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This is how I feel...   
06:18pm 03/09/2009
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My best friend hipped me to this a long time ago...   
01:28pm 02/09/2009
Wallace Stevens

Is it Ulysses that approaches from the east,
The interminable adventurer? The trees are mended.
That winter is washed away. Someone is moving

On the horizon and lifting himself up above it.
A form of fire approaches the cretonnes of Penelope,
Whose mere savage presence awakens the world in which she dwells.

She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him,
Companion to his self for her, which she imagined,
Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend.

The trees had been mended, as an essential exercise
In an inhuman meditation, larger than her own.
No winds like dogs watched over her at night.

She wanted nothing he could not bring her by coming alone.
She wanted no fetchings. His arms would be her necklace
And her belt, the final fortune of their desire.

But was it Ulysses? Or was it only the warmth of the sun
On her pillow? The thought kept beating in her like her heart.
The two kept beating together. It was only day.

It was Ulysses and it was not. Yet they had met,
Friend and dear friend and a planet's encouragement.
The barbarous strength within her would never fail.

She would talk a little to herself as she combed her hair,
Repeating his name with its patient syllables,
Never forgetting him that kept coming constantly so near.
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Funny to me in juxtaposition:   
02:13pm 13/07/2009
  Thucydides 5.23:
This treaty shall be sworn to by the same persons on either side that swore to the other. It shall be renewed annually by the Lacedaemonians going to Athens for the Dionysia, and the Athenians to Lacedaemon for the Hyacinthia...

Herodotus 4.74-4.75:
They (the Scythians) have hemp (Greek: cannabis) growing in their country, very like flax, except that the hemp is much thicker and taller. This grows both of itself and also by their cultivation, and the Thracians even make garments of it which are very like linen; no one, unless he were an expert in hemp, could determine whether they were hempen or linen; whoever has never seen hemp before will think the garment linen.

The Scythians then take the seed of this hemp and, crawling in under the mats, throw it on the red-hot stones, where it smoulders and sends forth such fumes that no Greek vapor-bath could surpass it. The Scythians howl in their joy at the vapor-bath. This serves them instead of bathing, for they never wash their bodies with water. But their women pound cypress and cedar and frankincense wood on a rough stone, adding water also, and with the thick stuff thus pounded they anoint their bodies and faces, as a result of which not only does a fragrant scent come from them, but when on the second day they take off the ointment, their skin becomes clear and shining.

Herodotus 4.79.3:
Now the Scythians reproach the Greeks for this Bacchic revelling, saying that it is not reasonable to set up a god who leads men to madness.
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02:59pm 28/06/2009
  omnia enim ex uno entia e converso ad unum vadentia secta sunt, sicut intellectualiter, in corpora multa.  
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What I want for my birthday:   
09:55pm 27/03/2009

