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Apr. 13th, 2010

Enriched with vitamin X.

And now, to both my serious followers and pedestrian viewers alike, a detour from the verbose cerebral hemorrhaging you've normally come to expect from this journal. Prompted by an idyllic view of my front lawn, framed with the words - The Arithmetical Paradox: The Oneness of Mind. Facilitated in roughly equal parts by caffeine, Karl Popper, leaky epistemological valves, an extensive history of theological upheaval and the incidental overexposure to eastern philosophy.

Life is valuable in itself. 'Be reverent towards life' is how Albert Schweitzer has framed the fundamental commandment of ethics. Nature has no reverence towards life. Nature treats life as though it were the most  valueless thing in the world. Produced million-fold it is for the greatest part rapidly annihilated or cast as prey before other life to feed it. This precisely is the master-method of producing ever-new forms of life. 'Thou shalt not torture, thou shalt not inflict pain!' Nature is ignorant of this commandment. Its creatures depend upon racking each other in everlasting strife.
'There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.' No natural happening is in itself either good or bad, nor is it in itself either beautiful or ugly. The values are missing, and quite particularly meaning and end are missing. Nature does not act on purposes.
Most painful is the absolute silence of all our scientific investigations towards our questions concerning the meaning and scope of the whole display. The more attentively we watch it, the more aimless and foolish it appears to be. The show that is going on obviously acquires meaning only with regard to the mind that contemplates it. But what science tells us about this relationship is patently absurd: as if mind had only been produced by that very display that it is now watching and would pass away with it when the sun finally cools down and the earth has been turned into a desert of ice and snow.
Let me briefly mention the notorious atheism of science which comes, of course, under the same heading. Science has to suffer this reproach again and again, but unjustly so. No personal god can form part of a world model that has only become accessible at the cost of removing everything personal from it. We know, when God is experienced, this is an event as real as an immediate sense perception or as one's own personality. Like them it must be missing in the space-time picture. I do not find God anywhere in space and time - that is what the honest naturalist tells you. For this they incur blame from those whose catechism is written: God is spirit.

In closing. A few quotes from the beloved swiss patent clerk turned revolutionary thinker who forever changed our view of the universe. Reverently invoking the god of Spinoza and trouncing the accusations of his professed Christianity.

"A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, of the manifestations of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty - it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute the truly religious attitude; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man."

"The most beautiful and most profound experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the sower of all true science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms - this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness."

Pantheistic sentimentality? Deistic musings? In MY journal? Strange indeed.
Semi-aimless thinking. NOT endorsement!

Still sincerely your most anti-theistic of raving lunatics,
Godless heathen.

Apr. 4th, 2010

He Has Risen!

Easter Basket from Rachel. Nice touch with the white chocolate cross, and assorted marsh mellow crucifixes. Nothing like celebrating some torturous iconography with a little refined sugar. Had a great time. Memorable moments include:

1. Trying to kill a wasp with a soft bristled brush despite her urging me not to.
2. Annoying her with said brush in front of the neighbors.
3. All interactions with Bill.
4. Seeing a guy kill a giant mutant spider with the disembodied head of a ten-point buck.
5. Fan incident. Diagonal bed. Suspicious rattling.
6. Eating a funeral cookie.


1. "What just happened?"
2. "Harder."
3. "That's what she said."
4. "I should slap you."

All in all. Best pre-easter sacrament I've ever had. If only the missionaries would've showed up...

Mar. 19th, 2010

Human, all too human.

Comfort comes in many varieties. Those who're eminently flawed, and constituted towards an often suicidal self-awareness in the face of unsavory truths, find solidarity in those who're also predisposed to observing a certain modicum of integrity to their foibles. Those whose most valued reassurance is in being accepted not only in spite of the painful fidelity to their flaws, but because of it. Those with the courage to acknowledge all that is fractured and less than ideal about the lattice work which holds them tenuously above the ruin of their lives. The admission is always unmistakable in its sincerity and hue. Its beauty preserved because of its inherit hostility towards caricature. Emulation can only manage to drone or coerce the sympathies through tragic utterance. What is real is in the sinews, living and breathing and scared to death of its own nature. But recognized, and loved.
For them, the cultivated ruse is undesirable. The props and shticks used to further hollow the chasms of disparity between person and character - hold no lasting appeal. Their regard cuts through the smoke and mist. Their hands are eager to pass through the holograms which strut about the social milieu in unwitting self-parody, so that their fingers may find purchase on the twisted and shambling wreck which diligently pulls the levers. The homunculus behind the controls. Illusions cannot be maintained in the face of such determined advance.

