An Observer's Notebook: Dialogues of a Madman.

something inspired by Tired Pony's song Pieces

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:34:00 +0000

Float with me on dreaming oceans
Where you taste the salt and
Swallow away the light of the day
So you make it midnight.

Slow your breath and make it see
Me; look directly in the eyes
Of eternity which weep and so I
Dry them.

Efforts are scrambled like the skies
And understanding of the clouds
Is as limited as how far you can
Thrown the stars; an armthrow away
From the salty seas of another day.

The future feels smooth with warmth
And you look towards a clock which
Isn't there yet; to the point where
You could never forget what used to never
Be and shrug away the small smiles.

The walls crawl with insects which you
Carefully forget and the shoes with their
Laces were always aware.

Wonderland.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 03:21:00 +0000

'But I don't want to go among mad people', Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can't help that', said the cat.   'We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad'.
'How do you know I'm mad?', said Alice.
'You must be,', said the Cat, 'or you wouln't have come here.
      - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.

*
A mental Home.
An intimidating wall separates the garden of the Home from the world outside.

Slippery tongues, may make
Their way, converting past sanity
From yesterday.

Below those bricks a
Twisted garden spits; the
Writhing world does part its
Lips;

The clouds do yawn, between the dawn,
And that madness, of dusk.

   The sky does blush.
She says.

The drunken dreams of a
Twisted fiend, resides,
Just there, behind the eyes.

The wall, is old; and crumbling,
And cold. Misery does fling his might
Between evenings; he howls his growls,
He bares his back,
His jaws, his feet, to a folded sky,

But,
The wall makes you safe,
   They say,
It keeps us well, and fit, and young.
Dare not stray to the fateful place
It keeps us all out from.

Though I find, between the murmers
The whispers remain,
Amidst the rain; I am not
Convinced.

Suddenly the Wall, of bricks; of assumptions
And tricks, begins to stir; the creeping
Beast, doth bear his
Flashing teeth. Flashing,
He flings a quick
Tail across the night.

Then, at despair, he glimmers, at night;
Gilmmers; when it glimmers, first light!
Rearing its dripping jaw, he
makes to make the world,
Encircled.

And your world is encircled. Gripped with
Terror, you are.
'Behold; but aha!', shrieks he,
'I am the danger, let loose; a
Demon, forsooth, and you
Fear my dangerous grin'.

Around humanity the circle
Extends. 'Is this not your will?' He cries.
'Do you not all feel
Safe, so safe,
Between, above, against this place?'

'I; for it was I!
I, who bore your nameless
Assumptions, and your thoughtless
thoughts! The wall between madness,
And reality;
Reality is sealed,
It would seem, within
The walls, and between,

Yet it always remains.
You all know; I've seen,
Seen, the dreamless faces secretly
Seen; they float; and
Madness, is secretly feared.

Clawing, at the sides, and seams,
It whispers
Softly, in your ear.
How it begs to be heard.
A simple chance; a seductive word.

No longer are you kept
Safe, from these split minds, of
Mine; whole worlds, no less.
But you also learn, disturbed,

That it is now you
Who stands walled, between the world,
Which passes by, outside.

And it is
You,
Who is
Quite mad.
You, who they fear,
Outside'.

-
And the mind, a visceral
Mind, gestating; the total
World, growing and unseen.
The total mind, of all - is scared;
Scared to give in, to that wicked grin.
Which does claw at the sides, and the seams.

For the mind - the childlike mind;
Knows not of the promises, of the wall,
At all. And slowly reaches a small hand.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 19:01:00 +0000

An arena of jeers, of men,
In scruffs; sheer fear,
And cuts, and slices, and bruised
Too. I saw. I saw. I viewed
Them, the soldiers. The soldier-men,
With their antics, of guns, with blood, with
Grimace; their filth, and their fear. Sheer fear, you
See, beyond the ocean and above
Blue hills.
Sailing away, standing high, along
The circle of the sky.

A circle of whisps,
Of trust and of bliss; away, seeking
But all, along the day.

And I am, sublime;
Skating along the ice of time,
Skating along with skates of time,
And on, beyond, to above and to avail.

The tears, of time;
This sorrow of mine.   I peer,
At the fears; the jagged jeer.
Behind its pages I lie, sublime;

In the book, of time. Once, the entry
An adventurer sought; he fought,
And fared, across the
Fields, between the ground and
Above the sky. Perhaps look now
And you shall see him lie,
Singing

But know this. Beware, good
Traveller, of the circus of whisps; the
Quiet place, with whispered jeers muttered,
Against the sky, standing
High.   Beware of the ambling into the past.
*
The baby is still now.   Because he sleeps.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 00:29:00 +0000

Lust's thick mist chokes
A gathering grey;
Tumbling and galloping,
Galloping and tumbling,
Chasing Yesterday.
Note; the paradigm,
Of time - the tasteful rip,
Of skin; carefully eaten away.

An eye whispers; feed
The sound of the senses a
Delicate treat.
A heart; a heart;
A delicious heart to eat.

Breathe the taste of a
Delicious dust turned
Gold. Its eye is familiar,
Though it seems
Betwixt these tumbling dreams,
Of me, of you, of the
Workers, too, it
Creeps by, eye to eye,
And does not breathe.

asha.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 20:03:00 +0000

Have you seenher seenher
      I haven't seen her I saw her last but I don't know when it was like
You know the
Context I can't find it

I've lost the context ? the text of con haha yes whatthefuckdoesthatmean funny funny. missplaced yes missplaced. I don't know where she went.
         So she went?
Yes went went but I dontknow where haveyouseen where she wentwent?

No? Why?
    What do you mean she's gone. so she just left. got bored. upandleft.
where?

