Pure & senseless
When I go outside now, I try to look as ugly as possible. No makeup, bad outfits. I realize that if I want to be an “agent” in this world, and not a subject, I have to look like a boy. That’s why, I’m guessing, women tend to dress more boy-ish, because dressing “femininely” is an invitation to violence. It’s interesting because there is such an outcry amongst certain groups in society about the loss of feminine women, but when women do so present as feminine, they’re punished. [Of course, they’re assaulted no matter what, but to wear a cute skirt, make-up, pretty hair, talons, etc… in my experience, the harassment from men is ten thousand times worse compared to when I wear baggy clothes, no makeup, hair pulled back, etc.).
Around this time last year, I was extremely ill with mononucleosis. By the end of September, I began to recover, and by October, I was in communication with, what I can only describe as a Satanic avatar. When I did my rituals, back then, I continually asked Satan to give me an awareness of reality that would rival the truth possessed by God. I wanted, and I still do want to become so aware of everything that it hurts me. I want information to harm me, and I think it is.
It’s taken some time, but my experiences last winter have taught me so much. The primary lesson is in disgust. Disgust with myself, disgust with others. With the rapes of Mazan procedures ongoing, it only exacerbates the disillusionment and sense of warfare violence.
For brevity, I will be glossing over details.
When I met the Satanic avatar, I was still under the delusion that love would save me. As I mentioned in some previous posts, I have always clung to the idea of a Very Powerful Man validating me. That if only Alex Karp, for example, recognized something of value within me, then I actually would be valuable, because who could deny that I matter, if a billionaire male ceo decided I did?
I also struggled with turning to sex and hyper sexuality to “feel” wanted and cared for. Part of me now realizes that this is just the baseline, or something that I experienced as a baseline. What I understood from society was this: women are only valuable for their sex appeal and ability to serve men. Only men can determine value, and only men can decide who is valid. The sum of these messages was: sexuality is the only way to be valid. That when a man was interested in me, it was validating. Even when I had fucking losers on Twitter messaging me about my posts, or complimenting my ideas, I took it seriously. I thought those people genuinely liked my thoughts, and maybe part of them did, but really, the only reason they talked to me was because they wanted to fuck me, or to get some sexual gratification from me. I was blurrily aware of this. Mostly, I clung to the fantasy that I was interesting, but let’s be real. I’m not really.
When the Satanic avatar reached out to me, I clung to his words like lifelines. Though I resisted meeting him multiple times, and voiced my hesitancy to meet in real life (I’ve always had a preference for the digital), he would respond coldly, dismissively, insult me, or just totally disregard my concerns. I don’t feel like re-litigating the circumstances of what lead me there, and everything that transpired afterward, but suffice it to say, I had never experienced that kind of love bombing manipulation before, and given that I was, unequivocally, in the most vulnerable and isolated period of my life, it meant everything to me, to have someone seemingly so concerned with me. I was overcome with need. At the time, I thought, I’ll just do this, I’ll fill my life up with text messages and drama, and all this craving, this shame, this guilt, this awfulness will keep me company. I thought, I matter now because this seemingly high-status guy was not only interested in me, but interested me at my absolute worst. I’m just so horribly disgusted with myself. Though it was poison, I realize too, how it was medicinal. I’m cured of my desire for men, my fantasy of male-validation.
Though I might be a voyeur and have my own type of sexuality which I will not discuss here, I feel absolutely repelled by men. Whereas before, I thought, certainly, not so many can be pedophiles, rapists, and incestuous pedophile rapists. Certainly, only a few are into bestiality. I had such delusions of goodness, for really everyone. Never once in my mind did I imagine that others would genuinely harbor ill intent for others. I could never conceive of it. I imagined that everyone was just like me: wanting a beautiful world, full of love and sweetness. Which may be true to the extent that that love, beauty and sweetness is reserved exclusively for them, and especially when that love and sweetness is denied to everyone else.
So, the disgust. The disgust. The disgust at myself. The years and years and years of disgust. Having pity on men, even. Feeling sorry that they were “just men,” and that they were and are slave faggots to their dicks. The way so many men ask if they can “at least” get their dicks sucked, if they can “at least” jerk off while watching you, if they can “at least,” touch your boobs, etc etc. Whatever. It’s completely different now. The Satanic avatar made me immune to men. His love bombing was so intense that literally nothing can compare, except genuine love and human-to-human recognition (maybe). I needed that lesson, I guess, in a way. Because without it, I would still be in a fairy-tale land of a world full of prince charmings. What is love, but a weapon of coercion, truly? Love is a delusion to sell women’s enslavement. I begin to sense that women are enslaved, with wider and narrower prison bars, depending upon the country.
