Dinner talk

Recently, I had an old friend over for dinner. I had always thought of him as the cranky "not too open," rather difficult chap, although he is a nice person and all that. It appears he thinks worse of me. He told me I'm at least 10% weirder than him. This got me thinking, and in retrospect I get this odd good feeling coz I was right he is weird, after all who can dispute his own admission. But seriously, how do one measure out weirdness and to such foregone conclusion as to deduce it to "10% weirder" and the sort. Eliot did measure out his life with coffee spoons but I think that’s lame compared with such mathematical deductions that go down to numbers and percentages. Perhaps I'm weirder than him. Or maybe not. We've just got to figure out a way of measuring weirdness.

Of flowers and dreams

Red posies with a splotch of yellow in the middle. It doesn't stand out, yet it has an "in your face" look to it, with the power to excite the perverse feeling of repulsion and attraction. Loud, garish, yet possessing the allure of a black nylon stocking–clad hooker. You look at me as if you would swallow me whole. Thank god I'm not on drugs — as much as I love Rimbaud, I haven't yet gotten to the "complete derangement of all senses" part. I would like to someday — completely fuck my mind and see the white light or the blue … whatever. I'm not going mental here, I'm only staring at my bedcover — enthralled, possessed, completely ravished by these gigantic, gaping flowers.

Hubris ... and well some truth!

Dostoyevsky: Notes From the Underground

It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything.
But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?
Answer: Of himself.
Well, so I will talk about myself.
I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness — a real thoroughgoing illness.

Just my thought!

Night: Neruda
I want neither to know nor to dream.
Who can teach me not be,
To live without going on living?
…
At some point to be invisible,
To speak without words, to hear
Only certain raindrops falling,
Only the flight of a certain shadow.

Nil

Not having anything to say is frustrating. I sit empty, with restless fingers tapping on the keyboards. And to fill this void, I eat chocolate. And more potato chips. And everything else I can find in the house. It is strange that I have nothing to say but inside I feel a terrible weight. I'm going deaf with the sound of silence. Punch through, break a glass, shatter a heart. Fill my ears with your wailings and moans.
I don't understand how I feel about him. I almost see myself in him, yet he is so much more than I'm. I'm not dying of an old passion, never really had one for him; only may be a passing one or a momentary self-induced longing, which now mean little to me. But I miss the comfort of our conversations — the total abandon of guardedness, of being comfortable in each other's silence , him understanding my mad ramblings — I miss the assurance that once I'm through with my shitty job, he would be there to listen to all that I have to say. I could communicate. I had a secret hole to whisper to all my crazy thoughts. At the same time, I knew at the back of my mind that this would end someday but could never picture it. I could never imagine a tomorrow without us talking about everything under the sun. He is my alter ego and he's gone.

The "Supraman"

He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was the miracle ingredient Z-147. He was—
"Crazy!" Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. "That's what you are! Crazy!"
"—immense. I'm a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I'm a bona fide supraman."

Silence falls on me. Dull, quiet silence — powerless in its muteness. It almost borders on boredom. And resignation. I'm never going to wake up one day and find myself the way I want to be, in a place and with the people I dream of. Neither am I going to metamorphose into an insect or a dog — I'm quite intact with "reality," regardless of my many magical dreams and fantasies and numerous crazy thoughts. I know I live right here right now and can feel the sting when I pinch myself. My point is I'm just what I'm. I can never teleport. Or be invisible.
I'm sleepy. I'm yawning for the third time now. The "supraman" is ready for bed. Goodnight.