what's know as systematisation in philosophy, or philosophical prose as such, is an endeavour to hide maxims... that only surface more like concepts than applicable truths to the everyday keen eye eager to anticipate them as laden with believability... philosophical prose hides maxims, it weaves them tightly like a spider creating a cocoon of a trapped fly in the web that philosophical prose is... it doesn't create a style of aphoristic waterfalls that leave the eyes darting: a moment here, a moment there... the spider required 8 dimensions (8 eyes) to adapt a structure adequate for the haphazard flight of flies, twirling in mini-tornadoes - the spider-web is hardly a chance by-product, but only 8 eyes could have crafted its weaving... and as said prior, the aphoristic style of writing philosophy is worthwhile, i can't deny that, but it's so eye-distracting... it can only be achieved by a life filled where much life takes place, so in the case of la rochefoucauld in the court of louis xiii, his queen anne of austria, and the infamous cardinal richelieu... this outburst of maxims / observations / aphorisms is only effectively produced in such circumstances... other works of philosophy are born in recluse, maxims hidden in thickly bulging tightly-knit prose... they're effectively not as tremendous, piquant... it's the entirety of the composition that loves to hide them, and create yet more prose on the zenith they are produced for... they can hardly be spotted as easily as the sole extraction of maxims... but maxims akin to la rochefoucauld can be easily extracted, esp. if one is placed in situations were the crème de la crème mingle, one can easily defraud situations according to: vanity, self-love, friendship bargains, the passions, fortune, chance, jealousy, envy, virtue, moderation, wisdom, foolery, morality, immorality, a woman's coquetry v. her flirtations... all these things, all these proper summations of the surroundings could never allow philosophical prose for the sole purpose of hiding maxims... such environments are screaming maxims out, layered over by a distant asylum of anguish, adorned with jewels and refinements of fabric... but with skull sockets filled with two coal nuggets.

two sudokus down, one pending, and the drinking is insatiable, peering into the stack of books, there's a copy of seven years in tibet and in start to wonder: what sort of interesting life should ever produce a book? the majority of me is asking: really? 7 years in 7 sittings of reading this?! who imagines writing a book, having "completed" an interesting life, does not imagine the majority of the readership, discarding the actual book, and being tibet bound... jealousy is such a cheap emotion, to be honest jealousy is the cheapest of all emotions, cheaper to pay a ******* for an hour's service, than take a fine girl to dinner; what, was someone expecting an "oops" with that?

i sometimes can't imagine the quality of pop,
it's not a pedantic "observation" -
it's just: well, could have done better,
but then again: you clearly couldn't have.
    i like rereading shakespeare and thinking
than minor additions would make the works
stand in greater clarification,
notably in shrapnel -
- 1st witch: why, how now, hecate?
you look angerly.
- hecate: have i not reason, beldams as you are,
saucy, and overbold? how did you dare to trade
and traffic with macbeth, in riddles,
and affairs of death,
  and i, then mistress of your charms,
   the close contriver of all harms,
  was never called to bear my part,
   or show the glory of our art?
such minor revisions, pedantic, of course...
i.e. - how did you dare to *trade and
make trivia with macbeth -
      better still: trade & trivialise -
         and
   - in riddles, and in the affairs of death;
suppose we don't live in times
of man's "omniscience" etc.?
                but we do, and categorising ourselves
as such, we can only seem to test
knowledge via answering trivia question -
the triviality of knowledge oozes out
of game shows: where enough to be
knowledgeable is enough to known the most
encyclopedic set of facts...
    having to encompass all of man's
endeavours seems rather mundane...
             heidegger's aphorism 91 ponderings VI...
and the arrogance of writings maxims /
aphorisms...
        you read them as if they are basically true,
but then again: they're written as
propositions, rather than as presuppositions...
there's not a single word in the works
of nietzsche or la rochefoucauld
that supposes an observation to be true:
        a bit like the legal system dichotomy of
the english vs. the european courts:
  a. innocent until proven guilty, vs.
b. guilty until proven innocent...
                it's the ****** bombast of writing
maxims as propositions,
   there's no room for "error":
said content is: necessarily true,
                         but unnecessarily observed;
most of the time maxim notation is
an erosion of common sense, and subsequently
the killer proteins of alzheimer eating
away at the fatty tissue of the brain...
          mental exercise?
      who the hell wants a schwarzenegger's worth
of brain, i.e. exercise what?
           i don't like nietzsche's style precisely
because i don't like aphorisms or maxims...
          they're bombastic in assuming they're
true,
   i.e. once observed: forever replicated
to the same summa summarum...
  i think it's unsavoury to presume that one's
observations are fit for purpose of replica
observations taking hold of the reader...
if, perhaps, these aphorisms were written with
an overtone of presupposition,
             and left in the la la land of: supposing so -
they would be guarded by an element
of surprise...
                      an encroachment moment,
with an element of surprise...
         if only the loss of propositional bombast,
and the mediation of supposing-so,
   with an undertone of prepositional discretion...
stating the obvious in that stating
the obvious is stating an: unchallenged truth,
an unchallenged observation shared between
to people, well, aren't we talking about
  simply observing the perpetuated plagiarism
of what is "observed", without ever
deviating back into the "unobservable"?
       i believe that aphorisms (as a medium)
are plagued by a certainty inversion -
             sure, they're true, but they are also
true without a guarantee of replica -
                 for the most part they are placebo
ridden...
                and the only aspect of philosophy
that is unscientific...
                for the most part the style of writing
that's aphoristic is placebo,
        and not res replica...
           unless offensively forced - stereotyped.
if only the writing of an aphorism was
plagued by presupposing rather than proposing
a conclusive play on a voyeuristic act -
             the presuppositional attention to detail
would be tactful - and part of the cartesian
continuum...
             but propositional observations,
akin to making stereotypes, have no element
of founding one's thought in the cartesian dynamism
of doubt... there either is, or there isn't -
existentialism akin to the genesis in nietzsche
was born with the cartesian roller-coaster
of fusing an emotional regard for feeling,
i.e. doubt... negation being the prime ingredient
in existentialism, is oh so boring...
         ego negare, ego quasi cogito - ergo..
      i deny, i sort of think -
                                             therefore;
pretty obvious, we had to change the song -
we know so much already, in the current times,
that doubting would be pointless -
    doubting used to have a thrill of purpose
never being finalised,
   existentialism replaced doubt with denial...
so few things can be doubted,
   and when so few things can be doubted,
  we purposively lie, deny, lie, deny, to somehow
muster an origination of awe in emotive
experiences, which only bring failure -
  awe does not coexist with denial -
           you can't be in awe via purposively lying
to yourself...
  you can only seek awe by being forced
  into an emotional system of doubt...
but since existentialism eradicated doubt and replaced
it with denial...
     as already mentioned:
we deny, therefore, we sort-of think -
      we deny, therefore, we "think";
as the zeitgeist suggests - robotics, and other
forms of automation are taking over.
the argument still stands:
  if only the medium of writing aphorisms,
or succinct "truths" could be universally tested,
or at least universally observed as being true...
     if only there was a lost propositional(!) bombast
behind these pieces of writing,
or rather: a presupposition(?),
     since both approaches still converge in the realm
of supposes;
   a position is taken and one is for it -
while a supposing is given and one predates
it with a spontaneous unearthing of unnecessarily
having an opinion about it -
to presuppose is to not suppose -
since presuppositions are more archaic in always
being unforced observations,
  whereas propositions are enforced results
of having forced oneself to think: about something
with the end result of: a maxim,
or the extended maxim, i.e. an aphorism.
          - so who would actually want to make
language, and easy, and accessible, to the majority
of man?
          did not the power reside among
the priesthood who spoke latin, while the general
populace didn't?
   so why would anyone not decide upon:
speaking an english, within english,
   that the common englishman could not understand?