For all these years, I thought things were much better than they are, and if anything, I learn each day how awful, and more deteriorated they continue to become.
I now genuinely find men disgusting. And beyond that, the tragedy of what men have wrought upon the world is unbearable. Patriarchy, a very triggering word for men, is a system that has endured for centuries. Every major religion is benefactor of it. Nearly all civilizations have been patriarchal. Even Pre-colombian ones. People act as though you can undo such things in a matter of decades, as if that poison isn’t built into the very walls of our homes, the avenues, the way we clean, in the food we eat, the machines we build. When I think about getting dressed and doing my make-up, I think of how, not only do men think that such an appearance is for their pleasure, but I think about the men in the 1920s, the 1950s, working at ad agencies, selling lipstick and petroleum nylons and oil based lingerie to women, and how they seem so innocuous and mundane, but there’s really an entire history to each and every article, every small piece. When I put makeup on, I feel like a cancerous cell highlighting its zones of replication. When I wear makeup, I see the pollution of the earth, and the disfigurement of life itself. Working out, wearing nice clothes, taking cute selfies: all of it is for the pleasure of men, even if you genuinely believe it’s for yourself. There is no way to avoid their lechery and their piggishness. Even at your ugliest, they’ll still analyze you for fuckability. If you have any person hood whatsoever, they assign you a porn category. You have dark hair? You’re a big titty goth. You have a mental illness? Crazy women have the best pussy. You’re a mom? You’re a milf. You get it. You know this already. Any interest a woman can have will be used to assess her fuckability. Men cannot even see you as a human being. That’s how fucking stupid they are. You’re naked? That’s consent. You’re wearing layers upon layers of clothes? That’s a sex fetish for them. It is inescapable. And that’s just how they like it.
Mainly, I think about procurement, exploitation, and disposal. This is a “masculine” way of thinking that transcends all forms of human activity: from sex, food production, trends, art. There is nothing un-touched by the toilet mentality that is inherent to men. It’s just so tiring. It’s so exhausting. Even if I were to say, “men should be caged,” they’d like that. There is nothing. Literally nothing that they won’t sexualize. I escape to think about grey aliens: sterile, androgynous, so overwrought with chemical pollution, that some argue, has caused the greys to use humanity as surrogates and incubators; that they reproduce alien-human hybrids to try to reverse their infertility. But maybe that’s what humanity needs. Maybe we do need radical equality. Do away with all difference. One type of asexual, androgynous human. One race of humanity, one ethnicity.
I don’t think it’s possible to live safely around men. They’ll either put you in a burqa or a slut costume, or make you dress like a boy, and in all cases, they’ll assault you. They’ll assault a corpse, an elderly woman, a dog, an infant. They have no boundaries, no barriers. It is precisely their limitless power that encourages such degeneracy. It is precisely their abuse and degradation of others which grants them such power. It is only by degrading and abusing others that men attain their superior position. If men were to stop oppressive tactics, stop coercion, stop raping, stop consuming pornography, stop consuming sex, they would no longer be men. In fact, the entire basis of “humanity:” the distinction between human beings and “animals,” is the same mechanism operating through misogynistic violence: it is through killing, raping, disposal that we assert our superiority, that we gain our separation from animals. And it is exactly the same with men. By making women into sex objects, they become “human.” By making women into “holes,” they become fully embodied. So, in reality, there is no humanity, and there are no “men,” because these distinctions only exist predicated on the extinction and imprisonment of others.
Even trying to “feel empowered” as a woman leads to your own objectification. I begin to think that I ought to completely abnegate beauty. But on the other, I think of the pressure to look like nothing, and how you just can’t win. And I’m just so sick to my stomach sharing the world with these fucking swine. These pieces of shit whose only sense of meaning and purpose is dependent on the damage and annihilation they exert on others.
