pst pst psttt

This apartment on Dundas is one of school girl play. We really intend to do our reading and writing, but instead we pass notes under the noses of our invisible academic onlookers. We drink wine, and smoke joints, and sporadically grab from the book shelf sharing any authors obvious speculation on our lives. We know that Kierkegaard was thinking of us, specifically, when he wrote (at random flip) When you read God's Word, you must constantly be saying to yourself, ''It is talking to me, and about me.'' This quote reads as a double effect, how delightful! This flip to Kierkegaard was no more intentional than the other times, yet this instance shows exactly as I was trying to describe. The universe wants you to know these things as you're ready, and what matters is whether you are listening to its hidden calls, or not.

Oh the night grows nearer to morn' and we know it is time. We shuffle into the backroom, one with two beds, and I sleep in whichever bed I did not the night before. The problem is, this room we associate now with more play. We lie in bed, whispering to each other's close faces perversity's like "Kaly told me she's gonna get wit you" from, "it's a secret." And we laugh and laugh, saying the same fucking things over and over again, and eventually the third of us feels left out not being directly in on it and crawls into the opposite bed. All three of us are sleeping together now, I think feeling the same degree of distance from this and our more conventional lives.

Our adage remains, "we only have this day once." Oh the choices that repeatedly follow under this logic are always excessive. We're very good at being excessive. We perpetually justify our radical behaviour this way. It was only this past New Years that Alisha yelled to me in the party store, "You only have New Years once!" and that's when I realized that we had not been thoughtful for months, living entirely by our passions. Beautiful isn't it, until we can't pay rent.

Only weeks ago did our utopia turn for madness. We had a visitor. For most of the weekend, our time together was good, but every relationship has a story and any aspect of any story can be triggered and then energy mutates and it's all very physical when this happens. It was our last night together and we decided to go to a bar, one that we never usually play at, Joe Kools. We began with rounds of tequila for happiness. The shot is a shock to any presence, and that's what we wanted, to shock ourselves at the beginning for a shocking end. Our end experience was not our intention and how often is this the case?

Well time is a funny thing. Togetherness is a funny things too. Perspective is even funnier. And perception, it actually cuts one world into several. Kaly's ears are back (that's what she does when she knows she is doing something bad). I am feeding her, french fry after french fry. She eats them one by one. She is looking at me wildly, anticipating the next fry and I keep feeding her because I am being so fed by her ravenous, peculiar behaviour. It's all very compulsive. Well Margot's laughing, and this is always the story between her and I. This is why I thought I was funny for so many years, and then cruelly and bluntly, discovered that I was not.

Screaming from the other room is the next blip in my head. I only have fragments of this nights events, as all of us do. Kaly's gone running, and she eats more. One full falafel is ingested and she's licking her lips when I enter the bedroom to one of our four being throttled violently. It all seems in jest, but then sort of not and I'm trying in my state to make sense of something, anything really.

Lord of the Flies--it is like that sheer disorder. I look to my right, up against the wall is one of us, gripping an open jar of peanut butter, her eyes bestial and savage. Another one of us assumes a helping role, but is instead interpreted as warring. I can't see her eyes. Another one of us is the victim, there's always a victim. The look of terror in her eyes has burned itself into my memory. And the last one, she's the instigator, the fuse to all of this muddling and unnerving madness. I think hours went by. Screaming and violence, and hurting and none of us remember how to communicate.

All of a sudden, she's on the bed, pointing this small device, threatening us. We stop instantly, defensively, but still neglecting to take her entirely seriously. She spritzes at two of us, and we're coughing and running for air and I still don't really know what is happening. I am confused, trying to understand why everyone is coughing so intensely.

Margot's on her computer googling "when you've been pepper sprayed" or "effects of pepper spray." She is hollering out to us that we will only suffer for about 45 more minutes. Our skin is on fire, we're hanging out the apartment window with rags over our faces, trying to breath. Our noses are running and we're coughing until sickness. The fourth is gone now. She's taken the puppy too, which was a power struggle since Kaly couldn't decide between owner and an old sucker. She ate the sucker, then went.

We tried to sleep near open windows, frigid air attacking our bodies in rest. The fourth came back, and I went to her immediately, forcing her to let me. The three Dundas party girls ended in bed together, holding each other to unconsciousness.

wondering and wandering

How do you know which passions are necessarily for your end?

...

Corruptibility is always a function of Matter.

Love is in Union.

I really hate to do this, but as I hung up the phone just now, I felt a twisting and nauseating pain in my stomach that is lasting. It is no longer the violent bug that poisoned every orifice of my body for a weeks length, but its source is emotionally invoked. It's a 'used to be love' ladies and gentlemen, which is so contaminated and cancerous now, it is hard to imagine that it ever was.

A turn to Rilke for hope:

How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark
in some quiet unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in the hand?
O sweetest of songs.

Rainer Maria Rilke
New Poems: c. 1907

Lubricate Your Mind

I can see the mind becoming physically enclosed by a sort of lubrication like when you drink cups of wine, just enough to speak freely, maybe even interestingly. This state is a sort of displacement from the normal way that we might think about things. Is it a state that allows entry into the sublime? How do we access the deeper structures that animate the art that we love? How do we animate ourselves to create that which inspires the sublime state?

A true genius breaks the rules, breaks the systems to create. To be captivating is to push the limits and push the limits and then push them more until what you've created is so mind crushing that you can hardly look at it without having to love and revolt all at once.

What sort of passion is it that makes one incapable of experiencing the sublime? A Greek Philosopher Longinus says that it is when we are driven by the new, that being the latest craze or fashion, we have an ignoble soul. It is by this source of movement that we are incapable of entering the sublime.

Great limits exist, but we are the source of those limits that deceivingly enclose our worlds. The true limits, being the universal limits are beautifully mysterious and are far beyond what we can grasp. Transcend your limits by lubricating your mind. Coat your world anew by intoxicating confinement to invisibility so that you can both love what is to be loved, and shatter what is to be shattered in the realm of apathy.

Peeing in the tub is good for you.

In the bath tonight, I peed. To feel the warmness coming from inside and then for it to be on the outside was understandably soothing. Now it is hard for me to say this, more like make this confession as such, but I can't help knowing that this is only a normal thing to do. Somehow I know that sitting in your own urine, it can be good for you. And what is dirty about urine anyway? My body is so well hydrated that my pee nearly never has colour, nor odour.

I think that on a biological level, there are many acts in which we try to feel connected in the world. More interestingy though is how we try to grasp disconnection, like death. Keleman connected sex and death through the common force of excitement. For him, dying is also associated with unformedness, unconnectedness, and unknowingness. He related these issue's to the surrender of orgasm, "la petit mort"-the little death. "The orgiastic state produces feelings of dying , raises fears of dying..." He proposed that sexual intercourse provides practice for dying-the orgasm stimulating the letting go of life with its comitant intensity and exhileration. Well, fuck me.

Since my intentional pursuit towards death, I find it nearly impossible to be unrelative to death. Oh this makes enormous sense though, doesn't it? Do you think this is morbid? No no no, it is the furthest from morbid, but it is instead an intensely life-giving framework to live in; for what is living without then dying?