saved by beauty, dissociation, mysticism, being and becoming no one——being everyone, being being
justifying my existence in fatherly, capitalist terms, happy Friday, calendars and clocks remind us of debt, death, emergency and emergence—possibility, with leadership, if things fall apart
success imminent now, boring, lost everything to get here, gave up everything, now have nothing but soul, heart, vision, refusal, woohoo, nobody f*cking cares and it’s as boring as a factory job to administrate, yet it is the only life worth living, the artist’s life, apart from regulation and rules and waiting, a ticket to being childish with the childish adults while others try to win favor in arenas, winning their chosen hierarchies, being good enough, always in debt and curing others’ ignorance, then come home (you live at work already) exhausted, defeated, to others busy and nursing their wounds; maybe my writing in general is a negative in the photographic sense, containing everything the actual image does not, and I’m sentenced to live in the underworld for a duration of 5 deep work hours a day (triple days for a decade plus? no days off? i don’t remember and don’t care to be exact or precise about my payment; no one billed, no one collected, my life is a strange dream as is yours; schoolmasters, parental figures, all empty symbols, empty vases and bullion coins——how we wish the dead president on the cover were trustworthy, valid, no: we are our own parents now, kings of the asylum, in charge of labels and charging the label maker every night, and regulating language in the morning: becoming the head of the world, the head of language and discourse; this is my sick ode to responsibility, a funeral for everything life was up until now; let’s not talk about this or take it seriously; thank God no one will read it! All I have to offer (there I go totalizing again, my only liberation; there I go using extremes again; here I go being aware, aware, aware of myself because I fear to live beyond my own language! because i suspect there’s nothing but worms crawling upward to the same burning light bulb i see already, arrival, success, to be a princely human on earth, out of hell, walking among the birds and the trees, a natural disaster but totally enclosed, a controlled burn, you’ve seen those right? a pile of sticks off the highway
anyway, “Where was I?” doesn’t interest me anymore as a question, i am drunk driving in my dreams, as kingly as other childish men who dream all day “for a living” not that they’re paid but that they’re addicted and can’t quit; this is not a grievance or a thank-you speech exactly, this is actually ghostwritten. My most authentic speech is ghostwritten; I’m now such a master and expert that I know I couldn’t be myself if I tried. “I” am gone; i am now just voice and husk, a spokesman for the sounds in my head——i am a shell, inhuman, a piece of carbon on the beach your children might call a shell, since sadly i took the intensity route through my early life, worked triples all the time, aged 21 years in 7, and now have no peers, and must write the math book again to make the world fit me, a lumberjack of rules—that’s an infinite player, an astronaut never home except behind glass.
But surviving this is beautiful. And you never need to talk about it.