That these people exist gives me some solace. I am grateful to one in particular for peering into all that is decrepit in me and being undaunted. She knows who she is.

When you read this, I hope you understand.


Mar. 15th, 2010

The bats have left the bell tower. Bela Lugosi's dead.

Quite a memorable pair of days. Symmetry was the operative word. Of the hard reminders, a few meet the criteria. Explaining would be pointless. Empty conjecture will fill in the blanks for the multiple choice fiends. The a.) b.) c.) and d.) of the uninformed will be as patently soulless, wrong, and bigoted as ever. Correction, after all, requires certain basic materials. Music stirred nerves and memories, incentivized pain and private reconciliations. We chanced multiple encounters with laughter. Very often it came like a thief in the night and worked its larcenous deprivations on all that was relevant and meaningful. Other times it smashed through the door, looked confused, then departed without explanation or apology. On the whole it came as easily as it ever has, and was welcomed. Smiles were prolific and random. Sighs were frequent. Things have never been prosaic between us, and we both enjoy these departures from the trite meanderings we've encountered so often.

A few important take-homes: Sometimes it's best not to try to feed your lover, or expect her to feed you in kind. "Baby" is not always an acceptable gesture of endearment, but the reaction definitely is. Sometimes the heat of passion is way too literal. I should listen to a few albums more thoroughly. Feeding Gremlins after midnight is always a bad policy. Sleep is a wonderful thing. Falling down stairs is great, too - the fun kind.

I've gotta return some video tapes.

Mar. 12th, 2010

Sappiness. Lovecraftian Beastiary. You've been warned.

It’s still a bit hard to fully conceive of. Four years of squinting at fine print. Of acknowledging things which necessitated a pretense of invisibility for us. For others, the ruse was too complete. The traditional boundaries of obfuscation were exceeded too well. Which was to be expected. Even with our strong orientation for detail, sometimes we strained our eyes. But though the minutiae often faded in and out to the flickering of our individual struggles, we were keen enough to always discern the most important lines. The ones punctuated by a depth of understanding that few could grasp. It’s that comfort which saw us through. It was something we couldn’t find elsewhere. We both knew we weren’t going anywhere, no matter how far we strayed at times. We’re stronger for having watched the other move through those expedient, and sometimes haphazard trajectories. Even the ones which proved ultimately fruitless, or outright hostile to our happiness and what we’d hoped to achieve, taught us something. Our awareness and appreciation grew from it.

What a long and strange road it has been.
A synopsis would read something like this: Attempt to act like Russian Dracula. Bestowing of affectionate nickname: Ruskii. Introduction to scarves. Infusion of new perspectives. Photography 101. Shoes with more character than most people I meet. Cthulhu rising. Lots of drawings. Backpack with more character than most people I meet. Memorable e-mails. Magical hoodie strings. Looting GOD. Overcoming apprehension of Disney. Lots of fireflies. Disagreements on seashell aesthetics. More mutual craziness and erratic mood swings than you can safely shake a stick at. (seriously, you’d need a gun.) Lots of teary eyed cinema. Inordinate amount of terrible puns. Beating around the bush. The coupling of man and machine. The destruction of Tokyo. Being scolded for wiccan sex-salad rites. The difficulties of wearing fruit roll-up briefs. Cthulhu cake carnage. The End.

Years from now, provided I’m still living and sane, (the later being far less likely) if I should happen to stumble onto this account and reflect on this entry, I may have no fucking clue what some of the second portion even meant. As for the introduction. Well.

Iä! Iä! Cthulhu Fhtagn!

Mar. 11th, 2010


Rachel says:
 1) back to LASER BEAMS and you

*A momentary digression followed which left me maddened with anticipation. Then.*

Rachel says:
BUT YEAH. lasers reminded me of you a lot, 'cause of how amused you were by the holter monitor, and i kept thinkin about what you'd think of LASERS shooting at my head in a tube. (Please see footnotes for explanation of holter monitor amusement)

Jeremy says:
 Pure sex.

