“The usefulness of a cup lies in its emptiness.”
And it just starts off as the times when you really connect with people, and when the seed of emptiness creeps into your everyday you seek out those connections more forcefully, and you learn the ebb and flow of what seems like a world that has always been there, with people who know everything, and you can’t see that it’s a small world that’s always, always changing; the limits like the tides. And then after a while those connections don’t seem to happen as much, and you see the people who seem like they’ve been around forever, but haven’t been around as long as you, making connections in their slick kind of way with collared shirts and nice shoes, and then you start doing it just as a way to seek those connections, and you keep a healthy supply of the right things in your fridge and you have the right things in your living room and you create a whole world for yourself around trying to make these connections, but by the time you realize that whenever anyone disturbs that superficiality, the superficiality that you created merely to facilitate meaningful connections, you realize in your irritation that you had it backwards, and it was the superficiality of the idea of creating meaningful connections that allowed you to take the banality of having nice looking stuff to its full form and it is that banality that has become you. Such that when you meet someone who is actually wonderful and you invite her back to your immaculate condo living room and you open the fridge to perfect rows of the right amount of food to booze ratio, and as she takes a beer, mentally you have already left the success of the situation behind, because, mentally, you are now concerned with having to replace that beer to make the rows perfectly even again.
Things are not facts.
Logic is a language game
The world is the totality of language games
Combinations of language games are language leagues
Pragmatics is a language game to bridge seemingly incommensurable language games
This is how the world is
This is how the mind is
Madness is the coexistence of conflicting language games
Madness is a fact
Madness is a combination of facts
Madness is never wrong
Art is a language game
Art is a language accessible in a madness language game that can’t access words
The rhizome is the creation of a language game
Language games spiral out infinitely
Language games are beautiful
Language games can produce ugly facts
Biology is a language game
Language games function biologically
Evolution is a language game
Sometimes a new language game merges what was previously two language games
This is what is called innovation
Innovation produces a fact from facts
This is a fact
They saw what happened and thought they could control it and what we got was a generation of people who for their whole lives have had it drilled into their heads day in and day out, day after long and boring day, that the days have to be long and boring because your resume needs to be whatever and you need to be able to say some bullshit and nobody will want to hire a total loser and basically for our entire existence we’ve been told that what all of us were going to necessarily turn into, that is to say flawed people, is the worst thing in the world, but there is a way to con other people into thinking you are perfect and you’ll supposedly get a job and an office and a car and whatever because that’s what we’re supposed to want because that leads us to relying on products and services that are cheap to make and sell, when if we don’t go down that route we end up realizing we don’t really need any of that bullshit and that it is really easy to live without a car, without a mortgage, on black beans, chick peas, rice and green tea and all that shit they told you your whole life was just flat out wrong, flat out fear for the unknown, They didn’t know what was going to happen, nobody knows now, you and me both, so fuck it we can at the very least make it interesting because we can be damn sure this idea of making it boring is horrible for all involved and didn’t achieve anything.
And to me it starts with the immediate halt of this bullshit motivation by fear that always starts the same way, if you don’t shape up you’ll end up pumping gas for a living. Well guess what, just because someone pumps gas for a job doesn’t reflect on how interesting and valuable they are as a person, that I started reading Tolstoy, and then literature in general, because one of the smartest people I’ve ever met who has great taste in literature, was talking about how Anna Karenina was better than War & Peace, and I couldn’t participate in what seemed like an interesting conversation, the kind of conversation I wanted to participate in, and I realized at that moment that despite my having gotten a philosophy degree that in itself was bullshit, it did not fulfil some condition whereby I would be seen as interesting by everyone everywhere I went because I wrote a couple papers rearticulating Spinoza and Plato and the like, not even realizing still then that Plato wrote tongue firmly in cheek and is in fact the greatest satirist to have ever lived, but they don’t even bother teaching you that at university anymore, I mean seriously, so despite my swagger I had nothing to contribute to this moment of interesting conversation and that was what it all really ends up being about anyway, it’s kind of like what Judd Apatow said once, that when you’re thirty no one cares how good you are at softball, so just hang in there. Well unfortunately for yours truly, that also works in the negative when you’ve been convinced that people do care how good you are at softball, or philosophy or whatever, when they will actually care how good you are at the moment. So anyway, the long and the short of it is that I was motivated to read Anna Karenina and War & Peace and in the end fully disagreed with the position presented to me by the guy who worked at a gas station, about a year and a half too late (did I mention I had to leave the continent and dry out before I could start reading anything, so it took a while before I could even start either book), and after 19 years of formal education the most motivating literary force in my life worked at a gas station and I started to question a lot of other values that have been drilled into my head and I am now terrified of our whole school system, that if it were in a culture outside our own we would scream bloody murder about the indoctrination of the poor kids, that they’re force fed meat and dairy, they are told the Government is trustworthy (do they still teach that, even after Harper?), that the world is fundamentally pure and honest and if we go about it that way we will eventually succeed, and at no point were we told what the crushing sadness of self-awareness can do to the psyche when you realize that everything they’ve told you has been highly manipulative for a purpose you may not believe in. I have no doubt kids would be better off if they got to play Catan for a couple hours everyday then sitting in their desks quietly for 19 years in a row. How much time across 19 years in the classroom do you think kids are 100% present in what they’re doing? Regardless of your ideals of what it should be or whatever, how much of their time do you think they’ve spent in the moment of the ideal you mean them to be in. To me the education system is the learning of escape. How can you mentally and physically escape the sheer mundanity of mandated sedation. And we’re living the consequences of a society that is well versed in escapism.
