Manu

So I mostly try to maneuver my way into whatever conception a person wants to be me in, so long as it allows me to retain a certain control. I hate not having control. I love being able to manipulate responses. I exist in various states. I’m not one person. I am many people. I do my best to be whoever I can to whoever someone wants me to be. I am sensitive to peoples needs and I make sure I can superficially satisfy them with the right responses and behaviors.

I picked up the phone, but my heart sunk and my fingers trembled at the thought of what I was going to say. It didn’t exactly matter, but to me it did. To me it mattered a whole lot.

What should I write about? Being hollow. I hate harping on being hollow. Blah. I dream of an ideal life and it begins to bud and blossom, lifting a veil as though the gray began to evaporate into brilliant blue. I can see myself, full of passion, or diliberation, or something intentional rather than half ass and half meaningful.

I want to be hurting. I want pain. I do not want equilibirum. I don’t know how to impose equilibirum, but when it’s imposed on me I become pacified and passive, utterly facile and fatuous. My life’s meaning suddenly exfoliates and falls to the ground and I’m left looking at an empty shell of reasons and motives.

What story? I need story. NEED. These words. They designate some necessity, some compulsive demand. But there is none. It is all percieved. Content, like the stoics, I brush off the ‘need’ for this or that and instead I chose these vices, addictions, and the like as a matter of taste rather than necessity. It becomes silly and trivial.

How to transcend your mind? Get out of this shell? I wonder? Meditation. Drugs? Perhaps. Perhaps it’s throwing myself into the unknown, the unfamiliar. But god.. it’s all familiar. Then it dawns on me… the nausea. It begins to creep again. Meaning evaporates under its heavy wings, and coolness chills my world to the bitter bone. I begin to gnaw at this bone, in anxious compromise, in negligent care of my self worth. How to speak worthwhile? How to choose?

Why do I feel like I’m swimming in a generation of utterly retarded everything? BAEofheaihc

Mer

Why don’t I write? Some inadequecy that lurks beneath. Something that grips my motives and violently shakes me into retreat. Why? I mean, I’m not sure exactly. Sententious speak.

As predicted, the world’s boiling over. This world, this society, living in delusional states, it’s vapid affairs simply rolling along, not because there’s any inherent meaning and necessity to the madness, but because us men, us intrepid sheep, are suckers for tradition, for the familiar inheritances we deem as having so much value. When, in reality, it’s nothing but mindless manipulation. When we try to escape, we escape only deeper, not beyond.

Drunk.

This summer is coming to a close. A good amount of drinking, and reading, and traveling has been accomplished. I like to think every experience amounts to some value, but I must remember that context determines all meaning, all utility, all purpose. Am I any more of a person? Eh. Let’s define the context, right? Well, I sure as hell don’t have an answer at the moment.

I need to expunge so much. Blah. I’ve been working two jobs. One, at Wells Fargo Advisors working for a wealth management group. The other, a manufacturing job at International Ceramic Engineering. There’s a pretty steep contrast between the two jobs. One is saturated with intelligent, driven, ambitious white collared workers; the other involves the illiterate, mostly foreign, blue collar laborers. At the engineering company I press buttons all day. I literally bring a book to work that I read while I’m on the job. It’s too un-stimulating to bear otherwise. I read a book every other day. It’s been great for reading. It’s also been great for showing me what the vast majority of uneducated American’s do every day to provide for their families and make a living. Vastly different dispositions in the working peers I encounter each day. Vastly different experiences gained. I’ll add more later.

Our world is pretty messed up at the moment. Or, at least, that’s how it’s being portrayed in the media and news. I’m not sure if they are capitalizing on the opportunity to inflate mild market shifts to instill fear, or if there really is reason to be concerned for the stability of the world. Riots, market volatility and crashes, unemployment, violence, political bickering and selfish debating, fiscal irresponsibility and mismanagement, misplaced policy priorities: the list could continue along.

I need to contemplate more, extract more from my mind, my experiences. It’s not enough to have an expeirence. You must make an experience work for you, make somehting of it, recall it and give it meaning, contextualize it. You know? Many people have experiences, and

The Rational & Intuitive Struggle

There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic. They both desire to rule over life: the former, by knowing how to meet his principle needs by means of foresight, prudence, and regularity; the latter, by disregarding these needs and, as an “overjoyed hero,” counting as real only that life which has been disguised as illusion and beauty. -Friedrich Nietzsche

What is it about life that I just can’t get a grip on? Where is the consistency? Do I give life ground? Or does it just float, to and fro, out of reach? I’d like to say my life was whole, was coherent and clear, but that simply isn’t the case. I envy those with naive dreams. I long to be whisked away into ethereal imaginings, but that simply will not do.

What is nauseating is routine. What is terrible is the familiarity. It breeds boredom. The stale nature of permanence. Tradition. This is why I yearn for adventure, for chaos, for the unpredictable. I want the painful, the scary, the out of control. I don’t want to get a grip. The harder you squeeze, the more it escapes through your fingers.