I don't know really really I don't know
      look my hands are fiddling probably means I'm nervous so
                                 so where is she at?

She's there. somewhere; I know; somewhere. I think she's
in hiding

from me yes from me of course don't be silly god. she is small . she is
lovely. her eyes I miss her eyes. there's someone else a bit like that yes someone else
                ohh dangerous ohh exciting
but its a small flavour of what years of chewing the other one gave me. the dangerous one is a spice and the main one is a rocket.   har har ha boom.

Eyes, yes, eyeballs yes 'outposts of the brain', yes, I read that somewhere, I did, I read it.   don't you believe me?
           Me neither I mean I can't prove I read it but its fucking there somewhere don't ask me how.
                    it annoys me because its there but I have no idea what there means.   Her eyes; yes I know you saw them too.
But I saw them more. I'd see them once and you'd see them like
a million times and I like would still have saw them more much more.

Little one; her name was little one; that's what I called her. I hugged her from behind. She smiled.

I don't know where she is now or even who she's with probs some guy you know just a douche who doesn't have a heart and has
thick teeth and who she thinks she's found because
     she doesn't know
     what she needs.

I know what she needs though I do I do yeah it's me. sounds silly I know very silly but
   you weren't there for it all. six years six years six years is just a number just a number
   but it used to mean something to me. I don't think you can compress six years of experience just into that one word like
' SIX YEARS'
I don't think it works its just a sound your tongue makes and your lips and stuff. actually experiencing it is a whole different kettle of fish.
   One look at her would though I just would like to see her again you know out and about even I'd probably choke up out of pure overwhelment but you know I would know she's still alive and still ya know
THERE.

Because she isn't there now she isn't anywhere. I've lost her and can't find her. I can't; I've looked high and low and she's just gone. I tried calling to her to get her to me but it just doesn't work . I don't know where she went,

...maybe she ran off and found something and she's just happier there then back here with me who she walked to the woods with in the first place.
I want to see her though I think I need to what she's done to me is ridiculous. #
I'm a babbling wreck.
She has wedgied my reality with a latent psychosis and she knows she has but
     she knows what she's like to and she knows that she feels bad but also actually enjoys not coming back to me when I call, even though I was the one who brought her out here in the first place like
            it was me ya know
            it was fucking me
the fact that she's here anyway it's because of
me.

this is a long thought yes it's
    rather lengthy. but then so is her story to me. an infinite loop circling onto infinity
yeah they know that was kinda the point APRIORI
bastard
god
fucking THINK STRAIGHT.   bent thinking is bad no no no no no angles good angles not bent ones; the geometary of cognition
    is a vital thing so so
    hold onto it.

the tear stains teardrops stains of tears god look at them they're going everywhere now;

my silent tears. tears come from where I don't know where do you? where do yours come from? what noises do yours make; how do they taste. mine are silent. they don't make any noise at all, no, they're too sad. they come from the world I think; it bubbles them up and belches them out for me and all to see and off they go drift and away and sigh to see a different day. I see her and I can't breathe.

I'm not sure asphyxiation
   yes
   yes I feel suffocated but overwhelmed I'm sure
   she's dead bad for me
   I know she is. She is kind of like a
drug really a
drug I need and want and get all
fucked
     up
      over and would be a
   hundred times better off without
yesyes addiction; I think probably neurophysiology would dictate similarly to drug addiction, I bet it would, I bet it would. Look, test, touch my brain, poke it; its brainy and squidges.

I touched her brain. We swapped for a while; pink liquid all changing over and
fucking
   going everywhere;
it was a bit gory tobefair, but ultimately I think
ultimately worth the sacrifice.

I got to know her and now I see what she sees.

It was great when I was with her but she's kind of gone now and I feel like I've been left on my own.

A half is almost a whole, almost, but it cant fend for itself; it needs its other one to survive and thrive and shit. I can't do any of this without the missing half, and she's just fine with it; her half is tougher than mine; beast.

She's not very tough though not very tough like
I know
I know I
   remember how she
talked and what she was
like I know its there its IN MY HEAD but
not here and it
should
be cos the world is in my head anyway so why isn't she here if she's IN THERE
FUCKING IN THERE.
COME OUT.

teeth and hair and skin and nose and other stuff and bits and things.
                                                               where are her ingredients?

where are her ingredients

            to COOK yes fucking cooking boilboil bubbles and stuff

Where is my little one?

fan of Dexter?

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 20:44:00 +0000

[softly spoken; perhaps an internal monologue. The ‘thinker’ is surprised / amused at himself upon ‘voicing’ these thoughts. The language is laced with irony].

A lot of the time the answer was in the rain drops – brooding vessels of humanity that they were. [would-be appreciative] Sliding, skirting past. [genuine] The sound of their fall was beautiful. The mellifluous tones(!); beckoning. The rain was nourishing. I watched the trees; [half-hearted] they sigh with the wind. The green below and the blue above. A distant ocean rolls.

The seagulls are speaking. ‘To A Skylark, by Percy Shelley’. Sixth form: obediently comes the memory trace. It is quiet, and swift.

Although all of that has already happened. [would-be surprised] And so it is old. It is the wind that whispers, as such; [relish] my cheek softly stroked. The notion is precarious. That which was, but no longer is; a relentless march onward; ad infinitum. Tense is a word that does not exist. There is no past; there is no future. Only [--] events. The wind’s touch is soothing. She does try.

The trees agree with me; I am probably bordering on psychosis [intrigued-restrained, amused]. What fun. [split] Postmodernist textbooks will tell you that before, light was truth, and now it is in darkness where we find solace. So textbooks can talk.

Emotion is reality. Emotion heaves the soul. Emotion is - the lifeblood of life (!). [serious] Condom brands. Subjectivity, extra stimulating; Soul-heaver, extra protection; Lifeblood; extra large. Life wishes to penetrate you. In all we see, condoms hang everywhere in chains.

