as any tactician, of any sort, there must be
an introduction into what becomes and expansion
that lasts the entire length of the night,
a liter of whiskey requires a decent amount
of hours to be drank in,
ensuring that any moth that flies into my
"ivory tower" can loiter for the night,
imploring it: you better not be pregnant
with your moth larvae, otherwise...
i will have to catch you with my hand,
and release you back into the night...
so... an atypical drinking session
begins with a few side orders or
sharpshooters (mix of 3:1 whiskey to ginger
ale)...
and a few readings of, say,
heidegger...
i already mentioned:
dasein is more than an event,
to me it's the equivalent of a crucifix...
it's a word associated to an object,
rather than a recurring subject...
after all...
to objectify,
to work wonders in the objective world,
one still cannot escapes being a subject...
esp. if one becomes a subject of one's own
subject-ive experience...
it must be such a boring, lame,
***** almost realism of object-object
interaction...
to have:
but to be unable to appreciate...
i own about two dozens of vinyls...
but i don't really, really own them...
yes, i "own" them in the sense:
but they might also be stolen...
but i appreciate them more than i own
them...
even if i "own" them,
and one day, do not...
i owned something more than the object-reality
of the object per se,
i appreciated them...
the ritual of the needle and the initial
scratching before the music would begin...
plus, not even a CD and esp. not
an MP3 file can give you the sort of ground
gravitational pull toward something
so physically exposing as...
a... water-mill effect...
i digress...
of all the three pillars of the mind:
thinking,
memory and imagination?
i appreciate memory the most...
you really know you have lived
a reasonably good life
if your memory faculty is overtly present...
when you remember so much
of your, however mediocre / unspectacular
life...
thinking can become scrambled,
you have to sometimes associate yourself
to writing when thinking is concerned...
no wonder so many philosophers after
socrates didn't have the patience to
resort to dialectics,
to talk...
at least writing gives one
the capacity to organize, or rather...
devise plans for the labyrinth...
imagination? plagued by images...
i do not appreciate conjuring images in my mind,
thinking up dragons and demons...
imagination clouds the mind,
and the ability to concentrate on the skeleton
of man:
⠇⠑⠞⠞⠑⠗⠎
plus, imagination promises and does conjure,
sketches of what an actual reality could
somehow provide...
i'm not here, bothered about the nature
of "reality", i'll leave that whimsical notion
to english speaking physicists and neurologists...
but imagination clouds the pristine vision
of looking into the abyss,
and by that, i also imply: looking through
the abyss back onto this world...
and should you think there's anything
profound about that statement?
there isn't...
but memory...
to be able to reclaim memory...
to not seek relief / exodus / escape by
means of the imagination?
i, frankly, would rather reclaim
the faculty of memory, above all else...
before it was stolen by the indocrination rubircs
of pedagogy...
before schooling set in...
before, my years from the age of 8
through to the age of 21,
the faculty of memory was made circumstanced
to "entertain" the bogus threats from
the education system...
calculus: hardly used in everyday life...
you name it...
what was the point of discussing
the ethics of abortion to children aged 15?
to scare them, if anything...
euthanasia discussed aged 15? really?
the moral judgement regarding
th "right" from the "wrong" was already
settled in the catholic school dogma...
maybe that's why i didn't want the seal
of being confirmed...
what confirmation name would i have
chosen?
at first i thought i would have chosen
Michael, as i made my not-to-be-"hope"
of a church wedding...
i would have settled on Lothar...
which would fit nicely with my already
second name, Conrad...
maybe even Otto... and dropped the hebrew
name Matthew...
sure... reading heidegger...
like all philosophy: there's the reading
of a reflective prose, with the immediacy
of a reflexive poetics...
like the ancients: not confined to high school
curriculum of standard poetics:
rhyme and the etc. of techniques...
narrative: pure and simple...
like when heidegger writes about
war (polemic / πoλεμoς)...
truth about either war,
or, peace (dialectic) is to chose between
what deserves our attention:
either being (per se) - or beings...
and being (per se) isn't even relegated
to a subjugation to the self...
a self-improvement, a self-help guru
mentality...
it's what the stoic doctor ordered...
there seems to be no fluidity with
an overt-association to a self,
self-worth is not exactly
akin to: the worth of being, is it?
again: coming back to celebrating the faculty
of memory, above thought,
and certainly above imagination...
after all, i remember a period in my life
where i would have celebrated thinking per se
to be above memory and imagination,
when i attained some sort of synch.
of a lived life of experiences,
that coincided with an equally fruitful
experience of thought that coincided with
the lived life...
but not since a fateful event...
where memory became elevated above thinking...
so, memory? i have this one particular memory,
i was visiting Venice,
stayed in a hostel with about 15 women,
which, at times felt more intimidating
than sitting in a brothel with 9 bulgarian
prostitutes who i asked: one of you choose me,
one replied that i was not supposed to ask
them to choose, that they indeed were to be chosen,
so i said to her 'you talk a lot, you'll do!'
