Andrew

Posted Friday, January 12, 2024

3mo

INTJ

Libra

7

8

Stream of consciousness, don't read, there's no point.

It's 421am and snowy. The forecast calls for heavy snowfall and negative temperatures in the coming days and weeks. I've just brewed a pot of coffee after a Poeesque and Goreyian dream. I'm looking for a friend to share with and realizing that friend is you and me. So much has transpired so quickly that I'll never be able to put into words what I think or the depth at which I'm processing. Stream-of-consciousness wise, I'm thinking about narrative structure and the faults in my stars. I'm thinking about the human condition and absent loved ones. I'm concenred about emotional attachment and how to solve this riddle in myself without losing sight of the people around me. I wonder how focusing on receiving the value of adulation produces differing results from focusing on providing value for the tribe. I'm thinking about anthropology, Alan Ginsberg, neurobiology, Sapolsky, cosmology and Bill Bryson. I'm considering Richard Feynman and the futility of flexing the breadth of one's knowledge through vocabulary. I'm thinking cruciverbalist is an excellent word and how I once knew the best... I'm missing my father who haunts me with the realization his absence may be worth more than his presence would be. I'm also angry at myself for thinking such thoughts in such approval. I'm angry at myself for having the world's most impressive set of legos, and no doctorate in engineering -- so to speak. I'm thinking Shakespeare would say how in apprehension I am like a God, and Aristotle would say I am most like a base animal; a slave. It's 4:38am in 2005, I'm standing in a snowy field in Union Springs NY, feeling a kind of brotherly affection with the cold elements themselves. I think therapists are as useful as art teachers, librarians and HR departments, and they all perform the same function in present day. Their ideology is liberatory. Their methodology is boring "dialectical" nonsense. They are the first most decadent gnostics in the 21st century. I'm thinking of Schmittian super-organisms and Nietzschian exceptionalism; how I'd be the funniest person alive if I had the time to think of a clever response. Depth has never been a struggle so much as processing power has never been such an issue for me as processing speed. My mind is a deisel engine that takes ten minutes to warm up before its throughput outpaces the competition by a country mile. I wonder which is the bigger limiting factor here: the prison of the language I'm trapped in or the encroaching word-limit. Probably the lack of a captive audience. Oh well. This was always more of a journal anyways. Godspeed.