the echo that defines the abyss

I wake up at one thirty
then I forget to eat and and fight myself
the evenings are prettiest: I drink
and watch hero movies in which heroes
follow a direction

the echo that defines the abyss was originally published on Meandering home

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Boredom

Dear companion, would you like to write about boredom with me? Would you mind if we leave out scientific studies involving cortisol levels, inhibitors, synapses, our neocortices and neurotransmitters. Would you mind it not containing literary quotes by the likes of Schopenhauer, Ciorán, or Sartre? If it becomes a mere piece of reflection, an invitation to our readers to a little mosaic of both genuine and masked expressions? If it lacks the references to tie it firmly into the web of artificial stimulation?
Shall we start?

Do you remember that rainy day when your internet connection was broken and there was nothing on TV. You ran out of booze and smokes. Not even the radio worked. You felt utterly miserable. That might have been as close to boredom as we can get. It seems quite hard to imagine for most 21th century city dwellers that life before the 19th century was anything else than a continuous horrifying pendulum between bare survival and severe boredom. What did these people do?

Have you ever looked at a bored animal in the zoo? I remember an ostrich in the zoo of Belgrade incessantly picking at its own mirror image. I was fascinated by the image. “This is who we are” I thought.

What shall we say being bored is? It’s not just hanging around doing nothing. People have been seen just sitting on chairs, staring in distances, leaning against walls, and when asked if they were bored, they’d reply they never even considered that. They might have been daydreaming, but even if there was nothing going on in their heads, they might have been just fine. Human beings are able, don’t you think, to simply stay put and feel good.

What shall we do about boredom? It seems to me that what driving economic progress, and hence ecological destruction, is a collective attempt to eradicate boredom. The concepts of “Status”, “Newness”, “Convenience” work hand in hand to prevent, fight, and overcome boredom. Or we can be all philosophical about it, contemplating the Void as the Husserlian beginnings of our being-in-the-world. Or we can say something that tastes like rosebuds drenched in an unbearably pungent perfume, of how we can can overcome boredom if we rediscover the joy and mental wealth of the endless possibilities of our personal communication, instead of unwittingly building hierarchies.

We shall respect boredom and write poetry to the caged animals, the perpetually ambulating tigers, the monkeys that tear off their own hairs, and their human equivalents that have become mere in- and output plasma for the industrial machine. And we shall learn from boredom, learn how to approach it, how to endure it, how to fight it. Shall we start?

In our minds we don’t see the walls but we run into them. We are not aware of the ground we are losing under our feet. We can’t describe the hazy clouds around us. We feel some oddly shaped crumbles glue together into tasteless doughnuts that crumble again just before we reach out for them. Rudimentary intentions briefly light up in our skies and we feel they are out of reach without knowing why. An apple is peeled right in front of our eyes, an apple without end, and the peel grows into the ground. Everything changes into a mouth that whispers something like infinitely humble. But we cannot be eaten. We cannot wait for sleep to come, or fear that it won’t. All the rhythms have finished, it’s hard to image that something happened at the time of our birth. There goes a puff of smoke of wonder, alas, unattainable

Boredom was originally published on Meandering home

March 29. Come on, it’s monday.

I write for a few. I need only a few to convince me of the fact that my endeavour is not completely futile. But don’t worry. You can stop reading; I’ll have ten other readers to replace you. Writing should be like painting, splashing the words on a mental canvas, and the writer should develop some curiosity about the patterns that he creates, the words that appear on his screen or on his paper like speckles of paint. But what about understanding such texts? Texts remain linear things, concatenations of words one after the other, it won’t work if you ask the reader to end of the sentence read this words first before continuing to the. I’m just playing with my medium. Come on, it’s monday.

Time is ticking; I have to reinforce my army and adjust its tactics in order to escape boredom once again. Producing nothing but a text is unevitably heading towards boredom. The words just lose their meaning like candies you sucked on for too long, and the sentence they live in won’t be able to revive them. Rather, the sentence is doomed to become a funeral of words that are sticking out like tombstones out of the grey earth. I’m trying to pursue LIFE here, and all I’m creating is a dead structure in which even the wittiest remark, the mildest description of the human condition, the most lightweighted verse alluding to the miracle of lover’s eyes that shine, all this is just buried in this damned textual cemetery.