argentinian, australian girls, a swedish woman,
and two h'american girls...
leigh... and i can't remember the other girl's
name... visiting europe like any
h'american pair might do,
revising the ***** dancing stereotype of
finding "lost heritage"...
all over italy...
the hostel was run by a h'american
girl and a h'americana boy...
first night? 15 women,
and you're the only man...
and one of them drops a bombshell:
well, as someone as handsome as you...
we took a group trip, via a ferry
to the Venice beach...
we drank absinthe shots...
don't ask me how,
but drunks have this GPS system built
into them when drunk... like bees...
i stumbled back to the hostel, alone,
on the ferry, and had a decent night of nod...
me, first time in Venice...
just like me stumbling back to
the hostel in Athens walking from
a strip-club... after having my fill
of smothering two strippers' bosoms...
having ****** my trousers prior,
tantalized by the fact that i was escorted
by a gorilla of a bouncer to the nearest
cash machine... since i ran out of money...
and then sneaking out of the hotel
that had a cash machine...
first time in Athens... 5 ******* miles...
i made it back to the hostel...
i don't get it... drunks and in-built GPS...
navigated Venice, navigated Athens...
bee in me...
second day in Venice?
of course... an argument between
the girls... leigh, the jewish girl wanted
to sight-see...
a bunch of girls ganged up on her...
even her friend...
so i said...
well... **** me... if Solomon decided
to settle for the queen of sheba...
between me herding this quasi-tourist harem
of a bunch of australian girls...
the argentinian etc.,
and this one h'american jewish girl leigh?
so i said: i'll do with you.
the numbers looked at me
like frankenstein jr.,
oh we had a hell of a time...
a few museums, getting lost in the Venetian
labyrinths, talked and talked...
explored the many flavours of gelato...
i think, i think i had the famous pistachio...
she had the capuccino in st. mark's sq.,
and then she wanted to show me
the famous Venetian synagogue...
so sure, we went there,
but when we got there, it was closing...
boy, she was ******* that she couldn't
allow me to see it...
instead... we saw the last tourist party
leave...
and we huddled with some orthodox
students...
one had a miniature shofar on him,
i told him to blow it, he blew it...
then i sat in a jewish cafe,
finding about the existence of the 613...
mitzvot...
i wrote some of them down...
and then the weirdest ******* thing happened...
leigh started freaking out...
she was in such a hurry...
she said she needed to get back,
she needed to get back...
hell... she even paid of a Venetian taxi,
and Venetian taxis are not cheap,
motorboats on these rat canal aren't cheap...
i wanted to pay half the share...
she didn't want my money...
next thing i know... she was booking
a flight out of Italy and on her way home...
she and her friend had still planned
another month touring Italy...
phoom! off she went,
then the quasi-tourist-harem of girls
came back from their day out...
leigh's friend inquired:
- where's leigh?
- oh, she decided to go home.
the next two days were weird...
it's not like i even pulled a ted bundy fast one...
but i remember the h'american girl
running the hostel...
i ate the most amazing burgers which
she prepared... as if...
i staged some sort of neo-**** scare tactic
on poor leigh...
rarely does a girl,
who planned this whole summer trip
with her friend, from h'america, all the way
to Europe... decide, on a whim...
to bail...
Venice... oddly enough i was
not mesmerized...
Stochholm didn't impress me either...
Amsterdam was just a cafe segment
and the chance to escape police-state
paranoia of England when i still smoked
marijuana... oh... and that one Dutch girl
who turned her head as she rode past me...
Cracow was a... eh... third time i went there?
just a transit point... London is too familiar...
Warsaw: again, transit hub...
Athens: squalor...
only two cities on this earth gave me
inspiration: Paris and Edinburgh...
mind you, Macedonia, amazing coach trip...
Belgrade looked stunning, imposing even,
during winter, seemingly a city on a hill...
on the flat-plains of Serbia...
but you need the snow,
and ******* into it... and shaking from the cold,
because you're under-attired for the trip...
Katowice: but only at night.
- and that is why i posit memory to
be superior to thinking these days,
esp. imagination as a mental faculty...
memory has become a cinema to me...
no wonder i'm bored with movies
these days...
memory has become a form
of cinema for me...
sure... it's not much...
but you can work around the "not much"
by fusing all the minor,
"insignificat" details of "skimming"
the narrative...
and thank god:
i'm only given a cameo in all of it...
i'm not an over-bloated stage
actor with a protagonist role...
in my cinema...
i'm always the cameo!
it's so liberating to have lived
a life that doesn't leave one feeling
ashamed...
it's hardly petty heroism...
but sure as ****...
it's worth rememebering things
you can never be ashamed of.