it’s become remarkably easy to consume a bit too much unserious gen z content and think to oneself, “damn, we’re fucked lol,” but since i’ve had this good faith “christian turn” as of late i’m starting to think that perhaps there’s more to my generation than a bunch of stupid videos on the internet and a total depravation of irreplaceable culture and too many hours spent on the internet but what a lot of people (myself included until very recently) don’t realize is that zoomers are actually the new generation of heartened and spiritually fulfilled children with wide eyes who no longer have any need for the question of God’s death, so full of heart and soul and so on that the question of internet brain rot must come primarily as a front for all of their heart. their beautiful, unable to be contained, outpouring of sheer soul with no end in sight

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one must begin to question the motivations, behind most things: the legality of substances, the locations and open hours of convenience stores, the attitudes of drivers on suburban roads, the syntax and font on lawyers’ advertisements on billboards, the ordering of words in a sentence in the mouth of someone you don’t know, everything is all real and connected (infallibly so) and there are things bigger than you, rest assured, that have their own interests, things no person has seen or heard before, things we've never done before or could even dream of doing, they’re just out there, wielding their axes and hammers over your head and you don’t even realize it most of the time, this is of course not some singular conspiratorial “they” but a mass of disparates who are all trying to fuck you in some small, less noticeable way, and they tend to be successful because the people who get fucked by this are always the ones who - get this - don’t see they’re getting fucked. good one, right?

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the commodity tends just to be funny now, more than anything else it seems, this absurdity at the end right before the thing peeks its head over the fence, it is just enough to remind md you but not enough to do much unless you’ve done something gravely wrong, but even then it usually goes under the fence, not over it, in a way that when you’ve attempted to subvert said commodity you never realize what you’ve done until the thing is already on the other side of the fence, your side, with you, and you must face the consequences of your actions promptly and without fail, it is something we never know until we’re suddenly forced in front of the fence as we age, which is in itself technically nothing but when looking at the signs and structures of meaning which develop with age, things get all interesting and that

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it is obvious that children do not understand signs1, but what this explains via transitive property is also the strangling fear of adulthood, because adulthood the solidification and stratification of every sign and sound and action, and especially consequence, nothing is fun because everything in adulthood is fundamentally about adulthood or generally being an adult, but this is because they have left pure immanence, because childhood is pure immanent reality, free of sign and symbol and archetype, it’s just vibes all the way down, man, but adulthood is the second those signs that are thrown away by the uncareful hands of childhood must be frantically grasped for and understood and so on and so forth, and everything must be suffered through all at once without any meaningful reprieve, the 4HL is a prison and so on and so forth, this is why adults turn to God, because God is a transgression of every sign and symbol, he is eternal and above all and is, as a result, immune to symbolism2

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when Donald Fagen talked about how pop music, or music that was “intended to move large groups of people” is fascist, it was a fundamental misunderstanding of the function of “the self” is relation to a greater group of people who are all experiencing the same thing

it’s just as deleuze and guattari (or maybe neither) say

How could movements of deterritorialization and processes of reterritorialization not be relative, always connected, caught up in one another? The orchid deterritorializes by forming an image, a tracing of a wasp; but the wasp reterritorializes on that image. The wasp is nevertheless deterritorialized, becoming a piece in the orchid's reproductive apparatus. But it reterritorializes the orchid by transporting its pollen. Wasp and orchid, as heterogeneous elements, form a rhizome.

when one enters a crowd, music blaring over speakers, there are many becomings - the artist/s playing music engage in becoming-crowd, which is reciprocated from the audience, and the music is engaged reciprocally in the same fashion from both the audience and the artist, just as the music was engaged with by the artist in this way during the process of creating the music, the more the merrier here as well (when one works on a song with many other people - as is often the case in most if not all pop music, especially these days, each person working on a song must engage then in a radical becoming-all-other-parties)

hence confusion on the subject, if an artist is playing music which is moving people, on which level is the fascism to be found, if anywhere? who is to say?

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if there is never enough time to read or write then there is never really enough time to do anything, all becomes vain and tired and so on very quickly, you really must get to the motivation, the point, and such,

if there are no words there is nothing, even if there are words it’s There is only one thing a writer can write about: what is in front of his sense at the moment of writing, and as a result is never really communicative, but then again nothing is, if we’re to take “interpretation” seriously then there’s no room for much else if anything else, word games are always a waste of one’s time, there’s only time for things which are real and serious even if we get there with jokes

if one is to write of work, of broken hands and spirits and social lives left behind, there is only the experience of that left in the dead mind, anyone else reads something new, it never matters in the end, the dead mind has no say or touch or anything, but if one was to paint of work not even that much could come across, only the words can give form enough for an interpretation which forces one to think real words, there is nothing else etc. etc.

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im sorry for not writing enough. im sorry for abandoning all of you. do you hate me? have i done something wrong? i really didn’t mean it i just have a lot going on, yknow, its not like personal or anything i just dont much have the time anymore i really want to its just i sit and the words wont come out anymore like they used to, they used to come out so good but not s’much anymore. its not my fault. the spirits have packed and left. the floorboards dont creak on their own anymore. all the stories floating around have congealed, hyperstitions, all the ghosts are here again but theyre real and have names and faces and they’re my friends and i see them every day and we’re on good terms and such. i just cant write about them and their movements anymore because theyre all real and their movements are deadly serious and imprinted in concrete (just like anything of value) forever so there’s no reason to write because now the ghosts are writing themselves, just like they were supposed to be doing from the start. they don’t need my help anymore. ill do this when i can but i make no promises