I swim in the sea. That is my solace. A graveyard by night.

But then, everything that has come, depends on what came before it. [relished] Nothing escapes a stopwatch. [discovering, delight] None, are, - original. Life is a quotation; followed by a period.

I don’t know if this can be spoken. The pages of history, all together; I don’t think we can discuss the book of reality in a sentence. [would-be serious] More sentences went into the book than the one which sums it up. The balance is, hardly fair. Too much is felt to be described in a small phrase. An etching. People have felt, too much. The world of each person hangs in the air. [recognising strangeness of it] Heavy, but ignored by all. It dangles [relished]on the tip of the tongue. They are never said, vocalised; never given meaning. I can see these stories. I watch them travel down old streets with shops on the corner. Meanwhile the planet spins.

There is much, that hasn’t been done [trail off]. People have, been too shy. They’ve held back. This makes them bad. Should I savour, this memory trace? A trace of memory?

The last word; the pulse. The pulse, [intrigued] continues. Breathing follows; touch ensues. ..What does touch, feel like? [monotone] The bad skin is noticed and the face moves animated. Do you know her eyes. Can you see a soul; can you hear its words. The magic of courtship. I... am envious.

*

A darkness beckons. It calls. I, don’t really want to answer; but I am going to. A dial turns; the dial turns some more. The infinity is predictably miserable. The oblivion expected. I do not know, yet I am all(!).

Literary Psychology.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 02:31:00 +0000

Y: We start with the Gothic genre, for where else; the Gothic genre is the domain of individual emotional experience; it belongs to Psychology.

Y: We then move onto what the Gothic genre is, exactly, and its relationship to madness. In Gothic fiction, scenes are swelled from normality and brim with drama - an interesting distinction (albeit ultimately incidental) being whether or not this drama perceived from the supposedly fantastic exists within itself a priori or indeed whether it is applied perceptually from the observer in question.

Y: Next we irrevocably come to the mindset of the typical Actor in a Gothic context.

X: No quotations?

Y: Who takes pain to use quotations mid-speech? Quotations, references, and other academic conventions are relics of written communication; their existence and convention being in itself demonstrative on the limitations of human processing in a conversational context; limitations both mechanically - inherent within our psychological machinery - and practically, regards the bewildering subtractive social forces the mind is relentlessly victim to each day during social intercourse. -- Anyway, the typical mentality of the actor.

X: As in, the mentality you think it has.

Y: Given my understanding of it thus far, yes. The Actor is, at least at first consideration, typically emotionally dubious; reactions to things supposedly deemed 'fantastic' (i.e., dramatic) are apparently somewhat disproportionate relative to the 'value' attributed them in the perception of the same object of most other individuals. The Actor however sees in them something almost penetrative. The breath is stolen and the heart is stabbed; this experience of 'being moved' - a giddy, enormous feeling by which such a short phrase hardly does it justice - within day to day experience seems to happen when worldview (expectations and sense of reality applied to the physical world; 'I think the idea of this is beautiful') and actual experience of that world (when the Actor rests eyes or otherwise experiences something which seems in its existence to support this 'take' on the world) essentially, overlap.

X: How are they emotionally dubious?

Y: Because their mentality - emotional stability, identity stability - seem generally unstable and their hold on reality notoriously slippery.

An apologist for the Actor's mindset would say however that this seems quite in line with human experience; the world is at it is insofar as the many vicissitudes of brain-states dictates: for instance on one's sense of time: if one is sleeping, high, or otherwise experiencing an abnormal physiological brain-state different from the day-to-day norm, the apologist would argue that the Actor's reality literally 'is' ever-changing and fluid, and that given such physiological variation and subsequent experiential fluidity, such reality is hardly 'dubious'. Those with interests existing independent from vested emotional belief however (as is the case with the apologist) - science, in all of its impersonal glory - speak differently.

We notice that the individual differs from the majority in this respect; in their experiential emotional intensity, if you will.

X: [amused] I shall.

Y: Glad to hear.

X: So let me try and clarify; this 'Actor' - the typical character within the Gothic genre, who is (conceptually) perfectly capable of existing in 'real life' - feels, or possesses a capacity to feel, a greater emotional intensity than most.

Y: Quite so.

X: What else?

Y: [thinks]... In person, they are probably usually quite furtive in general social intercourse; though should nature flash her colours and demonstrate her might - a storm, a fire, a tossing sea, perhaps - then their true colours show and the shyness will dissolve away immediately. Actually, the relationship between the Actor and nature is an interesting one I haven't yet touched on.

I have said earlier that the Actor feels often vastly 'moved' by 'dramatic' objects. Nature is the most interesting object of sorts in this respect, and also most formidable - as opposed to say, an example of architecture - usually in its sheer 'naturalness'; namely, that no choice has been involved in its physical location. It has not chosen to be there, and, arguably - at least to the Actor - has a far greater right to exist and be the way it is and does more than, say, a person who has 'chosen' to be there and act a certain way. Specifically, nature 'just exists', and the Actor attributes a huge amount of value and respect to this; they feel as though they are glimpsing 'wild and untamed' nature as it is and indeed as it should be.

So, Nature as an object contains (latent) emotional potential. However, this emotional potential only carries any emotional currency when backed by the incidence of Nature rearing her might; something powerful - as above, say, a storm. Otherwise, whilst beautiful, I think nature is generally seen as rather innocuous. A postcard is pretty, not exciting.