See this old fishin' reel snarled? A waste of time to untie
what can be re-tied
and, and is a big junction in the start of a story, and
after retying, be used for it's purpose,

see, if a retie won't work, you know, this monofilial-******
fibratory idea's slippery,
inside outside one way optical influence, IF
this was that situation then this knot would call patience
to bher the burden of learning to
un ravel a snarl of expert's ties to rights which they hoped would never slip, as they stepped into next...

in this instance, fishin', out in the gypsum beds,
ancient corals once grew,

-- real life Lake Mead, who was Mead? A man who executed a plan
to dam the Colorado,
and the whole world heard the whales in Baja weep, but we have learned.
We go on

learning earth has lived through
times and times and times

a gathering must have first

seemed a good idea,
by then, by the point any story can stand, but first, a
point upon a time,

tricky balance act, takes this much of ever to imagine right,

many Planck-secs and Google-plexhours past
way back when
we the earthy sapient beings, be came, ere
we were
human, we were

what? Not angels and demons, those need so much more time to evolve than this.
Word stuff,
Poetry.
This is the third millennial bubble
begin
when my da was working in Alamogordo, '44.

I'll go see, live or die, try

to remember, who took the doorstop? Feynman said it was platinum

This is default download from the germs,
first tasted in open air on a moment you imagine you remember,
you can now imagine being born and no scarier story need be known
--- past now is only next, never never,
--- always a place to step
--- there, be
--- still
--- connection secure
knots of knowns, are knowledges, gotten with wisdom
getting, as we mellow and
ripen to re
al ize
common sense complexes of knowns needed to operate earth,

these aphoristic word frames encaging emotions we
need gage theory to envision, these
we believe, are edged in the sort of dust
a diamond farmer might use to shine a mirror

here, we give such a mirror to
each child surviving you,
should you
have survived, thus far,
you must
find
your kind, in the will,
your kind inherits the earth, and
if you
stir things, meek as Moses, make some trouble in you own 'ouse,
see, we
double dip, we inherit the wind, as well.

Earth is the whole biosphere, here. Thus, the troubler of the house of knots worth untying, begins to unravel the snarls and straighten
this knotted thread

to spite the micro-bio leaven pollen dust enclosed, as a curious bee
leaves a little could be
upon this line, where this knot
fast-bound,

we know

Hermes-tic click sealed since a known
knowable was tied in this
wordy
very complex bit of re
lated things, things known knowable in theory,

now, power is back on, it is 2019, on land once involved

with a story begun in 2018, when the power went off,
bowing to a named wind… as did the fire that year, too.