What men don’t want to acknowledge is that it is all men, because all men benefit from the oppression and dehumanization that women experience. It’s actually fucking insane that women are basically enduring a warzone every day of their lives. Fuck your humanity, fuck your stability. I just want my aliens to save me from the barbarity of men. What men and their centuries of dominion have done to this world. The way they’ve turned material reality into vulgarity. The way they cling to their smartphones to jerk off to pornography. Men ask why we haven’t reached space, why we haven’t cured this and that disease, why the world is such an awful place. It’s greed, yes, but it’s because men are too busy raping and remaining silent and condoning rape. Men are greedy for power, and that greed is the driver of all heinous things. Ugh… I feel so hopeless. I can’t write, paint, create, look pretty… none of it. I have to go underground and do it all entirely hidden. I personally, can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to gratify a man, or please a man, or make any man feel good, ever again. They deserve less than nothing.
In any case, I start my actual new job in two weeks, and I’m very happy about it. I think I’ll be doing a pivot into keeping more of my personal life private, as best as I can. It’s sickening to know that men read this and get off on the pseudo-intimacy and the knowledge of female suffering. I really hate you all, and you’re all so fucking ugly. You’re all pieces of shit, automatically. Prove otherwise, if you can. [doubtful]
The entries below and from earlier this month, the 4th & 5th of September, if I remember correctly:
This will be a boring and unpleasant thing to read, I’m dis-identifying with being a “typer”, or “writer”. A person who weaves words together to paint something fun or hypnotic to listen to or read. Though it may be the case that I don’t have to try ଘ(*. .) ✧˖°. I simply speak, type, write, and the words are auto-enchanted, spells cast by themselves. [Untrue]. But, I don’t want to be poetic, so you’ll forgive me, because I don’t have a choice! ଘ(˵╹-╹)━☆
So, whatever…
I’ve been unemployed for seven years. My last job was working for a group of private schools in France, and “recruiting” international students, looking through their portfolios, organizing their applications, answering their questions, helping them to curate an admirable application, then sending the zip file off to be reviewed 🪽. It was an alright job. In fact, I quite liked it. The main issue was that, some mornings, I had to be there quite early, at 8AM, to be able to call potential students in Australia and Oceania, and that was too early for me. . . I stopped working partially because of that, and I had some other personal obligations to which I had to attend.
That was in 2017[?]. My parents were both alive back. I was drinking and smoking then, too. When I climbed up the staircase from the metro, I would be out of breath, but so excited to smoke another cigarette [I was also fatter]. It got to a point that I actively dreaded smoking, but I couldn’t help myself. Eventually, before quitting that job, I switched to vaping for a few months, before going back to cigarettes, 2-7 a day, only after 20h, and eventually, in 2021, I quit smoking for good.
Unemployment has been lovely. I felt that I experienced a sort of teenage-like freedom that was denied to me during my actual teen years. I was first hospitalized when I was 12, and most of my adolescence was spent in hospitals, and being shuttled between different homes. I was hospitalized over 30 times before I turned 18, and most of them, I spent at least a month or longer. I didn’t have much time for like, having fun. I barely made it through high school. I went to six different of them before dropping out, which I wish I had done earlier. Basically, there was no time to develop any genuine interest in anything besides reading and violent competition for surviving.
I also grew up with my dad, until I was 16 and left, which meant I never learned how to do my makeup, or go on shopping sprees, as every girl should and ought to be able. In the past seven years, I was able to practice makeup, and shop, a lot, and read, and try to discover myself a-new, after so many years running away from everything; hiding and confused.
I’ve wanted to get a small, part-time job for a while, because I really do love shopping, and I can’t afford everything I want on just my husband’s salary alone. My perfume collection demands income, even if I begin to think that the perfume industry is some kind of money laundering con. A front not unlike fine arts or bodega-drug trafficking.
Recently, I applied to two different jobs. One, as a house cleaner, in the 15e, and the other at a very famous department store in France. It’s sort of a dream to work at this shop, because they sell everything: make-up, toys, clothes, perfumes, bags, shoes, trinkets, books, stationery, etc. And while they’re known for their luxury brands, they also make a point to be accessible, with more mass-market options available. I love being so simple-minded that I can, with complete sincerity, type that I love the experience of being in their stores. Capitalism, shopping… It’s not just greed. It’s some kind of serenity, like living inside an advertisement, for a moment, you’re not alive, you’re inside the picture. You’ve become the picture. You’re living inside the image, where a product can rescue you, save you, protect you. Abiding to trends is a mechanism of safety and security. Beautiful pieces of clothes, perfumes that smell like heaven; shiny, glossy, bright and colorful objects that remind you that the world can be so, so beautiful, and so, so luxuriant. Sometimes, when I’m in the avenue, and it’s full of litter, cigarettes, the smell of sewage and garbage mixing with diesel particulate, and the endless stream of people walking, walking, talking, chewing, riding, running, scrolling… It can feel so dark and caged. I feel sometimes to be in a zoo. And then I enter these immaculate shops: clean, orderly and éblouissant, and it’s like a hidden paradise. Even if, of course, one cannot exist without the other, and the luxury only seems sacred because of how filthy and profane is the neglected, publicly accessible commune.
