you can speak to dogs or cats or even houseflies more candidly than any human being nowadays
why that's so is beyond me; my conjecture is that it's some inexplicable mixture of programming and imbecelic obeisance
at the coffeeshop today was a bunch of those crooked cops
some decrepit looking yellow-haired woman was bitching about one of the homeless guys begging for change outside
i know the guy
he's a solid chess player
now, it's just par for the course for police to pick on homeless, that's just how life is in this shithole of a quote on quote "country"
my beef lies with the audacity of this
insipid toiling gremlin
with her new shiny 202X Suburban
who has no other way of exhibiting power in her impotent and unmeaningful existence
than to pick on a good chess player
down on his luck
reduced to groveling for nigh-worthless silver and copper coins stamped with even more worthless men
i hope she lives until one-hundred and twenty-three
so ancient and rotted that she can't even shovel triple-processed shitporridge
worthless, gaping shitpipe
of a mouth
on her own.
the sky at noon was so beautiful i almost felt ashamed to be alive: it was more beautiful than my life, than all of our lives.
my endless search for anywhere at all only brings me to crooked places where love goes to die, newly tarred parking lots adorned with discarded insulin syringes, check-out lines waiting behind someone with only frozen shrimp and a 4-pack of modelo...
i am so unhappy.
there's no point to any of this.
there never was.
生きるって何なんだろう? どうして生まれてくるんだ? ここは一体何だ?
そうならば何故生きないことだけが別なんだろう？ 生きないと選ぶのはどこの国でも罪として思われる。どうしてそうなるんだ? 矛盾すぎるじゃないか。どんなに辛くても世間に本能に從わなくさせて、けれども生きないことだけが悪い、生きる本能にだけ從わなくては絶対ならないことだ。どうして?
condemned to incandescent hell-holes or an early grave,
because some of us are too precious and delicate and beautiful for the rest of them
forsaken to solitudine, because some of us believe with absolute conviction that possession of any amount of pride for the self is an unpardonable and egregious sin against existence itself,
because some of us believe life is about playing the piano,
or about being yourself in spite of the weight of the whole world bearing down on your shoulders,
because some of us value life over feeding a machine built to propagate its own existence perpetually,
because some of us are poets, or at least try to be,
because some of us know it's wrong to be injected with neuroleptics just for crying,
because some of us know something is terribly, horrifyingly wrong with the world today,
we've only those two places to go,
a plastic mass-produced hospital bed without sheets or a coffin
because if we don't keep our machine-civilization turning and destroying and murdering,
then we're not even considered human anymore.
today i learned that there's no such thing as angels. i'm not sure what's left now. i don't think i'm okay either. f4
fish formula and bio-rings, but they die anyway
in the midnight howl of basement tenement halls adorned with 50 watt bulbs and the smell of sweet ammonia
and homeless people afraid of hospital stays for fear of disulfiram and needles and force-fed Scotch,
smoking their last cigarette butts to stay out of the rain
drinking surgical spirit,
somehow smarter than the college-kids, dry-humping the professor's ego until they find themselves in their assigned cubicle
obsequiously slouching and lobotomized
bisected tongues and unconscious conscientiousness
more fucking flags than convictions
more opinions than pets
unlearned until they can't learn anything from anybody
when you can learn anything from anybody,
the push or scrape argument again
when there might as well be no crack for 700 miles,
or however far until dawn is,
and the kid alseep behind the parking lot dumpster
sheltered under garbage-lid roof
16% battery and no mobile data
but enough heroin in his pocket to get through tomorrow without begging
sleeps soundly through the rain.
day ???? of avoiding being awake as much as possible for the rest of my life
for the first time in a couple of years i'm back to 3dan on tenhou. my old tenhou account that i had since 2015 was disabled due to inactivity back around 2019 or so, and i haven't had a primary account since then, mostly playing a few games on an account before not playing for a while. but since i've been doing nothing but playing mahjong lately, i've finally grinded enough games to reach 3dan, and while i'm not super happy with my general performance looking back at some of the replays, it's a nice feeling to kind of be back to where i left off. here's some pictures.
my deal in rate is way higher than i'd like compared to my win rate, and my hope is that i can do a bit of studying and getting back into the hang of good tile efficiency and defense by watching some lectures and doing some reading. goals for the year i guess.
i have a love-hate relationship with mahjong. it infuriates me, but at the same time, it's the only thing i actually find fun anymore. here's a term for a strategy that i recently discovered that actually surprised me because i had never even conceived such a thing.
