a conversation

Do not misunderstand: it was not my fault if I overheard a conversation - they were just too indifferent! Anyways, it was the volume and intensity - i could say a heated one - of their conversation that drawn me to it. Snooping, you might say. But that is for me irrelevant. Listen and you might want to overhear it too!

This happened in a desolate and unfrequented bar, owing perhaps to the bad music played there. But nonetheless, beer there was great - it is only for this thing that we could still afford crooked and unsymmetrical lines...The male belly does not give me enough reason to believe that he is a god, one observed; but i might add that it is enough a reason to measure his ugliness, and not things! Anyways, anyways, listen! Thus:

Lucious: So, how was last Saturday? Great, no?

Vaxillano: i spent it doing nothing...

L: come again?!

V: i did nothing!

L: But what an abuse of words!

V: And how is that, eh?

L: You see, your proposition is impossible...you cannot perform such a thing, a nothing!

V: I do not get it...

L: I did nothing: let did be something that needs a thing; but what you said was precisely a negation of the precondition of doing; namely, nothing!

V: yes, yes; it is beginning to be clear now...

L: doing nothing...is simply: doing something that from the outset cannot be done (because nothing is an impossibility if done); it could only be denoted; you cannot create something from nothing!

V: I see, i see...

L: and so you see now my point; you need thus to restate your assessment of last week...

V: if i have time...

L: i know..

V: what?

L: i said "i know"...

V: what...?

L: i know that all this talk is nonsense and means nothing...i know that i know nothing!

V: interesting! explain, then!

L: i know that what i know is nothing.

V: nothing? in what sense?

L: pah! nothing! that which dilutes!...something...a not-a-thing...an illusion, perhaps...

V: but is not an illusion something?

L: hmmm...perhaps that is a precise assessment...well then, nothing only when compared to something...

V: could you dispense with the opposite?...

L: that is not possible...

V: then, you must be a Buddhist...

L: I could not care less whatever I am...

V: but I demand an explanation!...how should "I know that I know nothing", just like "I'm doing nothing" be an impossibility?

L: "i know nothing"...that should not be taken, i will revise my point, literally...it immediately betrays its thought the moment it is disclosed!

V: hmmm...satisfactory...

L: but that is being...

V: what?

L: the fact that it could be formulated in language, but rendered meaningless when uttered, attests to some point: perhaps language is a misconception; an eternally hopeless and irrational device?

V:...I agree...

L: is it not that the kind of specie, which uses such a terrible devise, betrays itself; one that necessarily seduces and lies...such a specie, a being...is, too, seductive and therefore interesting?

V: you know too much!

L: well...quite the reverse: i ask too much!

V: you must be silenced!!!

L: what do you mean?...you do not understand me then, if that is, for you, the case...

V: you must be...

L: you are beginning to interest me my friend...words are often abused...but not me, my friend..

V: then, you must really be...

L: what - i demand!

V: Silenced!!

But what followed was nothing but a commotion of bodies and furnitures; Vaxillano, as I now realized, was a secret agent of some agency (the agency of thought?) - and all throughout the conversation was simply disguising his intentions: that of silencing Lucious...but what interests me really is not the intention of Vaxillano: but the unintentional; the unthought-of; the unarticulated intent hideously hidden behind his every words! How cunning of him!

Then what about that? - you might ask... I cannot at once, at least for the time being, deliver my point...But I could somehow suggest this: let us paint, paint; compose, transpose!....paint not words but colors and tones!...but alas, it all disappears when finally written!
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when the air is filthy, fly away!

One's friends: are not they our greatest treasures? Pah! But surely not if they are nothing but envious monsters! hmmm...let me illustrate.

A typical conversation would end up as usual. But as soon as you turn your back, in their filthy mouths, nothing but pure spite and envy forms! And what a form! How vile could this get, eh? I cannot imagine - I'd rather not my dear! And oh, oh: let us imagine their thoughts, these so-called friends of ours. Are they not the most immature when it comes to your, so they think and presume, success and happiness?

