Bigsley the Oaf

bigsleytheoaf.wordpress.com

Know yourself
Know your enemies
You have enemies.
Do you know who they are!!??

We are tired of these structures
Let's combine newly, ugly women on top
Resource re-allocation, trivial mastercard collection from credit card companies
Money-fight at local highschool, three students suspended, one expelled

Pretty women are just eyes all pupil opened up and
A pretty finger with pink claw extended
Eviscerates, giggles, bubble bubble
Bubble world ha la la

We have become overwhelmingly entitled to dirt and tree
A picturesque scene in which a mountain man has a long fishing rod
And is whipping it back with line running every way
Trout jumping through temporary rainbow: lens flare

I just had my first go epiphany in a long fucking time!

"Make sure your groups don't die"

!!!

I am going to stop posting to livejournal for various reasons (moving to wordpress!). Mostly, the text editor sucks. It's also not searchable, which is retarded (how can Livejournal have lasted 10 years without giving its users a search function?) Also, this company blows and I'm sure it's going to crash and burn soon, so it's probably best to move now.

-Chris

This post is sexually explicit.

-----

Solitude

Since coming to SF at the end of May I have spent very little time alone.

After writing a statement such as this I have difficulty constraining my writing. There are too many things to say - too many possible interpretations, judgments. Ideas related to autonomy, freedom, solitude, simplicity, individuality, commitment, etc. It's too much for me to handle.

So let's let the fact stand: I have spent very little time alone. Jen went to England for a few weeks in August, but during that time I stayed over at Jamie's house - I was still commuting back then, and the idea of 3+ hours of commute per day to get back to my damp, lonely room in SF was suboptimal.

Today, I am alone. Jen is off running the Skirtchaser 5k in SF and I decided to stay home instead of joining her.

I feel like I have much to say about all of this. It all seems intimately related to sexual desire and fear.

-----

Cum Theory

Before Jen left we made out for a while and it was really good. I go through periods of being more and less attracted to Jen, and right now is definitely a period during which I think she's ridiculously hot every time I see her.

Anyway, I told her that I wouldn't ejaculate while she's gone, so that we can have sex, etc. when she gets back, and it will be exciting and awesome (assuming I don't cum in < 30 seconds).

Right now I am very horny. I made the unfortunate decision to masturbate without cumming a few times, and now my balls literally hurt. I'm not really sure why I did (do) this to myself, but it lead me to realize just how different the psychological states associated with being full/empty of cum are.

I'm on edge right now. The cat is sitting on my lap and I have literally thought about fucking it (I would never fuck a cat). I am thinking of breaking my word to jen (I hope that I would never break my word to Jen). I am hyper-sensitive and very tense. I am productive. I am writing this post, worked on some code, played go.

Post-ejaculation moods are characterized by apathy, boredom, depression. Often, besides the desire to snuggle with, my desire/interest in Jen generally takes a dip after I orgasm during sex.

[1] (related thoughts)

-----

Autonomy

These details are necessary to explain, because they bring me to my crushing realization:

I am not autonomous because I am often controlled, and my mood is usually determined by my penis. I am not an individual, because my penis sutures me to every woman who would throw a glance my way, every provocation. I am a horny motherfucker and it pisses me off.

In light of my analysis above, one of the strongest factors which determines how I feel for any stretch of time: week, day, hour, minute is whether I am horny and who I want to have sex with.

This probably cannot be overstated. I am most productive during periods when I am not getting laid [2]. Partly this is driven by a desire to make myself appear cooler so that women will find me attractive so that I can have sex and be less productive (though there are clearly dividends) [3].

-----

Guilt/Blame

One of the bitterest truths of my relationships is that I posit my partner as the cause of my lack of autonomy in the context of that relationship.

Symbolically, partner qua partner expresses a truth of me: my urge to ejaculate.

Without partner, the void of autonomy caused by this urge and the multifaceted and nefarious deductions therefrom [4] has no symbolic locus. There is no single point to thrash against in my battle for freedom.

I believe that the question of partner may be irrelevant to freedom.

-----

I am hungry. This topic is too difficult for me.

-------------------------------------------
Footnotes:

[1] Buddha said that, in life, desire is suffering - my situation really appears to be a microcosm of this. When I desire release I can think of nothing else, and it drives me to extremes of behavior. When I achieve release I lack, create nothing, want nothing. Thus my life becomes an extreme oscillation between two poles, mania and depression.