Tsuchida Kōshō defines Hansha as the following:
Hansha is when a player who has decided to only discard safe tiles in response to a riichi suddenly discards a non-suji tile, and at that time, one can suppose that the same player might be holding onto a tile that creates a kabe (wall), and accordingly attempting to read his hand from this behavior.
i think this is why after all these years i still enjoy mahjong so much, as the complexity of the rules gives way to a surprising amount of depth to the game.
also here's a kazoe yakuman i managed to get in a public match on sega MJ today
i refuse to acknowledge how i actually think or feel right now; in the meantime, more poetry i like.
堕落は飛翔よりもはるかに自然で あの不可解な情熱よりもはるかに自然だと 自然が私に思ひ知らせるために？
Do I, then, belong to the heavens?
Why, if not so, should the heavens
Fix me thus with their ceaseless blue stare,
Luring me on, and my mind, higher
Ever higher, up into the sky,
Drawing me ceaselessly up
To heights far, far above the human?
Why, when balance has been strictly studied
And flight calculated with the best of reason
Till no aberrant element should, by rights, remain-
Why, still, should the lust for ascension
Seem, in itself, so close to madness?
Nothing is that can satify me;
Earthly novelty is too soon dulled;
I am drawn higher and higher, more unstable,
Closer and closer to the sun's effulgence.
Why do these rays of reason destroy me?
Villages below and meandering streams
Grow tolerable as our distance grows.
Why do they plead, approve, lure me
With promise that I may love the human
If only it is seen, thus, from afar-
Although the goal could never have been love,
Nor, had it been, could I ever have
Belonged to the heavens?
I have not envied the bird its freedom
Nor have I longed for the ease of Nature,
Driven by naught save this strange yearning
For the higher, and the closer, to plunge myself
Into the deep sky's blue, so contrary
To all organic joys, so far
From pleasures of superiority
But higher, and higher,
Dazzled, perhaps, by the dizzy incandescence
Of waxen wings.
Or do I then
Belong, after all, to the earth?
Why, if not so, should the earth
Show such swiftness to encompass my fall?
Granting no space to think or feel,
Why did the soft, indolent earth thus
Greet me with the shock of steel plate?
Did the soft earth thus turn to steel
Only to show me my own softness?
That Nature might bring home to me
That to fall, not to fly, is in the order of things,
More natural by far than that improbable passion?
Is the blue of the sky then a dream?
Was it devised by the earth, to which I belonged,
On account of the fleeting, white-hot intoxication
Achieved for a moment by waxen wings?
And did the heavens abet the plan to punish me?
To punish me for not believing in myself
Or for believing too much;
Too earger to know where lay my allegiance
Or vainly assuming that already I knew all;
For wanting to fly off
To the unknown
Or the known:
Both of them a single, blue speck of an idea?
女房が死んで、俺は自由だ。だから お酒も飮み放題だ。一文なしで 歸つて來ると、むかしは女房の雷が骨身に沁みたが。王様と同じくらゐに 今は幸福だ。空氣は澄んで、大空 晴れて・・・
俺が あいつに惚れたのも思へば こんな夏だつた。
身を裂くやうに恐ろしい 喉の渴きが癒るには あいつの墓に溢れるほど なみなみとお酒が入用。--これは容易な事ではない。
あいつを、實は、井戶の底に 俺は投込み、その上へ 井筒になつた側石を 殘らず落した。--出來れば 忘れてしまひたい。
二人の仲は永久に離れはせぬと 愛情の深い誓ひの言葉にかけて、昔 互いに惚れ合つて夢中になつてゐたやうに 仲直りしようと、
この 俺の 氣持は 誰にも解るまい。醉ひどれの阿呆の中に 誰一人、その病的な夜な夜なに 酒を變じて經帷子にしようと思つた奴があつたか。
--今ここに 俺は自由で孤獨になつた。今夜は 俺は醉いつぶれよう。さうなれば、何の恐れも悔いもなく、俺は 地面に 寢ころぶだらう、
been six days since i found out. i thought time passed unbearably slow already before; now every second drags along somehow even more unexpeditiously. i don't have much to say because i'm still processing this. i'll talk about something else.
my copy of Baudelaire's 惡の華, translated into the japanese by Suzuki Shintarou, arrived today. it's in good condition despite being printed in '61. some of the text on the pages is visibly worn to a great degree, and there's a lot of black spots on some of the characters presumably from the printing process, but most of it is readable. the whole thing is written in old kana orthography, along with a lot of kyuujitai (the book is littered with 體 instead of 体 for example, or 聲 instead of 声), and frankly it's an absolutely beautiful specimen of a book. when i find the energy to live again i'll probably commit myself to transcribing the full text of the book onto this website. here are some pictures
fun fact, this isn't the version of the book that appears in the manga/anime Aku no Hana. the one that appears in Aku no Hana is a translation by Horiguchi Daigaku. as far as i know, it's written in a more modern style than the Suzuki translation (despite the fact that i do believe it's an older translation. weird how that works. i guess Suzuki really loved his kyuujitai lol)
my ex died. she died in november and i'm just finding out.
i want to kill myself.
