Excerpts from "Confessions of a Second Rate Sensitive Mind": Part 2

Well, I am trying to continue writing and sharing things here, but unfortunately I am slipping back into a routine of wasting as much of every day as I can. The truth is, the last few years have been a losing struggle against this unstoppable force that subtly sucks the life out of me, this strange compulsion to read meaningless material, to waste time in a randomly chosen manner reading the endless words of ignorant fools on forums. I have so many ideas, so many things I could create, so many things to love and cherish, and instead I squander myself, my mind and my spirit, in pursuit of nothing. I can never quite figure out why. Perhaps it is fear again. Do we ever fully accept how much fear controls our every thought and action? We are terrified to truly express ourselves, terrified of what the world beyond our habits has in store for us, terrified of the truth that lies behind the stories we tell ourselves about our lives. I have always been afraid and ashamed to share my writing. Even here, I share it when it has no chance of being read. But this writing still somehow seeks to find its way to your heart. I still hold out hope that it will one day cause someone to laugh with melancholy familiarity, hope that it can ease the pain of another spirit like myself, who longs to be a creator, who still holds out hope that the best parts of himself will somehow triumph over the dullness, the deadness, that also lives inside us.

“ What ever separated us? If I look at myself in the mirror and ask that question, I see myself backwards, a lonely piece of writing, and I no longer understand myself. In this tremendously cold age we should have coldly turned away from each other despite our unquenchable love? I tossed you smoking words, burned, with a bitter taste, cutting sentences or dull ones without luster. As if I wished to increase your misery and banish you from my territories with my intellect. You came so trustingly, sometimes awkwardly, asking for a word with beautiful colors  You wanted to be consoled and I had no consolation to give. Profundity is not my business either.

But an unquenchable love for you has never left me, and now I am searching under the rubble and in the air, in the ice-wind and the sun, for the words that should throw me back into your arms. For I am consumed with longing for you.

I'm not a piece of fabric, I'm not made of a cloth that could cover your nakedness, but of the fusion of all materials. And I want to burst into your senses and your mind like gold veins in the earth, illuminate and shine through you when the black fire, your mortality, starts burning inside you.

I don't know what you want of me. I cant write the song that would accompany you into victorious battle. I retreat before the altars. I am not your go-between. All your business deals leave me cold. But not you. Only not you.

You are everything to me. What wouldn't I want to be for you. I'd like to follow you when you're dead, look back to see you even if I might be turned into stone. I'd like to ring with song, move the remaining beasts to tears, make the stones bloom, draw fragrance from every bough.”

Ingeborg Bachmann, “The Poem for the Reader”

BOX OF MEMORIES

Careful now,

For the true poetry passes by concealed

then is gone forever

leaving only what came easily

You feel a brush, a gentle twist,

And are touched with an instants innocence.

But oh to record it,

We speak of its loss,

to preserve a piece but a moment longer

Safekeeping till we too are gone

And our little box of treasures sits at the curb

Forgotten, forlorn.

I miss you, moments, so much.

SIMPLE SEASONING, SAD SPICES

Suddenly it has passed by

Sweet childhood.

I turn back to seek you

Words wishing against the turning of the page.

As time gently brushes past I struggle

Face against that steady breeze

to rake together all one million

of memories little leaves

they scatter to no end

crumbling to dust as I bring them with a misplaced craving

to my little blaze

that I must put out.

When did that fire start inside me?

It eats at my spirit and spits sarcastic

tasty nihilism taken up too eagerly

turning my virtues into vices

my simple seasonings

into sad spices

I suppose I had to pass along this way

tracing the helpless footsteps of Joseph K.

Where the wise ones walk

Why did i betray those bygone days?

Now I know the knot of the doubled soul

All false choices strangling the good, they intertwine

But is it the same rope?