Asha.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 23:27:00 +0000

X: Ok. So you think lots. What about her.
Y: Good question indeed.
X: I'm going to ask you what you think about her.
Y: [pause, then] Can it be said?
X: That's sort of the point. How long have you known her for?
Y: Six years.
X: That's a lot of years.
Y: But can one say 'how I feel about her'.
X: Why not though?
Y: [quiet passion] What does it even mean? 'I like her?' I find it dubious to conceive that one can take all the moments they have ever experienced, with that person; and then say, after all the experiences had together; everything which was said, and that which was wanted to be said; - yes, I like her. She's alright.   It doesn't quite do it justice.
X: Ok. But what about her specifically.
Y: [in spite of self, and aware of this] --Feels like me.
X: 'She's you'?
Y: Sounds awful, obviously.
X: But you still think it.
Y: Of course.
X: .. What is she like?
Y: [warming] Fascinating.
X: How though?
Y: She's great. -- You meet her and she blows you away.   - I'm also the single one who knows her.
X: Oh dear. What about Occam's razor.
Y: Yes. It's probably right in this instance.   But I feel it anyway.
X: That's... awfully human of you.
Y: [as before; in spite of self] I can't describe how she makes me feel.
X: 'She'.
Y: Yes I know; I like it too.
X: Your she?
Y: Always.   Interestingly too; it's the only she who threatens all that I am.
X: ['realises'] She humanises you?
Y: [thinking] Yes...
X: And that scares you?
Y: [knowing pause; 'furrowed brow'] Hugely.
X: I'd like to meet her.
Y: I would like to see her again.
X: Where is she now?
Y: [almost nostalgic] I don't know.
X: Will she ever come back?
Y: I'm not sure.
X: Will you wait for her if she did?
Y: ...
Y: I find her absence more interesting. What is a plausible explanation.    She said pretty explicitly she'd want us 'to have the summer together'.
X: What are the possibilities?
Y: Well there are some; 1) that it's too much for her, so she left it; that she didn't like the vulnerability;   2) that she met an alternative, 3) that she's simply too busy. The first is dubious, the second ridiculous, and the third possible, but silly.
X: 'Expand'?
Y: First: true, but unlikely to cause her silence; I've always made her like that, so there is something else accounting for its specific happening now. Second: has happened before as well; other suitors all whom meant well, though paled in comparison to our magnitude. Third: quite possible. It sounds rather like her. But again, the question unanswered remains; why now.
X: Do you think understanding it makes yourself feel better.
Y: Yes; it allows me some control over a situation I have no control over and is very serious to me. In a manner of speaking; the prattling helps.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 23:24:00 +0000

X: just quickly: social norms.
Y: [pleased] Ah yes..
X: What's your take on them.
Y: [quick] Meaningless.
X: Do tell.
Y: Social norms are generated by people; people are raised differently in different places; social norms vary.
X: So they vary? Explain more.
Y: Well, there has been no deliberate thinking behind them. At the moment they are simply a given arbitrary.
X: Yet people take offence to them?
Y: They do, yes!
X: Why.
Y: [shrugs] Seems because they're told its offensive.
X: ..Because they're told.
Y: [earnest] Yes.
X: Not because they actually make any sense?
Y: That is quite the point.
X: Ok... so what would you suggest.
Y: Me? I would suggest nothing.
X: Nothing?
Y: [dead serious] Nothing.
X: But you think they're ridiculous.
Y: They are ridiculous.
X: But?
Y: I suppose they are also essential for day-to-day functioning. I suppose the masses require them. A filter: [subtle mocking] everyone must fit into the box otherwise they are really quite strange.
X: Ah, I see why you would have no time for that.
Y: [knowing] I know.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 23:10:00 +0000

X: [announcing] I'd like to talk more.
Y: [sitting] What about?
X: I'm not sure yet. Can someone want to talk about something which they're not sure what is?
Y: [rising] Isn't that what the case is usually? Of course.
X: Then where would they start?
Y: Who says they have to start anywhere?
X: Yes. So what is it to start.
Y: I don't think I know.
X: Again? I think that's just giving up; you're meant to be smart.
Y: I never said I was smart...
X: [verifies; acknowledges] Hm. So what is the meaning of a beginning?
Y: All things considered I would suppose that a 'beginning' brings with it a notion of finity.
X: [practically annoyed] As opposed to what?
Y: Very good; but predictable. I mention finity; you question it. I say predictable.
X: Yes, why?
Y: Because a human would say that.
X: [again] 'A human would say that'?
Y: Infinity is a difficult concept. Many have gone mad studying it.
X: I thought you said 'mad' was meaningless.
Y: Technically, though there is a general agreement on something we assume to be verdical. Many people - smart people - who have studied infinity have lost any idea on what that agreed reality is. [faint irony] Really, it is essential for day-to-day functioning.
X: Boring.
Y: [thinking aloud] I know..
X: So back to what is predictable.
Y: [preoccupied] -- Yes, of course. You expressed dissatisfaction with the concept of the finity. Do you have a problem with the concept?
X: I think so.
Y: [confident and teachery] Why.
X: I suppose because finity is a limitation. I don't like a limitation; people should be able to do whatever they want whenever they want.
Y: Ok.
X: Ok?
Y: [thinking aloud] Yes..
X: No shredding analysis?
Y: Not immediately.
X: Why? You need time to think?
Y: No. I thought we established I wasn't of that nature.
X: Then howcome?
Y: Because it would make our dialogue sound false. Thinking about it, to be any good at being taking seriously it should ideally resemble plausible human experience.
X: But howcome?
Y: Otherwise people won't take it seriously.
X: And they should take it seriously?
Y: Yes.
X: Why?
Y: Because it has a lot to teach them. But I've finished my pause now. You said life should be infinite; people should be able to do what they want.
X: Yes.
Y: And my analysis?
X: That was what I asked earlier.
Y: [throwaway] Laughable.
X: [amuse / disbelief] Laughable!
Y: [dead serious] Yes..
X: Because it's predictable?
Y: Well it is yes; but I just generally find it amusing.
X: Why amusing?
Y: Because it's all about what you think. We did discuss earlier; the world is there. It is yours, perhaps, but that's hardly to say you have any control over it. I think people tend to be too opinionated. You forget that the world does not care for your personal preferences. It exists on anyway. Rather than make up your mind about this or that, effort should be invested in trying to figure out how reality is put together; if that be at the expense of this or that incidental preference, then so be it. I would encourage it, actually.
X: Yeah, probably; but that's still an opinion you have.
Y: Yes, but its altruistic, in that its point of focus is the welfare of others, who are always far more interesting and important. As I said; I am no one.
X: So?
Y: Perhaps it is a concept worthy of your consideration.
X: ...but how can you be no one?
Y: [shrug] Why, easily; you just are. There isn't a method; that is quite the point.
X: But what if you're not sure?
Y: Uncertainty is attachment. Anonymity is non-attachment. It is something you do by doing it. It cannot be explained or verified or described. Quite the aphorism; you must work it out for yourself.

