inward/downward

"My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers."

When writer's block gets bad enough that the only thing you can think to write about is how your writer's block feels[

:a punishing regime of self abuse:

It started as a high-pitched but barely audible whine, like that sound an old tv tuned to nothing makes] started and never left] after a while even the memory of the starting fades and you kind of accept it as part of your perception] a dulling of it] sit day after day staring out a window at a terrible, uneventful, mundane view, lacking even the energy to simply change the view] makes my hands [n[u[m[b[ and I drift off in the middle off typing this to look out [5 hours pass here, and I] can't even finish a sentence without a chorus of exasperated sighs
no movement no sense of humour

a migraine drills into my temples////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

:: lay waste my heart with monotones of boredom ::

Overwrought pressures compound the burden of knowing nothing. 

All the bodies have been removed, but it will never be clean here.

maybe, a psychic wreckage] maybe maybe maybe unmeasurable quantum excitations]

i am sure it was there.

this is where i left it]

frustration squalls and squeals like a field of blackboard-nails

[sometimes, when sufficiently panicked, my spine instinctively tries to flex in a distinctly inhuman fashion] reminds me of the contortions of a fish dropped on the ground] 

shaken by ultimate unknowns, your information is valueless

(pouring gasoline on ice-cold week-old dead-ash] the smell makes me nauseous and drives me from the room] the interrogation is over, the experiment is over] drilling recedes to a muscular ache in the back of my neck]  

"You recount your sorrows to a stone…" -Titus Andronicus Act 3 Sc 1

What doesn't kill you makes you weaker.

What kills you makes you stronger.

Yet another sleepless night
I swallow pill after pill
In a desperate attempt to fall asleep

Touchy subject eh? Significantly more often than I feel is healthy, I daydream about suicide, pure morbid curiosity. I'm far more likely to think about it out of boredom than depression…wonder what that says about me. 

"Such indeed is how the steadfast act: They are not attached to life." -Buddha

New Wave of No

"There is no doubt that life is given us, not to be enjoyed, but to be overcome; to be got over." 
                                                                                             -Arthur Schopenhauer

Schopenhauer has led me to Cioran, in a virtual pathway of pessimism. One's emptiness not fulfilling, I have filled me with another's emptiness until I burst. 

"with every experience i expand like a balloon blown up beyond its capacity. the most terrifying intensification bursts into nothingness."

I can't remember a time without anxiety. Shaking at the thought of interaction…touch burns my flesh with its ACTION. I withdraw like a turtle, freedom is slavery. Freedom from interaction is slavery to inaction in a world devoid of solitude. Am I hiding? What am I hiding from? Condemnation or boredom, I find those anywhere I go….everywhere I go. Can't survive a conversation, can't participate in the easy illusion of socialising without feeling dragged and lost and interminably bored. I spent an eternity listening to a filthy waterfall in a polluted river and all its breath came out mangled and contorted in a poisonous stream…

I daydreamed of a clean flood but no one understood my words, shrieked as they were.

"To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style…"

Singular elements of individuality, buried in the field. Flat, uniform, desolate - it unifies us. All equal, on the other side of the Dirt, but subsumed to the Dirt, we become the dust and lose ourselves. A grave is an impression on the immanence of suffering. A battle won, rest as the prize. 

"Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there."

leaves in river

     With the innate nature to grow between 

the two horns of Satan - inward virtue - you have been correct and careful! 

How is it that he who 

lights a fire 

kills living beings? 

They will not escape 

this fate anyhow: innumerable 

spheres in all directions wake from the trance. 

No perceptions - it is not suffering - but we have decided to retire from this world. 

Muhammed is the father of no man among you, for the crocodile chooses. 

The recapitulation was a disposal of the dead. 

Corpse-eating birds, carry the bones. 

The sharper people's weapons, the more they riot. 

Hollow becomes full and nobody thought 

me to be God while I dwelled in the tallest grass. 

There I performed the 

Great Death. 

I worshipped penance. 

Renounced birth. In this triple order, unworthy, ascetic. 

Only a skull left behind where I saw omens of chaos, adorned and guarded. 

Tell me, who are you? 

"Sin and Punishment", he replied. 

We floated on, 

heavenly, 

as the 

entire 

army

 rode

 into the sea 

to seek

 refuge from the sand.

post-structural miserablism : everything will always make me unhappy

a calm erasure                                     nowhere

of nothing

                                                    a void within

I don't hold                                            myself

                        this void holds me

                                    within

                                         it


if you seek
Unity
Oneness
don't discount
the path of
Zero
the path of emptiness
A path
or
No Path
All destinations
are perfect
and No destination
is the end
because
no destination
is the
End

"to put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire-
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid."
-Edgar Lee Masters  'Spoon River Anthology'

I suppose, in retrospect….

