garlic and sapphires in the mud

Poster Idea

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 16:26:26 GMT

"Eat Shit and Die"

Metaphorical Images

Sat, 06 Jan 2007 18:22:07 GMT

I don't know if it will be easy to understand what I am trying to communicate, but this image of a Hypercube is, to me, a metaphor for how I see the individual human mind within the outer Universe :

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y133/kittim/hypercube2.jpg

This is another, different, image of a Hypercube - this represents the collective consciousness :

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y133/kittim/hypercube.bmp

This image of a Hypersphere represents, symbolically, the nature of the relationship of the individual to the collective and of the collective consciousness to the collective unconscious - imagine the funnel things as being reality tunnels, and superimpose a Yin-Yang at the centre, representing (obviously) reception and transmission :

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y133/kittim/hypersphere1.jpg

I badly want some kind of psychedelic drug to help me ruminate over these images.

"Unus Mundus" Mandala

Fri, 06 Oct 2006 10:28:02 GMT

Here is my mandala representing the "Unus Mundus" ("One World"):

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y133/kittim/unusmundusmandala.jpg

* Picture Quality:

It seems to have come out a bit shit on its journey from photobucket; the labels are "Mind" for the top yin-yang, "Matter" for the bottom one, "Dark" for the left one, and "Light" for the right one.

"Mind" & "Matter" are subtitled "Dark/Light", and "Dark" & "Light" are subtitled "Mind/Matter".

The "squaring of the circle" is one of many archetypal motifs which form the basic patterns of dreams and fantasies; it is distinguished by the fact that it is one of the most important from the functional point of view; it could be called the "archetype of wholeness". Because of this significance, the "Quaternity of One" is the schema for all images of God, as depicted in the visions of Ezekiel, Daniel, and Enoch, and as the representation of Horus with his 4 sons.

Tree of Life

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 11:24:10 GMT

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y133/kittim/tree1.jpg

I know this is not a particularly detailed image of the Tree of Life, but I feel it more accurately represents my interpretation of it, which is not the traditional one.

Traditionally, the Tree is meant to be viewed as descending from Kether, the Crown.

I, however, see this version as representing the nature of Reality if you view it ascending from Malkuth, the Physical Realm, in a way I can only describe as being like the "Maximise" action option on a computer window; the depiction of Malkuth as being a composite of the higher Sephiroth but viewed in reverse - the higher Sephiroth are attributes of Malkuth, the nature of which is the manifestation of all of its aspects.

As such, I do not believe the Tree represents the Absolute Truth of the Nature of Reality in terms of being a totally inclusive map of the psyche, more that this version of it represents the Idea of Mind being connected to Matter and both being different aspects of a Unified Whole, sort of like some explanations of Quantum Mechanics.

I know this is a somewhat sketchy description, but it is about as detailed as I can get, this being only a working hypothesis based primarily on attempts to define and rationalise experiences of synchronicity and related implications.

Introduction

Sat, 01 Jul 2006 00:12:27 GMT

What follows is an introducing of one's self (myself) to the LiveJournal community magicaluniverse. There are many other, more appropriate, bits of information which I could choose to share; you, however, are stuck with these. I am not good at setting an example; I am, however, good at expecting the unrealistic. sakeofmercy is expected (by me) to go next, simply because I know that the journal is active. I don't believe in chain letters, but someone else ought to for this to succeed.

I am not sure that I can explain this. The nature of that which I am trying to explain necessitates my not trying.

I do not think. I used to (think) in ways which resulted in (or were the result of) mental anguish/annoyance. I used to have no choice (but to write my way out). It (thought) began to cease sometime around my eighteenth birthday. I was still frequently unhappy/uncomfortable, but I didn't think. I was, however, more conscious of this... of there being some experience always on the edge of experience that I could (at any moment) accidently/purposefully experience. Zoloft managed to eliminate most of the free-floating neurosis that had been omni-present (with or without thought) and the discomfort almost entirely ceased.

Is it necessary to understand what I mean by think? Can I explain it without doing it? Have you ever panicked, utterly, because you understood that you were? Not "what", not "who", not even a paltry "where," but merely were.

All records of experience prior to the cessation of thought have been lost. The problem with explaining, idealizing, the "before" is that it was impure, riddled with other ideas/experience/emotion that is clearly wrong; the best texts say so. Do you understand the problem with a purity of experience occurring before one is in a position to utilize, comprehend, and more plainly put: not freak the fuck out?