And I don’t give two fucks about your enlightenment, that the veil got lifted and you saw it for what it was and yes you went down that road and had all this superficial stuff and then you had your breakdown and found out that that stuff doesn’t mean shit and that it’s really about the people around you and the people around you are all the swarmy greaseball phonies, who in actual fact are all having this same realization about themselves in relation to you, but the “good” ones are the ones you happen to be able to communicate well enough to realize it together and then you can share the experience together, so pray this is the bilateral trajectory of your marriage or watch out, and then you hit this acceptance that you tried your best and you accept yourself and give yourself a great big hug and feel pleasant and get a cat or whatever and then you ride it out until you get cancer or whatever, but you’re super pleasant to your nurses and then death. I really don’t give two fucks because it all happened in your head and nothing of life consequence happened as a result, in fact what you presented was the biggest lie of all, the thought that by uncovering your prior misdeeds and having this turning point that you were now being honest when that supposed honesty was nothing more than an even bigger lie, because you’re actively talking about how real and honest you’re being, when it’s probably the most accurate to say that what actually happened, the unveiling, was the result of an inner death, the real you died on the inside, and you missed it. So, it’s more like the glorification of ignorance than it is honesty, not that there’s anything wrong with that in a way, but it definitely isn’t in any way more useful than my friend who like Tolstoy and worked at a gas station. You just own more stuff. That’s about as impressive as the lumpy white pimple on my forehead. Not to say I’m some fucking hero for having read a couple of books or whatever.
Somewhere in here is something about being watched. That we’re being watched, and increasingly so, and who’s watching is affecting what we do in a bad way, because essentially I’ve been convinced to constantly watching myself, and so I’m living life in the 3rd person, and this in itself isn’t always bad I guess except if for the long stretches when I hate myself and it feels like I’m getting my eyes clockwork-oranged open to be force fed my own life from a distance where actually taking control and doing anything about it is completely absurd. I’m pretty sure the thing to do, really and truly, is to go play frisbee in the park. That’s just me though. Unfortunately I don’t give two flying fucks about what I think about it all in my post-enlightened phase of bullshit that proceeded from my pre-enlightenment phase of bullshit and will be proceeded by my post-post-enlightenment phase of bullshit such that I might as well stop typing.
Down in the basement, that’s all I know, down where all the hermits go. Down to where the air is stale, the smoke and dust and dark inhale a mighty breath of life and death, down in the ground the nightly dirtnap sounds of restless dreams and screams of all that is and was. Forget the will, forget the way, forget the gains of yesterday, now here today the darkness reigns, the jaundiced glow of candles casting only lighter shadows, the spines of books scattered across the shelves and floor below the ground, shadows dancing corpses on their graves. Knowledge is but frozen time, the frosty breath of what will never come to be but for these crippled shrines that live under the streets of time, these cold dark mines where fortunes found and told go unlived but for when the mind goes wandering up the stairs and out the door to find the stories left behind were truly real, and what I am meant to feel outside are empty shells, waiting for tomorrow’s fiction.
City finals, under the lights, beads of sweat dripping over eyes following the ball. Always know where the ball is. Always know where the man is. Darting eyes, back and forth back and forth, quick touch quick touch head up space through ball too far get back where’s my man what a shit dick quick sprint quick sprint, switch, cover, push the line, watch the corner fifty fifty shoulder first bad bounce quick sprint quick sprint cover between the ball and the man between the ball and the man too far steal it quick go go make a run find the space quick shout ball on the way big sprint ball’s too far get there get there scoring zone look to shoot look to shoot get there full shot PAIN. Shock. Mid-air, slow motion, upside down, ground. I didn’t see him coming from the side. He cracked me off on my fully extended leg at the knee. I flipped over and landed on its other side. I wouldn’t walk right for two years. He asked me if I was all right after the game. What a shit dick. I said I was fine. I fucking love soccer. It’s like life I guess, you never know when you’re going to get run over. That’s half the fun really.