Save the planet.

Dearest diary, I would love to strongly voice my opinion about the Haitian situation right now.

My opinion will most definitely upset and insult a lot of people, so at least I can blame any attempt on my sorry life on something.

Millions of men, women and children are suffering in Haiti now because of an earthquake which destroyed lives and billions and billions of dollars of property, and organisations and artistes are appealing for help from people elsewhere on the planet to help because it is not only moral and ethical on a humane basis to help fellow humans, it is to protect and restore business.

The world is a corporation, its countries are its companies, their states are their divisions and its people are its workers.

And Haiti is one such company, because you see, there is no morality into helping another person, it subjects to personal beliefs and choice.

And a way I would like to choose, according to my personal beliefs, to offer my opinion in dealing with this:

Kill and slaughter the entire population like a corporation which chooses to terminate a defective, faulty company.

As far as I’m concerned, we’ve been killing each other off since the beginning of time for, according to a lot of people (mainly idiotic pacifists who never bother to analyse a situation), the “wrong” reasons.

You mean there’s actually a “right” reason to kill and go to war with another nation?

Sure, capital punishment is death for several crimes; kill a person for killing a person and praise a soldier for slaughtering people.

It’s is legal to be a maniacal serial killer only when your president cannot agree with another world leader, not because you have repressed hatred for humanity, or because your wife was cheating on your hardworking back.

So kill the entire nation and save yourself the time, money and trouble, besides, it’ll help Al Gore and the green rangers from complaining about so much bloody carbon emissions.

It’s all bullshit and it’s all business.

 

Ah well, I’ve moved out of my old neighbourhood into a new one, adapting, spreading like a virus; I am well, finding a sort of equilibrium with my natural and unnatural surroundings.

I seem to be ripping off Matrix there.

I really need to start studying and stop penning ridiculous lines for graphic novels I hope to publish like “I’m going to die, and I need to look pretty.” or, “All those sickening melancholic tales, of which, verses harangue ravenously in my head, like that eerie dripping of water from an unclosed tap in an echoic toilet.”.

GP, Chemistry, Physics, History, Literature, would have taken more if I actually knew what exactly I want to be, heh.

n.

“Don't make me over
Now that I'd do anything for you
Don't make me over
Now that you know how I adore you”

I really was planning something, but I fucked up, and I admit, I made you cry, I disappointed you

“Don't pick on the things I say, the things I do
Just love me with all my faults, a way that I love you
I'm begging you”

but you forgot, I was still there beside you wanting to know how to make you smile as I always do.

“Don't make me over
Now that I can't make it without you
Don't make me over
I wouldn't change one thing about you”

Like I said, I’ll make up for it, real soon, trust me ;)

Be prepared for something special soon, darling, I am going to give you a day that’ll outdo Valentine’s day, I love you.

Lolita.

So, it was my birthday yesterday, two days before having celebrated it at the beach with a barbeque, thanks to all those who came and of course a very special thank you to my darling, Jane for the most awesome gifts ever, which is apart from her constant outbursts of premenstrual moodswings, and her love and of course, her nonsense. Love you!

  

 

   

I really, honestly am god bloody tired, I’m studying for my A’s, so yeah, no time to think of anything to say.

Frenzy.

Despite my constant proclamation of perspective realism, I do accept the fact that there is a threshold of reality we all perceive; the laptop in front of me, the ceiling above, the walls, the trees, the rocks, the tables, chairs, vases, cigarettes, these are commonly consistent with our threshold of reality, its quantum value, its physical existence, the ability to reciprocate with it with our five main senses.

But people have to understand, reality is inconsistent.

The quality of something being real depends on our perspective of life; the way we accept and reject items, events, metaphysical forces, ghosts, demons, gods.

But is it only its physical quality that we judge its realism?

We accept certain events as real (that someone murdered another, an event that can only be proven via forensics, investigation, interrogation), we also accept numbers as real, but we don’t see a natural physical numeric in existence, but we still accept it as real.

Thus reality can be the value of realism within an event,the acceptance of a statement (how much of the spiritual do you believe, do you believe in ghosts?) a scientific algorithm, and the physical appearance of an item, making it then a unit of measurement, which we have to confirm the consistency of its realism.

Reality does not comprehend to existence.

The existence of the material:

Ok, so things, objects, things that subject to matter, has a physical and chemical quality; the material.

So what subjects the material to existence…?

Okay, say you put a piece of paper in front of me.

You ask me: What is this?

Me: A piece of paper.

You: is this real?

Me: yes.

You: does it exist?

Me: no.

You: why?

I take it, tear it in half, align the two pieces, tear in half again, repeat, then place it in front of you and ask, “Now what do we have?”

You: (assuming you understand) A stack of paper.

Me: exactly, so what happened to the piece of paper?

You: you tore it into pieces.

Me: exactly, so does that piece of paper exists?

You: no…?

Me: right, cause even if I arrange these pieces to resemble its former form, it will not be a piece of paper, I can do this many times, I can even split it to a microscopic level, but it will never become a piece of paper, if you track it back to its organic form, you just get a bunch of atoms.

