Aphorisms XXII

Ontotheology always wants balance, completion, perfection. But here is no reason to believe in any of these things on a metaphysical level. That pain would balance pleasure, the stronger the pain, the greater the pleasure, that a life cannot be judged before its completion, and that perfection in general is a positive quality things posses rather than a lack of desire for more…


History in art is a kink. Historical consciousness in art is a fantasy on a fantasy. Intelligence and history are in no way synonyms. But history can help you get off, sometimes.


The hardest thing about being in love is performing a carefree nonchalance and independence whilst simultaneously being liable to falling flat on your face at their slightest push. Of suddenly detonating in a cloud of steam and heart shaped glitter.

Projecting independence whilst being internally dependent, when showing that dependence can be really off-putting to them, and to me.


I can intuit a right wing plot arc which seems to reoccur – the left are stamped down on, militarism expanded, and wars started. When those wars lead to desolation and come home with a vengeance, the most manic right wingers are already dead from the war, or sent mad. The rest retire and do gardening or diecast military modelling, or mumble that traitors have caused this loss, and plan to crush the saboteurs. They create a desolation, call it peace and then sit embarrassed as they slowly age and die awkwardly. Never admitting that their desire for power and structure destroyed the power and structure which is delicate and built by average people just working away, nothing particularly entrepreneurial or national. (Of course this analysis bears an ideological mark too.)

Maybe they complain – but the others just wanted to steal our property and besides they never wanted to do anything… We did things! We might all have failed and murdered thousands of innocent civilians but at least we did something! Pathetic, immaturity of the species.


A prose poem is a poem with one very long line, or a few. The line is the paragraph, or a string of sentences. The line break is the new paragraph, if there is one.


Reading Ruth Kinna if monarchy can be said to be of mono-arché, of one origin, then anarchy, an-arché is of no origin. This houses the bad definition of anarchism, that it says no to unity, that it holds nothing sacred, in a positive sense. It literally loves nothing-ing things. But this is wrong, what anarchism means is the acceptance of the dispersal of causes into the absolute weave, absolute plurality. It is not that it has no origin, or emphasises the no of nothing, rather it is that single origins don’t exist, that origins are never single. Insofar as to originate is to be one, then there is no origin.

There has never been a single origin of power. Power flows through systems of allegiance and domination, and monarchs demonstrate this nicely in their real historical being. We’re talking about an ideology that says – the power is here in this man, as origin of the state – and then a second one which says – you are lying.


The propogation of the ambient might be a sign of self-treatment in people who live in a high pressure, full speed world.


A wall without any graffiti is a base level fascist object


There is a point beyond which thinking, and questioning values, is just an excuse. But there is a long path to that point. I hope.


Posting poems and aphorisms to a blog, where a quiet few souls read it, is definitely the most honest way to place them, in terms of importance, self-valuation. Equivalent would be printing out and hand-binding a small book and putting it on a corner of the bookstall for a small sum, no promotion, nothing to bring attention to it.


My intentions with regard to my future dance around a series of archetypes and behaviours in the form of fragmented ideas I have attained through life, some in order to avoid being what I considered unkosher, some through real experience with work and education. It all seems to slip and slide around the real way I behave, and bends very far in order to accommodate my listlessnesses, my ennuis, my stupidities, my boredoms. And the people I want to live my life with, rightly, don’t care about any of it. They want me to live a life where I can support myself and be happy, which has, in the past, been quite far down my list of priorities. Why on earth, for example, should a modern someone want to have anything to do with writing, or trading in books, that remnant of an ancient popular culture? Why is it that, despite it not being my skill that impresses the most, do I insist on having to do with it and seeing my future imbued in literary ideas? It’s a slow madness and mental disorder akin to forgetting words. Forgetting we live in a world where I might need to just work 9-5 in a brain-free environment and be very pleased about it. It’s hard not to pass personal judgement upon such a path. But it is not below me. And in my worst moments I think all of it was a fantasy anyway. Waking dream.


Literary Business – I wonder how true it is that when it comes to the business of poetry, there is only reputation. That’s what directs people to look for the poetic, and find it expressed in their own experience of texts with reputation, personal or cultural.

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