Someone tell my parents (the only people I know with money).
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09:12pm 27/03/2009
  Thanks China, Love Tibet (no, srsly!)  
The final tally (PhD applications)...   
12:13pm 26/03/2009
  Indiana University-Bloomington - Accepted with full funding
The Ohio State University - Accepted with full funding
The University of Chicago - Accepted with shoddy funding
The University of California-Santa Barbara - Accepted with no funding
Brown University - Waitlisted
Princeton University - Rejected (barely)
Harvard University - Rejected
Yale University - Rejected
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09:58pm 16/02/2009
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10:55pm 10/02/2009
  I have founded the first feline mystery religion.  
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A message from Sothis:   
10:17pm 21/01/2009
  Everything is true, nothing is not permuted.  
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On the other side of road-hard wayside bottomhood   
08:55pm 16/12/2008
  Breaking the Heisman rushing record with the thousand-yard thousand-year lexaprofessional stare, breaking down walls of bureaucratic numbskullery, you slumber this eve in Fuckingham, Illinois. (Midwestern freezing rain renders even $37,000 Nipponese windshield devices obsolete.) This latest oasis of mediocrity has lent itself quite quiltingly apropos for the Clare Quilty Quiltingham of Bumfuckminster overnighting with the shivering plebs. The televisionary oracle renders pap as unusable as the dactylic fingerlickingly good riffs spewed forth by tripod-straddling MILFs from yesteryesteryear. The inebriating intoxicating theurgicating fluids are as good now as then, the invention of distillation notwithstanding. You now have enough sperm in your unter-regions to spawn a planet's or plantation's worth of little needmachines, but you'll save it for the oracle of Lincoln, your matrix of memory and forgetting combined, a twenty-first century lovebot designed for you by the conspiracy of history. You've taken like a freshly suckled pup to these king-sized beds, but reality feels more like a cuckolded papa when you remember the mustard seed of a savior responsible for putting every hotel-room desk in front of a mirror. Don't forget to be overly self-analrapical on "vacation," crabs-rangoon-eating passers-by. Some indistinct miles east of East Saint Louis, you've hit the proverbial hyperbolical rock on the bottom of metaphysical longing. Shouldn't there have been a phallus in this post?  
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Bloomington, IN   
07:48pm 15/12/2008
  Blooming like some self-righteous faggot onion in Bloomington, this post reeks of elephant tears and crocodile arms. All the way to Columbus, Ohio and you met the wrong professor after all. Crawling up an erstwhile unsuspecting sphincter like Richard Gear-Shaft's gerbilicious pomegranate seed stopping pregnancies and causing them like so many paradoxical pharmaceutical drug interactions from yesteryear or yesterday: they're all fucking poison. Pour uninhibition in with the baba and ladle it out with the spooge. This is a play on worms. The best longterm bet is on green; chlorophyll will outlast every last arrogant one of us. Blooming with the green thumb your mother stole from you and your father stole from her, the squirrels will have their revenge, gnawing away at civilization, scritching towliwinks on the turntables of Armageddon, which is to say Megiddo, which is to say every battlefield is the last one for someone who doesn't make it home. All eschatology is immanentized, which is to say that each one of us is responsible for every bad thing that happens in the world. You rationalizers will say, "But also: every good thing." How is there any good when the police shoot people for no reason, when the American Government is blind to its own atrocities, when seventy-year old assholes stomp on some poor kitty's legs with steel-toed boots? Theodicy and all the fucking perennial problems are so fucking cliché, you say. At least you can still have an orgasm, Kemosabe.  
post-coital hypothesis   
07:29pm 13/11/2008
  Mysticism is the beginning and end of religion. But that which goes by the name "religion" seldom admits this (and tends to work against it). Even the best scholarly studies that look for the "origins" of mysticism somewhere in Hellenistic Juduaism or during the Buddha's reforms miss the point completely. Religion would have never arisen without the experience of the mystic. The problem with "religion" as it has come to be understood in the West after 325 CE is vested power interests, which work precisely against the mystical impulse. In any hierarchical organization -- from the Catholic Church to the Neo-Pagan three-letter soup du jour -- those in power emasculate the religious instinct in humankind by insisting on dogma, deference to authority, and so on. Religion gives way to politics but retains its former name, slippery semantic gymnastics that would make de Saussure proud.

The words mystic and mystery both derive from the Greek verb muein, "to close," usually referring to the eyes. On the one hand, those who haven't been initiated should avert their eyes. On the other, material "reality" should be occluded by the eyelids.

Evangelicalism and its biblical literalism has been successful partly because of its (partial, and fucked up) integration of mystical experience. There's no doubt that some of those glossolalligagging motherfuckers are faking it. But some of them are having authentic experiences, yet haven't been trained (disciplined) to tell the difference between an "angel" and a "demon," speaking fastly and loosely. Hence an authentic "religious experience," but one interpreted through a fucked-up teenage psyche fed materialistic delusions of grandeur by whichever programming device is most readily accessible.