--- what have we learned?
knowledge means locked knowing, click. A knot, after a previous knot,
no feathers or stones of seed,
a touch of shaken pollen,
from a bee-- such

we be leaven be, long, long, long strings of knots and fibers marking

needle-point story stitching, sinking
into ancient ancient sapience,

unimagined - ha- nadas unimaginable ifn ye magine it...

we bee safe in this us, this we, the people who hold truth

learned today as tightly as our kind holds truths,
as treasures found, stolen, lost, bought, stolen, lost, found, taken as granted,

this legacy of ideas fit to words fit to my tongue, tasted, tested, spoken,

yea, for ever, in every imaginable sense,
AI account for every idle word,
uttered
which may ever be ab-
used by some here-tic wishyawasme.

Loving my enemies is one of those things,
I take with a grain of salt,
knowing there's room for hate in love,

as there's a set for null in all,
assets-wise

big data is how 2019 functions, idle word
counting algorithms,

are mining all myths and shipping manifests
for clues to who's making money
seem worth dying for,

in mortal terms.

Amusers are first paid in amusement.
Is the roofer dancing?

Peace is heaven, I heard, my word, I said,

heaven and it's kingdom are,
in me, if i examine my
self-logo, my brand,
my mark left to my children's thousandth generation,
who have survived
the upgrade.

Peacemakers who survive dimensional novel bubble-life,
mememeory Y as y in in all working things,


a knot is a stop, a step, where a knower of all as far as you know,

once, stood. The boy walking the trail marked

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

From <https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8%3A28&version=KJV>

This is on the trail very far along after the sign saying
this is the path less traveled by,

still.

i think it's called the art of reading... so i'm reading this book, and i'm noting it's a semblance of some meaningul aphoristic tactic... headphones, sunglasses... and the bookmark lodged in between my skull and the sunglasses... but i'm thankful in that i indicated ᚱ on one side of the bookmark... and ᛚ on the other side... just so i known what page i left my reading attention span on... it really has become an ars lectio - the art of reading... me? oh i can stomach heidegger's ponderings... all i need is some whiskey, a packet of cigarettes... an uncomfortable position: akimbo on a windowsill... and comparative literature, usually in the form of the sunday press... the magazines of a leading newspaper... i have no idea why i'm big on sunglasses... blocking out the u.v. rays? ****'s sake! 'ere comes pete and his ice-cream van with that horror-movie equipped jingle... it's sunday, and he drives into a cul de sac... wallace way... that's what it's called... and off he goes... a music box akin to a cheap-*** fabergé egg... spot me a porcelain ballerina twirling? might be that... but it really has become a case of ars lect - reading difficult books becomes bearable when appointing yourself having read them in uncomfortable positions... + some idiosyncratic ape-**** behaviour... like lodging a bookmark behind your ear, with one side having the rune ᚱ designating: you finished where we finished off on the right page... and then the rune ᛚ deginating: you left off on the left page. well... there's that... and there's also balancing a pen on the peacock of a book that's nothing more than... simply open... oh look! the it's exfoliating! but of course it would... it's giving it the peacock whiff of its tail by being opened by a keen reader... i agree though... god is dead... so much so that i'd say: poetry is dead... but was it kept alive is the art of reading... and it really has become an art form... i can only equate this consideration to picasso's blue period... just before cubism and the revision of geometrical archetypes, i.e.
          .                         .         .                                .
                                                                           .       .
            .      .
            .      .                  we playing ******* dominos
         or somethin'? basically that...
ooh... i have something king solomon would appreciate,
i call it the solomon's star....
                                         .
                                  .            .
                                    .       .
                                   .          .
                                        .      
now that really is a ****** representation of
two squares ******* each other... david's?
   the star of two triangles?
                                       sure... but solomon's star
is that of one square on top of another...
                      i'm really going to try and draw this
symbol in pixel:  
                                        .
                                  .           .
                                .               .
                                  .           .
                                        .            
  now all you have to attach is two squares
          set against each other...
                         and forget the star of david,
and embrace the star of solomon.

Silence.
Button pushed.
Curtains drag.
Flash.
Lights are on.
Step.
Step.
Aphoristic audience.
Spotlight is on you.
Breathe.
Look up.
Breathe.
Heart pumps.
The music begins.
You don't even think.
You move.
Sway with the beats.
It seems they're already
entwined with your skin
the way you carry yourself
across that stage.
And here it comes;
the grand finale.
You end with your gentle arms
in the air and your head faced
to the right.
The music stops with a thump.
The crowd develops a gradual
but loud clap and cheer.
Rose petals gather at your feet.
Slowly but surely, the curtains
make their way back to center-stage;
taking all the attention it seems.
The spotlight fades black
and you're left with nothing
but a memory of what you
just experienced.
A memory and a dozen red roses.
Flash.

When the sun took a day off and the moon stood still
the clouds between them sought each other out for the deal, for real ya feel,
And when that scattered cache of semiotic deepness caught the speal,
it descended in it's gutter thoughts to slander sandy meal.

For if the sun had crashed and burned beyond Ra's power of affect,
it's Das EFX who've got to worry 'bowt that water at their neck;
For when dependent on the flowing of a deeper sense of being
we-in seeing fleeting selves diminish sprecht to dense ennui-ing.

Now the sun, my little homie, fudged right up the garden path,
and left that voyeuristic moon to mock eroded sand, and crass
his laugh a glutton's guttural injection, direct unto the scene.
It sounded callous, sounded violent, sounded object-able-y mean,

but yet the philanderers of flour, and the sorcerers of sauce,
course quite dour in this hour of recourse without remorse
rhetorting 'power captures power, and ostentious is the source'
the sun had forced my force to cower, not devour but endorse.

