05.03.2015

After three unsatisfying assignations in one week, at home, in Clockwork Bar and Amy Ruth’s (a southern restaurant), I’ve decided to cool the search for new women. The place I live, the places I drink, and the places I work just don’t have the kind of woman I want. To date the ones I’ve met on the daily would be to regress and cycle back to former versions of myself, as a Henry Miller//wolf, a bright eyes//pathetic man-child or a sycophantic minion of decadence, and I’d rather not drown myself in meaningless sex, or be subject to another woman’s attempt to re-present her debutante self, or slow myself with a nihilistic sigh to the tune of some Sisyphean nightmare in the trenches of some sales-job’s bureaucratic dead-ends. Seriously, even allowing myself to imagine what I’d turn into if I put the day job in front and center on the monthly feels like twisting my own heart out.

My only hope is to become more affective, to swing my internal narrative’s focus from work to play even faster, more efficiently, from the perpetual remastering of shoving the supremely short-sighted three-minute sales-pitch of the most obscenely naive leftist humanism down strangers’ throats to the absolute opposite, subtle and (currently) obscurant research’s pull: objective morality through the guise of the hypothetical torturer, the libertine instilling his immodest primal maxim into the inner-most being of an other, modest subjectivity, in order to supplant one subjectivity with a posited Other’s (e.g. a “community’s”) right to absolute pleasure w/out separation. You know it’s kind of fitting in a really scary way that I’d be mired in the composition of a narrative essay about what contemporary significance Sadean experience has just as I discover how to perform this day job without letting it infect and corrupt my psyche, my mind, my actual world-narrative. I guess there’s still a libertine in me, after all.

I’m still waiting to hear back from the other bookstores I’ve applied to. I really need to get out of this job, before I’m tempted to interpret my writing and studies as nothing more than pathetic synecdoche to basic job security, and the acquisition of basic living desiderata. That would be awful.

What else. My roommates are wingmen now. They go out together after working up their spines enough to look women in the eye (I suppose), and come home together, disguising their disappointment with half-hearted laughter, all the way to their beds. God America can be so dull.

I’m going to more readings now. Maybe by the end of the month I’ll resume reading at open mics myself. It’s been a few years…

I’ve lost touch with all of my old friends, except for one who sends me cryptic messages: an image of a sentimental facebook post, several about certain literary, philosophical or psychoanalytic authors only insofar as their names are mentioned and related with the conjunction “and,” and another guy in Paris who’s suffering from his fifth month of perpetual existential crises. After five years of friends’ taking turns competing for life-crisis of the decade, I’m just not really able to take anyone’s pathos seriously.

That’s the biggest change in the past two months, I suppose. My veneer of indifference to humanity has sunken in. As I’ve said before, I seem to be the only one I currently know with primary and non-egoic interest in more subtle, sensual, conceptual and literary experience.

I don’t know how many more blog posts I will make here. They are becoming rather dull to me (too). I’d much rather just skip it altogether and go straight to editing and writing, instead of taking breaks to write about what isn’t being written yet, or the things keeping me from writing what hasn’t been written yet, or writing about writing, or writing about being happy with oneself in the context of having written what’s been written so far, or will have been written, and whether the idea of having written things by some undisclosed point in the future is ultimately another obstruction, and that one should instead just fly blind, as in love.

Christ I miss love. Can’t believe it’s been five years since my first time’s end. Instead of comparing where I am now with where I imagine she is, I’ll just go out for a final smoke before reading myself to sleep. Next time I’ll put some actual thought into a post, and maybe describe the city in more detail instead of just wallowing in laconic and ambivalent rebuke.

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