I would like to say that I'm crawling my way back (to something I can never have). In attempts like these to describe it ("this") I circle around the subject, preferring to remain object. At the moment of composition I am taking a break, a vacation from my emotional vacation (non euphemistically put, Zoloft) and contemplating a full rupture: thought.

Does anyone reading this fully understand what Burroughs fucking meant when he stated that "control can never be a means to anything but more control"? Fucking do you? My retreat was deliberate. The barriers were erected. Coping mechanisms sacrificed. I am here; you are there and, as Corgan whined, "can anybody hear me?" If you hear the words which come first and after, well then maybe... but the problem with lyrics like Corgan's is that they can describe the ordinary as well as the specific and it is a matter of projection and little more.

That last sentence brings me to the key point: why try? why think? why write when I'm sure to be understood and thus misunderstood? why bother when I am warm, safe, content in my cocoon of drugs, materialism, and control? The answer is probably the only one that comforted me in moods much more inconsolable than this: why not?

I guess that's the thing. I have quotations and ideations that I could place here (or somewhere similar) and probably reach some "consensus" on; why not, after-all, they're not mine... The things I read in fiction/non-fiction and say "yes of course" how did that particular dead white guy know so surely what I meant? how does that stupid far eastern religion make the claims which the little atheist murmurs to herself like so many excuses? Simple, simple answers here involving the zeitgeist, the spiritus mundi, or some other philosophical cure-all. If it is true for me then it is likely true for you but that doesn't mean that you can claim true identification with me at all. And what of it if you could? Is it simple neuroses? the problems/benefits of the self-aware?

I don't want identification, sympathy, a shared awareness; I just want something to pass the time, to absorb, consume until I'm forced to surface again. I could describe the "mistakes I've made in love" and gush over how certain Buddhist thought warns against them and then lament, "but how was I to know that trapped in a Catholic/secular world?" I could go in-depth concerning my obsessions and compulsions and their tie-in connection to magical thought and the frustration I feel in a world that (largely) does not view reality the same. I have experience and memoirs detailing great sex that was bad sex and was all tied inexplicably to the inability to not excessively dream, an ability which Michael Stipe sees fit to detail in just another pop song begging the question "does he really feel it?" Did he--who was not Mr. Stipe, just another fan--really feel it and does he still years later when I've finally found the unscented soap he was searching for?

5+3=97+input9

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 20:29:20 GMT

Nine is a safe number; it has a lot of threes. Why do you have posting access to this journal? I'm fluent in pop culture and maybe you are too... so is it the quotation of Nin, Burroughs, or the reference to R.E.M.? All three are common. And subject to change, they are aspects of my current quotable generic alludiatory system to me... but you? Ok, or there are 97 interests listed:

"this", abnormal psychology, addiction, awareness, belief, blindness, buddhism, burroughs, butterfly stars, catharsis, catholicism, chinese finger traps, communication, conceptual cages, control, cut-ups, cutting, cyllib, dharma bums, disbelief, dreams, eight, enoch root, faith, faithless, fiction, fight club, finding a way out, fugue states, gyres, idiopathic hypersomnia, insomnia, jesus, joan vollmer, john, jung, language, lost time, lucid dreaming, missing time, mugwumps, nonsense sentences, numbers, obsessive compulsive disorder, occlusion, paradigm shifts, paradoxes, paranoia, parasomnia, perfectionism, philip k. dick, pilate, plato, plato and john, polyamory, prayer, prufrock, psychoanalysis, psychosis, psychosomatic, pushing boundaries, r.e.m., r.e.m. (the sleep stage), reality, rem, right association, rob marlo, salve regina, seven, sex magic, sleep stages, socrates, socrates and jesus, solipsism, solipsists, soma, spiritus mundi, ssris, sublimation, syllogisms, symbolic logic, t.s. eliot, tactile hallucinations, the magical universe, the meaning of is, the roman empire, the sacred heart, the wasteland, this, thought, three, valis, william butler yeats, william s. burroughs, writing, yabyum, zero.

These are much more likely to vanish and I've left room for 53 more (which equals eight at worst). I do not mean for this to be static or to be a passive exercise in what she will say next. What forum is this in which I am posting? Writers write and this is LiveJournal. This entry has comments turned off, so make your own. Say something on the subject of interests because there are, after-all, at least eight more the system will let me add.

