dante’s prayer for mamu

I took my writing underground for a few reasons. Some of my thoughts are somewhat personal and I would rather keep them internal than play the complete exhibitionist. I mean, I don’t mind having them in hard copy. I keep the journal out in plain view, so if you stormed into my apartment you could easily tear it apart and digest every saucy word. Why, if you actually did that, I’d probably show my appreciation for your efforts by cooking you a mug of hot Jell-O.

Many of these thoughts would seem small and spindly under the harsh glare of the public realm. They’re important to me, yes, but should be of little concern to others and I would rather not go through the effort of distilling them down for mass consumption.

Other thoughts of mine are huge. Grandiose. If I could channel out a tablespoon of these ideas, even just for my own use, the serving would be so dense and massive that the Earth would turn itself inside out around my thumb and index. They seek to solve problems that have plagued mankind for millenia. Ways to get rock climbers to Olympus Mons. A vehicle that runs on pure ugliness. Cures for love.

I owe a benchmark. In my journal today I listed various thoughts that I want to hone on a spinning whet stone. Here’s what still sits in the bath:

The frustrations of being an intellectual romantic… or a romantic intellectual… or whatever. Do not hump. Make love. And think. Or something.

I ran out of raw skill and talent so very long ago that I’ve been forced to survive on my work-ethic alone. Where did I hide the creativity? The passion? Will I be able to find that cigar box when the time comes and dig it up next to the old rock wall, where she sat weeping?

Shit, I’m graduating.

Shit, I’m single… for two years running.

What if I’m not biologically suited for the urban, modern environment? What if natural selection demands that I perish and take my unsuited genes with me? (unsuited – like light skin under a harsh desert sun) What if I don’t have the faculties necessary to be be happy dealing with the stress and productivity and consumption and demands and alienation of my environment? How genetically different could you possibly be from any other human? A hell of a lot? Not so much?

Use what you do have, and explain why it is insufficient. Rationally explain why you cannot be a happy cog. Make millions off book publishings and TV interviews, Drown in a barrel of irony.

I want to be socially conscious, worldy aware, caring… but no one has come up with arguments that I find satisfactory. A selfish life would be so boring and internal… who the fuck wants that? I want people. I want to care about them and have them care about me and I want them to be happy and lead productive lives while I am happy and lead my productive life. I don’t want success by breaking necks.

But the contrarians have such idiotic, self-serving, righteous, sensless voices. That Narco News story about Media as the Middleman is a genius observation, but is not sufficiently developed. Contrarians (or liberals, or idiotarians, or however you want to characterize the group… labels are troublesome) have no voice… or rather, they have a voice but they have nothing to say, yet. All contrarians have been able to do is hiss and squawk.

Be relentless in presenting evidence and strong argumentation. Don’t waste time giving generalizations that sound right but are unjustified.

The societal conflict between producerism and consumerism. The media satisfies our needs as consumers but not as producers.

Unification of Western and Eastern philosophies. The rational versus the intuitive. Division versus holism. Is the holism actually real or is it just pleasant self-deception? Is pleasant self-deception morally right?

The brain roils. Whee.