you drink coffee you smoke cigarettes you write and that’s it

¤art so frequently is the academy’s mistress-gigolo (mistolo gigress) relying on its cues, ⏏rth⏏d⏏xies, certifications, tab⏏⏏s – rather than standing in the environment created of art: an environment that surely can accept pollens and seeds from the academy but even as it accepts equally pollens and seeds from all things including those many environments that flourish far from academic pollination. but art is now commonly just a fenced-in area in an academic landscape (often without even knowing it!) – art only because a sign with art scrawled on it hangs on the fence

la culture est un instrument manié par des professeurs pour fabriquer des professeurs qui à leur tour fabriqueront des professeurs

depression is only depression if you call it depression, just as fat is only fat if you call it fat. there is a taliban of language and the freedom-fighters of the human spirit listen to their death threats with a combination of amusement and mockery

⏏ ⏏

⏏

⏏

there may be no purity
but there is simone

contorting oneself into the infinite prisons of one’s fate is an art normally automatically done; when one though is a specialist of sorts in such contortion – at least in its description, its awareness – every movement, thought, horror, expanse, colour and sound, vacancy, window, presumed escape (but one escapes only to a fate of escaping!), each emotion, fear, doubt, political nuance, relentlessly morphing definitions and statements, increasing lack of clarity (in any explicit articulate sense) of what this fate is and even whether this is the right word for it, the knowledge of nothing else, the small everythings in this knowledge, …

                  … others act, believe, know, promote, analyze, dominate … but those specialists attuned to every sensitivity of fate, like a precision-made instrument designed solely for this purpose, are unable to move with much assurance in these common domains

from death’s impurity i write. the living have called death’s perspective purity (purity – or its radical opposite) but there is no purity. the living do not understand death, that its impurities are different than life’s, and they mistake this difference, through ignorance, with another thing

while there’s something erotic, exhilarating about another’s pain – a delight euphemized and nano-negotiated through the functions of social-dominant language – our own pain is calmly even enjoyably meditative (but only if we have the luxury to reflect on it – that is, as s weil points out, if the pain isn’t too severe)  ¤

• 
  
  • 9

• capitalism has brought about the emancipation of collective humanity with respect to nature. but this collective humanity has itself taken on with respect to the individual the oppressive function formerly exercised by nature

¤¤