redhood's Journal

5:03am: Some Natures Catch No Plagues
I
I felt selfish having desires, you'll have to excuse me because I'm so selfish, I just realize there somethings I need, isn't this life so wonderful, isn't this life fucking shit, the bells are ringing but where's my angel, I never believed in much but I believed in you, surrendered everything but youre not listening, if I would have known this yesterday I should have killed myself, because forever lasts a moment, its like kissing long lost loves, some years before or was it years after sense driven lips they wandered, I carved "hope" in my wrist, I bled hope from my life, ask what would you fall in love for, touch it and so it died, what's that in pretentious dreams, mechanic humility, where's my angel.

II
I want my blood back for all these hackneyed combinations of words, gray stories of mundane relationships, and parsimonious poems of love being an unequaled salvation. I want my blood back for the bosom of my chest that erects animosity, the false sentiments published, and passions molested. I want my blood back for the quondam vitality, forfeited allegiance, and bygone affinity. The sober anesthetic of acquaintances and crucified love will not be my martyr.

6:05pm: with restricting enthusiam
I tore the last page of the novel as I knew was not to be read by a dying man.
And for that you can always count on me for the murdered fancy prose poetry was declaimed.
Youve made me most vulnerable, most vicious in my words.
Now I have to suffer for my rasping of you too strongly, too soon, as charred wood has to pay for burning.
Without your caresses, nothing exists any more in the ecstasy of fiction.
Its all to be forgotten, not excluding myself.
At the end I don't want any hands in any tentative gestures of solidarity.

My stare is dull and ashen, my love, forgive me this apostasy.
Let me allude, before I undo the collar of my traveling cloak, and yawn, and begin to write of amorphous sallow bushes enormous clouds above an endless plain, and skyline endlessly repeating.
Im obsessively repetitive and rasping, dearer to some than any other rhyme.
Lovers to meet tangled dreaming of untrammeled life, where their hearts are larger than any passion throughout poetry.
I want to be swallowed by some sublime unneeded symbol consecrated, escorted by a vaguely infantile path of fate to lead into the silence of exile.
I do not want to be buried and forgotten.
For as most I can ask is loyalty as the posthumous.
It would be easy enough to read all these instances of disappointed emotion as excessive literature. As easy as it would be to ignore the thunder.
Thundering here against the imposition of reality onto the significant play of the emotions.
True this is not my native element though either was spending all of life feeling miserable.
Its fluctuations, its varying depths, being together gave me the impression of moving and living.
There is not enough to make permanent, nothing else.
Only footnotes of life in the highest form of consciousness, only the admiration and the profound ideas of putting words of love to paper.
No matter how lost it may be.
As the torn page had said, "Anywhere to begin but alone. Of course, if that were so it would already be the end."

6:07am: excerpts of curiosity and fate
In this life I have vanquished poverty, obscurity, and two varieties of exile -- I will not be overthrown by the pathetic vigor of hunger, thirst, and addiction. More blank words to tell empty promises so I may choke on the motions to said misfortune. Let us pronounce this fragile act of subtle craving; The Courtesy of Calluna Vulgaris and Diacetyl Morphine. An act barely amusing but wonderful and benevolent.

What a specialist would diagnose as Autophobia; a real personality disorder that I may acquiesce myself. A term used to describe three different conditions: fear of being alone, fear of being egotistical and fear of oneself. The Courtesy of Calluna Vulgaris and Diacetyl Morphine has a touch of cure and brushes off its wondrous pollen, and this I know so well, a delicate grace, subtle and relentless. The curiosity of a new way of seeing the world together and alone. Let me garner my lust without prejudice.

8:02pm: Altruism wrote a letter
Speak and memory is an unforgettable chronicle of the birth. Simply choreographed and rehearsed. Bestowed upon the opening of the sky. Time's hands weave reversed. And this is probably that God bored up in heaven, experienced a passion he doesn't often have. For memories destruction.

A little obscurity here throws in relief and clarity of the rest.

Writing has always been for me a blend of dejection and high spirits, and a torture. My own use of disguises as the silk mask of an additional pen name. Important to who believes in remembered futures and prophetic dreams. Most being exquisite and instantaneous.

You and I are entirely special; such wonders as we know, no one else knows, and nobody loves the way we love. Despite perfect understanding, denied all resemblance between.

Here a character to begin with shares even that elusiveness with a fictional counterpart. It was her that fascinated him most of all. Her instinct for everything that he himself loved. Something not quite comprehensible, but wonderful and benevolent and continuously surrounding. Romance will be the very theme.

I have often dreamt of a long and exciting career writing small love letters. I never thought to be that of an obscure curator in a great museum.

1:22am: Vs. the internet and technology
I most often despise writing of modern convenience but as this is my chosen medium I thought no where else to begin but to share my interpretations of the internet. Im particularly curious about how artists work here. As we live in a material culture and that this "immaterial culture" of the internet that will mostly operate alongside but in some cases displace the material culture we are used to. Here we no longer cling to the comfortable notion of art as object. It is the basis of transitory, multi-layered, non-linear, and the immaterial of art. And to me it is as viable a medium as far as anything else has proven.