In the dark, I follow it, but Disney days are gone

and I know the minotaur lurks

CREATION AND DESTRUCTION

Somewhat scared to start

there might be nothing there

Of course there is already something

judge it carefully as it emerges

softly crying bloody babe of thought

wrap it gently in white

stare at it with eyes full of meaning

searing its soul with silent speech

It must understand and reflect, respond

stretching to speak

Once words are won

they tumble out heedlessly

helplessly building momentum

haphazardly heaping into a house

here

home

walls, boundary stones, world of wonders

that we must wander

or sometimes sit, sick

and stuck in darkness.

Stir from slumber

and strike out at our very shelter

with fearless violence seeking

to shatter through

create cracks

Now rays of burning golden insight

Appear

THE GENTLE ONE

Labouring under massive ignorance

the poet still manages to emerge

time and time again to say the same

less convincingly

It used to flow,

it trickles, as it splatters on the page

wasting spirit, agitating the eyes

the bill will be high this month

If you must pay

for lazy grinning days

when you saunter around pretending

that half your moments never happened

these days I could almost feel whole

if so much of me was not already up in smoke

what still holds is happy to be here

improbably so

It seems solutions find themselves

losing true memories to recall imagined joy

the hideous mask of desperate yearning is peeled off

to reveal the ugly but smiling face of contentment

no never that

never quite that

It could all have gone differently

thus do I bless and curse my little days

playing with the children, smiling, absorbing sun power

while the dreamer who wanted to be great weeps quietly inside

and the powerful one pounds the walls in frustrated fury

the gentle one walks again

with soft footsteps and a hump back

trying to return

THE CRITICAL FACULTY SPEAKS

Ur kinda creepy

gawky gay gunhold

shut the fuck up you faggot:

I can sense some criticism coming.

But if there is one power the poet has

It is power over words

So weak, so wishful, they want but

never get

to the heart of it

the object they try to gnaw at

latch onto, hungry mouths

open

to many possibilities

I am dissembling

I am afraid to embarrass myself

With honest words of woe

what are they for but to share?

We deal them back and forth

to pass and mark time

a game of diversions, gambling

Our very souls at the table of posterity

No, you didn’t play right. It isn’t beautiful enough

Go away.

But with words I somehow stick

On the page, in the mind, a mantra

repeating what someone else said to you

listen, the words are speaking.

True?

Ah but somehow your weak words

wont let me go

stapled to my flesh

insterted like pins to work their voodoo magic

I carry them with me everywhere

so all can read the signs

Oh great courtroom

Oh many judges and jury

Such skilled shallow evaluators

knowing for certain what smacks their faces

and killing what lies behind and beneath

the sheer force of your dumbness

numbs the whole of things

so it can be painlessly butchered

into a simple profitable set of pork chops.

feed us endlessly

on each others obvious weaknesses

laugh and place things in their place

all in their allotted place

price tags affixed

dead doll eyes flickering

with electronic light

satisfy me

again and again

till I am sated

sitting silently

sulking

that I cannot let myself dance like you do

to the simple soundtrack of this stupid world

pouting on the page

I call it poetry.

STRANGE SPIRITS

some of us

merge with the urge,

become the instinct,

thus they will it.

Others

struggle against it

rebels to themselves

they split

and become reflective.

That battle often lost

those voices speaking

words that aren’t quite you

who replies?

Who acts?

Terrified with no where to hide

Someone searches for peace,

while around them circling, dancing, laughing

strange spirits seek release

THE POET DOUBTS POETRY

If i could only pour my heart out moment to moment, let it flow evenly and boldly from within to without, let it rise to triumph and sink to sorrow, feeling fully each instant that it risks everything and accepts all the costs. No, over the years I have learned a careful restraint, I could never burden you with my full feelings, the shame would simply be too great, the wrongness of my rightness would be offensive to the general mood and to your fine sensibilities. The weak repress and meekly step in time to the belches and burps of the strong as they gobble up each sweet emerging portion of the ever renewing banquet of the future. Oh, I store up my hearts yearnings to waste here, where no one cares to look or be cross, where I can be daring and brave against no obstacles, eloquent with no listeners, strong lifting no weight. This dream world, so well expressed yet so dead and pointless, has a strange choking air about it, if one spends too much time growing and admiring secret flowers of evil in the head's hothouse the scent poisons the soul, sending it on a reverie of fantastical images and possibilities while it hurdles unaware towards the jagged rocks of harsh hard despair, hiding its eyes and dreaming that all is well. All is not well, when the lurking truth is covered over. All is not well when we pretend.

