"Monday
Me.
Tuesday
Me.
Wednesday
Me.
Thursday
Me.”
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White Night
II don’t know where to goThere’s snow everywhereThe sun movesLike a slugA black road meltsBathingIn the mud Of Luster.SomewhereA shadow coughs,smokes,risingFrom the lugubrious languor of noon. I’m ill,But I don’t know where to go.
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Friday
I want to be ecstatic. I don’t want to be happy. An outburst of suppressed emotions, complexes, desires… I have no interest in happiness. But ecstasy… the death of ecstasy is an ecstasy itself. I can revive death, transform it, and mold it into because there is no past which precedes it. The rupture of…
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Sunday
It’s Sunday and this is the Sunday that was last week’s Sunday, so almost two Sundays ago. In fact, when I think about it now, it probably is two Sundays ago. Because I’ve been too lazy to put down any entry in my diary, and I only call it my diary because I can write…
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Saturday
“One man, he to justify” For my doings and wrongdoings, one comes to justify. For the last synthesis, I do and undo myself, knot and unravel myself. To deconstruct and construct, to undo and undo further, but each knot is a different knot, each revelation a new revelation, each illusion another illusion, and this and…
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Friday
All arguments take an ontological assumption, such as that of realism or relativism. The realist clams that there is an objective, physical world that is independent of our knowledge, perception, and values; a picture. We must, then form or align our picture with that of the real world. But doing so requires a series of…
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Friday
Wish it was last friday at Montreal. I’ve had so much to learn and experience in the past few days. J. left, an emptiness resides. But i know it’ll be ok. Even though one can’t know anything really, but I am certain of this knowledge; i know that I do not know. Proof of another…
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Sunday
Quebec City. Stone walls and stone streets. Stoned people, no sun but mud water under the bridge,
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Wednesday
The black spots of a banana, suns that devour sex…
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Monday
I sneezed. A slug came out. One more week… What would I do after a week. To worry and instantiate my concerns? But the here and now is the only moment of which I’m a subject; I have no escape. One is confined by the linearity of time–or rather, the lack of. The instantiation of…
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Tuesday
In “North Haven ” by Elizabeth Bishop, she elegizes her friend, Robert Lowell, as she observes the nature scenes in Maine. Here, she notes the occurrence of death in the repetitive beginnings and endings of seasonal changes. Bishop uses these images of death to parallel the passing of Lowell, eventually reconciling–or “revising” –her loss. First,…
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