What can I do? Ask questions like “Do you prefer cunXXXXXXXX over coiXXX?” (remind me to get rid of the X’s in order for the paper version to sell). Shocking! Let’s shock each other, let’s shock each other as much as we can. Let’s cover this whole cemetery with a thin silk blanket and have the picknick of our lifetime on it. There are many ways to shock each other. Some announce morbid actions over the internet. And execute them. The shock can throw us right back into life. But I don’t want to be morbid or pornographical. There are other options. In Argentina for example, there is football. I can try to play a football along these lines. The football will look like this: O. So when I continue writing, I will play the ball along the lines so you can follow it with your eyes just like in a real football-match. When it arrives at one end of the field, i.e. the current entry O it means a goal. There are two parties: the beginning and the end. Perhaps the entries will get more exciting. On the other hand: when they start with an O you already know which party scored. Do you have any suggestions for this? How can I make the football O along these lines more exciting?

A few days later, I will be visiting Paraguay, on my way to Bolivia and Peru. A twenty-four-year old girl told me we all have this phase that we want to walk the Inca Trail and visit those countries. She must have had it years ago herself. Yes, we all have this phase. You’re twenty and you want to conquer the world, you conquer the world, go everywhere, you have conquered the world and then you start a very normal O life, telling other people that it’s a phase we all go trough. Yeah right!

March 29. Come on, it’s monday.

I write for a few. I need only a few to convince me of the fact that my endeavour is not completely futile. But don’t worry. You can stop reading; I’ll have ten other readers to replace you. Writing should be like painting, splashing the words on a mental canvas, and the writer should develop some curiosity about the patterns that he creates, the words that appear on his screen or on his paper like speckles of paint. But what about understanding such texts? Texts remain linear things, concatenations of words one after the other, it won’t work if you ask the reader to end of the sentence read this words first before continuing to the. I’m just playing with my medium. Come on, it’s monday.

Time is ticking; I have to reinforce my army and adjust its tactics in order to escape boredom once again. Producing nothing but a text is unevitably heading towards boredom. The words just lose their meaning like candies you sucked on for too long, and the sentence they live in won’t be able to revive them. Rather, the sentence is doomed to become a funeral of words that are sticking out like tombstones out of the grey earth. I’m trying to pursue LIFE here, and all I’m creating is a dead structure in which even the wittiest remark, the mildest description of the human condition, the most lightweighted verse alluding to the miracle of lover’s eyes that shine, all this is just buried in this damned textual cemetery.

What can I do? Ask questions like “Do you prefer cunXXXXXXXX over coiXXX?” (remind me to get rid of the X’s in order for the paper version to sell). Shocking! Let’s shock each other, let’s shock each other as much as we can. Let’s cover this whole cemetery with a thin silk blanket and have the picknick of our lifetime on it. There are many ways to shock each other. Some announce morbid actions over the internet. And execute them. The shock can throw us right back into life. But I don’t want to be morbid or pornographical. There are other options. In Argentina for example, there is football. I can try to play a football along these lines. The football will look like this: O. So when I continue writing, I will play the ball along the lines so you can follow it with your eyes just like in a real football-match. When it arrives at one end of the field, i.e. the current entry O it means a goal. There are two parties: the beginning and the end. Perhaps the entries will get more exciting. On the other hand: when they start with an O you already know which party scored. Do you have any suggestions for this? How can I make the football O along these lines more exciting?

A few days later, I will be visiting Paraguay, on my way to Bolivia and Peru. A twenty-four-year old girl told me we all have this phase that we want to walk the Inca Trail and visit those countries. She must have had it years ago herself. Yes, we all have this phase. You’re twenty and you want to conquer the world, you conquer the world, go everywhere, you have conquered the world and then you start a very normal O life, telling other people that it’s a phase we all go trough. Yeah right!

March 29. Come on, it’s monday. was originally published on Meandering home

March 29. Come on, it’s monday.