And so I showered in the grave held views of people passing by
as each took turn to point the lack of sun to my permissing eye,
dismissing why my thought might not rely on their own petty voice.
Rejoice I did when Moon knocked twice on mic, and made that awesome choice:

(he said)

"In stead I sit, ponder, perceive, provok-atate
'preventive' measures that you floundering and feeble fools debate;
I see expletive ridden arguments in punch ups cross the land
and yet the verbal aspect of your balk, is missing today's stand;

So all you shedy modes of being that eek discretely underneath
you better sort your petty shed out, before you compound with this wreath,
and let me warn you with this warning, yo I spoke to him (the Sun),
and he claims to think you slimey fudgers need a day to come undone.

gasps Come undone? gasps Undone? gasps you know that can't be fun!
And yet that Sun would shun his lesser selves to grasp at morbid stun,
and stun us all, beyond an instant, or an instance, with persistence.
No embellishment is needed, for we needed Sun to seeded

up this planet, without ballot, from the other heaven voices;
Now our choice's left our solar system's mother no rejoices,
and so the male figured mother (our gender knows eternal truth)
has chosen to reside with nether thoughts, and nihilistic proof,

He's like a ****** little teenager, reading up on Nietzche
who beseech ya for some aphoristic pleasure, please! Discreet ya
be when dealing with this kind of mess, solipsism can spread
and dread the narcissistic modes of thinking it can sole entread.

So don't equate power to will, and set to truthful being.
Or I'll hawk you out as wasted breath, some 02 needing freeing,
staining up the wall, that phishing contest,'ll never hold your thought
to any standard, 'cause my standard flies inside your whiny fort.

Banded meaning will not help you, claiming relativity too,
just makes you seem to be someone who seeks to level off the crew,
perhaps it aids you in allowing yourself certainty of fact
because if universal truth is true, your opinions deffo whack."

Then the mic was dropped, so by the moon, plummeting towards the earth
and the winds picked up the fast track run of rappers of every single birth.
Without rehearse they ran to grab the mic, and unified their form
but alas the mic was Toronto wide, and burning like the Sun.

the donkey-drawn cart etches the night with the remnants of a forgotten soberness, and for all those 1930s american sensibilities that spawned al capone and many more pharmacists of lost names more associated with mt. everest and mt. rushmore - a siamese of both heavy baritone drone song and a lotus dance on the windowsill emerges to illuminate over the cloudy night, so at least one fallen star might strike flint-on-flint with this coal heart; but on a sober note, if whiskey tangles words, let the same whiskey allow the orca thought to exhaust the use of words and make entry into the tomb of sleep more pleasant.*

it was shiva on the windowsill bopping along to
the evolution of classical music:
not much drumming in beethoven, is there?
no wonder modern music took to excess drumming
to the point of shunning the winds and the galloping horses
captured with the lazy swing.
but the best beer i ever drank was - franziskaner weissbier...
i tasted a melody of vanilla in it,
then i downed a bottle of whiskey, and as rich girls
selling advice said: alcoholic men are unavailable...
em... we are... but to cats...
i can get the she cat’s attention in her cushion in the corridor
to walk up to me while i walk down the stairs and
when descending start to wear an imaginary niqab,
she then decides to prance along to my twitchy eye comedy
and the stroke...
we’re available alright... but not for self-help therapy sessions
of two rich girls trying to aim at a powerless caesar with
fear of virtue and criticism - i’d allow your disciples to learn
the same mistakes as you before selling them advice
elephant in heels lawson and rayner - i have a french attitude to death...
ah crap **** crème brûlée (è eats the last e.... crem... and û = oo, like
drool - two point connectivity in the u like i dotted to an i to double up,
and the remaining e is missing, added for annoyance when the
é stresses the bull charge) - when will i regain my body without your subjects?!
tomorrow? golf help me, eagle ahoy!
let them the same freedom you had and **** up,
don’t let them **** up with your advice... at £500 a piece that’s
too much of life wasted... let them **** up as you did and stop giving advice
as a business model for you to **** up some more!
out of the two? persia lawson i’d do blindfolded with her mighty thighs.

p.s. as nietzsche suggested, we will only continue our belief in god if this parallels our belief in grammar, and since i've taken advice to do the opposite and bypass the twinned trajectory of god & grammar (=) having instigated my own presence and prevalence to understand these insignia (≠), i de-categorised several words, leaving each use of a word to float in ambiguity where obvious, although by stating this i also managed to conspire against another thing nietzsche said: a thinker who tells us what is thought and the manner in which it is thought? what a *******! well, my redemption comes from the fact that nietzsche prevailed in a belief in grammar to the extent that his writings are aware of linear limitations of an aphoristic narrative, not the geometric complications spinoza favoured.