猥褻 — 2021/03/06
[19:20]it was a weird time
[19:21]when i was with my ex i was basically hugely flamboyant with how i expressed myself in dressing and shit
[19:21]like literally we shared clothing
[19:21]all of our clothes
[19:21]i mean literally all
[19:22]but it made me happy as fuck because 1) i didnt care what people other than her thought about me
[19:22]i was just extremely comfortable
[19:25]im not gonna lie
[19:25]it kind of was deep as fuck
[19:25]i have never had a relationship like that
[19:25]with another human being
[19:25]where we were so comfortable with each other
[19:26]that we literally went to the bathroom together
[19:26]dude no like for fucking real
[19:26]we watched how i met your mother for the first time together
[19:27]we were so fucking cringey
[19:27]we had equally cringey names for each other
[19:28]it was us vs the fucking world man
[19:28]that's literally how we got together
[19:28]i knew her for years in HS but
[19:28]one day she went schizo
[19:28]and she got out of the fucking mental hospital
[19:28]and left me a voice message on my phone
[19:29]asking me to save the world with her
[19:29]thats why i cant really take ppl seriously when they say
[19:30]oh you know dude there's a million fish in the sea"""
[19:30]but it's like
[19:30]i got a taste of the perfect life
[19:30]you don't get to give the entirety of your being to a person like that
[19:30]you cant just do that on command
[19:31]fell so hard for a person in my fucking life
[19:31]we mutually stumbled into an engagement after only like
[19:31]three weeks of dating
[19:31]it was the most awkward, cringey and cute wholesome fucking conversation
[19:32]i've ever had
[19:32]i literally remember it word for word man
[19:33]the contrast between who i was with her
[19:34]and who i've become
[19:34]we were so
[19:35]and fucking blinded by each other's light
[19:35]i was convinced of this and i told her
[19:36]"in every lifetime, we end up together"
[19:37]its one of those things that just
[19:37]makes sense to you
[19:37]to meet a person you feel you've known all your life
[19:37]who you've missed dearly all your life
[19:39]the kind of relationship where
[19:39]you watch those sappy romantic movies and
[19:39]because we thought our relationship was more ideal
[19:40]and believed it too
[19:41]the worst is knowing deep inside yourself, that the truth is, the best isn't yet to come, it's already behind you
[19:42]that you know on your deathbed you will still harbor these memories
[19:44]there's a yawning canyon between those days and where i stand now that grows wider every waking second
[19:45]and it's just
[19:46]i want to forget it every day
[19:46]my only solace
[19:46]is when i wake in the night out of another dream of her, or of chasing after drugs and liquor, being homeless and afraid
[19:46]and for the briefest moment
[19:46]i've yet to remember who i am or who i was
[19:47]that is the best part of every day
[19:48]both the english and japanese language lack the intrinsic fucking capacity to describe how dejected, crestfallen and wholly in anguish i am
[19:49]so i shitpost
[19:49]and turn my brain off
[19:49]and hope to God that i dont think on any deeper level than wanting a fucking cigarette
[19:49]because the alternative is just
[19:50]too fucking much
＊ ＊ ＊ ＊ ＊
yashiki takajin's "yappa sukiyanen" is probably the best love ballad of all time. it's really got all the requisite traits, that cheesy mid-80s instrumentation, the simple but hypnotic lyrics, the tension of emotion in his vocals... it's a basic song but for some reason it's so damn inexplicably good.
＊ ＊ ＊ ＊ ＊
..and my sorrow, engendered by the complex flame of my embittered emotions, continues in its acuity with no apparent resolution in sight. Plastered with just a sip of my bottled self-deception, and until I am covered in it and I am become one with it and I am it in itself, because I could not, and seemingly could never, construct myself an escape into the fantasy of daily life. There it all is; the shock-and-awe of it, of loving so madly and being so madly loved, and the unfortunate proof of how tremendously love burdens the soul, juxtaposed with the contradiction of the poison of loneliness and desolate nights at the end of a bottle. The vulnerability of the darkness of hurt we all bear like the cross; the impossibility of a single true embrace. And words that I never knew I meant that slipped out, in haste, and anger, like everything, steeped in self-contempt and irking fucking misery, which only served to amplify how abrasive and raw the words that followed:
"You can't save the world."
