he probably belongs to my community of cubby acquaintances
is he a lawyer? photographer? graphic designer?
I distain his very being
for that tattoo, nipple ring, haircut, glasses and wearing those clothes non-ironically
he's probably much more in sync with the world than I am
and he's enjoying it
he's sexy and enjoys showing it off
he wants people like him and enjoys feeling people want him
-- he wouldn't talk about it
but do it, be it
there is nothing wrong about it
perhaps I am just a jealous reject
when did I prefer to do my pushups and keep my arms covered?
I cannot help but put myself in a lower rung because I do not understand the nature of humanity
but if I do it is detestable
thus I musn't for I desire the world to be beautiful
my pronouncements turn it ugly
this discrepancy I want to heal
but obvious beauty is not succulent to me
perhaps I am just perverted
all of this to say
in this death-crown my mind is wearing
I looked through my iBooks
and picked James Joyce's "Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man"
I am surprised I've never even tried to read it before
it's fucking crazy
in the opaque, yet open style it's written
he's handing it easily forward
yet it's sliding quickly through time/space/life
so the mind can rip through the text quickly
knowing it is not intended to understand
but to dream the book
is there anything in there but the experience?
I'll look and see
but less paranoid than "The Crying of Lot 49" which I just finished