I thought I wanted the cleaning job because it was offered to me first. A positive to that job was a schedule of a mere 20 hours a week, and for the elderly, whom I adore. I’ve had in mind for years that I wanted to work as an auxillare de vie, or femme de chambre in hotellerie. I love cleaning, and I think these sorts of skills are invaluable. To be an efficient cleaner, to make a space literally immaculate, this is a kind of magicialness. And I love to genocide bacteria. Plus, my fixation on pollution is entirely reliant on my fear of contamination. The woman who I was being interviewed by was so sweet and angelic too. It was painful to disappoint her.
When I got the call for the other job, I was shocked. I’m also continually surprised that I understand French. For the longest time, I avoided social interaction out of fear of misunderstanding something, and being taken advantage of. A language barrier can be very dangerous, and I think people forget that because they’re too focused on how I’m so stupid. Being unable to call for help, agreeing to something without fully understanding… It makes you an easy, irresistible target, and after being attacked in Barbès, I developed a phobia of being alone in public. Thankfully, with my increased comprehension of spoken French, I feel much safer, and more capable of independence. Plus, nowadays, I don’t really give a fuck. If necessary, I’ll defend myself to the death, if you try to hurt me. I’m so tired of caring what other people think, caring about their fucking comfort and safety, when they don’t care at all about me. I’m pouring so much effort into convincing myself that you’re the guest/prisoner and the world is my castle/dungeon… Unfortunately, I’ve been made cruelly aware that even the self-indulgent, bloodletting type of psychic effluvia of a woman’s diary-writing can often be read by a man as pure pornography. A man is reading this and getting off on knowing the intimacy of my suffering. Who needs love, when you have imagination? Who needs to be inside of anyone physically, when we can enter one another’s psyches? Intimacy is free online…
Deleted a few paragraphs here . . . .
So, my husband & I made an agreement. We just had our 9 year wedding anniversary yesterday. I’ve gotten a job. I’m so lucky. I’m so lucky, this man is willing to try to work things out, is willing to have sympathy and compassion for a betrayal that he finds devastating [as a side note, in my pathological defense, I told my husband about it, beforehand, but he considers that I was too persuasive and that I sort of mindfucked him into agreeing to be okay with it, or that I didn’t fully comprehend how uncomfortable he was with it]. In any case, the two jobs I applied for, I was offered both. The hiring manager for the cleaning job, and the DIRECTOR of the store of the other, both said they “really like my personality.” For the dream job, I was hired literally on the spot, and for a position better suited to my personality. It’s not a minimum wage job, either. I have this gorgeous website, I have a beautiful, remarkable child. I’m also really pretty, fun, open, and sweet, and I can see through material reality, and esoteric wisdom, mind reading, and alien channeling communicate easily to me… So why do I constantly focus on everything wrong, and everything that hurts?
Well, in our discussions, my husband said he really wants me to get help for my “pathologies,” which, sad to say for those who love to diagnose unusual women with BPD, I actually have severe PTSD. I was diagnosed with C-PTSD by the University of Chicago when I was 14, and my case was used to help continue to make C-PTSD a legitimate diagnosis, which, to this day, is still under consideration.