This concludes that the whole differs from the sum of its parts, and that the only thing that exists is its atomic structure, hey, it’ll be even different if we could go much smaller.

Thus I’ve explained that even something physical cannot exist, and I’m trying to correct the psychological term, ‘The Whole is Greater than the Sum of its Parts’, which of course could be incorrect due to its various methods of approach.

You get pissed off and place another piece of paper in front of me.

Fractal.

The binary conduct of the human perception lies within the five senses; the ability to process our surroundings with five biological tools is a wonder in itself. But as humans, we are never impressed, nor satisfied.

We try to experiment and seek paranormal and para-dimensional realms which we perceive to exist, be it anthropologically, religiously, or just out of our own plain belief.

So, the five senses, the states of conscience and the individual acceptance of existence play a role in the perception of our reality.

Could it be that the human psyche is more than what we have so far learnt from it, could it be that reality is more than what it is, could this entire experience be a sixth sense, I don’t know.

But perhaps the universe is a set of systems under one intertwined, inter-dimensional, hyper-complex system, and that our normal psyche does not reciprocate.

The reality of things is then altered.

Thus we experiment, try all sorts of things, believe in all sorts of things to compensate for what we feel is empty, the strive for understanding, for some sort of perfection.

Perhaps it is this unrest of the unknowing of our ethics, our culture, our origins, our religions, our bylaws that fail us as a systematic species, and our myriad conception of what is good and what is evil, in order to set us apart from other individuals that we fail to comply with our existence.

But where is the natural, evident structure or system of such values, the origin to all these pathetic excuses, there is none; there is no natural structure of hierarchy and order and value.

So…

A method to alternate perception, a personal favourite of mine: Sensory Deprivation.

A tank and a legal dosage of any hallucinogenic (commonly amphetamines), the user will experience something beyond the conscience (be it they accept it as real or just some sort of intrinsic dwelling).

This heightening of the cognitive process allows the user to explore parts of the brain hardly used and will ‘travel’ the mind with a deeper understanding and conception.

Things appear more or less than they are, unquantifiable by physical standards, the user might develop an existential view of all existence, to a point of nihilism (in my case) that everything is physically ordained and that the quantum value of something is just a physical measurement and that it does not equate to its intrinsic value (which is then equated to nothing as there is then no such thing).

Life and existence on a whole becomes a vicissitude of just pure matrixes. There is then, no mundane.

This understanding of the self allows negation of the self, to accept the self as part of the the quantum equation, thus negating all value.

This could either be a withdrawal to the animalistic quality of the primordial human, or, a whole new super philosophy like that of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, the Ubermensch.

A posthumous understanding, or just the lack of interest.

But the understanding of the self could also be a super acceptance of the self, and the process can be varied.

But be it an esoteric combustion of the metaphysical dwelling, or some sort of inter-dimensional perplex, like ink blotting onto one page to the one below it; spilling from one realm onto another, or even a wildean illusion that projected itself from its dormant dwelling as an entity within the cortex, this phenomena, this hallucination if you prefer to call it, can only be experienced upon the consumption of mind alternating substances and isolating all nervous activity to just the thought.

It then becomes a key to unlocking a place in our cognition that we cannot experience without first eliminating all absolutist thinking.

Thus, perception is the phenomena.

Negatif.

There are things I do that you don’t understand, things I say that you don’t understand, there are also the things I don’t do and don’t say because I don’t understand.

I cannot write you something sweet, touching or whatsoever without having to extract from Byron or Balzac, without watching a romantic movie.

Because love and affection is not my genre.

I would love to deliver poetry of my feelings towards you, I really would, I would love to write you a bunch of sweet stuff and tell you how much I appreciate you and all that you do for and with me but I cannot.

I can extract life into critique and fiction, but what I cannot do is present life as it is without having a disgust for the entirety of life, and living, as a whole.

But I want you to know that everyday, I do my best to make up for everything I haven’t done, which I should have done, the past few months to make you happy.

I’m sorry, and I love you.

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past—they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows—Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow?—What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers:
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which coloured all his objects;—he had ceased
To live within himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother—but no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honoured race.—It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere
With a convulsion—then rose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The Lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved; she knew—
For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,
Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with One
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!
Upon her face there was a tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced—and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?
VII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret.—Be it so.
IX
My dream is past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality—the one
To end in madness—both in misery.

- Lord Byron, The Dream, 1816.

Prognosis Invalid.

Ah Christmas, Hare Krishna, coming of the Sun (son), Winter Solstice, that’s just the minor perplex of the whole astrological sequence. But it can be better explained in the latest edition of Zietgeist.

But it was an all round good Christmas, honestly, one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had, no trouble with the family or the law, but well, there was that minor speed bump when I messed it a little, but I fixed it.

I’m sorry my temper gets the better of me, and it does, and when it does, I get crazy under control, cause at least I didn’t break anything in the house this time.

So eclectic lapses in my medulla oblongata aside, I think Sherlock Holmes honoured Sir Arthur in an acceptable manner, also paying homage to the creator of all detective novels, Edgar Allan Poe.

Thus, the end is nigh, I really have no idea what to type on, so I will cut it right here.

Oh, by the way, remember that I love you.