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2015-06-17 23:44:14 (UTC)

April In June

"Suburban War" by Arcade Fire [oops did I already do this???]

This town's so strange they built it to change
And while we sleep we know the streets get rearranged
My old friends, we were so different then
Before your war against the suburbs begin

Before it began

My old friends, I can remember when
You cut your hair, I never saw you again
Now the cities we live in could be distant stars
And I searched for you in every passing car

11:44 PM

So I've been reading about end-stage renal failure symptoms in dogs and April has a lot of them. Right now, she can't stop trembling. She's curled up on a mat in the kitchen. I put a towel over her body to keep her toasty. I'm going to stay in the room with her. I hope she falls asleep before I leave. Hope she knows I love her a lot.

I wonder if she'll be alive in August. Or in September. Or October.

It's kind of hitting me today.

I like that part where you know something is going to happen but you haven't processed it yet. I like that part where nothing is real.

This is not that part.

Jesus, I keep turning around to glance at the white board where the picture of Elise used to be. Keep forgetting it disappeared. God, that sucks.

I'm really sad right now, but please don't worry about it. I'm pretty much only speaking to one person right now since no one else is really all that invested in my life, hahahah.

I think about death a lot. That makes me sound... morbid. I guess I am pretty morbid. That tends to freak people out, though.

I just mean, it's kind of fascinating. I like blood and veins and scars and bones making angles under skin.

I want to dance with someone under the moonlight right now.

This hurts.

How long does it take someone you love to die? Shouldn't there be an established minimum time period? Like, two weeks or something. Then, at least you have fourteen days to say goodbye.

Instead, it varies so wildly. From negative thirty eight days to several months.

It's very inconsistent and I'd like to speak to my local congresswoman about this.

No longer are people allowed to be killed instantly. No more throat slitting or head hitting or kidnapped-and-murdering. Nope. If you want to kill a person, if someone is going to die, you need some kind of notice. Like an eviction notice or something. Let you know the body will be abandoned soon and you should kiss them before their cheeks go cold.

I'm not angry.

I am bored with experiencing this???? And I'm fucking cold as fuck. But I'm not angry.

Is baby April sleeping? I think so.

Let me talk about other stuff briefly. I don't want to dwell on this.

I watched a few episodes of this show called Aeon Flux. It's really fucking weird and creepy but I'm kind of into it. Not enough to watch all the episodes, but if it were available to me via netflix, I probably would.

Gosh, my lungs feel sleepy.

The word "gosh" reminds me of a very specific person and so I don't like saying it.

I love the word gosh. It's soft and pretty. But I am a "god" type person. Because I used to hate that whole "don't say the lord's name in vain" thing.

Stephanie always made me feel like God was a swear word.

It frustrated me. That you weren't allowed to mention someone who may or may not even exist.

But the word "god," it's so angry and hard. Sharp. I say it a lot because it's what I've always said. In my mind, I say gosh. I like it better, like the way it fits, but it's not right in my mouth.

Doesn't belong to me.

I'm always wary of becoming other people.

I like adopting traits of others that I admire and it makes me feel like an imposter.

I shouldn't feel guilty, but I guess it just feels kind of wrong to be a collage of everyone I've liked.

Like Elise. I can't really pinpoint exactly what about her I adopted. We were already pretty similar but I was different before we met... I think I was more negative. And also, nature wasn't a big deal to me.

Now, I fucking love nature. I almost cry on a pretty day and the sky is my love.

I didn't used to be like that.

That, I don't mind so much. It's quite an improvement.

My eyeballs are heavy. I wonder: would they roll out of my head and onto the floor if I looked down?


My favorite Greek Myths are the story of Icarus and the one about Sisyphus. He was the guy who was forced to push a boulder up a hill in the underworld only for it to roll back down. He's damned to do that for eternity. If you want, you can read about it VVVVVVVV down there. My favorite part is the last sentence, though.

" The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Aegina, the daughter of Aesopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Aesopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of the conqueror.

It is said also that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of the earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, led him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.

You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the aburd hero. He is,as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain. It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.

If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.

If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and th sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Oedipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same time, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Oedipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.
One does not discover the absurd without attempting to write a manual of happiness. "What! by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd discovery. It happens as well that the feeling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Oedipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile sufferings. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.

All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is his thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. there is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his effort will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that silent pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which becomes his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

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