i basically am mad with rage rn.
some of it because am just a running ball of wrath but also because i hate the inbred self congratulatory dysphoria of this motherfucking community of tossers.
i hate everything about the writing i see on my main dash.
i hate the soppy emo hijinks. i hate the vapid housewife poetry run through a word generator. i hate the convenient milking of non existent personal tragedies for accolades. i hate the tired metaphors. i hate the obese proclamations of faux artistry. i hate the garrulous rites of validation. i hate the passive aggressive sly blogging.
i hate that i don’t know exactly how did i ever come to be in the midst of this mindfuck.
i had a more peaceful and relevant space for expression in 2012.
Roberto Bolaño, 2666 - Part IV: The Part About the Crimes
There is a reason it is called the greatest book of the last 50 years.
“And what have I invested in interpreting disfocus for chaos? This threat: the only lesson is to wait. I crouch in the smoggy terminus. The streets lose edges, the rims of thought flake. What have I set myself to fix in this dirty notebook that is not mine? Does the revelation that, though it cannot be done with words, it might be accomplished in some lingual gap, give me the right, in injury, walking with a woman and her dog in pain? Rather the long doubts: that this labor tears up the mind’s moorings; that, though life may be important in the scheme, awareness is an imperfect tool with which to face it. To reflect is to fight away the sheets of silver, the carbonated distractions, the feeling that, somehow, a thumb is pressed on the right eye. This exhaustion melts what binds, releases what flows.
Samuel Delany, Dhalgren
You begin to suspect, as you gaze through this you-shaped hole of insight and fire, that though it is the most important thing you own — never deny that for an instant — it has not shielded you from anything terribly important. The only consolation is that though one could have thrown it away at any time, morning or night, one didn’t. One chose to endure. Without any assurance of immortality, or even competence, one only knows one has not been cheated out of the consolation of carpenters, accountants, doctors, ditch-diggers, the ordinary people who must do useful things to be happy. Meander along, then, half blind and a little mad, wondering when you actually learned — was it before you began? — the terrifying fact that had you thrown it away, your wound would have been no more likely to heal: indeed, in an affluent society such as this, you might even have gone on making songs, poems, pictures, and getting paid. The only difference would have been — and you learned it listening to all those brutally unhappy people who did throw away theirs — and they do, after all, comprise the vast and terrifying majority — that without it, there plainly and starkly would have been nothing there; no, nothing at all
- Samuel Delany, Dhalgren