I don’t have a problem with my identity, I don’t have a problem maintaining relationships [ones that I want to maintain, at least, which are few and far between]. I don’t have a problem being rejected [though, I think I have a “normal” sense of rejection. If someone I love rejects me, it hurts, and that is not pathological]. For me, my primary problems are isolation, avoidance, paranoia, nightmares, aggression, and over-stimulation. I can be obsessive, clinging, and fearful, though., too.. It’s hard to know sometimes, is it sick or is it sane? Though far from the fear of abandonment, my primary fears are of feelings of guilt, failure, and shame, which can come from things as simple as getting dressed, because as an adolescent, with my dad, shopping and getting dressed were massive sources of shame and arguments. I spent literally two decades from the age of three being told by my paternal family that I was too tall, too fat, too tan, and ugly. Imagine being surrounded by 5″2-5″7 people, and you’re 5″7 at 13. HORRIBLE. HORRIBLE! When I lived with my maternal aunt at 17, she was the first person to ever encourage me about my height. She bought me my first ever pair of high heels, and I was terrified to wear them. It’s only since I had my baby that I am able to be tall and enjoy it. When short women comment about how they’re sooo small and I’m sooo tall, not only is fucking annoying and pathetic, but it puts me right back at being 7 or 8, and having that fairy-tale like caricature of a wicked grandmother scolding me for being tall, and making me admire my cousin who was so tiny and so pale, and so unlike me. Things like this can just ruin my day, and I feel like a failure because of my body, that I should be ashamed because of what it looks like, and if only my body were different, then I would be acceptable. But it’s not, so I might as well become gargantuan, as round as a big, big ball, and morbidly obese. So then, I can feel the guilt and the shame, but this time: rationally. It will be myself who chooses to make myself ashamed of myself. Not you.
In any case, this has all been very triggering. Feeling like my “pathology” is something that makes me unlovable, that I’m just fucking garbage, really. I struggle with believing that I ought better to be homeless, living on the street, away from the world and society. I think about harmless crimes I could commit and for which I could be sent off to prison, where I wouldn’t be such a burden on others, and instead, a burden on the state, and part of a social group that most people “hate.” I wouldn’t poison the world with my illness. Sometimes, all I can think about are my dead parents, my obsessive and violent brother in law, my grandmother and her family who harassed, abused and neglected me. I think about that party a month after I turned 18 and where one of my friend’s boyfriend’s friends (lol) put cigarettes out on me, and everyone laughed, so I said: do it again, do it again, everyone likes it, so do it again. And later that night, I was taken off the street and held by a group of strangers for hours and hours. I’m garbage, right? Because luxury is untouchable, and I’ve had the whole world’s hands on me.
I feel so sick and ashamed of myself when I think about all of it. I can’t get beyond it, and the pain just accumulates, grows bigger and bigger like a poisonous chemical waste pond, and everything really, really, really hurts. It hurts so much I go numb, except for the deep injuries that can pierce straight through. And I have a thousand open wounds, all simultaneously bleeding, and I keep them open, I dig my fingers in them, stretch them wide open, and make sure they never stop gushing. Those wounds are what people love about me. They make me easy, they make me detectable and comprehensible, or, if they want, they’re what make me volatile and mysterious. They’re like magnets that pull disease into me. My blood is a predator’s baptism, and injuring me is their sacred restitution. I’m the cursed object, and to do violence unto me is to cleanse yourself of your misdeeds. “She’s damaged, she’s sick, and that’s why she’s like that.” I give you the justification to write me off, quickly. And I can take all of it too. I can take the abuse, the disregard and the dispensability. I’ll never die from damages you people inflict on me… But go ahead, and keep trying. The fact I’m still alive is proof of your failings. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I have the will to argue and the will to fight. But I’m lethargic. Too tired to debate, too tired to want, too tired to desire. Affirm: I have no will of my own. Affirm: I am full of without.
Between that… and getting this job… I have my husband, and we have our problems, and we have our baby to take care of. I’m scared because of my looks, because of my pouch, because my boobs are too small and used up, and I’m too tall, and even though I’ve seen the dentist, my teeth are still too big, and I should have lip injections and fat transfers and a mommy makeover and my hair should be straight and different and my eyebrow bone should be less pronounced, and I shouldn’t look like such an insect, I shouldn’t look like a monkey. Then I think about my parents. What would my parents think? My dad would probably remind me not to be a fucking failure. He’d make sure I had the fear in me, enough to make me so scared I wouldn’t fuck up a single thing asked of me. My mom would be happy, drunk and a little stupid, but superficially happy with a strong undertone of concern and worry. My parents knew not too expect anything from me, and they were always apprehensive, because they knew I carried their genes.
When my dad died, he had like, over 100k in medical debt. He never took vacations. The only reason he was able to attend my wedding was because he won the lottery a few months before [aliens-fate-Saturn connection]. He started out working as a tool and die maker, which is the origin of my sexualisation of industrial machinery. A few years after the Bush administration, the company he worked for went bankrupt, and he spent the following years working as a taxi driver. He had no close friendships. He binge drank, and worked long hours. Most of my memories of my dad are visualisations of him in his various cars, or working on cars, or cleaning cars, or working at a machine, or coming home in machining gear, or carrying various molds and pieces of steel.
