soul landscape

on the waste, beneath the sky, distinguished by Watt as being, the one above, the other beneath, Watt. That before him, behind him, on all sides of him, there was something else, neither sky nor waste, was not felt by Watt. And it was always their long dark flowing away together towards the mirage of union that lay before him, whichever way he turned. The sky was of a dark colour, from which it may be inferred that the usual luminaries were absent. They were. The waste also, needless to say, was of a dark colour, which is hardly to be wondered at. Watt also was very naturally of the same dark colour. This dark colour was so dark that the colour could not be identified with certainty. Sometimes it seemed a dark absence of colour, a dark mixture of all colours, a dark white. But Watt did not like the words dark white, so he continued to call his darkness a dark colour, plain and simple, which strictly speaking it was not, seeing that the colour was so dark as to defy identification as such.
The source of the feeble light diffused over the scene is unknown.
Further peculiarities of this soul-landscape were:
The temperature was warm.
Beneath Watt the waste rose and fell.
All was silent.
Above Watt the sky fell and rose.
Watt was rooted to the spot.

Beckett - Watt

It must be abstract It must change It must give pleasure

the real unreal: the unnameable: the howl: the ineffable: the iridescent: the void: the origin of change: the muddy centre before we breathed: the myth before the myth: the first idea in violet space: a passion felt, not understood: the anonymous colour of the universe: the savage plainness: the silence: the vulgate: the gibberish: the hermit in poet’s metaphors: the to and fro both at once: the alpha omega: the round and round like wine at a table: dark things without a double: the exactest point at which the thing is itself: the movable, the moment: the permanent impermanent: the indifferent eye: the big X: the dominant blank, the unapproachable: the cold and earliness and bright origin: the bodiless half: the clearing for outpouring: the single sleep: the intricate evasions: the senseless element: the coming on and coming forth: the final form: the clearness: the traversing shade: the rugged and luminous, chants in the dark: the and yet, and yet, and yet: the possible, possible, possible…



Yves Klein, Wallace Stevens

loss

and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss

no no

no know. forget that. make-believe.

that thing you want doesn't exist, and neither can you make it.
you're fucked any which way, if the most to be aspired to is 'not depressed'. hippie bullshit, you're nothing but alone, undifferentiated. you've arrived! at blasé and unspecial. congratufuckinglations, it's all shit from here.

it's all so ugly and plain, just as it is. all these planets are dead, never-alive, or just in it to get by with the treasures long gone, worthless, outmoded.

you just overwhelm, and no one wants to *deal with that* that, nowadays mmmk? who actually cares anyway? glimpses? nah, just burnoff and garbage fires.

cheers, fuckers. let's all get laid, boring our cold bored selves into the cold bored ground. at least nothing is a sure thing.

dear diary

boys are gross. today, i saw one and puked.
maybe it's just the ones who are metal inside that make me hurl,
the ones with no faces, who talk like snakes and pretend to be alive.
they make me barf they're so disgusting.

impostors.
ew.

happy new year

feels like nothing.