tomorrow in fact i am doing the laundry that i have been miraculously putting off since sunday (found clean underwear!).
today i have been writing like a fiend. i had forgotten about this about how writing feeds on itself and how if you do a little of it you need to do more of it and how it parades around like it will save you when all it really will do is demand that you do more of it and not stop and not stop and maybe that is what the salvation consists of always writing and never stopping for if i keep writing all these tortured things will lay themselves out on the page (or the screen. we don't even have pages anymore but the screen with these little squiggly figures that show up when we hit the right buttons) all in a row manageable and sane.
1) Briefly, if the desire to be a Subject manifests itself mythically in the killing and eating of the Father (to be Freudian. I don’t know if this story is an accurate representation of how things go but it is a story taken up by many and it has become part of the story we tell ourselves so in prelude to finding a different story I am going to address this one first), which in and of itself is the assimilation of No One precisely because the Father is now dead but also precisely because the Father’s subjectivity is itself only imagined in the place of his own impossibility and absence (thank you in the first part to Borch-Jacobsen but this second reason is one I came up with “myself”), then perhaps Slotkin’s elucidation of the hunter “archetype” ... [the rest of that sentence is unimportant and poorly stated at present so we'll just leave it at that.]
2) i have decided about this decision that i will just make it every day consequences be damned. if i want to become intoxicated with the wild unruliness of fluorescing flowers at twilight then goddammit i will and to hell with the southern baptists in my head that demand i point all phenomena to god the father.
well. that was a little distillation of my mental life these past couple of days.. i wonder if the southern baptists in my head really will go to hell. that would surprise them wouldn't it?
and 3) i like the bus because it reminds me there are places in the city other than my neighborhood. like all those people out in the sunset. i never think about them and yet they go about their lives out there as though all there was in the world was them and where they live.
i bet they never think about me.
i might write more as the night wears on. my apologies to your bandwidth but almost everyone has a faster modem than i do so stop complaining!