A week before he died, he renewed his livery license to keep working. He was discharged from a hospital a few days before that. But when he woke up at 5AM to go to work one morning, he bled out, and was found in a pool of blood by his roommate. He hemorrhaged blood from his intestines and his stomach. He was internally bleeding for months while he kept working. Bleeding and driving, bleeding inside of a car, for days and days and days and days.
My mom, on the other hand, didn’t hold down many jobs. She met my dad (they had a 12-year age gap relationship), when she was 16 or 17, at a bar. Eventually, she became a receptionist at the factory where he worked. Before she became pregnant with me, she applied to join the army. Apparently, that was her dream, but because of the congenital hear defect, which was partially responsible for her early death, her application was denied. Instead, she drank, and smoked, and did cocaine, and died at 52. She had a lot of odd jobs: waitress, bartender, clerk at a stationary shop, as a deli lady at a grocery store. Then she didn’t work for a long, long time. And the alcohol so damaged her mind. By the time she died, from my perception, her personality and mind were totally unrecognizable.
I think that world, the one my parents lived in, is gone. They died because the world they were made to survive had died alongside them. It was a type of extinction event… I feel it happen to me, too. The world changes and soon I won’t belong, and someday, neither will you. The seed of time we carry within ourselves will become too outdated, unneeded. It will blossom here and then take once it withers away. One day, our energy won’t be necessary, and that’s when we’ll die, no matter if we have anyone who loves us, and who thinks we should’ve stayed. It’s like the environment can no longer sustain us, or our minds become so hard, we can no longer adapt. Devoured by the world and broken down into dust. That’s what I think, sometimes, but then again, all of my thoughts and feelings and perceptions are resultant of my pathology, so who really cares, what another mentally ill damaged woman has to say about anything? Just put me in my porn category and fuck off.
I’m just so grateful that I’m allowed to speak, to read, to have a voice, to wear my face.
Let’s pivot towards exploitation and work. Which is just such a weird thing, really. I try to think about necessities, maybe, like, water and fire. Clearly neither a historian nor sociologist, I can only speculate. Work………………………… hm…. it’s so many things? It’s too broad. What I was thinking about earlier was what it means to buy something, own it, and throw it away. That cycle of procurement, ownership, and dispossession, normally explicit in prostitution, drug trafficking and back-end logistics. It must start biologically, the way we need food, ingest it, then excrete it. Metabolic functions are a kind of obvious cosmic process that recur throughout the long, endless spiral. I like to think about where things originate, so I guess, needing to consume for energy, consuming oneself even, like a star, there is a mechanism to existence that requires consuming. So obvious. The part about procurement which is interesting to me right now is the seduction of the thing to be used, which could speak to the natural eroticism inherent to reality, and may be related to why hunted/hunter type of dynamics are so prevalent in sexual intimacies. Another way to see it is that the thing be preyed upon is neurotic, overwhelmed, terrified, always on the defense and looking out. Creating [the illusion of] safety, then, becomes a predatory tactic. You can make your prey relaxed by relieving them of their defenses. And imagine, then, how nice and easy it is to eat them. Many fairy tales discuss this…
Humanity has a strange habit of muddying things up, obscuring thinks, putting masks on masks on masks to hide reality. There also seems to be a need for a sense of control, and guarantees, which many people want to experience ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈). How can you trust anything, in this life, where death is always lurking, and the things you cherish most can be swept away by floods, famine, wildfires, disease, at any second? How can you mitigate “bad actors,” charlatans and scammers from taking advantage of you? Oh, and this all connects and duplicates onto status, image, social harmony, civilization. Everything is equally complicated as it is simple. For me at least, because I’ve seen so much and I sense everything. Even shadows light up when they see me…
Well, it’s all very simple, I suppose, maybe. Ownership, power, control. Protection, safety, trust. It’s the origin of God, in a sense, the genesis of surveillance, the desire for a personal panopticon that stores and collects everything. But why? On the one hand, ants must work in a hive, work to survive, reproduce and support growth. But why? Not sound like a child, but really, why? It never fails to astound me. I truly do not understand anything about life.
