Cacoethes Scribendi

22 July 2006

Filed under: Books/Film/Music/Art,People,Rant,Society & Intellect — Jane @ 8:50 pm

not fond at the moment. of (m)any.

BUT fleur de mal is gorgeous. never read the french before; blowing my mind.
ah, baudelaire…one for whom my fondness will never wane. je t’aime, mon ami.


16 July 2006

Filed under: Meaningful nonsense,observation,People,question,Rant — Jane @ 7:12 pm

i live, mentally, too far inside the head of an ancient _____ [greek/roman/barbarian/whatever….]. some part of me grabbed onto the concept of fate-as-truth, fate-as-meaning, when my soul and being (the part that stays static, that is) was just starting to poke its little head through its little white crackly shell. and now i’m stuck with it, as powerless to change it as aristotle was to foresee the coming of strip malls and the religious right.

and on a related note, a few words about sincerity.

sincerity has always struck me as the light, the truth, and the Giant Incessantly Hammering Two-By-Four when it comes to relating with my fellow two-legged brethren. meaning: it’s the only way to be, but the only way to be is sometimes (always, on second thought) the way of masochism. undesired, unwarranted, and unintentional masochism, but masochism nonetheless. its forays into a twisted kind of loving sadomasochism can be entertaining at times, and provide endless hours of self-revelatory ramblings of self&other-deprecation, leading yours truly to the possession of an all-too-occassional envy of the happily dishonest, ignorant or apethetic; but in the end, i have to admit that i’m destined to live every waking hour babbling my Truths, regardless of the fracturing of world-as-i-be-it they cause. what choice do i have? living, as i do, in the grip of Fate and Destiny themselves, the Forms of forms?

11 July 2006

the worst, she said, is silence.

silence equals madness. madness equals denotation and following, disintegration. alexandria tumbles to the ground, but in the head. structure and form twining fluid and formless between and then into the other’s arms of iron. no paeons to angles and lines embedded in painted shiftings of butterfly wings, say i, if my eyes are sight and blindness one.

if something so small and weightless as silence can shift the balance of the moon i see tonight through panes of shuttered glass.

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