My words about "Transcendental Black Metal" earlier left out some important details, yea?

Like exactly WHAT I was ranting about?

Firstly, peep this:  Transcendental Black Metal (It's on page 53, though if you're here you'll probably enjoy the rest as well)….it assumes that you have some reasonable depth of knowledge about the black metals (at least in the Scandinavian sense), and I rather like it. It's all true, or at least not wrong, despite what the journalists and fans have had to say….pretentious, of course. But sincere enough I think, mainly because it seems to come from the romantic angle of having loved and loss -or maybe from experiencing a loss of faith?- rather than from an outsider, dissectionary observation. Goes to show that evolution can't be stopped, even if it can be diverted. When even a band (there was a point when I'd say the entire genre, but I think that idea has nearly gone with the wind) so vehemently against evolution and change as was Deathspell Omega originally, was eventually caught out experimenting (in an interview in or around 2000 they said breaking with tradition and musically or lyrically experimenting should be "punishable by torture"), then what is left but to toss all notions of any original or objective truth aside eh? At this point, the bands that DON'T experiment are the ones that are being left behind….Dimmu Borgir still claws their fingers bloody on the story of Lucifer, and Cradle of Filth haven't been relevant in a decade at least….

"Out of pure spite we pretty much always said the opposite of what the other said, no matter what they said, only to mark distance. That's how we ended up calling ourselves Satanists, despite the fact that we absolutely were not. There was not a single Satanist in the whole Black Metal scene in Norway in 1991-92." - Varg Vikernes

In this environment of permissiveness, Liturgy's "transcendence" loses a lot of lustre for me. It is exceptional as a mission statement for their specific genre-fracturing moment….but as some kind of statement on the state of black metal (even at the time of it's writing, which is admittedly quite in the past considering the acceleration of the evolution and fracturing of metal genres in the last 10 years or so), I feel like it just misses the forest for it's particular tree. It isn't enough to simply turn 180 degrees and go opposite the direction you were walking! What about what is on either side of the path? Below or above it? What about the bird that alights for half a second on the path, picks at the dirt, and flits away? What about the person unaware of the existence of a path that stumbles out of the trees, crosses the path, and keeps on walking? Or the same person stopping and marveling at the fact that here is a perfectly worn path, carefully plotted and heavily trod, and deciding to stop their romp through the woods to see where it leads?

"I quite enjoy this genre for its underlying irony: You have to be alive to play it and listen to it." - Henry Rollins

Evocation; an Elaboration.

When I first entered this Way, I relied on mySelf very readily. It was natural. It FELT natural, at any rate. It felt so real I fell into operating in a very-Real-manner almost at once. It was only after a dream-death that I came to the realization that, despite the "reality", despite the here-and-NOW-ness of it all…that this Way was just the many corridors of this trance. Despite the protests (of which there were plenty), I returned constantly. I dreamed about shattering the wall I'd inevitably find at the end of every path, though honestly, who is to say whether it is a wall or not (No wall. Not-wall. The Great Wall of Not)…after all, I can only touch it, sealed there in the dark, feel my way down its oddly textured surface. I grope desperately at every grain and graft (of which there are plenty) like someone newly blind. Like my eyes were taken forcibly and I'm far from adapting. It radiates a something….a drive, or maybe a hunger. I often make guess and estimations of its nature by listening to what it hungers for, drives toward….these guesses ultimately feel superficial and I think it knows this. I know it, at any rate.

Is this thing Me? Of Me? Merely INSIDE Me? Is this the dark passenger Burroughs mentions? It is stealthy, strong, and smart, but utterly beyond me apparently. It occasionally seems to be on my side though, which raises its own set of questions.

"One of our most ancient proverbs justifies the war prisoner: 'the captive will cry out, the dead man never.' "  -Aleksander Solzhenitsyn  'The Gulag Archipelago'

nothing is illuminated - back to black, the deck is stacked
against the wise
who rise to face clashing tongues wagging and
bragging for scraps on a dirty wooden floor notched from
teeth dropping from smashed faces bloody from
fucking
nothing
and crying like a dying dog
it sits, baffled at an end it couldn't see coming
because more than two eyes are required to
see into coiled cold snakes eyes
from birthrights to death rituals
we sullenly scrape the surface and find infinite surface
no progress.
ultimate regression is stagnation
backward
is a
forward
and
nothing is worth remembering