meditations in an emergency

...
My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay home and do something. It's not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.
...

- Frank O'Hara: Meditations in An Emergency

plath larkin zombies II

Insomnia is an iron age, there is no sweetness or religion when sleepless eyes have traced the void for texture or edges so long and found nothing but the self hurtling toward obliteration; decoration, direct daylight, is a luxury, ill-afforded and false when trying to understand nothingness, religion a “vast moth-eaten musical brocade”, the astrology of “pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.” Not sleeping kills a purposeful life, explained, and leaves nothing but grainy images to blow sand into dried, pried-open eyes.

plath and larkin zombies blah blah blah

What infects as the more deadly sickness, waking or sleep? Which poses more danger – the removed, hyper-dulled, desert psyche of the insomniac whose solipsistic nocturnal world disallows participation in the inherited routines of modern urban humanity, or the satiated masses content with the tedious leitmotif of day-to-day business, naïve and ignorant to the skulking tick-tock of inevitable, unpredictable mortality? Death lurks; the insomniac faces the monster of non-existence night after night in sharp clarity of sleeplessness, the mind having been stripped from cloying layers of daylight obligations.

i fear

jane austin syndrome - a life ruled by irony: that the grand beautiful inner intricacies of my mental life will never live up to this tragic shack of a world that daily spins introversion around me.
i fear the cost of totally understanding something is to live without it, outside of it, motivated by constantly desiring what will always be denied again and again and still rabidly perusing for the sake of its truth.
it fuels the urge to compose alternatives, a magical reprieve of obsessive-compulsive connoisseurship that soothes my mind in the company of the dead whose words i consume like manna. yet their voices to my ear are a silent mystery that absorbs my spoken rage, their tactile qualities now ashes, distance or toxic sludge underground and congeal an absence i wear as heavy aura.

last night prince says to b: do whatever you want after i'm dead, but i will be here to make you happy. the door breaks open and he is there.

i'm being a man, i'm keeping my cool. my delusions for the good of the rest of the world.
vous? vous yourself.

lilith

"you don't get angry at god for sharing his love with everyone."