It’s a few days after I’ve typed up what’s entered above. I don’t like when people refer to typing as writing. It’s not writing. Nothing is written. Encoded is a better word. I’m encoding psychic information into the machine. Typing is completely different from writing. There is only pressing and clicking. No motion, no lead channeling electricity into cellulose. As I’ve mentioned, when typing, all letters, and even space, lose unique distinction. The loss of the moment your hand wavers above the page while you create the space between words.. On a computer, you are forced to incessantly press this long rectangular emptiness… My god…. that’s so fucked up actually. And the placement is very sexual, too. it’s almost like the genitalia of a keyboard. I don’t want to diminish the value of contemporary media distribution material. Traditional forms are generally useless, save for a few exceptional exceptions…
Nevertheless, I begin my job in one day [unless, at the last minute, they decide not to hire me]. I’ve been thinking about disposability, mostly in terms of sex, but as the saying goes: prostitution was the first profession in the world, because the service of an orgasm has always taken on debt. You could argue that the inability to trust paternity is related to the inability to trust that tomorrow you’ll still be alive. Assumption is our best friend. Assumption is faith. It’s basically God.
It appears to my mind that “real work”, like… primary industries, were probably the first professions. Initially, it seems like trust was and remains the key thing. I trust that you’ll bring food, I trust that you’ll keep us warm, I trust that I’m safe with you, and I trust that being beside you will bring neither of us any harm. We help each other survive, etc., etc. You could say that this is the essence of so many things, the need to trust the external to balance, maintain and insulate the internal state. External reality is sort of like a fat of the internal world, so to speak. Its flesh wrapped around the psyche. Representation is fat of noumenon. In any case: [blow]jobs, work… On the one hand, to purchase is an act of power in the sense of ownership and control, and to display one’s property is yet another way to display and maintain one’s power; one’s dominion and absolute rule over others, even if those others are, just, for example, your lowly, useless fucking wife. On the other hand[job], to work and to serve and to be of use is another type of power; one which I’ve touched on before: the slave is useful through perfect obedience. The servant gains power through devotion and submission. Unfortunately, pornography is so prevalent in society that one can barely shift through the salaciousness to reach the densest shadow closest to thing, the real thing, the thing behind all amoeba, bacteria, atoms and space. The point is that jobs and buying things are acts of POWER, they are bids at earning power, and they are expressions of one’s current position of power. Various jobs are only classifications of power, maybe like voltages.
As vaguely true and deceptive as all that may be, I still consider the possibility that humanity is a mere tool used by invisible lifeforms. Sometimes I think we evolved to be unable to see who and wield us and make us into living instruments. So lost are we in a sea of sense and sensation, and it’s awful to have to describe the sensation and not the actual thing. A lot of people go insane from that.
Unrelated to work, I’m so tired of images. Disregarding arguments that words on computer screens are images. Glyphs: a descriptive representation of a thing, which the thing, is also just a representation or mask of another thing…. Disregarding too, that images and linguistics are equivalent. They’re related, but they are not the same. The image is final. The word is infinite. This is the difference to me: words are descriptions. Images are molds. Words may provide a guide, work as instruction manuals, but words, on their own, only describe a process, describe a possible visualization, describe imagination, describe what could be. They’re like air and oxygen and the image is the earthen fire-welded mask-thing. That’s why words are always in the future, too. They’re always a far away sort of thing, someplace unreachable and always unique. Images—disgustingly vile fucking things—are ends of themselves. The image is all you have, and the image is all that will ever be. Images are death, and I’m typing that so very seriously. Don’t get me wrong though! I love selfies and cute pictures as much as anyone, but what fatigue they bring! Maybe I just don’t have the eye, because it’s obvious I love words more than imagery. What an image does is really nothing, it’s so passive. “Just look at me,” and experience a fleeting, muted “feeling.” Even the best photographs are more like para-psychological proofs of ghost hauntings. Images are echoes of the echoes of whatever faint residue we perceive of reality. And what makes them so atrocious and so violent is that they mutilate the singular body which bridges faint representation and the thing. Images do not “care” at all about what they’re referencing. They consume the thing, and the image itself is a piece of shit. Inert and lifeless. Which, well, maybe words are too, in a sense, but there is fertility to a word that doesn’t exist in godforsaken image. The fertility of an image is more like asexual reproduction, which is why, too, images are more useful for propaganda mimesis. Images are just so… oppressive. I prefer the dreams of my own mind, and the work of typing and writing to describe the intangible, rather than this reverse engineering of everyone’s psyche, where image becomes the baseline, and descriptions of sensation are lost to the importance of reproducing another image, reproducing another fucking “vibe”. That’s what’s so wrong with internet mediated words. It makes all these words into pictures. Ugh, it’s so endless. I hope this job works out because I’m sick of a giving a fuck about any of this goddamn garbage.