11th-April-06

Mon, 01 May 2006 12:52:18 GMT

I used to strive ((or claim to)) ^in regard to^ “this”... which is some thing, maybe a thing, or no thing, but more explicit than thing I can’t really get without attributing qualities and associations which may not be accurate. Even the label of Xthing begins to evoke images I’d rather not allow you because they’re certainly not right. So anyway--it’s all digressions--I used to obsess over chronicling and, more importanly, explaining “this.” I wanted to communicate. I wanted to plead my case, justice or something. I wanted to connect, fuck, be alive, fear death.

It isn’t that I don’t now. I really would like to say, “I don’t know.” It’s odd to think that some explanation/decimation of “this” isn’t my life’s work. It isn’t even that I don’t want to connect--Although, I do not want to connect--to another(s) human being(s): But it is impossible. It isn’t what or how to write but, rather, WHY. I used to take a page from Burroughs’s book, “I had no choice but to write my way out” But I’m Out! Do I no longer need the audience?

OK, because from here on is where it really starts to get fucked: words,, writing,, have no longer lost their appeal,, hold on me,, but one thing has... the easily expalined artistic “intent,” the need for connect/disconnect that’s on the same level as fucking, the impetus behind my years as a slut. The need. For reaction the need the promise of some sacred mystic ultimate BJ shit... maybe that was the initial hook, the free dealer’s dose but it isn’t now.

There are some things (Xthings) about me I no longer ((in this second)) feel inclined to explain. My involvement with word/language ((thought/virus disease)) thickens; it was inescapable a long time ago. It is for THEIR sake my obsession with them continues... theirs, mine, and everything else is Distant. Theory. An audience is necessary b/c they demand it, understand: for them to be //with// but mainly to Be words they must not be kept in isolation ((as if I could!))... thus the need for an audience. This isn’t the zen it might sound. If it’s the moment before the plunge into mental chaos for myself... well then it is; this chain of action goes too far back to //stop//.

Maybe it can be explained. I’m not sure, although, to what purpose. If it can not there not now in public where I ego must “maintain” control ...they may demand it.

[cross-posted between rparker and magicaluniverse]

Go Team America.

Tue, 31 Jan 2006 21:49:55 GMT

I think George Bush is a silly man.

Bibliophilia

Wed, 11 Jan 2006 09:26:13 GMT

Title, Author, Genre, Whatever and Why

But not just books, how about deliberately arranged letters in general?

The trauma of being (an expert on one's self)

Mon, 26 Dec 2005 09:40:55 GMT

It's difficult to determine what is me and what is X disorder, X childhood scar, X genetic flaw, X typical trait of my age / gender /socioeconomic class, and so on. The easy answer would be that it all is, or that none of it is; take your pick. What is learned and what was forced upon me from the start (where is the start)? What can I erase and what can I only hope to learn to control? I like to dive into narcissistic essays and dialogues (who am I kidding? monologues) on the subject; however, there is a problem with this: no one else cares. And, not only do they not care, but even if they did and I believe that if they think they do they're involved in their own mind game delusional bullshit they still are not an expert on me and, in fact, know less about myself than I do.

So really, why tell anyone anything? The problem with this mentality is that it goes against both my temperament and upbringing. I mean, I think I've finally gotten over the whole "best friends forever" mentality, but it sometimes seems selfish and misguided to have done so. Despite the advice Cosmo gives, I seem to be incapable of keeping information to myself. I need to talk, or write, or sleep around ... I have great difficulty keeping anything to myself. Why? Where is the survival benefit in this? Well, I see the survival benefit, but what about the more intangible? the "what it is" I'm supposedly seeking?

I need to abruptly begin a new paragraph and leave it up to you to figure out how it's related. Sylvia Plath wrote something like, "I close my eyes and all the world drops dead. / I think I made you up inside my head." Now, while it's really cliche to quote "Mad Girl's Love Song," I do it with a purpose: an outside reference for the ideas I'm about to pose, one of many but the catchiest to remember and cite because it rhymes. I make people up. Be careful. Don't get too close to me, or I may create you too. I think that there is a Buddhist idea of a great deal of suffering being caused by these kinds of illusions, not seeing people for who they really are. Also throw in another [probable mis]quote, but I won't cite the book or author (it's famous, what a great game), "Don't ever tell anybody anything. You just end up missing them."

Paragraph break and breathe. This isn't a well thought out essay. This is me trying not to panic.