The Hatter.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 18:38:00 +0000

[White. Minimalist].

[Two characters; one wanders; back-stage left towards front stage-right. Speech is generally unhinged; out of lucid disorientation rather than malice though.

Other stands at front-stage right. Dressed unusually, but perfectly [social] normal; intently gazing at something inconsequential; 'furrowed brow'].

X: 'Hi'
Y:'[delight] Hello'
X:'-- How are you'.
Y:'Very good'
X: 'Cool. Where are we'
Y: 'Have you seen this? Have a look at it'
[prop handed over]. It doesn't belong here'.
X: [interest] ...Where is here?
Y: Where is it not?
X: It doesn't have a name?
Y: I'm afraid I don't understand.
X: Here. What's this place called.
Y: To whom?
X [stumped] - Generally.
Y: I'm not sure what that means...
X: Ok. [Y begins getting out a cloth; makes to put in on the floor].
X: [four seconds] Then who are you?
Y: [amused at question; happy] Who am I not?
X: Do you have a name?
Y: -Not particularly one that matters.
X: What matters then?
Y: -I'm not sure.
X: -- So you don't know.
Y: [quick] -Haven't the faintest idea.
X: Ok. [subject change] I don't know where I am.
Y: Does anyone?
X: [pensive pause; four seconds] You're called the hatter.
Y: I am.
X: And why is that?
Y: Why what?
X: [patient] Why are you called the hatter.
Y: 'The Hatter'? 'The hatter'? Profitless chatter.
X: -Profit to whom though.
Y: [pleased] Exactly!
X: So. We are nowhere.
Y: Yes.
X: And you are no one?
Y: [gaily; at the irony] I am no one!
X: [remembering, but analytical] ..I thought you were always called the Mad hatter.
Y: [pregnant]; Ah.
X: Yet you say that you are just 'the hatter'.
Y: [following lines of thought] Yes..
X: Perhaps it would be polite to give your full name.
Y: [teaching] Ah, yes but then everyone would not understand it would they!
X: 'What is mad'?
Y: Precisely.
X: ....well what is mad then.
Y: Existence.
X: 'Existence'?
Y: Subjective perception.
X: Is this play mad.
Y: Probably. Though its more a dialogue than a play.
X: Maybe its mad based on the assumption that it isn't? In the first place?
Y: Maybe. Though people are more mad generally.
X: How?
Y: [assesses X; is satisfied] The world cannot exist without you who is there to see it.
X: Ok...
Y: If one world is perceived one way, then that is the way of that world. If another does so different, it is matter of different worlds.
X: Different worlds..
Y: Yes. Different as opposed to deviant. So it becomes more about each's simultaneous totality. And how each fundamental in itself.
X: 'Deviant'. So the idea of 'norm' is unstable?
Y: Incredibly.
X: What makes it unstable.
Y: Normal is a judgement; people make judgements; people are raised differently; ideas of normal follow differently. One cannot view the world without superimposing one's own existential paradigm on it.
X: Existential paradigm.
Y: Yes.
X: Bit of a mouthful.
Y: Yes it is.
X:..... are you going to clarify?
Y: Do you wish me to?
X: Well yes!
Y: Well; you live. You have your world; I live, I have mine. Our fundamental personalities are shaped by our individual experiences. This set unique experiences, I suppose, becomes your own paradigm, based on subjective experience, which you filter the world through; eventually.
X: But what is the world? Just perceptual?
Y: I think so. Essentially, you are quite awful.
X: [amused] I am?
Y: Yes. Because you put your own paradigm on everything. It's so self-important.
X: Ok. So what do you do then?
Y: I? I occupy no conceptual space.
X: [probing] Why.
Y: Because I do not know what conceptual space is.

Dubious experiment.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 20:35:00 +0000

Sometimes I dont really know which way flat is. I am not I, and there's a person for a given situation without anything actually being there. Claws on steel?

I once read that psychologists are like bald people handing out hair removal cream. 'an apparent irony'; blah blah.

A style is not a style a word is not a word have you seen a word. Have you seen a word? Eyes cut. Always straight though. Fucking straight.

Who is what? What does he even fucking want?

'I am x'.
'But I change'
'Well I'm mostly x'.
'How can you be mostly x? You're either a certain person or you're not. Who the fuck are you anyway?'.

*
Then I forget any of it matters. Clouds bleed below a dying sun. Shit drips on.

The Real Slim Shady?