Nevertheless, I continue on: this line of thought completely glosses over how the image depends on representation, on the context of current reality, but it weaponizes that reality for a sensationalist, garbage fucking image. Simultaneously, while the image depends on context, it denies the importance of that reality by rendering it as a mere instrument the image uses as means of self-reproduction. And the image always and only reproduces more images. It’s so fucking gross and pathetic. Images are something worse and more sterile than masturbation. They’re so… unilateral, unipolar. The image is actually… Ahem… Let me be clear: The image is fascist. The image is a dictator. There is no dialogue with an image, no questioning the image. It’s vulgar, mutilated, so fucking offensive, and unfortunately, it is always pornographic because its entire raison d’être is to excite a single sense [visualization] towards an inanimate lifeless echo of a thing. The only thing an image can do is illicit desire for the image. The image demands that it be more desirable than reality, that the image be more observable, more perceived than the world of the living. The image exists to inflame lust for the image, rather than curiosity, respect, or any real communicative exchange with the thing being represented. You are a voyeur, outside of the frame, and the image is the central exhibit. That slice of the world, taken and distorted for the sake of the image, may, just like sex-app hook-up, be thrown away and forgotten after its utility has been depleted: disposed after the photo is taken, after one has ejaculated and the other contracts. Maybe you can get a dozen good photos, you can get three months of good sex. Maybe you’ll come back and take a picture of that slice of reality and compare it against itself. As if time grows something, and you’re capturing and imprisoning in it in a photo of an eternally non-existent echo of some thing. Then you cling to it because it reminds you of something. They collapse time in a way that I don’t personally like. The same way computers are ALWAYS out of date, always nanoseconds late: a photograph is the same. And just as repulsively, both computers and photography pretend, and sell themselves as being something valuable and more true. Images hold themselves up as something can be real, when in fact, it is only the image itself that can ever be real. Fuck you. Omg. I’m so annoyed by photography.
To be perfectly honest, I can barely stand to look at another image. But I will because the image (when presenting a human being, or if it has been taken by a photographer) is the two-dimensional voodoo doll of someone real, and that image is tethered to their brain, and to disregard their echo-shadow, is to disregard the real person who captured the unreality of some thing.
And it’s just so senseless too. Omg. The fact images rely only on sight is soooo degrading. Wow. I’m going to take some selfies actually. And, I want to talk about something else. But I also don’t meniton enough how I hate art. Whatever. Most of this is all for money laundering and tax write-offs anyway.
Back to work.
Who knows. Maybe I’ll get fired. After the period d’essai, they’ll say, “it’s just not working out between us.” The director said, in typing, that if this other role doesn’t fit well with me, they’ll switch to a CDI for a different position, one which is a bit less communicative and less demanding. I could also end up hating it, and quitting. And when I think about the humiliation of discussing this online in front of strangers, and the potential loss of value in their eyes, I get a little excited. The tension between wanting to be desirable and the ease with which I can become so undesirable, the laziness of creating emptiness and lack… Is so very sexy. Related to the constant onslaught of images: advertising, videos, selfies, photography, art, etc, etc. At some point it just loses all meaning. I just want to be a bad person, so my writing improves. Become ugly, so my intelligence increases. Become unfuckable, so God enters me. OMG I’M SO BORED OF BEING HUMAN. Humans don’t even really look like monkeys most of the time. More often, they look like insects.
This inescapable consumption of mere echoes, of space, is also why I’m a huge fan of the Marquis de Sade. No one but him better illuminated just how valuable shit, waste and excess truly is. People think they’re “creating” when they’re really just puking or shitting. Your art is shit, my words are piss, and none of your pictures are beautiful. Imagine that. Imagine that this beautiful universe was made to be eaten and reprocessed into shit.
I’m scared of what rape means about the nature of humanity, which is a microcosm of the nature of reality. Does cockroach communication via feces mean that God is in the sewers? Yes. Always say yes.
In harmony with the theory that we are mere instruments of an alien force, and I think similar to Nick Land, from what I’ve heard and have never read, humans are mere instruments of capitalism, or economy; which is itself, a sort of alien, if you want to think of ideas as infiltrating from a subtle reality: ideas as alien implants. As usual, everything comes back to the alien agenda. And how I’m in love with them, and how they’re protecting me from all useless negativity. Kisses to them and no kisses to humanity.