subject as deep void, predicate as action x sentiment x time

Today: "traipsed" around Bugis/Little India nibbling things, followed by more nibbling in Isetan. Sank into Tempur mattress. Infinite, eternal bliss. Cleaned up room. Wondering where to proceed from specific point in time. 

Yesterday: re-read Geertz and the Balinese cockfight, read something by Mary Douglas, ran in the dark. Ate toasted walnut bread and cheap ice cream. Blood orange and springs of rosemary dancing in the water.

Tomorrow: a mysterious haze that smells like pizza and old pencils. First thing in the morning: will perhaps wish for the uninvention of time-stamped instant messaging systems, while sleepy-eyed and forgetful.

Thinking of material towards a paper titled (provisionally) Abject S[h]elves. Not quite knowing where line of thinking will bring me — to some "starlit conclusion" (Wong) or some kind of dead end fleshed with image of dead Rosenburgs (Plath). 

Can only think in fragments and in sentences without a clear subject. How pretentious can a person get/be/become?? 

Coherence is so overrated.

common burn

College is weird. Weird that I call whatever this is "college". It's not. How is it that every day —without fail — someone new jostles to challenge the limits of stupidity? How is it that every time he speaks an abyss opens up and fills the room with a profound vacuity that seems to pre-empt the apocalypse? I'm also tired of: being stuck in this position of global skepticism, losing time, the dumb sunshine. I am happy about: pretentious excursions, that material culture exists as a concept, sleeping well. 

undergraduating / notes towards a deterioration

I'm beginning to think of this blog as less of a safe space for writing, and more of a white elephant with an eight year burden on its back. I have my hunches that the death of this beautiful endless canvas will only occur alongside the birth of an alternative space, but this remains to be seen. Recently I have seen the graven images of a dead person's imagination being dismantled by the imagined needs of the living, haunted by exhumation notices around the old cemetery. Yet I am compelled to believe that time will surely render all things lifeless, that nature will bury the living under her accretions. I'm beginning to think of speech as unfounded incoherent babble, something vestigial that sprouted out of necessity. I am thinking of empty homes, fully furnished, peopled with faint vessels containing various levels of consciousness. I'm holding a cheap mug and standing by the kitchen doorway looking at you search the television for the exit worrying for the people who spend their days inside. You drag the walking frame behind you like hauling a dead dog to its grave.

Oh Mercy

Only the billionth person
to glance up at the moon tonight
which looks bald, high-browed and professorial
  to me,

the kind of face I always shook my fist at
when I was seventeen
and every stopsign was a figure of authority

that had it in for me
and every bottle of cold beer
had a little picture of my father on the label

for smashing down in parking lots
at 2 AM, when things devolved
into the dance of who was craziest.

That year, if we could have reached the moon,
if we could have shoplifted the paint and
  telescoping ladders,
we would have scribbled FUCK YOU

on its massive yellow cheek,
thrilled about the opportunity
to offend three billion people

in a single night.
But the moon stayed out of reach.
imperturbable, polite.

It kept on varnishing the seas,
overseeing the development of grapes in Italy,
putting the midwest to bed

in white pajamas.
It's seen my kind
a million times before

upon this parapet of loneliness and fear
and how we come around in time
to lifting our heads,

looking for the kindness
that would make revenge unnecessary.

— Tony Hoagland