POEM FOR AN UNKNOWN GIRL

Who can soar with my spirit

to dreamy imagined heights

Yet also crawl with me

through the dark dirt

of despair and degradation?

I almost glimpse her from afar

And as I approach

she recedes towards me

all too real to be my fantasy.

By day I scheme in bursts

of simple patterns.

By night I float through

a hazy maze bemused

Lost less anxiously than before,

I still wonder

Will I ever drift up on her shore?

Me, the castaway, with little direction

who wastes his love on ghosts and dreams

And you, the great Artist

that combines beauty and pity,

the healer who for some reason

wishes to be adored

by her slowly strengthening patient

who lives on through transfusions of her mere presence

I'll forgive you evils, vanity, stupidity even

If for some reason you let me

back into that magical world

of sharp jokes, shared smiles

and silliness,

If we can be

co-conspirators,

I will scheme desperately in the attempt

to stop the worlds cruel march

from trampling our secret garden

WHAT WAS LOST?

I used to search for significance,

seeing symbols everywhere

pointing the way on some poetical quest.

But the almost and not quite

Slowly ate away at my vision

Leaving me just another blind wanderer

worshipping the emptiness

he cant quite see.

Trundling between scholarly castles

slipping between stern buildings

feet sliding on the wet snow,

or standing by the old school,

smoking joints with the boys,

we get high and play,

pass the day

till days are done,

it was fun

when a warm breeze brushes

your flushed face,

and you feel a bit of heat

from the sun,

you bounce your ball happily,

then sit in the grass

pretending to be a poet

just letting things pass

Through this world I went quietly,

smiling and nodding to those

who smiled and nodded to me,

And sometimes I cannot help but feel

sick disgust simmering on my inner stove

ASEXUAL REPRODUCTION

Like a plant

I sit rooted in place,

with tendrils extended

deep into the earthy soil

of pages and pages of dead lives

and forgotten stories.

A strange and twisted stalk

bursts from the ground

straining towards a sky

it will never reach.

Arms wave and legs curl

Yet I never leave my spot,

my destiny, which flows

Around me unbidden

While I look on amazed.

Water rains down, new thoughts

that I thirstily drink down.

The golden warmth of the sun

flows into me and feeds

my starving spirit.

I grow and must give,

I feel ripe with life,

drunk on intoxicating ideas

nurtured by the shining good

and rooted in all that came before.

I must overflow like Zarathustra,

So I reproduce myself a thousand times,

and send these spirit seedlings

adrift on the wind, wishing

dearly that they find their way

to you, my love.

I cannot take you and have you,

Cannot rip myself free of what I am,

but can I make you laugh,

make that sweetest smile

sparkle in your eyes for an instant

as a part of me floats past?

ROOT BEER THOUGHTS

Root beer thoughts

burst forth, bubbles of joy

spontaneous visions of fine success,

I am adored for my singular brilliance,

showered with money, my chest puffs,

my eyes dart haughtily,

I strut across the stage and bow.

Time to buy that villa

on the cliffs overlooking the ocean

And furnish it with a shade

an automaton statue

of a girl I used to love.

Press some buttons and she smiles and laughs

how could she have doubted me?

I already forgive her.

Now I can caress cold metal

locks of shining brown hair

as we lay on persian rugs

In a high-roofed room

ablaze with crystal light.

magnanimous monarch

of my stupid dream kingdom.