I can think of several instances where I really did invent my lovers (probably grade school best friends too, but those perceptions are lost and even more obscured). For years. Four years in one memorable instance. The same with infatuations, obsessions, mostly made up. Now, not talking about actual psychosis here; these were real people. However, I frequently add ((stop they probably still ARE real people, somewhere... I don't think I've killed anyone yet)) aspects of personality and emotion that just aren't there. I have to make them a certain way for the relationship to have any chance of approaching what it is I'm ...searching for? Now, don't read this as a glossing over of flaws, idealizations, not quite. I often need(ed) to make them and myself much worse than we really were in order to have any chance of achieving the catharsis I seek .... is that what I seek? Well, it's one of those things I like, much more than orgasm. The easiest way to invent lovers is through a literary love affair, distance helps but isn't required, notes passed in the hall can do just as well....

What was I saying? Peel back another layer further to actual imaginary friends. Probably for the first five to eight years of my life (dim and blurry and phased out gradually) I didn't have just one imaginary friend, but several, say an entire soap opera's worth. So I created this world and took it everywhere with me, superimposing it over the everyday; I don't think I ever mentioned it back then. Every event fit into it somehow. It included real people cast in completely fantastical roles. If I had been a smarter teenager I would have remembered this and stopped and more closely examined the relationships I was forming. Because it's all really the same thing.

This may tie together or these may be two separate essays. If I could turn my fucked interpersonal interactions into a novel well then... something; I'd have a novel at least, although probably not a very good one. I haven't concluded these thoughts, but I won't be able to continue this later. I'll have to start over and try again. It gets tedious (but for you or for me, I'm not sure). The thing I was thinking about when I began this is this: I get ideas. I get very enthusiastic about them. They consume me. A short time later they lose their magic. Either I realize, "Oh shit, that was seriously bad judgment, a fucked thing to do" or they simply lose their charm. I could describe this in more vivid terms, but it doesn't matter. It isn't something you want to achieve and if you do achieve it well then you know, right? But I was just thinking about this because it fits in with my DSM4 diagnosis exactly. Exactly. I've always been this way. I haven't changed to fit the diagnosis. But what the hell is the point of such clinical descriptions, or identifying with them or not? To feel not so left out? To fit in? Well fuck that. I want nothing to do with other people diagnosed the same as me; some of those fucks are crazy.

Sat, 24 Dec 2005 04:41:08 GMT

i drink, therefore i am.

or maybe not.

?

Prufrock says:

Mon, 19 Dec 2005 10:23:30 GMT

An explanation will be forthcoming (but not now).

Don't take it so seriously.

Mon, 19 Dec 2005 10:20:29 GMT

Reality is that which when you stop believing in it won't go away. -PKD

I close my eyes and all the world drops dead. -S. Plath

If you read that: reality is.

It depends on what the meaning of is is. -B. Clinton

Control can never be a means to anything but more control. -WSB

But what is sex but control? What is is but?

Existence. A good friend of mine. (A person who had been a good friend of mine.) Always misspelled that one word. Consistently. He was not unintelligent.

Emotion is that which when you stop believing in it usually goes away.

Then what is thought? It may just be that I cannot meditate. I know I don't. Where does intoxication enter the equation and fucking?

spiritus mundi and you

Tue, 13 Dec 2005 13:02:49 GMT

Opinions on how the idea of an universal unconscious and the reality of solipsism interact:

I killed the time and now it's always seven o'clock.

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 07:40:25 GMT

Am I awake? Am I alive? Am I here? I think that this helps me to sleep. I really hate an autumn/winter night sky when it isn't clear and the only light is reflected. Jumping into cold water makes me alive. Corgan says fucking makes you alive. Well, he has a penis. I've recently experienced emotional states of genuine care/concern/liking of members of my own species. I mean genuine, fucking isn't even a consideration and pheromones cannot be blamed. Am I becoming incorporated? Because these experiences make me question prior moments in my life and my disgust toward "well-meaning assholes who don't get 'it' and never will." The darkness is really making me want to freak out. I'm anticipating owning a grow light for humans. I hate people who fuck for love and love for fuck. A drug rep gave my boyfriend an hour glass the other day. I said that I wanted one that rotated of its own volition when time was up, or nearly up. He began to give me a lecture on physics, and the impossibility of a perpetual motion machine, and I asked... ENTROPY (because that was the title of a short story I read once), and he said "yeah." I felt very betrayed. I never realized that a perpetual motion machine did not exist. It seemed/seems horribly unfair and a complete rip-off and I don't understand why I can't make one. A few days later we began a discussion concerning deja vu, entropy, and time travel (because I was reading a book called The Time Traveler's Wife) and, as always, my experiences are different from his beyond the point of communication. Or maybe he doesn't want to comprehend, either way the result is the same. He refutes my "what ifs" and "anything is possible if I can conceive it" attitude. Note: I am not complaining about him; I am not one of those suckers that expect completion from domestic union; it's just that... shit, he's the smartest person I talk to and in many ways he's right. I don't have the capacity to consider the subjects of this journal at the moment.

