laminated lamentation

the wave, your wave, reverberations of woodstock and hand-me down memories to last for these years of what once was and maybe someday will become the only way to survive an interminable fate

let your memories be as pool noodles, not anchors... and if you find yourself floating out on a sea of fear or anger or mistrust, let your noble spirit be your GPS and an open heart be your map back to shore

...

lost

"perdu, perdu" but then Galoup, our unreliable narrator, may just have been imagining that Sentain found his salvation. I guess that's the rub, when we send someone to walk (or ourselves go walking) in the desert, we never really know how the Devil will garnish his temptations. We barely know our present, except sometimes we know our just desires and sometimes we know that we get frightened and sometimes we decide what it means.

That existence precedes essence is a better description of the human condition, but it is still remains an inadequate one. We are not blank slates. True freedom is chaos: We are not chaos. We are a thousand freedoms at each moment in the river, but from the top of the canyon we see that the river runs its inevitable course. Existence is perquisite to essence, but they have both since evolved symbiotically. One feeds the other. Ouroboros. Baudrilliard argues that the simulacrum is the truth which conceals that there is none, but more simply the simulacrum may have come about via an ambiogenesis that we can no longer perceive or measure. Alternatively, we may consider that the truth is still there, but concealed still further; or that the truth was once there, but has passed; or that there was a precession of truths before leading to the ultimate simulation. It seems facile to conclude that there is no truth behind the simulacrum.

Truth is funny in its own way.

Our just desires. Khalil Gibran said that it was better to know the pain of too much tenderness. I say: Fuck Khalil Gibran. It is better to get it right the first time. But that's wishful thinking. Eventually we stop being kids, we realize that no matter how hard we want something to be so, it doesn't matter. And, by this point, the first time has long since passed. Wishing for the past is the pinnacle of futility. Khalil Gibran was right. Fuck Khalil Gibran.

And still. Why not take the direct route?

Somedays I try to forget the memory of past wishes.

Buy the ticket, take the ride. Pull the trigger. Push the button.

Detonate.

...

found

my blog - Electric Cheetahland (updated on a leisurely basis)