And now we stand looking at the world as though it were only in the reflection of a shattered and foggy ash-tray,
and everyone is gone or going.
Too much in my own world, wading through the fog of memory and the nightmares inbetween. Gazing at what I can see of the world through half-wonders, through half-everythings, really. Cloudy night, trying to quit smoking. Watched the street signals just before midnight give way to their rhythmic red blinking. Terribly anxious for some undefined reason, as if sleep wasn't hard enough to get as-is.
I wasn't always so unwell. It's hard to separate the unwellness from my personality at this point. Of all the things I hate about myself, that particular aspect gets under my fucking skin. But hell, what would you do?
Still incompatible with reality. Just more lonely and with even less to say about it. In other news, I finished seventeen non-nights. Unsure in what direction to put forth my effort now...Maybe I'll write something fun this time.
More peace and love,
I had a dream about someone important to me. It was one of those ghastly dreams that blurs the already tenuous lines between reality and fiction; one of those dreams that makes you all too keenly aware of how mentally unwell you are. It wasn't a restful dream. It wasn't a good dream or a bad dream. I woke up steeped in my own sweat and panic. I woke up exhausted beyond belief.
It made me realize just how exhausted I've become; how tired I am of continuing to struggle for basic existence. How tired I am of building armies in my mind, of the proxy wars necessary just to keep what one loves, of deterrence, counter-plotting, of constant self-loathing...
He was right, what terrible fucking uneasiness lies in being loved.
At the least, I've come to somewhat of a breaking point. I'll either figure out what to do, or get so terribly drunk that maybe things will work themselves out.
Peace and love.
I'm starting to think Mainländer was right about everything.
When I was a younger man, about 50,000 cigarettes ago and God knows how many kilograms of heroin ago, an ex-fiancée ago, almost ten years ago.. I had the vague notion of purpose that punctuated my every action. I was going somewhere, even if I didn't know exactly where the trail lead to.
The contrast between the vague-but-certainly-real confidence of then and the aimlessness and idling of the now is baffling.
What on God's green earth ever happened to me?
Then I recall. I played with fire until my mind split irreversibly in twain.
I looked at myself in the mirror today, for a long time, in some kind of semi-psychotic temporary abstinence from my usual alcoholicness. The cliché to say would be that I didn't really recognize myself; I'm opting to say that I do recognize my basic features, the outline that makes me, the face I've seen in half-glances into the mirror..but what alarms me is how much older I look already. The alcohol and drugs have seemingly eliminated some unnameable quality that my face used to hold, call it, a youthfulness, or thickness of the blood or whatever it may be. The glossiness of my eyes only eliminates from their usual shine; my skin has taken on definitive wrinkles, even if they are not so blatantly obvious. I look at the tattoos on my face: I don't entirely remember getting them, but I remember waking up years ago to find them, summarily drinking myself underneath the table so as not to worry about it. I can hardly call it unrecognizable, but it is... concerning, and markedly changed.
Days like this remind me too starkly of the disconnect between my former self and now. I think a lot about my demeanour and my reactions to things, and the changed nature of those too. I think a lot about the people I used to call my friends and family. I think a lot about visiting my friend I used to shoot dope with. He got a blood infection from using dirty needles. They had to amputate his feet. I remember seeing him bedridden, and noticing his legs ending in stumps underneath the blanket where his feet should have began. I remember getting high in the lobby of that hospital afterwards. I don't really remember what I did after that.
It's been almost a year. I think about seeing the body of this kid who died of a brain aneurysm in his sleep. I'd seen bodies before, but I'd never seen that much blood. I remember my homeless friends arguing about what to do with the body, whether to call the police. I remember them arguing about whether it was a good idea or not to let him smoke crack a few hours previously. I remember them blaming eachother for killing him. I remember the couch cushion that sucked up almost all of the blood.
I remember being arrested on a warrant for lodging in public spaces just a few days after that. The cop put on the handcuffs too tight. I remember for months afterwards the numbness of my thumb from the incident. I remember being fingerprinted. I remember the small holding cell with sixteen people and the floor covered with piss. I remember not being able to piss because I was too shy. I remember using a roll of toilet paper as a pillow. I remember the plasticy and dry bread with peanut butter they brought to us at four o' clock in the morning.