Some interpret it as information, others capital, other socials; no one sees this as one stable thing. Its different to everyone. I think decentralization. All physical, psychic and social processes merge in constant play and replay; there are no more spectators in a lab or life, only participants in the global electric theatre. Where people may be far apart geographically and identities less rigid and secure. At present the electric speed may have already have violated human scale, tending as it does to transport you instantly everywhere. Here we enter a more tolerant society that concentrates on the expressions rather than the expresser. We are living far ahead of our thinking.

We have become futurists primitivist where we all play the pivotal role. This a desirable balance that is so far only possible through the encouragement of dual and plural sets of internetworks with similar technology but vastly different operating paradigms. We build electronic magazines, newspapers, books, newsletters, libraries and other collections that organize and package the writings, photos, videos, sounds and other multimedia information from diverse points of view. Here we will bring about enormous changes in social and cultural power by re-establishing a balance of information control in modern society.

I'm fascinated but also profoundly ambient. I don't want to be an evangelist for computer technology though here I am given a freedom and power one often doesnt have and that is for one to become a god. Not a moral and hierarchical entity but one of many that has the unprecedented opportunity to become omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient. As we all astonishingly share together for the one of the few times in our lifes have the complete control of our existence. Here we have created possibly a future civilization. Maybe Olympus.

Though now I feel as if Ive praised and spoken to high of the internet. As if I was to say if only real life would not to return. As if this were my native tongue. As if though circumstances may fantasize of godlike existence, that I could swap the real world hallucination for the technological. And after all it is only a machine. Not that I could not believe that the future enterprises amazing advances in our technology and uses of and that it may evolve into such magnificent wonders. But during the present time we have yet grasp such a concept. It is still only a tool an extension of ourselves.

Which brings me to the real use of the computer. It is to speed the process of discovery and orchestrate terrestrial and eventually galactic, environments and energies. In a Christian sense this is merely a new interpretation of the mystical body of christ; and christ, after all is the ultimate extension of man. We have become so absorbed that as christ this technology has become the center of our civilization. Leaving us in an unusual position, faith in yet another deity and divinity. A faith that furthers us away from realizing our true organic selves, our own lives and decisions.

Contemplating and trading in mere representations of such things. You may believe your visit to be voluntary but how can you know. One usually thinks of this information society is saturated with high technology and correspondingly sophisticated forms of four dimensional art. So it may be surprising that you may be let down the internet is not brimming with incredible art and in most circumstances no more than a tool. Often fostering further to isolation, apathy and ennui. And for this reason I have very little enthusiasm for the online experience and do not wish to further contribute. However in contrast the internet can be immensely useful and in many ways is the medium in which information is most free and accessible, removed as much as possible from the traditional power structures of the publishing world. But due to my vague interest a portion of my life lives around this voluntary amputation. And an interest not to build new things but to evolve, see what comes, from the such both in a reality that is on a continuum with the real world and state of being connected and everyday human existence that is the consensual real world, to create work in the web that I could never have conceived of in another medium though take the lessons and experience to everyday solid and organic mediums. I am only a cyberspace cadet.

7:57pm: this is a long time for someone with nothing to think about
Kneeling besides a low cluster of grey with minute evergreen leaves and a tract of red flowers, there was a soft ambient ring of bells kept behind me and below my right shoulder.

I took my pen and lay out my papers side by side, struggled footnotes of vagaries of memory and thought. The plot I had not yet chosen. Still everything was at stake. The slippery desire vanished, I stretched myself and got up from shifting among the chaos of written and rewritten pages and withdrawl from the unknown thing I want to write; unknown, except for an infusorial quiver, when you are trying to remember something or understand something or find something.

I have set out on the path of the fictionalist, rather than that of the autobiographer. Though the narrative leans towards the latter. The desire to fuse the two results in a dreamlike, almost surreal, as if actual reality has become so unreal that it can only be recounted by slippery desire of dreams on vague notes.

I can no longer write of my past and cursed to write only of the future and become depressed and do nothing. Now I have discovered the burden of reflecting.

lost gray pictures of my past stain greener pastures of my future
rememberance and recognition forces me to reconsider
I am seeking to regress and recreating what I've found
a new beginning torn away
I'm spiraling spiraling down
empty hands on the ends of these reaching arms need the touch of something real
year by year we seperate further
we are forgetting how to feel
for at the end of this long rope I hang in wait of fading echos
uncertainty haunts my everything
I look into tomorrow and I see nothing...
so tell me how it feels to be me
I've lost so much I cannot recall my identity
I would die for yesterday not caring where I need to go
reshape relationships back into what I used to know
tomorrow is so far and I no longer want to find a replacement for all these pictures that are lost in my mind.

Regardless I carry on relentless. For intimacy is often more words in embroidered rust. And as sublimity takes care me I find more to ravage, defile and subdue myself. Consider this my only art.