thought of the day; and sorry for the leave of absence ( I will post alot more frequently now that life is more settled)

being in college brings a deferral of meaning and the big questions. life is centered around routines summarily imposed, tasks and homework done and enforced out of habit, and not to mention exams that provide some sort of terminus that one works towards every few months. on top of that, social activities buttress one’s life, participating in the act of meaning-making.

Only after starting work am I starting to think more deeply about questions of purpose, of the reasons for doing things and for finding things to do. While most people have a deep-seated fear of being alone, what I fear really is stagnation – the horrible sense of maudlin weekends rolling over to the next without change and utterly interminable, of meeting the same old tired people week after week talking about the same things, of doing the same trivial tasks at work with the self same smug sense of self-importance, of going to the same places, of thinking the same thoughts, of making the same claptrap jokes, rewatching of endless tv reruns online…etc.

which is why there is always a desperate need to seek new experiences and meet new people no? fear of the one and only, fear of the same. 

To this, I have been resolving to read more and free my mind from the prison of bureaucratic discourses and groupthink, to play the guitar and let music bring joy, to visit new places, and to learn new things, whether it be things like programming to learning more about things i already know about. to put myself in situations of sheer and utter improbability. and lastly, to travel again. 

which is probably why i have been haunted by a baudelaire poem i chanced a long time ago, sometime in college when i was surrounded by too many poems and books professing to comment on poems. consequently, it sounded painfully trite then. But now its stuck in my head, resonating and echoing like an alarm during unexpected moments of lucidity.

 

“You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it–it’s the 
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks 
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually 
drunk.
But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be 
drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of 
a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, 
drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, 
the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything 
that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is 
singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and 
wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you:”It is time to be 
drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.” 

 
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a tuesday entry done on saturday after a conversation with a thursday

after having way too many drinks with the mysterious, magical, and almighty mr thursday and a coterie of absolutely random people, this poem came to my mind amidst my slightly hungover state this morning:

WHITE NIGHTS
Paul Auster

No one here,
and the body
says: whatever is said
is not to be said. But no one
is a body as well,
and what the body says
is heard by no one
but you.

Snowfall
and night. The repetition
of a murder
among the trees. The pen
moves
across the earth: it no longer knows
what will happen, and the hand that
holds it
has disappeared.

Nevertheless, it writes.
It writes:
in the beginning,
among the trees, a body came walking
from the night. It
writes:
the body’s whiteness
is the color of earth. It is earth,
and
the earth writes: everything
is the color of silence.

I am no
longer here. I have never said
what you say
I have said. And yet, the body
is a place
where nothing dies. And each night,
from the silence of the
trees, you know
that my voice
comes walking toward you.

I am reminded this languid saturday morning, metallic taste of last night’s excess still in my mouth, brain still addled,  of why we write, and how the act of writing can define who we are.

Reminds me of a postapocalyptic tarkovsky  film i  watched a few years ago where a nameless writer utters:

“A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he’s worth something. And if I know for sure that I’m a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?”