I wish I could write about something important. I wish I could produce a novel insight that actually leaves me feeling inspired. I’m tired of talking about flames and fire and passion and mind and wit. Its stupid. I just want to wake up. Wake up forever. How do I shake myself out of it? Sadness, the despairing shadow that keeps in step, follows me. It lurks on the other side of the sunshine. How do I ignore its bleak contrast? It elucidates nothing. It gives depth, but it obscures and blurs.

What is important? I can’t figure it out. I can’t seem to see past the same old thoughts. My identity? It fluctuates. It is never regular. Not inside anyway. Success today? How about sadness? Deep? Trivial? Adventure? Security? Why oh why can’t I find a balance. Why can’t I ingest some illusions that allow me to transcend this skepticism?

Normally I’d find something wrong with this situation, but what criteria would I judge it by? I am not ‘sad’ per se. Nor am I ‘happy’. I am constantly overflowing, and this leaves me feeling incomplete. Why can’t I fit anything more into my world? Where is the color? I don’t know how else to describe it other than color. Color incites the senses. It is phenomenal. It actually moves you into a mood. Moods are powerful. Temporary as they are.

I think I know what my problem is. The will. My will. I have lost control of myself. My vision has faltered. My body has slowly settled. Settled with what? Demands. Expectations. Routine. It kills me inside. But I know these are permanent facets to life. I cannot escape them. School, work, whatever, the real world, they will persist and remain. I must learn to direct myself, master the sub conscious, and overcome the will.

Deciding is the issue. Having a self generated purpose seems so fabricated. I’d like some spiritual, transcendent calling. But why? Just so I can escape the responsibility of individuating my own being? Of declaring an original voice?

I’d like to wake up with a bolt of lightning. I want it to zap me and keep me charged all day and when night comes, I soar into open dreams.

There is something wrong with my thoughts. With my conception of self, of the identity. I don’t have to acknowledge everything. I am biased anyway. My current perspective is not whole. It is mostly lies. I don’t see the whole picture. In fact, I’ve got myself believing that there is a whole picture. There isn’t. Us humans can only indulge in slivers at a time. Our perspective is a simple slice of possibility. We need to flow from slice to slice accidentally, free forming our experiences from the vast material of the moment.

I need wonder. WONDER. SMILE & WONDER. Do I generate it? I also need justification. It provides a confidence in my intention. I need a strong intention. A wild imagination. I want to throw myself onto the world. At the world. With the world. I want to preserve what’s mine. I don’t want to become one with them.

I feel totally out of my mind. Something needs to give.

Lucy

LSD is like a surprise party you’ve heard all about; even before the first encounter you believe yourself to be distantly acquainted like an astral soul mate. As the time approaches you believe yourself prepared and ready, maintaining a perfectly formed idea of the minute details comprising the events of the party: where it’s at, whats going to happen, who’s gonna be there. You are terribly excited and cannot wait to be greeted by the anticipated surprise.  However, as one who savors the novelty of life, you go to great lengths to ensure the vernal appeal is fully preserved. You sneak up quietly, tip-toeing, trying not to disrupt the au courant beauty of your expectations. You await the glory, the thrill and approbation.

At the last expecting moment you feel an abrupt slap in the ass that throws you into an utterly befuddled, confused state. Swiftly, you swing around to find a retinue of happy, joyous, strange, aliens cheering your arrival. You do not know these people, you do not know why they are looking at you with such glib enthusiasm. You don’t know whether to greet them with a smile and beam equal joy, or recoil in alarming fear. This does not parse well with your expectations. You were expecting a party, but this is not the party you thought you’d attend. These are strangers, unknown to you. Their visage may suggest a warm disarming invitation to stay, but there is a strangeness. Do I embrace these outstretch arms and party with conviviality and without consternation? Or do I attempt to run? Should I escape and flee to a more familiar place? Perhaps the party I expected?

Little do you know, in that moment, you have no choice in the matter. You cannot cross  the thresh hold twice. Fate has left you here and this is the party you must attend. The sooner you embrace it, the sooner you can appreciate it. Running from it is like running inward. There is no escape. You only go deeper and deeper, until you lose yourself. You cannot escape yourself.

Ram.Bull.

Ramble.

What is attention deficit disorder? The inability to effectively repeat, mimic, or imitate.  The inability to conform to static behaviors and maintain rigid habits.

Math is broadly rigid and narrowly flexible.  Math is a process of iteration where rules are applied and cross applied until a solution is worked out. Language is broadly flexible and narrowly rigid. Language is a creative process governed by general conventions.

My theory of everything is an economic theory of mind. Central is the role of demands on equilibrium states. It holds that forces, positive or negative, interact with innate self-preservation mechanisms that result in the formation of mind.

Why language? Why am I so fascinated by language? It is an expression of my being, just like any other expression.