What do I expect from life? Tragedy. For whatever reason, writing is an obsession with me … not phony “this is my persona/image” writing, but “this is how I really feel” writing. It can’t hurt to document the inner life of one who has figured out certain riddles, side-stepped certain traps, and stubbornly outsmarted certain evolutionary and social mechanisms.
What’s the story? The story is not what we do with our lives, but what life does with us. I wake up knowing I have to find an affordable apartment soon or else I lose government assistance. There are those who might like to see everyone with rental assistance corralled into work-farms. It was not my goal to end up depending on government assistance, but it is what it is … sooner or later, it just becomes your life. Ride it until the wheels fall off. Welcome to the Twenty First Century, the age of the high-tech low life, more literate than kings and high priests of past eras, but feeling like a deadbeat on account of the metrics that have us rate our value and worth by our income or our position in the “work-force.”
Many people define themselves by their income or by what they “do for a living” – in fact, that is often the first thing people want to know about you: “where do you work?”
You married? Got kids? Where’s your car? Why don’t you own a car?
I define myself as a deep thinker regardless of how I pay the rent, regardless of my personal reaction to being born into mass-industrial society … the machine age run amuck. Stress. Tension. Anxiety.
I don’t require much to be content, but these days, even that is becoming scarce: a place with my own kitchen, my own bathroom, somewhere to store some books and chestfuls of notebooks … The Records of a Steppenwolf. I’ll take what I can get, even some dive on the Jersey Shore, even if all my futile scribblings end up in the Atlantic Ocean as the oceans rise.
The long and short of it is that I have an anti-corporate (BAD) attitude. I’m an extremist nonconformist and a radical philosopher … I lean strongly in the direction of madness. I have basically figured out that all of us, not just myself, would have been better off not being born. Does this imply we all would be better off dead? Possibly but not necessarily.
How can I think this way? Well, as soon as I overcame the fear of public opinion, I broke through to the Dark Side, so to speak. I mean, there never was any real need to decide upon a career, secure a position (JOB), get married and reproduce. All this is obvious to me now, but it wasn’t like this all my life. There were times I had been a nervous wreck. I was concerned about things like, what others think. Forget that stupid shit.
A hostile attitude keeps me from conforming to idiotic norms. It’s good to be able to be carefree, to be a free spirit. It’s a catastrophe to have been born, but now that I am alive, I strongly resist becoming even more ensnared in misery, so I do just enough to get by … to stay alive, to stay dry, and do a lot of contemplating on the futility of the cosmos. No matter who anyone is, they are free to question why the world even exists rather than not. The great thing about thinking is that it does not require anyone else to engage in it with you.
There is this inner dimension to our existence that can’t be measured in terms of monetary value. Since I am drawn to obscure literature, when I write, I expect to have a small audience. In fact, I am surprised when anyone at all is drawn to what I write. I write as an outsider. Some people might say I am a social parasite with a negative attitude. I don’t give a fuck.
I’m disgusted with the corporate overtones of the social networking software that seems to suggest we define ourselves as if the entire world were potential employers and co-workers. Link me up to a barf bag for that pig shit corporate mind fuck. Who the Hell isn’t a “technical writer”? Jeezuz.
Who can I talk to about how I REALLY feel? Now the value of a diary can be appreciated! This is not about entertaining the masses. These diaries are written in cursive … This is the real stuff … another anti-novel by another authentic being who actually exists.
Writing is a great source of revenge!
I want to be a philosopher who can be read like a poet … a rebel monk without a religion, without a god.
“… the only thing I could read was Schopenhauer. Everything else I tried confirmed the feeling of sickness … I always knew he was one of the ones that mattered most to me, and it is a pleasure more real than any pleasure for a long time to begin to understand now why it is so. And it is a pleasure also to find a philosopher that can be read like a poet.” ~ Beckett
I am not enthusiastic about anything. I have to admit that I am nervous about the lack of affordable housing. I purchased twelve special notebooks … that’s about all I can become enthusiastic about … making some kind of breakthrough, not in how I live day to day, but in the style of my writing, in my attitude. I want to be able to write in a more hostile tone. I want to become more negative. No more romantic delusions. No more infatuations. At this point in my life, I want to be able to unload the honest truth, even if it is a bitter truth that stings.