hello, i'm Norman, or at least that's what i'd like to be called... i'm Norman the not normal... well... i wish i was also living in the 19th century, and had this desperate nostalgia for ancient greece... hell, i could be a man in the 20th century and have equal pangs for ancient rome... "fortunately" i'm a man in the 21st century, and have terrible pangs of nostalgia for the late 20th century... when the internet wasn't mobile... when you had a modem that worked like a dial-a-ride, you waited for about a minute before you got connected... when i had the stupid ethos of buying art, rather than succumbing to piracy... which means i remember what a high-street should look like... ah, what a terrible nostalgia that is, not reaching into anything ancient, but only something just past... and because of that, i probably am more far-removed from my peers than if i were nostalgic about ancient greece... i tried speed-dating once at university, came out with a diploma of an L stuck to my head (my own doing)... and truth be told... never bothered with a daiting app... i'm so 20th century that i still actually buy compact discs... the touchy-feely type of guy that i am... anyway, nothing i listen to these days gets aired on the radio anyway... brooding me, eclectic.; and that's me being honest, all of writing is a vanity project, however well you disguise it, in props of theatre or of novel... however man characters you invent... at least i can do away with that, and write anti-orthodox anti-establishment, anti-learning-poetry-in-english-class... dodo doodles, with a food-stamp label of a: use by date... in the timeframe of the author's life.

enemy of aphorisms...
    you certainly read a book of aphorisms from
alpha to omega...
             you are picking curiosities from
the pages and you're never, not once met
with a *the end or: once upon a time...
it's hard not to see books written in aphorism
form a bit like being in a supermarket...
   whether that's nietzsche, heidegger
    or la rochefoucauld...
you can't help but be fickle...
if i were to read heidegger's ponderings ii - vi
like i might read a novel, i'd be mad...
   it's impossible to not be picky,
standing in the fruit & veg aisle in the supermarket
and picking out the fresher produce...
       and that really is complimentary...
aphoristic books tend to be never-ending,
meaning that you will pick at random,
      and re-arrange your day-to-day
narrative... if there is one to begin with.
   for example?
from ponderings iv -
         no. 75:
           today philosophy is unimportant! -
completely correct: for the things
of "importance" today.
     and with that cited, it would be pointless
to read on aphorism no. 76 in ponderings iv
of heidegger...
      you're sort of trapped,
waiting to experience aphorism no. 75...
again: it's problematic to write aphorisms,
just like Hemmingway is deceptively simple...
   i mean: it's hard to read a maxim and not
wait for the proof, or the experience...
         nietzsche was systematic as
a writer of aphorisms, then he relaxed
and wrote the thus spoke zarathrusta,
then returned to aphorisms in ecce ****...
and spoke only vanity...
    the light breeze came, and went...
       a truly transitional experience...
     oh i'm not boasting to know anything
as such...
  well... i was thinking that
only gods can transition from god to animal
perfectly...
              men transition to either status god
and get crucified,
   or transition to status animal and behave
worse than animals...
         men has two escapisms,
            are we so categorically rigid as
to forget that we like to think ourselves as gods
from time to time, regardless of
the said existence?
at least to combat lethargy...
              plastic surgery is always at hand...
    but such is man's plight
    in binding himself to these two escapist
  event horizons...
      either man bound to animalism
or man bound to enforce a pharaonic fake
beard into stone on the earth...
        man closer to animal: what, not
making himself into a clean-dressed hog,
perfumed and getting drunk as the epitome of civilisation?
   but then not not catering sober and
nearing robot?
  what, then not bullying other men under his will?
   it was merely a chance thought,
i just thought that gods transition via man
to animal and can be seen as content...
    but when man stretches himself to either polar
opposite, horrible things happen...
                    or don't,
i just sit, night after night, completely incompetent
in my affairs of reasoning out an alternative,
other than the befitting pin on the point of drinking
and writing...
      yes, i'm guilty of writing on autumnal leaves
of oak... can you imagine such a possibility?
                  that some, ancient and mythical book of
Europe was found, and it was solely written on autumn
leaves?
     oak, obviously.
                      that would be staggering,
to have a book written on autumn leaves...
    wait... this isn't Ovid...
    if i heard a voice from heaven say 'live without loving,'
i'd *******. girls are such exquisite hell.
   or if you read the sunday times *style magazine,
and there are two columns at the back of the magazine...
that's exactly what Cosmo would write...
     how did i become so mephisto-like
having tasted the fire once, proper, to decide upon
only dealing with women on the basis of
a clear transaction? **** me, why wasn't i endowed
with the impetus to a goldfish memory
  being burnt by fire once, forgetting, and asking
to be burnt again? what's wrong with me?
    why am i so shallow without that kind of
  masochism as to marry 4 times and divorce thrice...
  or go on dates?
       i don't even know how this
started... so goldfish me once more...
     maybe i just took Athos' advice...
the best advice is to not give advice...
  and since i have no advice to give:
   nor cure to the mere question,
i'll treat the question as more important
regardless of an actual or imaginary ailment...
the question suffices...
             i'll just leave it obviously awaiting
yet more mortal theatre and the next idiot to
buckle and hit the floor face-down.
   yet what is the maxim of the city?
what is the enticing serpent telling you?
   ah, but one thing: you're not perfect,
bite once more... you're not perfect, take another
bite... go one... it's waiting for you,
you know you can take to another girl's heart...
     well...
   i'll pass... i'll keep it plain and simple...
    a clear-cut transaction...
                           1 hour for 100 and 10 pounds...
keep your dates, your chocolates, your roses
where you should,
   in a solid matrimony, not advertised on
television screens, angling others to the swarm...
   if it didn't work out the one time,
the only other time i have (but rather want)
to spend with a woman, i'll perfect the need for
prostitution... i'm not giving any more of me
to another... i'm not one for loving labyrinths
where i'm not the Minotaur... but a confused
cosmopolitan taking it up the **** with tag:
metrosexual... **** that, **** this...
   god... i really need to ****, excuse me.

time to fill the "holes": as||the||words||come||with||these||sort||insertion||points.

rich­ard rojcewicz translated the original
german, mind you:
this book costs over £30.00 if bought
in mint condition...