I remember sitting under a tree in the summer, laying on a blue tarp, watching a spider and drinking cheap beer. I remember how good that day was. I remember being cognizant of how good I felt at that moment in time, and how depressed I got afterwards when I realized this moment wasn't going to last. I must've watched that spider for hours. He was a big one, impeccably long-legged with some kind of yellowish pattern on his back. I went back there weeks later, but the spider had moved on, it appeared.
I remember when I was really young. I remember my mother, drunk and belligerent, coming home hours past midnight. I remember them fighting. I remember someone drawing a knife. I still don't know who it was. My father told me she had grabbed the knife, and he had managed to pry it from her in the struggle. I don't remember my mother ever commenting about that event, and I never asked.
I think about the causality of these events. I think about how much events make up who I am. I think about drinking. Sometimes, I think about raccoons or butterflies.
I am so tired of thinking, but it constitutes the vast majority of my free time.
I feel most days like I'm standing in another person's shoes; there are people who would love to tell me differently, that in fact, I am living with the consequences of my own reckless and drug-addled life. They're not wrong, but who the hell is right, anyway?
No, if I am being truthful, I feel so divorced from my own life that I don't know how to go about picking up the pieces, nor do I know if it's really worth attempting to do so. Imagine if you woke up one day, burdened with financial and spiritual debts to be paid without any real recollection of the transpiring events that lead to such. It's jarring, to say the absolute least of the matter, and enough to drive almost anyone insane: or enough to drive anyone to drink to cope with the absurdity of it all. I suppose I'm in the latter camp. Cheers.
At the worst intervals, everything might as well corrode into mashed-potatoes and carrots. What I mean by that is that, everything seems to be so heinously contradictory from the outset that it seems clear to me even the forces imposing such absurdity must be at least somewhat self-aware of it, if only a little. But as it were, no-one seems to take notice of this. I am furthered isolated from the world around me by my inherent inability to grasp meaning and importance to trivialities (at least, trivialities in my mind. Perhaps that's part of the issue). It's as though everyone got the memo but I, about how to exist and function in the context of the world and people around us all. If someone did in fact get that memo, would you mind sharing it with me? No such luck, I'm afraid.
I've felt trapped for so long that it's almost starting to scare me how strangely indifferent I've become to the state of my life. God knows there's not enough sleep to go around as it is, let alone enough to actually muster the required energies to fight for myself. I feel anesthetized, habituated to the water rising above my neck, with no urgency to keep myself above it. I suppose this is what happens when your belief that the world owes you not a thing seeps into your being, permeates and festers there, until you believe that you don't owe yourself a thing either. I guess that's just getting used to feeling like you're fucked all the time.
Luckily enough, they bottle courage. At least God or whoever gave us that much.
I think a lot about my past. That is to say, I think a lot about interspersed periods of dark vaccuum and white light that fill up the parts of my memory where my past should by all rights be; and this thinking is not so much reflection than unprovoked and unstoppable fixation on those missing hours. It goes without saying that aimless non-reflection does little if anything at all to bring what one might call some sort of catharsis. I don't know...
There are other times, too, when the clock winds itself back as if possessed, and I find myself for hours reliving seemingly random sequences of events that correspond to what I actually can remember. Sometimes this can be nice, I suppose; at other times, I find myself catatonic, head throbbing, praying for the sleep that never seems to come easily without alcohol or sedatives. Even so, I find it strange myself that, in these instances, I again never seem to truly reflect on what these events mean as for who I am as a person. I've found that, even though I acknowledge my circumstances to be genuinely unfortunate at times, I cannot quite seem to make the motion required to regret or lament the aforementioned circumstances.
Is this, too, another level of dissociation, from my world and myself? Emotions indefinitely interred in winter slumber, and the rational side of my mind overcompensating until even the thought of talking to another human being makes me physically ill?
Were things ever truly easier? It's hard to even say definitively, as I feel an outsider from even my own life experiences at this junction in time. Maybe things were always bad, I start to think. I smoke my last cigar, play with the blueberry flavored missile of tobacco between my lips until the sweet taste of the flavored wrapper goes away. It is good. In the end, without having learned anything of myself or how to continue on from this point, I retire for the night, and squint at the bizarre texture of a wall until that thief called sleep decides to visit me.
"I met a genius on the train
About 6 years old
He sat beside me
And as the train
Ran down along the coast
We came to the ocean
And then he looked at me
It's not pretty
It was the first time I'd
- Charles Bukowski