it usually happens when a fly in mid-autumn still manages to fly through my window, and given that i'm currently smoking rolled tobacco (an art form, which my grandfather always admired me for, having perfected it), i've turned into a kind of slob, tobacco in my pockets, tobacco on the windowsill, tobacco on my books... it's almost like dust, i don't know how it gets from (a) to (b) of said places, however careful i am when rolling, there's always some loose strings of it lying around - as said: by locomotive breath: choo choo!
another thing that happens while drinking,
just take today for example, today,
woke at 11 am after sitting up to 6 am,
having exhausted my prescription sleeping pills,
turning to the painkiller naproxen
for, pretty much the same effects...
naproxen man: da'h bomb, the goon in
the pharma rainbow...
what? i studied chemistry, i'm not ashamed
of using what i could have synthesised
had there been no women in my class with
me being down-graded...
500mg of this baby, and you're suckling
at the **** of mother night -
i really would like to write down the ******
expression of a baby suckling at its mother's
***, the mooch mooch sucky sucky no fucky
sort of weirdness of the selfie duck pout...
how does that one go?
and then, momentarily, i get an injection
of intoxication, i mean genuine intoxication,
a glee in the eye, a wry smile,
and a tornado for a thought...
i can't seem to master the pompousness
of reading philosophy, frankly,
with the books i read, i can't,
because so few people have read the originals
and simply *ctrl c ctrl p did justice,
via the people who read them,
but even these people are hard to find,
because, at it seems:
after reading a work of such majesty,
you rarely have a coherent argument,
what you get is a narrative,
which takes the back-alley route, and sometimes,
just sometimes, the few essential
bits & bobs pop out, i call them less
regurgitated maxims perfected for a mundane
"critique" / "understanding" of a work,
and more: jack-in-box-but-guess-which-box-
jack-is-in-when-rummaging-through-a-warehouse-
of-boxes...
it's either a game of greek roulette -
or plain dumb lottery, your pick.
but then it creeps up, this drunken sensation
akin to way back in the old days
when actually did get drunk and have
hangovers...
i checked my weight too,
115kg way back... 110.8kg today:
wow! i'm a slimming jim-joe genius!
****, beside the point...
in vitro, in vivo, &? in vino!
it's all chinese fireworks when i sit down
and read the genre of philosophy,
like i said, i don't need to make this a pompous
affair, method acting, for sure,
just pretend to be stupid and you'll
end up loving this genre...
mind you, at school i was better at history
than i was at chemistry or biology,
even though i went beyond high school
to edinburgh to major in chemistry,
it was obvious that i took to reading philosophy
like a gun to a barrel filled with fish...
can't miss 'em...
but i esp. enjoy reading, say,
heidegger's ponderings, when i become frustrated
at not being able to solve a sudoku puzzle,
or when i try to escape to some mundane
the times on sunday magazine article that
just feels like washing my eyes with
a toothbrush dipped in wasabi...
it's like: ugh, and oh, and huh?
and then the tears come...
and to be honest i have no idea what
heidegger just wrote, point being -
if you want "coherency" in language,
you read the linear genre - a novel!
you want a breath of fresh air,
and some alone time without a reality-check
gravity thought-pattern dragging you
into the everyday, + a sigh? you read a poem
(or try not to, given all that free space
in poetry, no wonder novels in paragraphs
can feel so claustrophobic by comparison)...
and i hate cute, pooches, coochies, itchies,
'oochies... whatever...
but it was the already stated italics -
in vitro: in glass, yourself looking out,
looking in,
in vivo: in life, yourself looking in,
looking out,
in vino: just looking at veritas,
i.e. truth;
and the former two do sound very much
like george harrison's greatest contribution
to the beatles' oeuvre with
the hyper-hippy train wreck to india that
was within you, without you...
no wait... it might have been that groove
with studio pagol's take on rain on yours...
jiggy jiggy jove, jiggy jiggy remix by jove jr.
so why do so few people read philosophy,
as an equal genre of literature
with the same plateau stature as novels
and poetry and all the art books and what not?
1. it contains too many questions,
2. you really don't know what the person
is implying,
3. its the primordial / archetypal form of
subversion (socrates was a spartan in
athens when the two factions were
at their necks),
4. it's technical, in that, it's non-reproducible,
in that it's also always original (if
written with a spirit of authenticity),
5. it sometimes whirls in a language akin
to sentences that read, much like
chemistry: CH3OH etc.
6. it's non-linear narration, always backtracking,
or layering, akin to geology,
orthodoxically known as systematisation,
7. unlike nietzsche: i find systematisation
an honesty, because systematisation is
not a dishonesty, but a pulverisation of
a single point on the wheel,
i.e. it's the representation of the tangent...
and as the world rotates,
times change, whatever "metaphor" you
care to desire as implicitly as this "poem" -
well, the ever fleetingly touching,
but forever meteorically fleeing;
8. it's written in a language of thought,
rather than action,
therefore the grammatical category
of the verb is practically missing,
purposively, since action as much as talk
is not an extension of thinking -
why? how many mindless acts, enigmas
surround us (lost vegas?), and how much
idle babble in the houses of parliament?
9. god... every sensible philosophy book
does not avoid the:
noun inside a noun inside a noun inside
ad infinitum...
as such: to me god is a paraphrase -
the sharpening of a thesaurus,
or, to better mention -
to narrow the thesaurus in order
to find one's on vocabulary bank...
one's authentic storage of words -
that does not deviate as it sometimes does,
so ****** obvious, by novelists who
sometimes reach for that "smart" word that sticks
out like a fifth limb in a sentence
on the odd occassion;
and why is god a paraphrase to me?
look how many times that concept has been
reworded,
the jews have a name for him,
the prime 7 and the esoteric 72...
the hindus have more gods than actual
names for a single deity,
the christians don't have the father's name,
the muslims bak bak hark allahu and then
miss the other 99...
to me the best version is to call it by
way it really is: ditto.
- and now off to making hamburgers and chips.
