i am 20 years old
i am an artist. in that i am a writer and a performer and a creator. i don’t know that i am an actor and i am not a painter. i am not an academic. i am not an activist. i am autistic. i am a comic and a comedy writer. i am not a student. i am a recipient. i am a speaker. i am a seller. i am not a business. i am a musician and a keyboardist and a pianist and a music producer and an engineer. i am not a composer. i am a director and an organiser. i am not a theatre producer. i am adoloras adoloras. i am nils fredrik karlssen. i am lola karlssen. i am leo bevan. I am lola adoloras. i am not lola bevan. i am lea bevan. i am peter oshea. i am traxia lee. i am vßane. i am sebastian gilchrist. i am n.f. k. i am aka. i am adoloras.
vote green.
a man was shouting at the supermarket security today, and i caught his face when the guard turned away- a little disappointed, and scared. i think scared of having no purpose? then i related to him though i didn’t relate to him while he was shouting. i supposed he might have been a racist but that could be my prejudice.
i don’t know my blood type.
obviously i dont understand the truest way of communicating what i do. i do resonances. i do heightenings. i find things and am struck by things. things i associate with integrity and focus and essence which for some reason i think is the most good. i do think it is the highest equality to unite under ; there is a big abstract people have been missing and people like it when they find it. that abstract is something like clarity or resonance or essence or harmony. its a big psychedelic abstract which is out of fashion now. if we did all look at flowers. leave everything, if we all look at flowers, and see them. that would be something new. if we were all to look at flowers.
anyone who asks the question “what is a woman” does not understand politics, semantics, metaphysics, sociology or identity.
the second time someone says you were the best they’ve ever had, you are just starting a timer until everything clicks and you throw it in. it’s a proper cardhouse. i’ve been preparing for when it hits. i know what to feel. i think eventually it will be satisfying. or it won’t happen. i don’t believe that anymore. i don’t feel afterwards, i feel right in it. either way, i must be in it now. these will be the days I’m sure.
right now I look ugly and slack. not ugly; inanimate. dull. the psychologist said I was precise with words (like that’s a symptom now). why use them wrong? he said. quietly as though any normal person would know.
i wrote today that there is a distinction within narrative information between who/when where is narrated (choice of subject), what is narrated (choice of information) and how it is narrated (choice of expression). i am in two minds about the relevance of this triptych. there is something like that which makes sense to me, but i don’t know if that is it. it aligns with referent, attribute and connotation, though i dont know how well. like, if we can see a fact as a story, a scientific fact poses only that its subject is relevant. the story “water is a liquid at 22 degrees celsius” is intended to be analogous to a physical observation; a shopping list is the same. “milk, eggs, bread” aims only at analogy with the presence of these three objects. history is concerned only with the first two choices; “julius caesar ruled rome from 49 to 44 bc” aims only at analogy with this action, but then “the exact date of julius caesar’s birth is unknown” is something different. we understand that both are telling us about roman history, though the action described in the second occurs in the modern day. the choice of information gives a secondary layer to the story: because certain information cannot be given, we gain further, less precise, information about the subject. finally, literature is concerned with the all three choices. “i met a traveller from an antique land” poses a relevant choice of subject (speaker meets traveller from antique land), but extends far beyond analogy of action. the choice of information is relevant (the land is not specified, but it is antique, the man is not named, but he is a traveller), and the choice of expression is relevant (proceed to a-level “close analysis”). maybe that distinction is good but it feels antique itself. grossly unfashionable. maybe it can spin somewhere, i don’t know. it doesn’t make me happy.
artificial intelligence is an offense to every art form and every individual artist; honest things are made with love and human blood.
look at another person and all the ideas of what things are become irrelevant so quickly. systems of safety- safety of knowledge- are optional. everyone can choose to abandon their truths or types or schemata (i had to say that, i know, i know) – like, clearly its all bullshit? what are we doing, you know, ask someone that. ask someone what you’re doing; you’re both human, you’ve both lived. just go out and love people, see people. see the world. or choose not to but you’re choosing and would you really choose what you have? would you choose to live in your brain? the world can make you happy. everything can be charming, warming, anything. just go and be (as long as you aren’t ill). and if you are ill, take your share of pity ! there is nothing like illness. we are all similar except for our illnesses; they are the only really deep thing (fitzgerald says that, which doesn’t matter, but if you like that kind of thing there it is. he was right.)
there were bells playing outside my window for half an hour today. which annoyed me. i should have shut the window but i was busy.
Modernity, in all violations of poetic form, has produced no thing more obscene than the Clerihew. If it were any man’s business to kill poetry by the fewest possible cuts, Weland himself could craft nothing so precisely horrendous as is the Clerihew. The form’s namesake, Edmund Clerihew wrote several prose works, including “the inoffensive captain”, “the old-fashioned apache”, “the fool-proof lift”, “the ordinary hairpins”, and “the genuine tabard”. It has not yet been established whether these titles were motivated by malice on Clerihew’s part, by some profound mental disability. I abhor the Clerihew and the mind that created it. Every aspect of every poem in his single collection is so effortlessly loathsome that burning every copy ever published would be inadvisable only since the pain of such an execution would be over too quickly. Everyone who has ever smiled at a Clerihew, or the idea of a Clerihew should be put down and their bones processed into glue – a special glue which doesn’t stick very well and can only legally be used by paedophiles.
all people should respect maths.
how many times will I have to listen to the final cut in moments of immensity until it feels immense? it definitely is hereish — more so than a lot of albums. i think its camp failure is like mine — the title track is mawkish and accepting, but true enough (by a hair). i don’t know. it treads the line and I’m sad of that. two suns has moments of the perfect conclusion, but I can only hear “daddy, daddy” so many times before it’s the wrong kind of ridiculous. oh well, i’ll leave it. it did the job tonight.
we should definitely wave and smile at people. art can be a wave and a smile at people. we dont need art to create a confined space. art can be an open communication. i don’t believe in obscurantism. i think we should all try to be clear to one another.
honesty and consistency are simple virtues. strength is a virtue also, but a harder one.
vote green.
of course poetry is supposed to be honest. i don’t understand confessions which aren’t honest.
everything i write on here is so obviously prose- because there isnt rhythm in it. there are no spirally patterns. it is not crafted at all, it is just information.
and this is all on the internet. i wish i could make it available somewhere on the ground you know. somewhere where no one would notice it unless they were looking for it but they would find it easily and it would be simple and evident and built into the ground. so you could read it when you liked and it didnt demand to be read. i wish the internet could be like that. vast and wooded, not all headachey and noise.