Do they shudder at the thought, or perhaps sometimes wish like this: "How lucky he is! Well, I can do that; I simply chose not to. To hell with him!"?...One asks, irritably. Hmm, and how do they like to call you names! As if you are to be degraded by that. These filthy friends of ours, no doubt, they never learn! They pose as if they never cared; as if they were everyone's attention; that they should be praised and revered for every misdeed and stupidity they are guilty of; that their lives should be miserable and pathetic, and that that is how it should be - so that if they think (I presume, they do think, these friends of ours) that you are not of their disposition, you are necessarily out-of-place...well, "not-a-friend"!

These friends of ours, they have really mastered the art of concealment and mimicry through and through - one cannot deny that. As a warning, one must beware of that venomous liquid their filthy mouths spit! For, as always, this most terrible thing coming from the mouth of the envious is well concealed: at times, this may be in a form of a hearty jest; or perhaps a passing regard to your well-being. But nonetheless those jests, those regards, they are all directed to your present disposition as in comparison to theirs! And what calumny this means if one realises...like that disenchantment of the beautiful - one could ask the artists for this.

How vile, how vile! What insolence of the most sublime form! Alas - these friends of ours - they have just successfully reduced themselves to just that form; and nothing more!

One cannot really understand them. It is as if some hidden puzzle, inextricable, lies at the bottom of their filthy stomach - but perhaps alcohol (brewed beer to be precise) had something to do with this...Well, well, who cares anyway? I enjoy drinking it anyway...I live out of spite: I am spiteful. Pah! At least not envious and lacking attention...that might pass as an excuse. These friends of ours...We never learn!

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My first entry to a diary - MARCHUS 99th 0Five20

Two soldiers were elected. They were friends, very close at that; though they really love only one woman - they were rivals. But then they were elected not as rivals, but as friends. Anyway, they finally believed that joining the government would be much more preferrable than overthrowing it. Perhaps overthrowing the government is much satisfying if you are a member of it. But I just can't care though. For me, apathy is a deep mystery. To them the cliche is: If you can overthrow them, then join them; or: Join them and then overthrow them. That would really be a sweet thing for two friends. I really can not believe that friends could have a masochistic outlook in life. The greatest outlook to life is not to look for life at all, not to expect life, but defeat it: flew away from it, and never return!

No: bravery, I guess, would do. "Do not alter the sky in your life; even if your nightsky is starless - navigate, my captain, navigate!" This does not belong at all to bravery, but to suicide. I really wish I was a simple astronaut than be a captain. Astronauts, too, believe in anything. I do not really know about captains and sailors. "Let me castrate this, this piece of me: in the end, this is not me" may very well pass as the most lonely and solemn creed for two friends. Though not necessarily for soldiers.

You see, the problem is not really with the elected. It is with the pearl located at the deepest part of the pacific. It causes too much mystery that when the altar breaks, or when something breaks in an altar, they are cases that this pearl I've been talking about floats! It really floats! Anyhow, I was not impressed with the elections. With that pearl too. It simply floats!

But it couldn't have happened, had the pencils we used in the first grade were unbreakable. You see, the pen is the most alien and absurd thing for a first grader. When you use a pen, you can not erase what you have scribbled in your blackest of notes. But not for a pencil! So I may temporarily admit that practically the pencil is really mightier and wiser than the pen. The sword would not be part of this metaphor though; in the end the pencil only uses the sword (or the blade) for its own purposes. It might be very helpful to know, that what we write might not break. But unless we use pens (those pencils, really, could sometimes be quite annoying), what we write will never break. And what about quills, eh? Well then, let the sword slice them!
Damn, I nearly smashed my nose this morning. I thanked my cat for being there.

But I wonder why the hole on the tounge of the janitor at our University was not really that thorough. It still is coarse; the needle could not pass through it without causing blood to gush. I am terribly sorry for the janitor and the damn hole. Pain, too, is pleasure to me. But I think not for the janitor.

And, oh: who would have thought that there are brave souls who are trying to define things; things, which in the first place they are ignorant about!...I do not know about that solitary moon stupidly suspended in the sky. All I know is that our knowledge comes about either by description or by acquaintance. And nothing more, my dear! Nothing more! Barrios was really an artist. Such emotion in his works. Aguado, Tarrega, too, and Sor. Bach may perhaps pass as a painter, but not really a poet. But for me, he is a poet. Bach really is a mystery. That unconquerable intellect, possessed by emotion and reason! Really a possessed man, I mean.

Who would dare possess me, eh?

