June 2009
6 posts
“I’ve always thought people write because they are not living properly.”
– Tom Stoppard
ok because this is the only space no one ever sees, i’m gonna spout rubbish and ignore my inhibitions about squiggly letters getting a life of their own. thats the thing really, my truest fear, barring snakes or that particular personalized coffin, is conflict with the knowledge of self. even orphidian worries are nothing that sends the chills downward. one’ll have to forage into...
Life is a remarkable gift.
education systems as bound by society
personal background, way of life as bound by family
milieu
chronology of reading + proportion ,importance
case studies in inter personal interaction
my failings
shocks
“Then, in that case, all the rest, all that I thought I thought and all that I felt I felt, all the rest before now, in fact.
“They are heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey’s end—what heart? —bearing what tidings?” — Stephen Dedalus
“Welcome, O life, I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of...
To begin with, this case should never have come to trial.
May 2009
11 posts
hiok
in review, do you realise now
what makes?
this is hard to explain, I mean who the man was, anyhow, it was in a large structure and he sat in a chair in uniform, red coat and all, his job was to examine the hand-stamp of those who left the structure and returned, there was a lamp you put your hand under and the stamp appeared (god that was work) anyhow, as I put my hand under the lamp the man asked, “listen,...
I HAVE been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
list of things that dont help
“There had come a pause, a throbbing silence, from which art might have emerged,...”
– J Middleton Murray
And then he got sick of epiphany.
Set yourself an ultimatum
The raconteur
“Now I know how to go on.” - Ludwig Wittgenstein
There is now a quotidian idea that my world is born anew, I am a child again. I know nothing. What a comfort that is.
I gazed at the herds of our labour force scampering by at lunch hour today. There was a sharp remembrance of a friend’s earlier malediction: fleeting youth!
Until today I have refused to transpose my cerebral compositions into intelligible text. Our scripts will grow a life of their own, and in no sure way represent their originator with the same perspicacity as at their very genesis. Yet certain ephemeral truths once articulated may blaze the way for surpassing the prevalent ennui. Perhaps there is a conceivable marriage of the two, perhaps...