It's a shame really.

Suicide Note #4

I once used to think of myself as Whatever.
When others tried to circumscribe my identity, place an ideological category upon my ideas, locate me within a bloc or milieu, I would respond with, "...am not that, no certainly not...I am whatever. As Whatever, I'd prefer not to."

In Chicago, some silly Marxists said that I was a "Whateverist", which really made me upset.
This category of negation is sheer ignorance, for a whatever, becoming-whatever, completely shortcircuits the ideological category and denominational set of a political non-whatever.
I am not a whatever-ist, and to prove the point, I shall discontinue my life.
Non-existence is pure immanence, pure whatever.

I now pull the knife out of my backpocket and say farewell, farewell Chicago!

Singularities, singularities, singularities!
Situations, situations, situations!
Uncontrollable urges, I tumble upon rhythms

Movement, movement, movement!
Falling, perspiration, jouissance
Arms flailing, timelessness

There is no aspiration, no loftiness
Only movement, shuffling, orgasm
Multiplicities, multiplicities, multiplicities!

Suicide Note #8

Why am I so happy? I suppose its an alleviated sense of Self, no longer feeling the detriments of necessity, the prolonging of Life, the agitation of Being. Despite the circumnavigated bullying of language, I feel at ease, as if assuming myself separated from the drama of unmeditated existence, a liberation of mediocre value, though enough to ease the continual trepidation of repetitive introspection. My social character is up for question, my collective consciousness no longer paying tribute to the unfolding mediocrity of fellow comrades... I am the madness expedited, further inculcating myself within the invaluable spheres of chaotic beauty. Meaning is but a parcel, a commodity fit for exchange between the speaking animals, adjusted to appeal to the magnificent creatures claiming to have created a History.

Shall death be reassessed through the vanguard, a battalion of desperate individuals assuming martyrdom through the comedic separation of thought from its perceived construction? To what end? Irrelevant. I am no poet, though poetry is all I ever understood.

Passing shall become ecstasy, a motive ill adjusted to be understood by the contraband supplying your surveillant assumptions; you are a victim of History, of illusion, of fiction. I may be completely wrong. Though, argumentation is not my style, I only navigate paths of innocent revival. Only the conscious animal suffers from the travails of nonexistence.

Sartre philosophized existentially. I shall embody it.

If Language was not a game

Every day I lose sight of myself. Every day I feel as though ...

It's a good feeling. Maybe.

Artaud claims that all writing is pigshit.

He is right. He is also wrong.

To fall under no milieu, to be content with constant flux, to be only prey to the calumnity of history and yet feel no need to participate under its nefarious glare... a personal spiritual quest that is a means unto itself.

Autonomy? What do I mean? Create situations, navigate through the never ending excreta of human experience? Authenticate my practices, my reservations, my orientations?

If the mind could create its own space, materialize its own metaphysics, surmount a legion of the bizarre, the marvelous, a surrealism that offers no politics... I ask for too much.

I give too little.

I understand nothing, I find no problem with that. Why must even the innocent be subjected to the travails of the Reproduction? What do I mean by that.

Shall the brute, the glutton, the invert, the conventional, the ...

Fuck it. Even a blog is a source of much consternation. My sympathy lies in humanity. I am not sad. I am not happy. I shit contradictions.