June_bugs_that_fly's Xanga

what's cool is that borges wasn't even religious

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:39:45 GMT

"I close my eyes and see a flock of birds. The vision lasts a second, or perhaps less; I am not sure how many birds I saw. Was the number of birds definite or indefinite? The problem involves the existence of God. If God exists, the number is definite, because God knows how many birds I saw. If God does not exist, the number is indefinite, because no one can have counted. In this case, I saw fewer than ten birds (let us say) and more than one, but did not see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, or two birds. I saw a number between ten and one, which was not nine, eight, seven, six, five, etc. That integer--not-nine, not-eight, not-seven, not-six, etc.--is inconceivable. Ergo, God exists"

i am sick and i feel awful. i hate being sick. i feel personally smited by god every time i am sick and i find it ironic that there is only a god when i want to blame things on him.

i played a recital in which i got hideously nervous yesterday. i fucked everything up, but the girl i was playing for said that i should "cheer up because we are all growing in this field." this is uplifting because i try really, really hard and i'm not good yet but one day i will be. it goes back to william blake and the redemption offered by one's dreams. i am humiliated and i cry out every time i think of how i played, but someday it will be different. i'll just have to wait. . .

that's all. i wanted to let my tiny journal know that i'm under the weather and feeling blue, but that there is literature and music anyways.

um

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 12:17:30 GMT

help

midnight thought

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 03:24:15 GMT

i wonder what everyone is doing right now

and how in life's loom we're all weaving
either towards each other or away
and so while i know what most people are doing that i am weaving towards
as i am weaving away i think about how much i don't want to
but i have to
to make some sort of blanket

i don't know. there aren't really very many ways to explain nostalgia and defining a space by what doesn't occupy it.

an awful lot of work

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 13:00:28 GMT

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3G_6_R2ObE&feature=PlayList&p=94E4F25DDE34FCFA&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=47

will i ever play the first violin in carmen?

probably not, but today i'm going to go practice to ensure that i at least have a chance. what i'm thinking to myself is that i'd be lost without music, but i'm already lost anyway.

so it goes.

waltz

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 01:30:53 GMT

the transition from existing unsmitably (not a word) to swimming in dung is swift, and it seems as though the tumult of the shift from one to the next is wearing on my nerves. i do not know anything of any certainty, just as van gogh said, but i do know that it all runs together. i enjoy your face, and i enjoy your gladness.

possibly, the oceans churn. possibly, they are still. in a superposition of both states, i bet the answer lies, just like everything else. there was a drunk man stumbling outside my car; and the whole of it is neither bleak nor uplifting. it is still silent at night without you and silent with you.

streetlamps make me notice how empty space can be. you are particles here and there, cramping my style, screwing with the flow. yet my imagination isn't so good at unweaving you from this textile make-up--from the superstring physics of it all. regardless, i think about anything i want nowadays; there is no prison. and adjacent to that is the fact that there is no freewill. just me and not me doing what both of us do and don't do. a pair of moths fall in love and contrastingly the creation, beige and translucent like sun was parted. i'm thinking to myself, wrapped in solitude, everything will always be connected and you cannot escape, especially if you try to.

young girls and their bright wristwatches. crones and their dissolving hair. i am delving, i am delving. cordially, saying hello to this history and that. watching you sober up on tea and scones. this is not a love letter, this is not. in this i realize the control of my situation. the tendons and muscles, the adamantly disjunct. all of this could be different. argentina could not be long and swooping.

tbc

camus

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 03:30:13 GMT

i was assailed by memories of a life that wasn't mine anymore, but one in which i'd found the simplest and most lasting joys

pain

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 00:34:46 GMT

is it always this difficult?

heavy sigh.

why am i so idealistic and what about anything can make it as meticulously wonderful as i want it.
is what i want real? this
resoundingly, is directly what i want to know.

am i looking in the wrong places
because when i swoop for it
it doesn't seem worth it if i've caught it
it just seems used and broken

and so we have it
i am a moonpie chunk

annoying

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 08:09:47 GMT

without fail, every time i'm stressed out about something
to the maxxx
i wake up at 4 am
and cannot go back from whence i came

fucking awful

can't see you

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 00:43:19 GMT

"The artist should beware of losing touch with society; otherwise he will be wrecked, as I am."- Robert Schumann

and every time i think about IT several other dimensions in which IT would be successful, fulfilling, and righteous collide with each other--inevitably dissolving all other possibilities thus leaving me alone yet again with IT. and yet i am embarrassed by my concern for IT, but here it goes: me in the frailty and vulnerability of caring anyway, much as i do other things. and in my caring about IT, i wonder what other things i am smashing into fragments.

i am supposed to be translating things in french, but i haven't, and i may skip french tomorrow. i have had a really busy weekend, albeit on a social account, and i can't force myself care about anything just yet; not until IT is resolved. you're really too oblivious, aren't you?

and to YOU i don't care i don't care i don't care. luckily you won't read this, though. so the point will never be made. and life will perpetuate itself.

i am sick, i am sick, i am sick! and this is NOT the lack of IT speaking. this is something else, entirely. another white whale, another novel other than moby dick. another pair of shoes too huge for me to fit in, another lamprey a few suckers too short.

i can't believe it's october 11th. what business does it have being october 11th. excuse me? are you unaware of anyone but yourself, time?

and i'm angry
and i'm hurtingly devising a master plan to be neither
watch me.

i need to get laid

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 23:40:31 GMT

"Praskovya Fedorovna recognizing Peter Ivanovich, sighed, went close up to him, took his hand, and said 'I know you were a true friend to Ivan Ilyich. . .' and looked at him awaiting some suitable response. And Peter Ivanovich knew that, just as it had been the right thing to cross himself in that room, so what he had to do here was to press her hand, sigh, and say, 'Believe me. . .' So he did all this and as he did it felt that the desired result had been achieved: that both he and she were touched."

-tolstoy, 'the death of ivan ilyich

brash, maybe? but it's worth the ounce of contemplation assuming you are not a moral imp. . .
what is the actual meaning of death?

and who forgets, anyway.

also, i've probably almost cried 6 times listening to the brahms violin concerto. you tell me what that means, and this time i mean about the piece and not me.

(i know, right)