(cut into pieces from W. C. Williams' The Orchestra)
Say to them: 'Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realize his wishes. Now that he can realize them, he must either change them or perish.'
[...]The birds twitter now anew but a design surmounts their twittering.
It is a design of a man that makes them twitter. It is a design.
I know little outside of desire. Outside my desires, to where I’ve been lured. Another desire convinced me I chose. Another that I knew what I was thinking. Each one wants satisfaction. I want congruence. I: 1) a mutuality, 2)walking compass of iron filaments. My life is a magnet wrecking ball never swung. Memory only serves penance. I don’t repent. When I swing, I’ll know I’ve been hit. I’ll hit nothing. Simply pass close enough to align each splinter of iron in the direction of swing. My body of curves and swath. The building will be demolished past nightfall, just after the abandoned bathroom ignites a silhouette in the chest high window. Bulldozers are giant arms of comfort. The rubble an unlit pyre of failed pyrotechnics. Fourth of July all over me. A war virgin. Afraid of fireworks.
"If I give an account, and give it to you, then my narrative depends upon a structure of address. But if I can address you, I must first have been addressed, brought into the structure of address as a possibility of language before I was able to find my own way to make use of it. This follows, not only from the fact that language first belongs to the other and I acquire it through a complicated form of mimesis, but also because the very possibility of linguistic agency is derived from the situation in which one finds oneself addressed by a language one never chose. If I am first addressed by another, and if this address comes to me prior to my individuation, in what form then does it come to me? It would seem that one is always addressed in one way or another, even if one is abandoned or abused, since the void and the injury hail one in specific ways."
On my brother's first EP, he grabbed a clip from East of Eden. "Just a little lie, just a little white lie, that's all...You'll learn. You'll learn." "I don't think I want to learn that way!" It brings to mind the relationship between event and perception, and how in each of our private politcal economies, those powers by which we invest our identity speak loudest to us, even sound like us. R.I.P. Quinten Compson.
Conflict arises only when two seperate people wish to occupy the same role, the same body. Yet once these opaque wills within ourselves develop a charge great enough to erupt fume, ash, and then person, there are very few places to again make amorphous the now hardened image of ourselves. I remember looking back to see a narrative of my life, and was satisfied. I looked back to see myself and I was repulsed. This is not to confuse a negative self image, but an inability to have accept all potentials, and my choices in them. These facts are universal.
Traci led me onto the beauty of screentests. Despite the postmodern attention to erasures, screentests reveal a process not only of exclusion but also
Hi Calvin. I’m not Calvin. I’m duplicate number two. What are you talking about. We drew straws, and today’s my day to go to school. We’re all taking turns so we each only go once a week. Calvin, you are so weird I’m not even going to talk to you. I’m not Calvin. I wish I lived some- place where I went to a normal bus stop. Are you in Calvin’s class. Will you help me find his locker.
It's a new frontier for psychiatric illness: Brain pacemakers that promise to act as antidepressants by changing how patients' nerve circuitry fires.
...the early results are promising. Dramatic video shows one patient visibly brightening as doctors turn on her brain pacemaker and she says in surprise: "I'm starting to smile."
Every time I had met her during the fifteen years of our — well, I fail to find the precise term for our kind of relationship — she had not seemed to recognize me at once; and this time too she remained quite still for a moment, on the opposite sidewalk, half turning towards me in sympathetic incertitude mixed with curiosity, only her yellow scarf already on the move like those dogs that recognize you before their owners do — and then she uttered a cry, her hands up, all her ten fingers dancing, and in the middle of the street, with merely the frank impulsiveness of an old friendship (just as she would rapidly make the sign of the cross over me every time we parted), she kissed me thrice with more mouth than meaning, and then walked beside me, hanging on to me, adjusting her stride to mine, hampered by her narrow brown skirt perfunctorily slit down the side. - Nabokov, Spring in Fialta