The seventh planet may perhaps now leave its place. It has no use to them. Those bastards, that makes the artist feel akward! They are not really worth reading. Retards of all kinds!

I really had a problem with the previous election. I was not that satisfied. But I do not care at all, though. I live out of spite. Who is worthy of my spite?

Not Bach. Not the artist.

Why do I feel awkward about the recent elections? I never cared about you. You were just an illusion in a dream. Very remote and distant to my waking life, yet so close to my senses.

I wish I was an astronaut. Really.

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some guy trying to find his mind

Carcasse, tu trembles?
Tu tremblerais bien davantage, si
tu savais, où je te mène.
Turenne.
["You tremble, carcass? But if you knew where I am taking you, you would tremble a lot more."]

What was that, that I heard?
*****

I met her..yes, that is unexpectedly; we met and so -- I regret.

*****

It must have been a bad day..Nothing really new; kept on sleeping, or rather lying in bed. I felt
as if my head's the real cause of my body's weight. Listened to Aguado at around 10. Played
Tarrega at around 1 to 6...hmm, Tarrega must have been a real smart man...Much of what we hear
seems to originate from the man. Nobody is listening to him.

*****

There she is again. Oh, what a sight! This food-house stinks, but with her presence here, this
seems to me to be a paradise. A very good meal is all that matters. Anyway, there she is,
enjoying her meal. Ohh, her mouth is shaped as a heart..Pumping, pumping; Chewing, chewing...and now is filled with stink!..Women must really love filth: I found that for Segovia. A quite remarkable man. But now she stands, left her seat: I must have appeared a complete jerk to her eyes: she casted in me a quite contemptible glance! I am really losing my head: now I'm going dizzy and my vision's blurry again..The question: what have I done?

*****
I've read her thoughts. I don't know if its a dream; but it seemed very real. Anyway, who
really cares about the apparent and the real?... I've read her, I've read her! I declared; and so
I dared - but it confuses me. For she seems to be a really sweet girl: innocent - without a hand
that kills. But with this! What? Insatiable hatred for Love and Hate?..I cannot grasp it; I
cannot understand. Who would dare explain this? Is there a scholar or someone scholarly enough,
to know what this means? Or is it that the nerves in my head are going cold that even the
simplest of notions and concepts and assumptions we all make, I cannot clearly make out in my
mind....Anyway, anyway, that doesn't matter.. What matters is my discovery. Yes, she really is
that: a terrible and even fascinating enemy of my inclinations..What are my inclinations? yes,
yes, I will admit: romance?...I do not understand this?...I do not even know that there exists a
thing. Surely, it is not romance: not as she understood it..It is something higher, above, ready
to take flight: above the clouds, beyond the seas; above her head, above our noses: beyond our
ears. Enough!Enough!Silence!...What is really going on, here? Am I becoming...yes, I am rising..and falling.

*****

Yes!...I must be damned if someone had known that my thoughts are now very much tangled: none of them is coherent! Oh, coherence! You promised to us something better: but what have you done,
what calumny! Much of the insanity belongs to you! Why should I not hate you?

Anyway, I skip all three meals again: food does not give nourishment, but only filth: one can ask
the poets for this...Read the whole day. Writers really had a very -- the word escapes me. I do
not like to read. Reading is for readers. I want to write: not only for tonight!

*****

Oh,oh,oh! Pah! Yes there she is! Holding the hand of a man I deemed to be very decent and
respectable. Why am I being avoided?...These people really are very conscious of hygiene: but why
precisely hygiene?Why not sanity? Is it to be taken against me, that I, having lost my interest
to cleanliness, did not take my bath for the last three days?..huh? Pah, nonsense! Cleanliness is
a matter of preference; consequently, it needs our consent. And so I followed them..They must
have noticed it; she casted me, again, a vile look!..hahahaha!..What an amuse! Who is really vile
here ma'am? I, who haven't dared to take a shower; or you, who is about to castrate a man's
heart, literally?

*****

If there is one thing I want to tell you, it is this: Beware! A life-less heart, is most vile when revived!

*****
Note: The author of this discovered journal seemed to suffer a rare psychological disorder that
even experts are loosing sleep just to know what he is really saying and suffering. Nobody seemed to take him seriously, and so the author decided to end it all.

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