I write for a few. I need only a few to convince me of the fact that my endeavour is not completely futile. But don’t worry. You can stop reading; I’ll have ten other readers to replace you. Writing should be like painting, splashing the words on a mental canvas, and the writer should develop some curiosity about the patterns that he creates, the words that appear on his screen or on his paper like speckles of paint. But what about understanding such texts? Texts remain linear things, concatenations of words one after the other, it won’t work if you ask the reader to end of the sentence read this words first before continuing to the. I’m just playing with my medium. Come on, it’s monday.

Time is ticking; I have to reinforce my army and adjust its tactics in order to escape boredom once again. Producing nothing but a text is unevitably heading towards boredom. The words just lose their meaning like candies you sucked on for too long, and the sentence they live in won’t be able to revive them. Rather, the sentence is doomed to become a funeral of words that are sticking out like tombstones out of the grey earth. I’m trying to pursue LIFE here, and all I’m creating is a dead structure in which even the wittiest remark, the mildest description of the human condition, the most lightweighted verse alluding to the miracle of lover’s eyes that shine, all this is just buried in this damned textual cemetery.

What can I do? Ask questions like “Do you prefer cunXXXXXXXX over coiXXX?” (remind me to get rid of the X’s in order for the paper version to sell). Shocking! Let’s shock each other, let’s shock each other as much as we can. Let’s cover this whole cemetery with a thin silk blanket and have the picknick of our lifetime on it. There are many ways to shock each other. Some announce morbid actions over the internet. And execute them. The shock can throw us right back into life. But I don’t want to be morbid or pornographical. There are other options. In Argentina for example, there is football. I can try to play a football along these lines. The football will look like this: O. So when I continue writing, I will play the ball along the lines so you can follow it with your eyes just like in a real football-match. When it arrives at one end of the field, i.e. the current entry O it means a goal. There are two parties: the beginning and the end. Perhaps the entries will get more exciting. On the other hand: when they start with an O you already know which party scored. Do you have any suggestions for this? How can I make the football O along these lines more exciting?

A few days later, I will be visiting Paraguay, on my way to Bolivia and Peru. A twenty-four-year old girl told me we all have this phase that we want to walk the Inca Trail and visit those countries. She must have had it years ago herself. Yes, we all have this phase. You’re twenty and you want to conquer the world, you conquer the world, go everywhere, you have conquered the world and then you start a very normal O life, telling other people that it’s a phase we all go trough. Yeah right!

March 29. Come on, it’s monday.

I write for a few. I need only a few to convince me of the fact that my endeavour is not completely futile. But don’t worry. You can stop reading; I’ll have ten other readers to replace you. Writing should be like painting, splashing the words on a mental canvas, and the writer should develop some curiosity about the patterns that he creates, the words that appear on his screen or on his paper like speckles of paint. But what about understanding such texts? Texts remain linear things, concatenations of words one after the other, it won’t work if you ask the reader to end of the sentence read this words first before continuing to the. I’m just playing with my medium. Come on, it’s monday.

Time is ticking; I have to reinforce my army and adjust its tactics in order to escape boredom once again. Producing nothing but a text is unevitably heading towards boredom. The words just lose their meaning like candies you sucked on for too long, and the sentence they live in won’t be able to revive them. Rather, the sentence is doomed to become a funeral of words that are sticking out like tombstones out of the grey earth. I’m trying to pursue LIFE here, and all I’m creating is a dead structure in which even the wittiest remark, the mildest description of the human condition, the most lightweighted verse alluding to the miracle of lover’s eyes that shine, all this is just buried in this damned textual cemetery.

What can I do? Ask questions like “Do you prefer cunXXXXXXXX over coiXXX?” (remind me to get rid of the X’s in order for the paper version to sell). Shocking! Let’s shock each other, let’s shock each other as much as we can. Let’s cover this whole cemetery with a thin silk blanket and have the picknick of our lifetime on it. There are many ways to shock each other. Some announce morbid actions over the internet. And execute them. The shock can throw us right back into life. But I don’t want to be morbid or pornographical. There are other options. In Argentina for example, there is football. I can try to play a football along these lines. The football will look like this: O. So when I continue writing, I will play the ball along the lines so you can follow it with your eyes just like in a real football-match. When it arrives at one end of the field, i.e. the current entry O it means a goal. There are two parties: the beginning and the end. Perhaps the entries will get more exciting. On the other hand: when they start with an O you already know which party scored. Do you have any suggestions for this? How can I make the football O along these lines more exciting?