It begs the question as to whether we can generalize the concept of "orgasm" as the instantaneous transition from a state of extreme disturbance/mania to a state of extreme calm, equilibrium, emptiness. We see these sorts of events all throughout history - political action, scientific and technological innovation, even product design are structured, temporally, as cones whose wide end lies in the past and is characterized by possibility, openness, extreme restlessness, and whose narrow end lies (relatively speaking) in the future and is characterized by commitment to a single cause, undisturbed by other possibilities, questions of "what could have been."

One cannot shove ejaculate back down one's urethra.

[2] This reminds me of that episode of Seinfeld in which George Costanza decides to go without sex for a while, becomes a mathematician, genius, reads books, etc. More details here.

[3] Sometimes I wonder if this is the real reason that I'm into the kinky shit that I'm into. I think that I'm a better person, in a lot of ways, when I'm not "allowed" to cum. I'm more attentive, kinder, more understanding. I follow my passions more assiduously. I start projects and continue them. I gather resources. My fetishistic desires include:

a.) Complete obliteration of self via variously permanent entombment or dismemberment coupled with removal of sensory organs
Hypothesis - This is in some real sense the starkest autonomy available. Complete sensory deprivation renders the rest of reality irrelevant (except insofar as life can end) - solitude being an extreme form of freedom.

b.) Deception or manipulation by a strong, attractive (superior) woman into becoming her personal, permanent slave/toy
Hypothesis - This renders me into the tool of a superior being

c.) Denial of orgasm - this relates very obviously to what I'm talking about

Neither of these hypotheses are actually very fulfilling.

[4] This is a tough point which I'm not sure I really believe 100%. Does my desire to ejaculate deeply drive my other cognitive desires (e.g. the desire to gather food? - here, a cognitive desire is differentiated from a "fundamental" desire, such as the need to eat, which seems verifiably separable from the desire to cum). Even if it does not, an affirmative answer to the question of whether I have some small, finite set of "fundamental" desires is no more satisfying. Would it be satisfying if I had infinite desires? Is desire not then the problem?

a rocket does not stop
to think of
a method to pull all of the atomsphere's air out into orbit
with it 

 sometimes I forget my name

I am looking for a key
For the key
With which I might unlock my head
Unlock my head and swing my forehead open
To let out the fog
Let out the fog

What, like a tentacle beast of striped chromatic fury, lo, with a great bellowing maw of grisly black and yellowed gleaming out at them, eyes glowing mercury fyre, both of those sexy foxes stared down into Infinity Kahn's face:

"Wherefore hath thou come," spake he, gunship growl echoing through and beyond.

And meanwhile he's got her lilytip fingers pulled up behind her back and she's shivering in her knees. The nameless man stares down into the swarming lair of the beast, thinly hides his sorrow and:

"Look man, don't spin it that, Jack," and "Just want to know where to, yaknow? Getting tired of dumb blondes and the same old tracks," so of course she responds somehow, indescribably but for the fact of her response's being in the sly silvery style women effect in attempting a transformation of disrespect into affirmation. "Bonin' to get out of these parts," [motioning], "and I hear you got the key."

There was a great, great space of silence. The sun puffed itself up and roared, mighty and proud. The blonde made herself busy with sandwiches and lukewarm cokes, fags and long silver spoons drooped into the melty sorbet, red-and-white-checkered picnic blankets strewn in the yellow wilting weeds, pouting and stamping impatiently. His two eyes were locked on I.K.'s and they both knew It would last.

And they both knew that they both knew. And they were considering the implication of that knowledge, and that each was contemplating said such. And so on. A great ephemeral, shimmering manifold of thought, idea, point and counter-point, conclusion, Q.E.D.'s, theory, and interpretation. Neither saw the blonde pout, shrug, turn her back, ass pushed to one side, skirt lifted by hip friction to expose white thigh and black dense stockingtop. Semiotically transfigured into each other's symbolic representation worlds, into शून्यता.

So Kahn would have clearly had the upper hand, but Other had no real world or lack thereof, no trick or point, not a weakness or anything but form, form.