Rachel says:

Jeremy says:
 Good god. I want you.
 Wish you'd do things like that for me in the bed room.
 Pull my fillings right out of my teeth and detach my retinas with eye beams.

*Fast forward into the conversation*

We talk at length about her brain. I use deplorable terms to express my enthusiasm. Most of which you'd find on any menu at a five star establishment. One MRI photo highlights her eyes in stark white and looks very comical. She tells me to remember that any time I'm about to comment on how pretty they are. I resist this idea for a matter of seconds then bitterly admit that it will color my perception of all future events. Hate.

A perfect distillation of what love is, folks. Horrifying, isn't it?
(She later clarified that her filling did not whiz through her head like a bullet, thus dispelling a myth and pissing on a fantasy.)

1. She came over one night and revealed to me that she was a cybernetic organism. I saw her circuits. It was amazing.

Doors. Facets. Doppelgangers.

“Annotations on annihilation. That’s what i’ll call it. It’s a chronicle of desolation."
I pause to consider the jagged portal.
“I wouldn’t, dude.” I say. Trying to remain nonchalant in the face of what could potentially lurk behind the door. My mind is mess of razor blades and raffle tickets, all zipping back and forth inside a geodesic dome full of super heated currents. I pluck one at random and read the wisdom inscribed.
“In Roman Mythology Janus was the god of doors and gates. Beginnings and endings. He was often depicted as having numerous faces.” To me this makes an incredible amount of sense given the next move on the board.
“Hush.” It says. Looks a lot like me. I’ve made note of the similarities in passing, but I can’t exactly accost the figure without probable cause. The level of evidence rises proportionally to the absurdity of the claim. In this instance: asserting that one of my traveling companions is a doppelganger - I will need more than idle musings. I ponder briefly on the multiple faces of Janus. One facing back. One facing forward. This is symbolic of seeing both into the past and into the future, if I understand it correctly. A flash of anger dances along the buttons of my spine. I visualize the culmination of all my meticulous detective work.
“YOU‘RE PROBABLY AN ALIEN IMPOSTER. How‘s that for probable cause?” I say all this before I execute him with extreme prejudice using a table leg or some other instrument with no dignity. A polished ending is much too kind for this hellish simulacrum.
“I hear something on the other side.”
“My god, man!” Startled from my fantasy, I exclaim. “What the fuck is it?”
“Not real sure.”
At the mere utterance my brain-vortex intensifies. I’m a frightened contestant in a money chamber full of broken glass, rusted nails, and a few good ideas. Thinking will sometimes net you tetanus. Sometimes it will blind you. Sometimes it’ll peel your eyelids off and you’ll see for miles. The interior of your mind is the only place where you can awaken to pitch blackness and grasp the dimensions. The enormity. It’s the abyss that Nietzsche referred to when, in aphorism, he stated: “When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” It’s true he went insane and silent in his later years. This is significant to note. It’s the only true void, since nothingness precludes its own definitive existence. Simmering in all your cranial fluid is its closest kin. Leering from all sides.
You cannot win. You cannot break even. You cannot quit. That’s the second law of thermodynamics.
Forgetting is like trying to achieve absolute zero.
The next numbers that come up will definitely involve the crunching of bones. I want out of the power-ball machine.
“It’s a goddamn mess in there.” I say. Not exactly intending it to be a forked statement.
“Probably.” Jeremy agrees.
I picture hideous creatures gnashing the remains of the last foolhardy adventurers who trespassed their drug den turned lair.
"He who fights with monsters must take care lest he thereby become a monster.”
“Quite enough, Fred.” I politely scold. I often make time for the words of the dead to menace me with ancient insights. But I must focus.
“I suggest you open it carefully.” Another voice echos from behind. He‘s standing behind the lot of us. His first priority is survival. If a few of us should fall in torrents of blood and gore, screaming: ”holyfuckmerrydentaldamn!” he‘ll be the only one with a chance of making it. He‘s got a contingency for everything. A consummate planner. Always thinking a few segments ahead. His smile is often unnerving, and he laughs at inappropriate junctions.
“I agree with the doppelganger.” I immediately realize my mistake. My bowels threaten to evacuate. Tense moments pass.
“Fuck it.” The lead figure takes the initiative and enters. He’s brash and impulsive. He scares me pretty often, but there is also an undeniable appeal to his snap decisions, the candor of his reckless fury, the callous disregard of consequence. He’d go down fighting.
Me? Well I'd probably go down thinking. Crippled by all the possible exits or the allegory of being chewed to death by a grizzly behemoth. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t be very interesting.
Unless you had a sense of humor like the alien in the back...
The door swings open. The air reeks of rotten nostalgia.
“I’ve been here before...” I stammer.
“The halls of memory.” Sinister alien.
“After you.” He nods.