A few days later, I will be visiting Paraguay, on my way to Bolivia and Peru. A twenty-four-year old girl told me we all have this phase that we want to walk the Inca Trail and visit those countries. She must have had it years ago herself. Yes, we all have this phase. You’re twenty and you want to conquer the world, you conquer the world, go everywhere, you have conquered the world and then you start a very normal O life, telling other people that it’s a phase we all go trough. Yeah right!

March 26. Lobo.

Philosophy should be sprouting from the pain of being. Like a fragile plant. What am I saying here? A plant? Pain of being? I am dwelling in Buenos Aires these days, feel like I have to move on because I already feel too much at home here. It gets a little bit aburrido. But of boredom I already had enough back in Berlin. I had my share, like Baudelaire had his. Now I want something more. And I should stop talking about the pain of being. It’s so hysterical.

I had lunch with the woman who was not Sara. Lunch with a lot of carne: cuadril. Big chunks of Argentinian red meat. I loved it. We had a decent wine too. I joked that I would transfer into a lobo, a wolf, so she better not be around by midnight. That was, to my misfortune, indeed not the case. But other things matter more. Do you know what I used to call Nietzsche when I was young and craved for reading every letter of the philosophers? I used to call him lupus significae, wolf of meaning, because that is the way I perceived his writings. The meaning of his writing is so densely distributed along the lines he writes. Where others alude with played subtlety to some chunk of meaning somewhere, Nietzsche hits the bull on its head and spoils the meaning all over the place. Meaning is not something we should anxiously try to hold in our hands, but something we should try to spout out of us as long as we are alive. Something like that. The meat tasted really good.

The woman who is not Sara told me this very significant thing. “I don’t want to be the pensamiento of anybody else.” That struck me, since I use to transform you into a thought.
Again, put off. another one bites the dust. I want to be accepted. We all want to be accepted. But as what? I guess we all have some vague ideas about this in mind. And they better remain vague. What has to become clearer in our minds is: what is acceptation? We have a romantic idea of acceptation. That it’s some kind of deliverance. Once the Other, a school teacher, a girlfriend, some colleagues that used to be mobbing, a postman, a democrat, a masseur, one they’ve cast this magic spell of acceptance, once they DID this weightless and purely noumenal deed, once they’ve triggered the mental fireworks of acceptance, everything will be rosy and good.
See? Acceptance ist yet another language game. We have to study its rules. There are certain sentences we want to hear, and as appendices to those sentences, certain acts like the reception of a present and sharing time together. We are tuned to recognize those sentences and this behaviour. In this sense, acceptance can be reduced to self-acceptance. And don’t you dare mixing this up with the common cliché (my thoughts are always mistaken for clichés and I detest that), with the cliché that you have to accept yourself before others will accept you. I am talking about something else, something more fundamental as you might. I know very, very few people who would not react to an average reflection like this with a meek shrug and say well that’s what I’ve always said or no no I know it better. It seems so hard for people to just read and listen and try to extract something new from what you throw at them. They read this and say yeah acceptance is very important, they don’t even try to ask the type of questions I’m asking here. They take everything for granted except when they can add in their own thoughts. God how closed they all are. So here, it’s about acceptance as a language game with certain expectations that are of course always individual. And that also means that we can train them. I can, to give you an example, try to refrase your ignorance in my head, try to feel accepted just because you’ve read this, not because you understood it.

My hobby is making my character, making it more and more interesting. It is a hobby that is intrinsically tragic. If you (I switch from “me” to “you” don’t forget to notice!) try to make your character more interesting you can never succeed. You will end up with a boring simplistic character, a character that is aligned precisely to that one goal. So you have the tragic in your boat. Still want to skipper? It might be the best narcist treatment.