"psychology" in the sense of "projection" of everything onto "lived experience" has grasped contemporary humanity with such completeness that only | the step into the transformation of humanity can still suffice to survey the entire omnipotence of "lived experience". the "biological" way of thinking not only fails to break this sovereignty of "psychology" but even strengthens it by making it cruder and all the more available to everyone. thi way of thinking also shifts all "work" into the atmosphere of the exudation from peoples and personages. every presupposition for the possibility of the effectuation of an actual work disappears thereby - for a work indeed precisely effectuates - if it is effective - a displacement into the wholly other space it itself grounds. *but all lived experience is antagonistic to such displacement and even to the claim in favor of it. "lived experience" appeals tacitly to "the" certain "life", the one that is certain of itself and of its incontestable measures and regions. and in relation to all this, what is more "actual" than such "life", which today takes good care that people are enthralled by it? the exalting of "life" to "all-encompassing life: ["alllebeb"] is at once arbitrary and thoughtless. nietzsche shows how disastrous this exaltation can become, nietzsche who is as far removed from biologism as| his biological physiological way of thinking, in its manner of expression, seems to confirm the opposite.

   (page 307, indiana university press, 2016, first edition,
     published in german, 2014,
      martin heidegger - gesamtausgabe 94:
        überlegungen ii-vi (schwarze hefte 1931 - 1938)

one hand holding a book,
the other "typing" like any near to be retired
general practitioner might use a computer:
crow-pecking rather than typing...

what i originally extracted from this passage
escapes me, now...
but i can attest to some sort of vague
extraction of an unaltered original
extraction -

   people these days, speak of a certain
type of, infallible zenith -
   all the arguments seem infallible for
a certain proportion of people:
esp. those that don't goof around with
"ridiculous" propositions...
  mighty annoying crap...
               and yes, certain argumentations
are not available to everyone,
   harder to find a decent carpenter in western
europe, than it is to find a makeshift tent
of gamers, and "rebel"... sorry...
"original" atheists...
   ******* can't even commit the original sin...
whatever the hell that is...
  but it's in plain sight when these *******
start yapping, and slurping
        whizzed doughnut mush with a handful
of m & ms: for zee, added crunch...
  
  and yes, that also implies a "certain" life
when reshaped into revision of the rereading
approach on the musing...
  i think i applied the misnomer aphorism to these
extracts, i'm more than certain that i have...
i don't like the aphoristic certainty principle -
where it is and must, be, dogmatically a truth,
a worthwhile observation...
   come to think of it:
  
   the more disorientating a piece of writing is,
the more engaging it becomes,
for there are no formal rules, only informalities
that satiate, if there is no real beginning,
as there is no real end,
     it's the middle that answers -
and to be honest, the more disorientating a piece
of writing is, the less the chance of
tedium, a bit like being bit by a poisonous spider:
you start gesticulating the "ability"
to weave a psychedelic web of sporadic interests...

most of the time: i'd prefer for most aphorisms
to tell me a lie, than tell me the truth:
so i can engage in an experiment that allows
me to reveal the truth: and see
eye-to-eye, naked, thanks to an observation
falsified...
   no, you see, the idea of falsification of a truth
is to allow people to see: eye-to-eye,
to make their own mind, to allow the spontaneous
spark, a gratitude of instinctive curiosity,
sharpness of wit...
        otherwise we're just left with
regurgitation, maxim regurgitation, cloning,
   general boredom, and being gently lullabied
into a gentle slumber...
         a safety... take truth to be a pouncing
leopard, rather than a prancing pony.

A little off normal ain't abnormal,
otherwise,
we be fudgin' the data.

Practic'ly perfect is all
patience strives for.

Cast the spell, callemagin callemalloutsin,
come attend
forsake not the gathering of...

All ye, all ye, outs in free....

Wombed or un, worst and best,
twisted

strait straight wait wraith wrath point
to point

tale to tale
story to story from six ways

to Sunday, sun's day in my culture,

Day one. Gin geni gene-ration day, since
light been
activating
sensation spinning
the planetary sweep of balance soft as
stillness
in perfect peace

past undersatanding,
aitia yen yanked
beyond all
that ever mattered when

the measurerers in 2019 declare precision
stat-
balance twixt being and null is set, one part

in a measure,
one in a ratio, a reasoning, a
dis-
cerning of one part in all that man can imagine ever,
higgs-ified-ish-ly materialwise,

reality valances on
one part in 10 to the seventy-nine thousandth power.

Earthling-wise, you are at least,
or worst,
or best,
one in eight times ten to the nine-th.

Therefore, your unique effect on the balance of all
that is,

is
far more than you've been blamed for and
far less than you've taken shame for and
much
less precise than the most concise measurer of evil in you.