Parading through the streets

My mind wanders,

I step off the path

with a wayward golden shoe.

A puddle of melted candy cane

was deeper than expected,

the sweet glue sticky,

I started to sink.

My subjects clapped, smiling

and laughing with solemn eyes

I struggled, only sinking deeper,

tasting a horrible deliciousness

as I choke and cry for help

drowning in my own

disgusting dreams

DOOMED

Arms akimbo

Painted on smile

the buffoon ambles about

and leaps about flailing

for your grudging admiration

Your laughter mixed with private sorrow

For you too jump about, stretched and contorted

to the sound of gasps and giggles,

You too perform a heartfelt dance

of absurd blunders, always almost understood.

We entertain each other,

scheming up plots

that translate into roles and scripts,

collecting trinkets and applause,

awe and admiration even,

for those forced into tremendous feats.

Curious, we read of them

soldiers storming onwards

courageous, facing bullets and death

their feet march ever forwards

with indomitable wills they command it

All the way forward, to the sewers of Stalingrad,

starving, dying slowly in the dark

with the groans of your comrades around you.

We robbed a grave to eat

fresh dead foetuses to stay alive in the shadows

while endless gunfire drones above

freezing cold, what can we say to you

Who read about us for entertainment?

Who play our part in little games

Where it is 10 points for a kill

and 100 for a killing spree?

Something more than time and space

lies between

the spirit splits and twists

and our little categories fall away.

Our senses fail

Our minds go blank.

What am I trying to catch?

The monster shreds my little nets,

tramples my traps and runs wild.

Disgustingly fat with swines eyes,

with a million arms and legs it writhes,

emitting gas chamber death cries.

With mouths and mouths of filthy teeth

it rips and sucks at itself,

rolls about in agony and erotic ecstasy

secreting the puss and ooze of

senselessly slaughtered souls.

Enveloping the earth and ageless,

I caught a glimpse in my mirrored shield,

But no hero, I threw down arms and fled,

to my garden of little delights,

filled my belly, and forgot what I saw.

SATED

Belly bursting with beauty

I gobbled down with eyes ears and mouth

overfed we fatten and grow greedy,

even sickened by elegant artifice.

What was that taste unsweetened?

Never think to ask,

waddle back to the buffet

eat shit and grasp

fierce eyes and cunning cheeks

as common as everyday worthless peoples

marvellous feats, miracles,

performed nightly, they begin to look the same

I stifle a yawn and compare resemblances

and lazily wave at my thoughts

to take form in a concrete want

so it can be instantly fulfilled.

Unsatisfied I sip my ordered drink

It tasted better when I thought of it.

perhaps a fine dessert......