---

It was a long night, standing. The blonde was now blowing some other stranger, out in the gray houseville. We won't speak of her again. And a long day, a long summer, fall, winter, spring. I.K. must have been pumping some sort of psychic blood out into him, for he didn't sleep or stoop or as the summer melted into dreams of years and millennia passing like old men quietly planting trees.

the universe is old

the photograph is not so old
as the universe

we stand in a circle, holding hands,
atop a mountain, at night

the photo of our circle
is a blue circle icon

as the wind barks at us
turns us to sand to blow

when the morning comes
we'll be standing smiling at the sun

the photograph will the be placed on a shelf
among other articulations of fate's finger

brilliant, hollow, yellowing
as we turn to dust and disembark

perhaps we will arrive, in the end

It's become tired and old, walking the same grounds
But to crawl to new would hang it out there too far
To cry and mold not a single thing into a portrait of the divine
Not interesting

What's worth novelty?
My hands hands hands hold hands hands hands
And it gets old it gets old it gets old 

A screep of handwind on front porch make it talk talk
A screep of hawkwork on overwhelm make it walk walk
I've got a head-wound, baby
I've got a head-wound, baby

My opinions on death are pretty sophisticated. My personal experience with death is very limited. I sometimes wonder if these facts are related.

Last October I went to this debate party. At some point during the debate the topic of healthcare came up and I forwarded the opinion that cancer medicine was a luxury and that, therefore, under pretty much any reasonable political ideology it belongs outside of the purview of government. Some Boston pseudo-intellectual then expressed the hope that I would never have to live through a family member's battle with cancer. At the time, this gave me little pause - he's obviously wrong.

Let's suppose that someone in my family developed cancer. I would almost certainly be obligated to spend time, and potentially lots of time, with that person. It would be sad. I might even cry. Point being that it would be a real pain in the ass - something that I want to prevent.

I wonder if this is the background behind this douchebag's opinion.

More generally, I wonder if real-life experience with X has the potential to, in some sense, destroy our opinions w/r/t X. Someone dies and all of my well-structured theory on the subject of Death goes out the window. Is it so?

I mean, my opinions on Death are pretty a-typical.

I think that the reason that most people have such an adverse reaction to the death of a loved one is that they were fostering a delusion that said loved one will never die. More generally, I think our culture is pretty fucked w/r/t its ideology of death and, to the extent that a culture can be delusional in gestalt, it is delusional.

I think that the death of many people is no more or less "tragic" than the death of a few people or the death of one person.

I seem to be the only one who realizes that birth is the leading cause of death. This stems from my adoption of some parts of eastern metaphysics - I don't believe in "cause" and "effect" in the same way that most people seem to. Thus the AIDS that superficially killed you is no more to blame than your birth or the way that your parents treated you when you were a child.

I don't attach value to death so that it can be summed up into calculations of risk, utility, etc. I don't think that death is like a -20 whereas cupcake is a +3. This is a silly way to think.

But maybe this is all a result of my attempt to define death with respect to some external symbolic system. If you look back at these beliefs, I try to relate death to "delusion," "tragedy," "cause," and "value." Your average person, especially your average person who has actually lived through a death, probably does not associate that death with these symbols. Rather, their experience of death and feelings towards it are unknowable, unspeakable, non-linguistic. Their attempts to relate the experience to symbols is just that.

It's vastly more complicated than all of this, of course.

I love that last thing I wrote and there is wind in the trees.

I love the shivering realization of possibility.

I have started rock-climbing and I love that. 

What, to be inspired, by a word or a touch on the cheek, is there a burning?

A criminal sits on the shoulder of the thin wood road, sits in the burning red dust, sits scratching at his collar, sits and shifts uncomfortably, from time to time, sways from side to side. His name is his own and his waiting. Around nightfall a powder blue truck comes down and he stands and it lets him in and it takes him away.

To have a name that's all his own, he dragged it through the mud. To have a 50-cubic-inch space that belonged only to him and not shine-peddlers or snakevine horse salesmen. To have a thin cord wrapped around his self and his hand, an unpleasurable jerkchain that let him shut it off, crank it up, at will, day or night. He dragged it through the spit and grime.

He's a criminal, though, being sideways when most of the other men line up in the church pews, market queues, an infinite expanse of lines and time. When he waited sideways he smiled so crooked that it looked straight-on. And so the little boy in the barber shop had called him a criminal, thinking it fit.

"Look man," he said, "I'm not any sort of individual," he said,"don't pin me up on your wall cuz I'll crawl onto the ceiling and stick," he said. But the long-legged blonde behind the wheel just looked over with a shy smile and twisted a luscious pink curl around her forefinger nail.