Moral, aphoristic con clue sion:

Do your part. Don't fudge up. Tolerate human
imbalance
in light of fudging science.
Tolerate no evil imbalance
in light of fudging philosophy.
Read deeper.
Be still from time to time. Laugh when laughter fixes the problem,
never laugh when laughing makes it worse.

i don't write, i don't write rhyme, i am a lumberjack with words, and for those reasons: i have imbued some masculine dignity into the art form: i don't do well-wishes, hopes, utopian forms of the sudden burst of emotion; every time i'm trolled i turn into an orc, ravenous with an adrenaline thrill: and pristine english sarcasm comes to the fore: i first nibble on the genitals, the ego hardly mentioned, i mean, who does attack a person's taste in music with such adamant enforcement... but? what pissess me off the most? how puny the argument matter is: freedom of speech should, never, ever! bypass the rule of at least a few dialectical exchanges... blah blah all you want: but what's the point of a freedom, if there is no guiding "aesthetic" surrounding it? ******* caviar on toast, just as absurd as an avocado on toast: point for point: a load of *******.

it always makes sense to listen
       to some scandinavian
music, with interludes of rain,
in the night, after a few ***** sharpshooters -
peaches & cream moment...
can't argue with it -
esp. if it's *corvus corax's song
                 a i mbealtaine, **** just sticks to
the wall, and in every appropriate way:
feels a tune of the heart -
i once had a dialectical mini with a biology
teacher of mine:
i said that lyrics mattered, and that you
needed to understand them -
she said: only the melody matters -
in cooking that's comparable to the presentation
versus the flavour -
     i'm sure she had the hots for me,
a few days passed, and she put on a hijab...
god, but raven dark folds of her pakistani hair
really could be compared to the thickness
of custard...
   shame she put on a hijab soon after -
i didn't even mind her post-acne peppered
face: i thought it gave her character -
and those **** chubby cheeks just fused
perfectly with the thickness of her hair...
hair... every woman's plot of jealousy begins
with another woman's hair...
     at least men are compensated with
a beard... me?
      ugh... too much: on my chest, on my stomach,
on my head: i have to wet it to keep it
from turning into a rampant amazon in
post-apocalyptic new york...
       and yes, i do like the ***** on my face -
i became bored with shaving,
            plus i look more monarchical -
regent - loser regent - nonetheless regent:
donning a beard is exhuming some minor
authority - long hair? you get two food-stamps
ye ******* 'ippy! say hello to the cockney
meister schtick: herr H.
  oh no, not ******, i'm bored of citing that:
if they only let him into the arts academy
and allowed him to paint his mediocre
paintings -
        he wouldn't be that much different
from picasso...
    sure **** he became an "artist" -
       only an "artist" could have conjured
auschwitz; gentlemen! applause for the vienna
school of art!
it was always about not writing cute,
not writing ******* overladen with rigid
technique, most terrible: avoid rhyme:
at all, and i mean all costs;
     leave that for the nursery brigadiers
of bombing blank pages with word bombs...
i can't stomach this notion of "cute" -
   this pedantic pseudo-haikus in women's
poetry: by comparison,
      sylvia plath produces a raw steak
tartar - you know, originating from the people
that made the steak from horse-meat,
and downed a litre of horse-blood,
once upon a time in the days of the golden horde;
sylvia just rhymes unintentionally -
   she tickles rhyme, but as soon as she
has a couplet, she hides it,
  this game of hide & seek &
                  seek rhyme & hide rhyme,
is, in all honestly? genius!
     i find that sometimes just one couplet
work to perfection like glue...
tell you what - i'll let you in on a little secret,
you want to write poetry?
  start by watching australia's masterchef -
i know, weird - it dawned on me that it's worthwhile
watching cooking shows...
  given (a) you just entered a post-pavlov experiment,
and (b) they talk about food these days
are works of art...
         guess what, every time i watched
obelix eat his way through one of the herculean
tasks of asterix in the 12 (1976 a.d.)
   i always felt obliged to eat something...
if i were you, i'd start watching some cookery
shows: after all... the eyes eat prior to
the mouth... you'll find that much of writing is
culinary;
      the "placebo" pointers are already in place:
people have arrived at the multifacet meaning
of binging.
    
and yes, when i said that modern day talk,
even the puny internet "not-real-life"
   (funny how most of us shop and bank online,
not real what?) types of conversation -
really?
           beside the point -
   it's not rude to engage in dialectics
(as nietzsche infamously noted) -
            i don't understand staging two opposite
arguments and expect civility to ensue -
ars dialectica est quaestio ad infininitum,
   "post scriptum" ad nauseam -
to simply have rigid, aphoristic opinions,
without having them question,
well... that's the downfall of appreciating
nietzsche by the modern crowd...
         what we're talking is "safe spaces" -
nietzsche, of all people: instigated this notion!
imagine the paradox;
dialectics instigate rude societies?
      no! dialectics instigate eternal societies!

i sometimes consider sudoku puzzles optical
illusions,
     there's sometimes absolutely no "logic"
involved - well, there is: a tree line a tongue
of a serpent, Y - oh you know -
that invisible γΥy in the sky...
   but once you start solving each puzzle
you realise: ****, there's a blindspot in these?!
and it always feels like there is,
given the matrix to the power of O (revolvi)

( s / se   | e |  | n | n / nw
  s / sw  |w | | s  | n / ne     )º
                  
a tongue that turns into an eclair.