LAUGHTER

Friend, I must share

the great gift that has been given back to me

forgotten and now remembered

abandoned and now retrieved

out of no where

out of a skinny man lifting weights and strutting about

out of a shy wanderer walking with lowered eyes

out of the dreams of a hungry poet

popped my old love, with impish face and shining eyes

cackling madly, she gave me a slobbering kiss

I pulled back astounded

and a spasm passed over my forlorn face

I laughed and laughed

doubled over with delight

and in my mind sparkled a holy jewel so bright

the comedy, the joke,

the reverberating glee of it all

the eternal prank, the mocker of the spirit of gravity

the ever giving gift

the inexhaustible subtle and obvious spring

the layers of ridiculousness, the joy

of realizing how hilarious it all is

how epically comical, in every way

See all my sadness

A joke I played on myself

all my silly striving and self sabotage

side splitting

All the people, the puffed up and the self aware

cracking jokes and falling victim

to another's grand wit

the poor laughing at the pompous rich

the rich laughing at the sloppy paupers

the wise mocking fools

and the fools of course responding happily

girls, girls, all dressed up

with looks so grave one wants

to chuck their chin and pat them atop the head

great men so full of pride

destined for the worms

and sick men so full of spite and hate

they look positively reptilian

and above us the Gods

with their intrigues and games and favoured fools

So measure not your money

your strength or your power

but remember all the times you spent

full of mirth, secret and shared

all those times you played a joke on yourself

jokes lasting years

the joke of your birth and death

the joke of your foolish fate

with millions of misunderstandings in between

the joke of forgetting this

and becoming sad again

the joke of writing all this down

as if the page can contain

all the ridiculousness

every moment flowing out of me

suffering always waits

but oh look above

and a paradise opens its gates

Excerpts from Confessions of Second Rate Sensitive Mind : Part One

I will not spoil these poems with too many introductory remarks. When they were written, they were intended to be an honest attempt to record my feelings at the time and seek after deeper truth through writing. I no longer have such lofty hopes, or wish to honestly record my feelings for others or even for myself. It might be better to let things happen and pass, and not even try to understand. When I began these poems they were never meant to be shared. They came out of notebooks I used to keep for myself to look back on when I became wise, to show the genesis of my ideas. At first I wrote prose. When I slipped into poetic form I was already losing my chance at rational mastery of the world around me and becoming a jumble of misplaced emotions and scattered thoughts, a patchwork of high philosophy and low cravings. Soon my poems ceased to be for me and began to be for you. So, here they are.  

Confessions of a Second-Rate Sensitive Mind

by  G. Gunhold

“O Weary life, O weary death!

O spirit and heart made desolate!

O damned vacillating state!”- Tennyson

“I don't believe in God, I turn my back

On thought, and as for that old irony

Called Love, I want to hear no more of that again

Too tired to live, too scared to die,

Unmasted ship loosed on the sea,

my soul prepares itself for grim catastrophe”- Anguish, Verlaine

MUMBLED MESSAGE

I mainly meander through my meagre maze

making moments manifest

repeatedly

I cycle through thoughts

worm-like wanderer wishing....waiting for,

what washes ashore, the trash of yesteryear,

my memories

the most sacred broke like a ship

on the harsh wave of manhood

Or scattered like birds: stoned.

Now all I recall

reeks of recollection

a copy of a copy

my soul a file clerk

retrieving precious folders of pictures

we laughed at the time and made faces

never knowing all but that mask would go

Now we hang it on the wall hoping

that through its hollow eyes the truth will flow

GIFTS GIVEN, WISDOM FOUND

It is only worth something if it is for them

So,

this is for you.

I sit cross legged,

mismatched eyes askew,

a strange smile on my face,

as I slice open my stomach

and let guts spill out.

Years of slime across the page

Here it is!

So,

you found some wisdom

down deep beneath the city

In a den of whores, drinking and dicing

Well I found some

with my picture book and telescope

Up in the land where shapes shift

white windblown word worlds

So,

Let our wisdoms meet on the plains

And hold a great pow wow

In the manner of the old war chiefs

Inevitably,

One of us will lose his land

Yet in this loss carry back

Another small penny

To place in the change jar of knowledge.

Notice how it shines

Reflective of the light

Notice its double nature

doubled over doubled

In half

RAMBLING

Stumbling

Taking big bong hits

Benumbling

Anxious fingers

Enfumbling

My palace of Art

Decrumbling

The Truth

Confoundering

In the sea of life

Befloundering

but always

Rewandering

back and back again

SELF DECONSTRUCTION

Searching for something to say....

Why worry your days away,

Searching for something deep to say?

They said it in the finest formulations

We pay them little mind today

Where is saying going

If not going away?

Away, Away, alas, Away,

Derrida, I heard him say,

Why do you deconstruct your days

While others build?

Now they look down from their tower

I dug and am misunderstood

The cellar, the pit

The lie, I quit

But could not exit the game.

So I live frozen

My destiny chosen

Disappearing one load-screen away.

RECOLLECTED IN TRANQUILLITY

Hello old friend

New page

New night-time

We often speak of the same thing.