Dec. 17th, 2009

Insert mad rambling here. Part 1.

All the facets of myself that lie like sleeping giants beneath the crushing volumes of water. Peering through drowsy slits into the bleak uniformity, their weary heads strained against the stillness, dormant sinews aching. The quiet rush of liquid belies the intensity of their movements, submerged beneath the cumbersome denials, all their yearnings are in slow motion.
That they telegraph their every movement is more a matter of design than accident. And while I’m more nimble than most, I dare not reckon with them on their own terms. I’ve shaped the battlefield all my life, not fully realizing to what extent I’ve crafted my own misery with those very same predictions. What I’ve really lost, little by little. How I’ve been reduced.
I’m frightened by their relentlessness.
Their art is attrition. I cannot win. Someday soon I will wear out and there they will be, plodding beasts with the strength of untold years, hungry for recompense.
My skin flushes with the energetic undercurrents of their sweeping limbs. As memories break the surface tension, plunging through with the hiss of incandescent stones. The sudden heat driving convection currents like liquid dominos, propagating throughout the vastness in their dogged pursuit of more passionate agendas. In this, the protracted war against tranquility. an invisible stirring, a mad thrashing of silhouettes and forms.

Nov. 27th, 2009

They'll Never Take Me ALIVE!

Captain's log, Star Date: ZOMG I'M GONNA DIE!

It has been quite a stretch since my ravings last found solid purchase. Claiming a lack of enthusiasm seems most honest, while holding you captive with tales of how I've busied myself these past few months presents a more amusing face. I find life too abbreviated to opt for boredom in these situations, so I’ve taken the liberty of preparing these manacles. I’m confident they will be uncomfortable enough to remind you of your bondage, while not so crushing as to paint your world completely black.

I find myself on a remote prison planet deviled by the footsteps of hungry aliens. So, for the sake of brevity and my own survival, I have elected to only cover my most engaging exploits.

1. I nearly succeeded in detonating the warp drive.
2. Obviously I didn’t cross the Rubicon completely or I would not be speaking to you now.
3. As you may gather, this means that I have been stripped of my license and stranded upon this planet to die.

Aug. 18th, 2009

If only jerry were around to cap with a pringle-bomb.

Hello children! How lovely it is to picture your sinews strained to painful extremes as you wrestle with confusion and despair upon the reading of this header. Consider it an act of mercy that I do not regale you with the entire back story, for your margins of victory would dwindle even further.

I, like all compelling myth, demand that you test the buoyancy of various hopes under your own powers, and if you should find yourself descending inexorably into the crushing depths that surround you - perhaps you've the strength to paddle feebly to another.

One may find a similarity here to the game Frogger, albeit a far more sadistic version with precious reserves of sanity and strength at stake during each directional gambit. As terrible as that may be, the shores also recede at your approach and your harbor dissolves completely as an inevitable consequence of living, banishing with it the infantile hope of delegating your responsibilities to the things that shipped you out to sea.

It seems to me that the most elaborate contrivances of human thought have been to guard against this very thing. Heaping ephemeral quantities at the finish line in order to fortify oneself against the thought of a pointless struggle within a system divorced of any real goal. Devising increasingly complex illusions to nourish the flickering image of your point of origin, bolstering your resolve with the idea of always having something to fall back on, some place to regress to.

This is surely what Thoreau meant when he said most of us lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with that song still in us. But if that's not your cup of tea I'm sure you can hear the message reiterated times innumerable in the works of others.

This does little to soften the edge of the sentiment I'm trying to convey, I realize. So maybe it's best if I cease to drive at the ubiquity of this message within the human enterprise.

Contrary to what you may believe I did not post this in order to open wide the gnawing chasm of nihilism beneath your footsies. But only to say that in a journey where destinations are uncertain or absent... the only thing of importance is to travel well. Find the other toads that are equally unsure, equally ridiculous in the exaggerated motions of their balancing acts, and get comfy with your own unique style of looking like an idiot.

Seriously. Travel well.

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