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 10:35:00 +0000

Do you like Eminem?   I like Eminem. Since I was like 14, probably younger, he's probably been the main artist I've had rapping in my ears. Whilst somewhat more recent discoveries (like Atmosphere, Sage Francis, Aesop Rock etc., for instance) may have highlighted the different constituents which, together, emerge as 'truly skilled rap' (lyrical sophistication; social perceptiveness; intelligence; originality; emotionality, etc.), Eminem still for me retains a deeply personal attachment and affinity.  Some of 'those cited' are probably better than him at some aspects of rap, yes; but where Eminem really excels - where he properly shines - is his sheer lyrical agility.   Like Rakim (apparently the person who he said he tried to base his signature flow on), and Nas, as well, his competence, simply as a lyracist, is staggering; second-to-none, actually. Jay-Z et al? Their rap is ok. Its industrial rap; commercial; they're ok rappers; they are probably quite good at 'rapping' in the limited, conventional sense, insofar as staying within the predictable remit that rap tends to offer up - suffice to say, innovation is not really one of their buzzwords (read: profit generation).  In terms of their their sheer lyrical skill - delivery, actual construction of rhymes - their expertise is really quite limited..

Now this is all fair and well. I like Eminem lots and lots; he's a great rapper, to say the least. But the point of this post, and indeed what I was gonna say in the first place, was that I have a problem with Eminem recently..

Rewind to 1996; Eminem was Infinite. If you think he's a dazzlingly good lyracist from his later work, you haven't heard Infinite. 15 years ago, and without any hyperbole whatsoever, it was his rap - perhaps even rap generally - probably at its very best. Authentic, straight-up, lo-fi; fantastic.

Then, with the signing by Dre, things changed a bit.   They were still pretty cool - the Slim Shady and Marshall Mathers LPs are great albums - though they admittedly lacked the sheer (lyrical) audacity, the spark, of Infinite.   But he kept going; all the way through to the Eminem show. What was it which made his raps still pretty good? I'm hardly an accomplished critic, a music aficionado, or any some-such, but I think his stuff there was pretty good mainly because it still felt like a person was writing the songs; i.e., the songs were relatable; expository. Earlier, he was rapping about (psychologically) having fun with himself, (bluntly) how fucked up his persona is, and how strange people are, as well as their (funny) probable reactions to this or that persona in his armory. It was sparkling subversive comedy which belied a real humility and a genuine lyrical talent. Later, in the Eminem show, he lost the outageousness a bit, but managed to replace it with a really just generally really 'nice' emotional maturity; the 'growth' over the 3/4 albums seemed apparent; first, audacious; later, outragous; lastly, emotional (cf. Hallie's Song; Soldier; Till I Collapse, etc). It felt human, and accessible, and well-told, and - very good, actually.

But in the thereafter? Encore and beyond? Oh dear. Eminem's sparkle descended into oblivion, and it seemed as though he sort of lost his artistic trajectory.  The general artistic outlook an album has, and the presumable tone each of the tracks within it, usually tend to follow and converge along some sort of linear, particular, outlook, with this may or may not being hinted at in the album title. It is this artistic outlook, this guiding sense of style, which, after the Eminem show, seems as though it slipped away. The result is his subsequent albums - Encore and beyond - not actually being 'about' much. Perhaps in the superficial sense they are 'about' something, where say a banana is indeed 'about' a colour by virtue of it being 'yellow' (as opposed to the deeper, more significant level of it actually being 'a fruit' - intrinsic property rather than its apparent ones), but not really. As a result, the work was sapped of all the genuine emotionality which really made it attractive to me initially. Eminem started getting irate; the comedy went from flippant to just silly, foregoing much of his artististic coherence in doing so. Most of the tracks on Relapse are just hollow. They're forgettable. What songs were they? Medicine Ball? We Made You? The names are forgettable, the content incoherent.

What is it like now? No doubt you have noticed, but Eminem's raps have no personality. Before he was a thoughtful, at-times flippant (though only just for the fun of it), sensitive rapper, looking from the inside out. This lasted to the Eminem show, and material similar to that - hence the moving nature of songs like Sing for the Moment, Cleaning out my Closet, Hallie's Song, Soldier, etc. etc. These were heartfelt stories; and you could that tell listening to them. That's what made them good.

Now? Now its awful! It seems like he's doing the very opposite to what made him initially attractive to me. Before he was on the periphery of rap; always and adamant; scorchingly talented yet defiantly external. He didn't show up to this or that award ceremony; he thought they were silly. He was an anamoly, and a damn good one at that; decidedly mainstream, though also individual to the last. But now..!   Now, in the songs from his latest album, 'Recovery' (apparently (re)named as such because it was realised as being a departure from the latest dark but basically shapeless endeavor, Relapse) he's rapping about Rockefeller, 'Kanye', 'Lil Wayne'. Yuk. I was very glad when I first heard he wasn't in fact retiring; but, there is something to be said for quitting while you're ahead...   Now he's just spewing out mainstream irrelevance which people like and eat up, quite simply, 'because it's Eminem'.

No. It's decidedly not Eminem; at least it is not what he used to be. His music has lost all of its emotionality, and that's for me what made it meaningful and interesting in the first place. He managed to tell a good story whilst keeping it lyrically respectable, to say the least. Now its like he's not so much bothered with the first bit and is just spitting everywhere, experimenting, apparently, simply with raw lyrical pizzazz.

..But its not even very good. Lyrical experimentation at its best was Infinite. It could be said that, because there was no 'Eminem / Slimshady / Marshall Mathers' pretentious quadtyc, his music was so much more authentic, with him just as a guy, off the street, spittin into a mic, speculating, ruminating, experimenting; a talented young rapper, with high ambitions.