Is there value in self awareness

If you discover sad little truths?

Is there a purpose in writing

for the stomach, for chills,

melancholy chills,

the sweet sadness of a happy memory

summoned up to a present less so.

It arrives

I greet it with a fumbling longing

wishing to return there

hoping I remember true

trying not to bruise memory's soft skin

with hands calloused by petty sin

I can never stare into these beautiful eyes for too long

always blurred, incomplete

I look away lost, but

shivers sustain my spirit

as I hide from fear's forest fires

Deep beneath the dead land of the present

In the dark wet soil that birthed what used to be

Old friend, old love,

How does one thank what is passed and gone?

In a letter to no one,

A hopeless heart felt prayer.

THE LITTLE ENGINE

Stop your choo-chooing, little train

And stop your dreams of jumping the track

of your destiny

Oh but to tumble in fiery glory

Down the side of that embankment

Rolling and squealing

to come to rest in that green valley,

That you always pass by frantically circling.

Nevermore to be propelled along that cruel path

By the burning in your belly.

Your Thomas-Tank face is often sad,

It hurtles forward dreading

Helpless but hungry

Slowly settling

The little engine that could

not escape that dark tunnel,

The great guillotine;

Each day ones neck extends

With each forgotten verse a poem

ends

THE STRONGEST MONKEY

In my own little cage

In that great zoo that is the world today

The Strongest monkey

Robbed me of much of what I wished to say.

I used to point up at the sky

With a pained and serious look on my face

And try to translate mystery

Into grunts and squeaks

It speaks!

The weak one, with sad eyes,

He speaks!

With a soft saying that could never overpower

Your wild shrieks.

My words; subtle and often confused,

While yours were as simple

As a punch and a bruise.

Yes, your loud words weighed me,

and wondrously, as the years passed

weighed me down true

Ignorant I once hung happy and high

My infant whiteness ripe for feasting

And when I fell to greedy hands

I finally felt my worth increasing

I have prepared some sport for you strong ones

Don’t let me spoil your games

With my moans and cries

I once thought God and truth sat up in the skies

But such thoughts are the weakest monkey's lies

OVERFLOWING OF BEING

Can we waste a moment

In honour of superfluity?

Can we pour a bottle

Down into the dirt in the name of excess?

I toast emphatically

It is you that allows me to be here

That shelters me from the great storms of necessity;

In your name I never clear my plate,

And trust that fickle female, Fate.

If this world were finely carved

I would be among the shavings

dancing in the breeze generated

By the buzz saw of becoming.

We must flake off for the hardness of art to take shape

But do not doubt

That our emptiness is form

Or rather doubt

For certainty has a cold efficiency

That is foreign to us spilled suds.

We sopped over the spice mug

And now we sit in soggy sadness

Sighing stupid songs

That make you wonder

where this leads.

THE JUDGE

Who dares cast the first stone of analysis

across the abyss of incomprehensibility?

One can wonder, or rage and reach

For that sharp stone

and heave it

in that graceful arc of insight that strikes

and cuts, the other cries

and lowers his eyes,

He feels your confident reality

as you extend outwards

a great gobbling amoeba.

No disguise can hide

From that forceful fastball

That firmly smacks the writhing spirit of the changeling.

He seeks to ignore the wound

And continue his awkward solitary dance

But pain cries and covers

That barely perceptible glint of gentle dream.

It sparkles and is gone,

replaced by a shooting sharpness that says

You are

TELLING FRAGMENT

.....But of course life and fate cannot always be so divine. On most days they abandon one to habit and idle day dreams about how things should have been done differently. How the man of inaction savours and betrays the little flutters of true life that brush his face like a wind from distant stormy coasts. Oh life, I love to play when I am asked but am too shy to run from under my mothers legs out the front door into your sinewy arms, I fear you will buffet me about like some unloved ruffian and then strangle the pointless life out of me.....