Side note: Would recommend the documentary "Constantine's Sword"; if you have Netflix you can watch it online.
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castrati lyrics for the afterlife   
01:03am 18/10/2008
  Count your beatitudinal blessings (groveling in front of the piano for an attitudinal and adenoidal adjustment) that the ancient Egyptians didn't also have plastic surgery. (Like those mummified fuckers don't look creepy enough.) Barely able to keep your head above the waters, the face of the deep looms large, like a conflation of Genesis and genocide. Only seventh-from-Adam Enoch, his historically invisible sister, the occasional impromptu blowjob, and annus mirabilis music keep you from completely losing your beandip hypertrophic visions of the Bukowski and Horselover Dick lovechild haunting your apocalyptic but almost exclusively suppressed nightsweats. Holy frijoles are approximately as obstructive of your bowels as Sacramento Numero Uno, but the latter has the allure of a fiery eschatology to match the fiery scatology. Libertinism has never agreed with the ascetic personality, but you'll be damned if you don't follow the nihilistic cosmology through to its oh-so-logical conclusion. Scientific materialism, the spectating specter of theology, and Derrida walk into a Bar Mitzvah, but they've forgotten whether their merkavot are psychedelic chariot-thrones or midlife-crisis battletanks. Here's a medicinal missive from Midgard: kindly deposit lascivious laudatory lucre in enclosed SASE. It has now become fashionable to quote as many once-upon-a-time linguae francae as possible in a paragraph that has grown unfashionably unwieldy and in need of ein Editor, breaking every grammatico-fascist declension rule in the revisionist Torah sworn to by every desperate inferior latter-day-temple resentful betabitch in all cults and cultures from Canaan to Petrie-dish bacterio-religions not yet dreamed of in your philosophy, O Mighty Picker of Nits. You should have emailed this to her instead of broadcasting it on the frothy front-end of the Eljer personal porcelain portapotty bootydouche big pink piggybank meatwhistler's mother tooting fecal fantasias on the noseflute of pyramidal phantasm-fantasies that have finally recapitulated where we began this misguided ithyphallic heatseeker. You can stop now, having achieved a pseudomorphic approximation of coherence and equiponderant stability. But this would betray your impulsive self-sabotage, your perpetual need to defeat yourself before someone else has a chance. So your labor pangs continue in incontinent coterminous terminal velocipedalpoint countrapunctus, skipping lilypads with the prevaricating pose of autopoiesis. The only projectile that would help you or civilization at this point is a cathartic homuncular emesis or an erectile ejectile blowing gray squishies Sahasraraward like the great gassy giant feeding the gaping black hole of aborted ambivalent ambition ammunition trolling confessionals like an errant act of contrition signing a mnemonic contractual anonymity condition and fighting a Pyrrhic war of attrition, you redundant prick. Sign on the lengthy litiginous ligament dotted fucking line of lineal luminal Rohypnol hymnal homoerotic oneiric visions of frictional frisson rubbing a fat nasty between you and God.  
In Anticipation of Friday’s Lecture on Apocalyptic(ism): This is Why You Love Me (TM)   
11:34pm 01/10/2008
  Shem, Ham, and Japheth had a nasty chastity and disorganization day. Fortunately Japheth couldn't make it and Shem Shem and Hamster Dance got to invoke the last five Caesars on the Isis tip. The tip-top timid iunx spun dopplerwise uniting this world and the next, the imminent and kairotic, the immanent and erotic eschatologic project dripping with the promise of a new prophecy. We'll toss all the cards into the aether and let the universe figure its own shit out, relying on the transmutation of anxiety into angst, the metaphysics of desire. With my heart broken, I'll be operating on a higher, more interesting circuit, or that's the rationalization du jour, the self-abnegation folie à deux. Burn the seven miracle-fed wicks of Mt. Z. at full overblown afterburner goat-song howlings for fat cat and Hecate. Don't neglect the libations. This is where the proto-Christians first went wrong with their rotary telephones and rotisserie chickens, get in the kitchen, says Enoch son of Jared and father of Methuselah, but with a Cajun accent and heavy on the whisker histrionics. I may end up that homeless guy pushing around 17 shopping carts of $300-each books, the jewels preserved in a world that has forgotten everything that matters. THE END OF THINGS IS NEAR! But Jesus doesn't know about it if it's in the ass, baby.  
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12:44pm 02/08/2008
  In the metaphysical loan-word lawn war of attrition, things are progessing neatly to a near-ideal vicissitudinal slugfest. My Creeping Charlie has infiltrated his magical circle, bulbous purple flowers like throbbing threatening herms on the demilitarized zone. His hermetic seals are barking up a perfect regurgitudinal storm, a leaky sheen for the stinky green while squeaky clean has fled the scene. There are spores living in the left horned hand of neighborhood resentment.