Solipsism Joke

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 15:38:52 GMT

Here, check this out, it's a joke, it will make you laugh.

Person 1: Hey, so I went to a solipsist convention the other day.
Person 2: Oh yeah, how was it?
Person 1: I was the only one there!

Ohhh man, it just gets funnier every time! Go ahead, tell your friends!

Um. Hi.

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 06:26:47 GMT

I have a theory that every word you will ever read is part of a huge message especially coded for you. I think you have to break that code to get into your next step along the way.

I pick up old shopping lists and notes people leave on the street. I save the slips of fortune cookies. I want to figure out the puzzle.

Sometimes I'm only alive in the very edges of my extremities--the fingertips, curling toes, split ends of my hair. That has to do, too, with words. (Ask me how and I'll tell you.)

I want, am, attempting, swim, trying, enjoying, ignoring, prefering, floating, having, stopped stopped, collecting, thought, returning, gone

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 19:00:14 GMT

I want to build a dreamachine; the internet ones just don't cut it. I'm cutting up two of Shakespeare's plays and attempting to receive a grade for it. I swim at night and try not to feel guilty for enjoying it; I try to ignore the existence of the cliche that I'm trying to return to the womb. I prefer to draw with crayons. At night when I'm floating on my back I think of The Sheltering Sky. I've been having a lot of those moments lately. Past things I have been trying to define moments of purity. I have stopped having sex and I feel better. I have stopped eating dairy and I feel better except for when I smell cheese and then I feel worse. I am collecting scraps of paper in order to store secrets on them. I think of things that I want to place here but become immersed in life away from this computer instead. By the time I return it's gone and I'm left with self description.

Don't dream it, be it.

Sat, 24 Sep 2005 18:31:14 GMT

So I have outlines for multiple novels on multiple pages of multicolored paper. They [the pages] don't really comprise anything resembling pieces of book. The required triangular (?) plot structure isn't there and really never should be. That they resemble the majority of the traditional structure isn't really that important (a lot of books don't), but it does seem necessary that a resolution should be possible. How is a resolution possible? This is not writer's block; it is a conflict of interests. I realize that there are "real novels" that lack a [satisfactory] resolution, but you know that is not what I am referring to. I possess the technical knowledge, technical skill, hell even "style" and creativity... blah, blah. I could (probably) resolve the conflict of interests and write two novels in one. This is the "problem" of my life. Is it enough to call forth past experience or must I relive it and, if so, is that a choice that I am willing to make? Writing, "art," all of that is secondary/symptomatic of something else (as is everything, as are words, as is language comprised of symbols).

When I was fifteen I freaked out when I comprehended. I wrote that experience down and made it public. A channel of communication occurred and I became distracted from the point for too long. I associated myself too much with someone who was wrong. This is the first time that I have admitted that he was wrong. Ok, but the real thing is my inability to find a middle. Is this the middle? Is it all or nothing or can I insist on everything? I was upset the first time that I realized that I could not not exist. Regardless of what objective reality is, this remains true: *I* cannot not exist. So demand everything. Somehow I'm not sure if demanding everything should involve the six syllabi pinned to my wall. But somehow it seems that if I really choose everything that annotated bibliographies must be as necessary as sex with a homeless drug addict in the restroom of a residency hotel, right? Right.

a self-portrait in crayon

Fri, 23 Sep 2005 19:49:50 GMT

I am over-stimulated. I made a last minute, impulsive, but necessary decision to live on campus this semester. I am enrolled in seven different classes which means seven different combinations of students and seven different instructors. I am [somehow] vice-president of a student club. I live with three people other than myself. Two of these people are ESL speakers and the other does not use contractions. I obsess over language and this is not helping. Much of the Rocky Horror Picture Show does not translate. I have already begun barricading myself in my bedroom for 12+ hour increments. I have others telling me that I am wrong about "The Portrait of a Lady." This is called being neurotic and this is why I am reluctant to post.