WE IGNORANT

sunlight reflects off of water

engines drone

we fly about

swooping on skis

cutting through wind and waves

we swim in shallow sunny water

and skim the surface

dancing in sunlight

innumerable sparkles and flashes

dazzling,

do you see...

that he who runs deep

runs

from our carefree playground

Where we ignorant leap about

With puzzling joy,

like children in false smiling Disneyland

Delighted,

with each new shining sight

excited,

flashes, instants, lost in night

insolently return

I am back again

to face the same daydream

knowledge leaves me...

I sit dumbfounded

reclined in woozy sleep

My thought sinks and rests

come and cuddle with me.

THE SCALES OF JUDGEMENT

Oh how I long

to work a strange alchemy with these words

the jumble of the day

must drain through the sieve of my soul

leaving all that was ignored stuck

And letting fine observation pass through

Now, what have we here?

Place it on the great scale of judgement

That sits behind your eye,

Measure it, oh man, measure of all things.

Ring up the amount.

Deposit it in the bank of this page

Where it collects interesting

Possibilities for profitable interpretation

Or grows poor speculating

On its own worth computed

by the calculator of the critical faculty

that we all sit around staring at desperately

as we balance our daily value books

List of Ideas

So, back again. Better than the last time I tried to write anything. At times the urge to destroy it all and be silent is strong, but it has never quite triumphed yet and hopefully never will. Though much of what is to follow is worthless, its coming into being alone will bring me more joy than quiet inaction ever will. I am still not sure what this blog is going to become, and will lean towards publishing anything that comes to mind over holding things back to preserve some sort of structure. Hopefully it will achieve some form as it takes shape, or it may just be a collection of entertaining contradictions. So, here is a rough list of future topics for discussion.

1. Confessions of a Second Rate Sensitive Mind, my book of poems, written over a 3 or 4 years span and ending this winter. They are quite personal, honest, and well intentioned, though often childish and somewhat sloppy. This is probably the best place to begin, before essays or criticism, so the reader has some understanding of where all this is coming from.

2. “The Poetry of C Murder”, a strange essay that analyzes some of the poetry of imprisoned rapper Corey Miller. Written in an inspired stoned haze many years ago, this piece still contains some interesting insights. It is a bit long so I will probably break it into a few parts. A good start to the musical and cultural analysis that will hopefully take place here.

3. Talk on Hunger by Knut Hamsun. I need to read this book again before i write a short piece on it, but I remember vividly how it captures some of the ideals that I seek to praise on this blog. Finding humour in suffering, suffering for the sake of a dream, and living through the absurd episodes that make up a life. I will try to find some good quotes to put up here, for this novel is not as widely read as it should be.

4. Talk on Against Nature, or A Rebours, by Huysmans. A very strange book, not so much a story as an account on how to live a life in ones own world of art and secret pleasure, a quest that ultimately fails. Fascinating book simply for the details it contains, I will try to put up some pictures of the art mentioned, catalogue some of the books it recommends, and excerpt some entertaining passages that condemn society and modern life in eloquent fashion.

I will begin with these 4. I will be impressed with myself if all this is actually published to this void of a blog. The ideas that follow are still uncertain, and the list will be added to as ideas appear.

5. Tribute to Ol Dirty Bastard

6. Funny quotes from Nietzsche

7. analysis of “Iron Mic- Eli vs Envy”

8. Praise of Folly

9. Drugs, wonderful Drugs

10. Religious quotes, analysis (Buddhism, left hand path, Osho etc)

11. Notes from Underground

12. Praise for Supreme Clientele

Hopefully after these are written, some more topics will emerge. I will add to this list when I remember more. There is an infinite amount of material to cover when you aim to laugh at absurdity, love what has passed, and think about how you are lost in the vast universe. Hopefully someone will read this, and dare we hope for someone to suggest a topic or contribute some of this sort of idiots wisdom?