On the other front, decapitation or bureaucratic warfare may have to replace biological sorties. The carnies are mulchers.
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02:24am 01/08/2008
  Taking care of a lawn -- specifically, trying to keep only one species of plant growing in a given area -- is like the proto-orthodox Christian bishops fighting "heresy" in the first five centuries of the common era. Both require a lot of cutting and more than a little poison.  
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chocalatae placentae   
04:09am 13/07/2008
  He's feeling playful because he didn't get enough pillowtalk after showersex tonight. The cheesefoods are singing silly songs in their cat-treat enclosure, extra moist, driving Little Metatron batty. Your life is all jalapeno poppers and project hoppers. Don't forget the receipt for those Swishers. Will he be jealous if he finds out about your entirely separate, ritual use of sexuality? Even the gods get jealous. Especially Hera. But Zeus was worse than Tony Soprano. "Catharsis from thesis-writing headspace" is the rationalization du jour. It keeps the moisture moving and the internals working overtime. Remember yesterday you told him he was obsessed with death? Just now he's having an acute anxiety reaction over that one. Add another thousand clams in "afterlife" shit to the shopping cart, surfing Amazon with his pajamas on, aping lyrics from the best. Please incorporate a large talking fish into your next unfilmed (which is to say apocryphal) movie script or freshly aborted novella. The dominatrix's matrix is making omelets and perpetrating hate crimes. Why you gotta front? He's got the Pleiades growing in his armpit and Orion's belt constricting his holy frijole. Saying he's obsessed with eschatology sounds so much more socially acceptable. The cult of science and the death of classical education are the only reasons he seems unusual, which is to say totally neurotic. Unfortunately the conscious recognition of antisocial behavior in oneself is seldom enough to "cure" it. On the inside yous are goddamn butterflies constructed of papier-mâché pinecones. This is the beginning of something grape.  
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Liebersungen Profungen Ungen Usha Usha Fofusha   
12:46am 24/05/2008
  Like a scantily clad debutante moonlighting in the crumbling pages of the Secret Gospel of Mark, saved from homoerotic Jesus-Christ-posterior-posturing infamy by a few prudish episkopoi ('scuse the undeclined glamor, hellenophiles), you count your blessings like cards while you hold 'em, ciphering afterworldly chances on pudgy pugilistic digits of absentminded longing. On the other hand, history has forgotten her most favorite eromenos, having played each player a plaything. Even on his anniversary, a god's son's most delicious and proficient concupiscent initiate lies facedown and alone on a cot of soiled feathers, discarded like a broken universe that never made it to the debugging phase. (You can't be trusted as far as your salad can be tossed, filthy eunuch.) The proverbial Big Bird has flown, like suddenly the eudaimonical genius took a fletching leap from the babbling tower of true will, a cacofiendish imposter bellyflopping the host organism parkinglotward unto a sour surly blind date with the Parcas. Now the god dismantled in the mirror is a coon discarded as inferior, a bandit-faced prototype narcissistically fed into the gaping recyclable maw of creation. Herein lays destruction. Herein lies the filthy philandering concretized Carmelite cookie crunching cameltoe dyad lapping at the foamy shores of memory, lusting at the foolish Mohammedabad falafel-feltching limits of perception. The cloudy doors of contraception are aching for an ennobling nibble: the lonely lion gnaws the nuptial nub of nubile freedom of the won't. Like Apollonius of Tyana freebasing dhyana, the lids half-closed, the circuits fully open, you realize La Paranoia willst du destroyen, doyen bist pussyfuss surfing the fat fleshy resurrected foreskin of Armageddon with Zoroaster & Sons Ltd.  
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12:07am 17/05/2008
  The fifth century BCE has become your virtual reality stomping ground, Alpha Bitch. (Projection junction what's your function?) The Buddha, Confucius, and Socrates walk into an anachronistic Silk Road wayside truckstop bar. Stop me if you've heard this one. The so-called Axial Period ain't shit on five axels and eighteen chakras. We got some mass meditation richools down 'Nawlins during Trina, yos. Dig:

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