conclusively?
oh, just something minor, a minor detail -
if you ever chance to step on the continent of europe,
do you know how much darwinism you'll hear?
NONE!
       europeans have become bored of this very
english genesis of affairs...
       yes, bored is the appropriate word -
it can be years on the continent where darwinism
is cited, or the fetish over david attenborough
exemplified...
          to most continental europeans the natural
world is nothing more than a blip -
ask the krupp von essen family: steel! steel! steel!
darwinism is only a respected choice
of argumentative positioning in the anglosphere,
outside of it? a tumbleweed;
and i'm of the continental inclination -
   i source my history not in a platonism -
which darwinism is: **** similis - as man be
clearly identifiable as an evolved ape -
i place my history in something much more
compatible within the framework of today -
monkeys used sticks & stones,
man? man uses letters & numbers...
      i see my place in history from a purely
etymological perspective -
  pre-etymology is just boring as it is,
i.e. how the romans plagiarised some of the greek
phonetic encoding -
    then again: it's a mystery how of all
ancient texts - the greeks invented the omicron...
oh, sorry, the wheel...
   sanskrit? any wheels there? arabic, any wheels
there? noope.
  so i wonder as i give my summa summarum...
oh yeah: roman is the masculine (w)
and greek is the feminine (ω) -

which would be easier to solve

(a) 0  0  0  0  0  0  0  0  0
      0  8  0  6  0  5  0  7  0
      9­  3  0  2  0  7  0  5  8
      0  5  9  0  0  0  6  3  0
      7 ­ 0  0  9  0  3  0  0  1
      0  0  8  0  0  0  5  0  0
      0  ­9  0  3  0  4  0  8  0
      8  1  0  0  0  0  0  9  4
      0  7­  5  0  0  0  3  6  0

or

(b) χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ
      χ  θ  χ  ζ  χ  ε  χ  η  χ
      ι  γ  χ  β  χ  η  χ  ε­  θ
      χ  ε  ι  χ  χ  χ  ζ  γ  χ
      η  χ  χ  ι  χ  γ  χ  χ ­ α
      χ  χ  θ  χ  χ  χ  ε  χ  χ
      χ  ι  χ  γ  χ  δ  χ  θ  ­χ
      θ  α  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  ι  δ
      χ  η  ε  χ  χ  χ  γ  ζ  χ­

                       ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?

i suggest you try this, before learning oriental
languages -
it's all cross-eyed spaghetti monsters
from here on in.

ah man! the paddies got thrashed today! i have to admit, i was secretly rooting for them, i wanted them to win so much, the first 10 minute euphoria, and then: a sharpened decline... at 1 - 1 i was still wishing to see the shamrocks in russia, when was the last time they played? u.s.a. 1994? then i stopped supporting either side, and just enjoyed a **** fine match... what a thrashing, losing 1 - 5 to denmark... mind you, with hindsight, this irish side could have beaten the azzurri with their thumbs stuck up their *****, no kidding, the last time the azzurri didn't play in a world cup, was... 1958! oh sure, i like football, i'm like bob marley.

nearing the end of heidegger's
ponderings II - VI,
  and like any bibliophile -
i'm just simply itching to put
back the sleeve on this hardcover
bad-boy...
   more relish in that, than
in a *the end.
           besides that -
oh my, nearing the finish a gem
comes out -
i like this aphorism style of books,
you get to think - at little - a lot;
that being said, i prefer his
aphoristic style to nietzsche -
mainly because he doesn't work
on a build-up -
   if he does get a maxim out,
it's a maxim: in passing -
unlike neitzsche who somehow
has to climb a mountain,
and reach a maxim at a zenith...
i think nietzsche has been exhausted
in pop culture,
the 20th century belonged to him,
no doubt, but as in passing
the olympic torch, we've reached
the conclusive years of nietzsche's
influence...
          so in aphorism 172 (VI)
heidegger notes the importance of
art - such a rarity for a philosopher
to appreciate art, notably poetry...
      he mentions the "un-philosophical"
artist, who he compliments with the ability
to fathom something philosophical,
although he calls it thoughtful discourse
  (and of its grounding style),
and then the plain obvious, well, so so,
that philosophy has moved into
the proximity of "science" -
then some blah blah knowledge blah blah -
and the conclusion:
    "scientific" "thinking" is furthest removed
from what happens in philosophy -
after all: rhetoric is an art-form,
   not a logic-form...
            oration is an art: not a science.
ah right...
           the whole point of this note:
books like drugs, marijuana being
the "gateway" drug... i've got one for you
too, in literary form...
   you want to read philosophy?
i've got the only book that will un-muddle
you being fearful of being "right"
   in reading a philosophy book -
and i hate to say it, it will not be a stoner's
paradise experience...
  thomas mann's magnum opus:
   dr. faustus...
                 believe me when i say this with
a sense of respect for the book -
heidegger seemed easier to read, even kant
than that literary inferno!
and then chose the the son of philosophy -
kierkegaard... notably either / or -
  and if you really want to go crazy
and reach for the systematic literature of
the heavyweights, you'll at least have a firm
grounding...
                      i wouldn't bother reading
the greeks though...
                    too ancient -
                    if they didn't didn't answer
the questions they asked -
            you might as well ask new questions
and in the vein of philosophy:
struggle to answer them, if at all!
  now if you'll excuse me, i have a date
  with arthur bell.