At night I try to sleep and instead hallucinate alternate versions of time and space. I have trouble delineating the line between my unconscious nervous impulses and my philosophical alienation from humanity. I've eaten cheese this week and now I have nightmares about a murdered baby and cursed land. Other people make my skin crawl to the point where I'd rather cut it off than continue to experience the sensation. I want to write and instead find myself doing homework but instead of homework I make abstract pictures with crayon. Rather than run or scream I wrote trite sentences to myself during American Novel II yesterday and then cancelled all further commitments for the day. Throughout this experience I am happy.

Focusing on the computer screen makes me tired. I've been compiling lists of immoral behaviors, social taboos in an effort to portray them as amoral. I think that I may have succeeded in dislocating my ankle, repeatedly. I still maintain that I am happy. I have been successfully "coping." The problem with coping is that it leads to the sublimation of personal analytical thought to the point where all I can [willingly] write are entries that are self-descriptive rather than self-aware.

Sat, 17 Sep 2005 03:37:58 GMT

My habit is to consider my life singularly focused upon distinctly solitary events. However, I must force myself to remember that life is a conglomerate. Heaven forbid any of these things should fall out of place.

adminstrative guilt

Thu, 15 Sep 2005 11:53:51 GMT

I'm gratified to see that people other than myself have joined. I've agonized over this and come to the realization that I'm too antisocial to say much more than that with any degree of sincerity. At the moment real life (in the form of copious assigned reading and unreliable internet connections) semi prevents very active encouragement of this "community" on my part. The rest of that which prevents me I'll leave open to speculation. To date, this journal is little more than an extension of my private journal; that is boring. I leave this as yours to make posts in (where "yours" = other)... a great experiment, right?

Fri, 02 Sep 2005 17:39:32 GMT

My name is Lisa.

The Awakening and other things

Tue, 17 May 2005 07:05:52 GMT

So, to get the frame of mind I'm working from, it helps if you're familiar with "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin. "We" are reading it in my lit theory class, and of course feminist centered discussions abound (sigh), but the elements of the novel which appeal to me the most are the more universal (the ones not defined by gender or any other common cohort)... but isn't that what makes "Literature" "Literature" ? Do you even comprehend what I'm trying to say? Edna's actions are motivated by much more than being a woman in an historical period during which it was shitty to be a woman... most of the criticism misses that. However, I'm realizing that there are some things which may only pertain to women. My main thoughts here are centered around a few things which were said in one class a few weeks back:

-Children will suck everything they can out of you; they are by nature parasites.
-Solitude becomes a rare commodity once one has children.

-Three things: Passion (romantic), "Art," Love (familial)
-Some people become obsessed with Passion alone and look to it to meet every need.
-I used to be one of those people.
-"Art" ...the one component I haven't yet clearly defined but never-the-less understand ... is the most elusive and the most demanding.
-Art requires courage, risks, awareness, understanding.

And of course, some other things which I'm too languid to define... another thing:

-Defense of/argument for polyamory: I don't understand monogamy.

Now if you are following my life so far you might understand why I understand and therefore yearn... but do you know for what it *is* that I yearn? Some kind of ultimate communication must be possible. The three spheres (things) cannot accomplish it alone; or two cannot, one might, one might be what is understood as transcending petty feminist/(insert other conceptual cage) criticism. I have things I've been writing, but I won't type them now. Soon though.

cutter

Mon, 02 May 2005 01:28:37 GMT

For purposes of public record, the following excerpt should be viewed as a work of fiction as it in no way describes any living person's thoughts or intent:

I felt the oddest thing last night. I say oddest, because it's been so long since I felt this. Out of nowhere (as in, with no apparent trigger) I felt the impulse to slit my wrists, which gradually progressed into a pure desire to simply cut. I still feel it now as this kind of omnipresent thing. I think this says something about the nature of cutting, at least in myself. I'm not at all upset, anxious, angry, sad, bad, mad... take your pick. I also am not feeling any particular need for control; I have quite enough at the moment. The closest I can come to a description for those who have not felt this (and I have no idea if anyone who reads this has felt it, although a few of you do/did cut) is the kind of ache of anticipation when you have wanted to kiss someone and you couldn't/shouldn't/wouldn't but you felt it so keenly that it's more of a sense of delayed gratification rather than pure want. None of this impulse stems from a desire to hurt myself, or in any way shorten my life (not even the initial wrist slitting bit, as anyone who has ever slit their wrists can tell you... it isn't terribly effective... at least my tiny veins are not). Suffer my desire.