Later, history was not so kind.   'Don't get me wrong'; there were probably one or two genuinely good tracks on Relapse - one of which I remember being 'Same Song and Dance'; an intriguing foray into the mind of a serial rapist who raped then murdered his victims. This was Marshall Mathers LP, Kim, all over again - unashamedly experimental, dark, writhing and twisted; brave, bold, and very interesting indeed; the production and the content tied together seamlessly; eerie, psychological, deranged; it was quite the cerebral feast, actually. 'The thing is though', aside from that and perhaps one or two other songs on Relapse, Relapse and its successor, 'Recovery' (formerly 'Relapse 2') seem dredged in a self-important, supersaturated tone of the hypermainstream, which basically says, I've been making music for ages, you still fucking like it, haha; isn't that funny; now I'm working with other rappers (with him being perceptively aware of the reception of his later work and mocking it anyway; very smart).

No, it isn't smart; its easy to not be emotional in rap; its easy, largely meaningless, and (accordingly) rubbish. The emotionality, the genuine 'feeling' that was so present in his earlier work - or even just the light-hearted funniness he decided to (for the fun of it) lace it with, was great.   Now? Dear o dear... there's just no driving shape to the material he writes anymore; he seems to have gone on this Relapse-thing about presumably how fucked up and angry he is and how he's gonna lash out and just 'write what's on his mind', because, obviously, spilling out all the 30-something torturous angst is what makes it so intense and raw in the first place.

Please. 'Raw' is not a good adjective; you don't want to eat a raw steak - those who 'say shit' about how far out you are for eating it, how much the 'rawness' brings with it a quintessential substantiality, and how any of that 'cooking business' ruins that almost primordial essentiality of that ol steak are quite conclusively talking bollocks. You cook your food; you don't serve it 'raw' and make up some culinary rhetoric about its inherent respectability and ruggedness and how much more desirable that is to the alternative; because it isn't. Bizarrely, it seems Eminem's work follows similar suit.

I don't buy it. The old Eminem - funny, observant, talented and very much un-self important - has decidedly gone. He's not dreaming of making it big (Infinite, Slim Shady LP), or even worried about the consequences himself of doing so (Eminem Show). Now he is, quite simply, unapologetically been devoured and gobbled up by the mainstream.. It's like Dizzee Rascal, except obviously Eminem is much more talented: a young, angry dude, having enough with society and its normalities, decided to utilise their talent and preach his observations, wonderings and ruminations - reporting both those on others as well as those on themselves. And the initial material is fantastic.

Then though, with the gradual accumulation of more wealth, and more status, both 'artists', inexorably, sold out.   Have you heard 'Dizzee Rascal' now (often in his hayday he was compared with another 'grime' rapper, Wiley; but, for the record, Wiley is just awful)?   In 'Boy in da Corner', DR was rapping about the social rollercoaster of school life; respect; playground mating rituals (I Luv You); the development of a bubbling sexuality, far ahead of intellectual maturational development (Jezebel) - and the interesting consequences of this - and others. Have you heard the lyrics on either of those tracks? Again; it was thoughtful, skilled; real. If you have any time for rap, at all, these are both tracks you must listen to, and have time for.   .. But now? 'Dizzee' raps about nothing. The music - both with DR as well as Eminem - has lost its specificity; its character; its exclusivity. In the old music, life was lived and reported. Now, things have shifted; rapping is no longer reported from observation and experience (also a la Eminem), but from silly ideas; vomiting its reach across some overarching aim of appealing generality to the masses. Unfortunately for the deeply interested few, generality comes monotony; in either rapper doing so, any prior actual substance in their music is now completely watered down.

'Indeed', popular rap, either side of the Atlantic, in spite of its 'street talking' street ego with certainly no time for academia, seems ironically dogged by something of a theoretical paradox. Namely, the 'thought experiment' of sorts being with rappers: how can they be so 'angry', when they can buy every house in their old 'hood' several times over? Lil' Wayne (awful name) retorted to such a problem by saying he was 'just so fucking pissed off he wanted to drop the world on someone's head'; and proceeded to make a very good song out of it, actually (the emotional intensity - and thus its authenticity, or reality, was very good indeed). But, ultimately, he evaded the question, and thus the problem.    Eminem seems to be attempting to do the same; somehow, he's still angry. He talks about 'the past few albums', and does apologise repeatedly, to his credit (or detriment), I suppose; but its an empty apology.  There's all talk and no actual decent, SLOW, thoughtful, lyrical material to back it up.   Eminem seems to be an MC who's gone to seed; but is, apparently, very aware of that, and that is actually the point, and he uses it as his main ammo in the majority of his raps, thanksverymuch...

I don't like it; its just loud noise. This is the point.   It's all so rushed; there's no thought behind the raps - where before the lyrical agility was excellent and fitted perfectly with the actual semantics of his lines, now its just run amock. Eminem's songs aren't carefully, meticulously thought through anymore. There's little to no substance in his work; there's nothing to listen to. Just 'beef steaks on floors' (I quote), how fucked up he now is over his 'best friend's death', how he 'almost attacked 'Kanye' and 'Lil Wayne' (and how very sorry he was that he did that in the first place), blah blah blah.    Where before Eminem was rapping within a solid story, a real emotionality, and genunie skill which didn't encroach on the subtlety of the material, now there is simply just no guidance. He just spits spits spits substanceless, self-involved chatter, even attacking 'the critics' on one track from his latest album. Its a terrible defense really, and a silly move, regardless, which just acts to highlight what he's now become, substantiating the same crtics he rallied against a priori.

A smart, good rapper wouldn't 'hit back at the haters'; if they were to address it at all, they'd comment on their view, and perhaps argue that they think their 'hate' is mistaken and misplaced, and / or how such comments are representative of society overall -- or just relate it to something bigger than defending their own petty reactionary ego - 'rep'.   There's no need to 'hit back at us', Eminem. We're not attacking you; we're just let down by what you've become and miss what you used to be.