"Look, because see here, there's not anything in this world to go beyond, man. There's just spiderwebs and quantum physics and phenomenology. It's just horse and rocks. I've tried your drugs and your religion, man, I've tried it, and it doesn't go nowhere. It's a dead-end, man. You can't go out past the dead end because it's just abandoned tracks and yellow bushes. Where exactly can I go?"

And later, when they're all starred and peeking dawn, and the smell the coffee and continental breakfast. She takes out her 10-mile legs and dreams, "It's a nest of tigers up on that hill, let's" and he said "let's" and she says "let's" and she knows he will say "let's" every time she says it so the next time she simply lets it go, bunching her nose.

They don't even think about the car as they step inside, the radio is set to static, there is not a hint of UV-protection or air-conditioning. The air is already dry and hot as the powder blue truck crawls up the long brown streak, sending sparks and dust spiraling out and up behind them. He wants to scream, she's so sweet. She wants to drink, she he gives her some potion and she's in love with that void again. "Hey, should you be driving?" is not something that either of them said.

"It's perfectly unreasonable, what do they eat?" and she just slies at him, "or drink, or distract themselves with at night when the coyotes are scaring them half to death?" and she just keeps on until they round the corner at the summit of his incredulity and they're staring down into a black and orange leathery writhe. 

A father, David, his son Minus, daughter Karin, and her husband Martin are sitting around a dinner table in the Swedish countryside. We can see their house a few meters away.

The father has prepared a meal for the other three and they are all appreciative. They tell him that he should write cook books instead of novels.

As they begin to eat, father reveals that he is going to be going on another trip abroad, to Switzerland. The mood is palpably darkened by this revelation and Karin approaches the verge of tears.

In an attempt to repair the mood, David offers up the gifts he brought back from his latest trip abroad. He hands out wrapped packages and temporarily retires back to the country house to "find his tobacco."

The scene cuts from the table to David's room. We see him enter slowly. His tobacco is on the table, though he doesn't go for it immediately. The room is dark despite the eternal Swedish summer sun.

David breaks down, weeping his heart into his throat.

Somewhere in Thailand someone died, just now. Did you hear about Morakat? Wait, but did you also know that my commute home was over two hours, today? When there's a Giants home game it takes much longer.  And just now I was wondering if all my thinking, ever, was for nothing, so. But also there's a recession, apparently. Maybe thousands or millions will die or smolder out into irrelevance. Ah, but the sun felt good, today, when I walked to Cocala to buy a lemon macaroon which was chewy and cool. And one day we'll all be dead and our bodies next to one another. Right now my fingers feel nice on these keys and I'm thinking of Jen. I just heard a recording of someone's voice saying "Complicate your life." And of course you know about the holocaust. But there was one man, one lonely jew, who was swept up into Hitler's Death Machine and utterly eliminated. What about erasing someone's graffiti? What if it's beautiful? Some day I might be a dad and then some day my child will have a beautiful girlfriend or boyfriend. They'll both die. A  lazy middle manager in the United States is more relevant, today, than a hard-working Chinese laborer, both in terms of consumption and effect. Three thousand years ago some people may have copulated right here.

Control is fleeting, by nature, including control of control, etc. Gravity and the electromagnetic weak force both seem eternal. They'll be around long after we're gone. Are they around? Dimension should be around for a while, and photons. State-transitions seem pretty much un-fuckable-with. Maybe we should build a house out of pure state transitions and live in it pretty much forever. But I guess it would have to change.

Change is fleeting, by nature, including change of change, etc. Time slips away at an unseemingly constant rate. Drift and random walks are likely to be here just today, gone tomorrow.

This evening was not relaxing. Some are.

I want poetry, recently.

I watched "Through a Glass Darkly." 

It was like some kind soul sat beside me and touched my face,
as if, for a time, someone else existed in this world. 

I want truth, recently, vulnerability.
I read poetry and most of it isn't true, it's not saying anything.
It misses the point.

Naive truth is not truth.
Truth that misses a particle of subtlety is not.
It is reality pulled through, transformed, but unchanged.
Altered, skeined, but intact.

Poetry reflects me.

Through my Infinity Language Project I have discovered the true meanings of Pain and Pleasure.

Now all doors are Open to me.