The shadow falls…
I don't have the capacity to be selfish enough, here with Claudia. I don't have the capacity to devote myself to the writing process and to produce original material. There are also a number of obstacles, with regard to ethics, etc, that mean I can no longer tell the truth, because I can no longer include enough of what is going on to give a full enough picture of things. In lieu of that truth, I have resorted to posting opinions on news events, etc, but the opinions have become jaundiced on account of my knowing that I am going against everything I believe in when I do that. And yet I can't stop myself. Or, I stop myself and then I stop stopping myself and resume.
Because of this, I am going to stop posting here until I purchase my new Nikon D300 camera at the beginning of March, a development that I hope will permit me to return to observation of the world (in a different form) and to rediscover a sensibility that has been lost in the face of the pressures of moving to the other side of the world and trying to do the hardest thing of all, live successfully day after day with a woman.
For any commenters who may drop by (as they always seem to whenever I confess to some private weakness) and post here about 'starving children in Botswana' or how I need to spend a summer cutting timber. Please, save it. It is possible to have the problems of your own existence without necessarily being a starveling, and I have also served my time hauling scrap metal, washing thousands of dishes, and packing things into boxes. To imagine that my problems are down to a lack of hard work is to 1) not know what you are talking about with regards to my working life, and 2) indicative of a general lack of imagination.
In other words…
"No empire justifies breaking a child's doll. No ideal is worth the sacrifice of a toy train." - Pessoa
Very funny
Guess who?
"I've always felt an almost physical loathing for secret things - intrigues, diplomacy, secret societies, occult sciences. What especially irks me are these last two things - the pretension that certain men have that, through their understandings with Gods or Masters or Demiurges, they and they alone know the great secrets on which the world is founded.
I can't believe their claims, though I can believe someone else might. But is there any reason why all these people might not be crazy or deluded? The fact there are a lot of them proves nothing, for they are collective hallucinations.
What really shocks me is how these wizards and masters of the invisible, when they write to communicate or intimate their mysteries, all write abominably. It offends my intelligence that a man can master the Devil without being able to master the Portuguese language. Why should dealing with demons be easier than dealing with grammar? If through long exercises of concentration and willpower one can have so-called astral vision, why can't the same person - applying considerably less concentration and willpower - have a vision of syntax? What is there in the teachings and rituals of the Mage Arts that prevents their adherents from writing - I won't say with clarity, since obscurity may be part of the occult law - but at least with elegance and fluency, which can exist in the sphere of the abstruse? Why should all the soul's energy be spent studying the language of the Gods, without a pittance left over to study the colour and rhythm of the language of men?
I don't trust masters who can't be down-to-earth. For me they're like those eccentric poets who can't write like everybody else. I accept that they're eccentric, but I'd like them to show me that it's because they're superior to the norm rather than incapable of it.
There are supposedly great mathematicians who make errors in simple addition, but what I'm talking about here is ignorance, not error. I accept that a great mathematician can add two and two and get five: it can happen to anyone in a moment of distraction. What I don't accept is that he not know what addition is or how it's done. And this is the case of the overwhelming majority of occult masters."
In a tone of cold command
Again. Kiss me with feeling. Without. With. Without. With. I want to feel the difference.
To Fulong Beach
Yesterday we rode the slow local train from Taipei Railway Station to Fulong. I had, in the daylong window before this journey, compiled many hopes, and now the journey itself took all of these hopes and crushed them utterly. Everything outside, passing by, screamed - "LOOK! Look at how we crush your hopes, mercilessly, with shattered concrete and burned out factories..."
So, the journey was the crushing fact of what was there, and the crushing of what would have been there if it was not there, and my knowledge of being there, at the end, as what? The last thing to be crushed. No... just the latest thing.
Here are two pictures, anyway. KINGFELIX, even more ephemeral than previously thought, and yet one more sleeping man, this one in his element, with all the aspects of his repose planned and executed to a degree that approaches perfection.
Well, that’s just brilliant
Know the source?
Your heart is like a silken sponge
That calls saliva love.