His music no longer interests me really, and that is very unfortunate indeed, given that I largely grew up to his raps throughout my young-teen years.

And so, without falling prey to quite the cliche - will the real slim shady please stand up?

Introspection.

noreply@blogger.com (shifty) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 15:10:00 +0000

I say I look, and observe, and know others; but; why not observe myself?

In the great days of yore, psychologists and other thinkers of people - philosophers - worked on introspection; it formed the basis of much of their writings, and indeed remains much quoted and respected to this day. No longer is this fashionable, but I decided to do a bit of introspection anyway.

I noticed something the other day; something that is a part of me and has happened for a fairly long time until this point, but the most recent instance was different. Why. Because I watched it myself; I watched my own feelings and reactions to the situation; the way red flags went up and certain cogs started moving. I recognised them, found them interesting; but, ultimately, as I say, arbitrary. I decided it right to stop them. It worked, a little bit, but felt very bit strange after.

What am I talking about? As you know, this is a blog of a narcissist. What is it about narcissists? Apparently we are full of ourselves - not even in a superficial sense, but fundamentally, in terms of the self-centerednessthat is part of our reality; the feeling which precedes all phenomological experience, and isn't 'bad' or 'arrogant', but simply a part of our personality - yes; but, strangely enough, we all have a certain sense of fragility about us. I have a citation for this, but I'm choosing not to use it, as I want to keep this free-flowing. This fragility - self-doubt, loathing, whatever the poets may choose to call it - is the reason which spurs us on a never-ending pursuit of 'chronic self-enhancement'; simply for the fact we may feel better about ourselves and escape our own scalding view of others as somehow imperfect.

Anyway; the 'problem', or feature, seems to be mainly in the pride (I presume that) such narcissism affords. With excessive pride comes an intolerance for imperfection. In myself as well as everything else; this drive, whilst perhaps good in a few rare, isolated instances, is, I noticed, generally bad.   It works to the detriment of myself as well as those around me.

So what actually happened. Briefly - I was texting an ex. She suggested that, were she to visit soon, she 'doubted I'd be able to control myself'. Again, I feel the flags go up just in talking about it. It was precisely this phrase which kicked it all off. Immediately after comprehending what she said, her mindset, the affront to my self-esteem was intolerable.  Then, for her to speak as though (her impression of me) I was anything BUT in total, 'perfect' control of myself, was very difficult to bear indeed.  Now when this usually happens, I slam the person; I am fickle, and dismiss and forget about them. I don't pay attention to it; I judge them as otherwise-misinformed and feel insulted they'd insinuate such lack of self-control of my part. This has happened before with her; in requesting for sex for instance, being told, 'no'; I've taken it personally and, basically, thought, well fuck you then... I remember watching her sad eyes on seeing me discard her those nights and adopting that attitude. 'It's not personal!' she protested. I probably lay there and grumbled. Now I see that she had a very valid point.

Ok. So we glimpse the strange mechanics of my personality. But then, obviously, I am inclined to ask - if this is something to the detriment of myself and others around me, -- why is it there? This reaction seems to have its basis in nothing but arbitrariness. So, in line with what I say and the way I think things should be (never arbitrary, always reasoned, or having some evidence-base), I've decided, enough.  I say no more being bitchy to people about my own shit. If you don't do the best that's normal. Deal with it and maybe try better next time.   Yes, sometimes you will 'succumb to temptation', but so what; you'll wake up then next day and carry on anyway. You're a person, like everyone else; sometimes you fall off the horse; like everyone else. It's normal. Get back on it and stop whinging.

...I seem to have a nasty streak which takes nothing serious, given its (apparent, to me) lack of grounding in any social reality (which I deem as more veridical than others - namely, in reading a form versus having a chat). To illustrate: my upcoming dissertation. I was reading some paperwork on it recently, and again, found myself thinking, 'ha, third year dissertations. How insignificant. This is a chore for the University; no one really cares about them. You're still just a graduate. Dear o dear'.

... What outlook is this? Where would this take me?   At what point do you stop being 'just' anything? The scary thing was, I realised that this view would have no end. 5, 10 years from now, I would be working in some career - whichever one I end up pursuing - and, with this same mindset, not take any of it seriously; to see it all as bureaucracy; and a chore to most.   Nothing would ever be completely 'as I want it', and I would spend forever chasing a dream.

Yesyesyes, no one cares, rahrahrah, and all the rest of it -- but; what if I perhaps was, am, actually - wrong?   Thinking rationally, this is the far more likely option than me being right.  What if my ex didn't mean it personally? What if the University does care about its graduates?   What if some people are interested in your dissertation?   What if people aren't 'people', but merely products of their social environment, and I've only completely succumbed to the same Fundamental Attribution Error I try and make a very careful point to avoid..?

This is quite the thing to get your head around; I feel as though I am going through a similar experience as that gone through by Descartes. A deconstruction of one's own reality solely for the sake of empirical truth. It is difficult; very strange - I'm navigating my way through unchartered waters here.  How should I behave in a given scenario with my new outlook and aims; how should I navigate my own social world.  The feeling - upheaval, unfamilarity - is quite unpleasant, and incredibly difficult.   For now though, it is something which seems something worth pursuing, I think.

It is almost like trying to pull a knife out of someone. They say just pulling it out is not the best way to handle it. Conversely, it would be psychologically catastrophic if I suddenly discarded my pride. This is something which must be worked and, and slowly drawn out; laid to rest.   Perhaps life is better when not taken so seriously; perhaps 'just letting go' is something to live by.

To end? Maybe my outlook is incorrect; maybe I am just another person who has views on others solely on the basis of my own limited experience.  This is easily the more likely account of reality; its about time I started learning to live with it.