LustingforNightmares

tumbleweed
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2018-05-17 13:46:50 (UTC)

Ibn's Poetics

May 17, 2018 Thursday 1:47 PM

If I pretend I am not ashamed it will become true. If I tell myself not to think, it kind of works. Either way, I am like: it doesn't matter because time is happening and it'll all render itself insignificant. In that way, I can find it kind of funny. But aside from that I still do dumb things that to me are the cracks in my fingers through which I am seeing the person they might see.

Sometimes you will talk to me about people in your past—not negatively, but not positively either. It is a why-I-don't-love-them-as-much-as-I-used-to kind of a thing. Full of "not their faults," unless they were shitty people. I am always scared when you talk this way about the people you used to love so much—because I'm like, what's stopping me from becoming a remnant like that? That has been my concern since I first noticed it in middle school (which seems to be when I began a lot of my bad habits—the bruise on my hip is purplish red and last night I drank so much that I slammed my face on the floor and it only kind of hurt). I think that is what hurts so much about not being a part of some relationships anymore: is the idea that they are occasionally bringing me up, not as the centerpiece of a conversation but as an additive, as supporting evidence—and I am described in terms of incompatibilities, in past-tense emotive words.

I do the same thing, and sometimes I am vaguely satisfied with myself for doing so: it is like I am glad that I hurt you instead of the other way around. My instinct is correct. It is worse to be the one forgotten than the one who forgets.

Ibn texts me: wanna text in like a poetic way?
And I—already annoyed—said: what does that entail?
He said:
It entails writing what you are thinking, letting go of what is real, what is, what should be, and letting your emotion pour through your fingers
like that^

So I said,
What I am thinking is: I only like shitty poetry

And in retrospect I realized this could be taken as an insult by someone who overthinks things (which Ibn has says he does). It could be taken as me saying I don't like his poetics, or that I like it but it's comparatively bad. In retrospect—I meant it as an insult. I am not sure how exactly, but it is me communicating that I think his "poetic" text was bullshit and meaningless, barely imagery, barely imaginative—where is the part that strings the poetics into conversation? Where is the context?

It is the way I once said to my sister something like, "What if space was full of air?"
And Caroline said: "What IF? What's your point?"

This small text is not poetry. It elicits no emotion in me. This small text is not literary. It espouses "letting go of what is real, what should be" and it is implied that this will free you to express your emotions in perhaps a way more abstract than usual. But aren't emotions grounded in the "real," the context? They can exist without them, but to communicate emotions is to set them up against an image or situation that has a sort of implicit effect on the viewer/reader/whatever.

I don't know, I've always found boundaries very interesting, and I think I am a little dismayed when people want to "rise above" them—as if that is possible. As if we are not bound by something at any given moment. Don't try to squirm out of it—just go deeper! Burrow! It is warm there! So warm!

I get so deeply critical of bad writing, of arrogant and porous writing. There is a good kind of porous writing, maybe, but this, this is just meaningless. And I am satisfied by that, to know he won't outstrip me in terms of critical thinking. But paradoxically I am less attracted to him for the same reason. I kind of want to be outstripped.

I want the kinds of thoughts that are like philosophy, like debate—something developed but plainly stated, very rich with significance derived from itself—something more about the meaning than the words. The words are nothing, the words are a vehicle. That is not what I want. I don't know why I want it so bad from other people, but I do. I want that plain cut thought that looks down at me, looks down with eyes a little crossed and dumb-looking and adoring right down the nose. I want that thought—above me and looking up at me.

I get scared that the way I write in here is like that small text, Ibn's poetics. I mean it, but I am sure he means what he is saying as well. The tragedy is that the meaning fell through all the holes in between the words. I have always worried about this—I think I even used to write entries on it: whether I was being as honest on here as I ideally could be. I eventually stopped caring because caring is exhausting. I rationalized, changed the shape of the idea to fit in with everything else, and it went like: total honesty is kind of impossible and, in the way I was thinking about it, undefined. Nebulous. Synonyms etc.

I still get kind of annoyed with my own writing, though, because it is just a series of thoughts I am having at the moment of writing that I jamming into the keyboard at rapid pace. It is about as direct a type of writing I've ever done, sapped out the nose, a little spigot... you know... hanging out my mouth or something.... You are hearing this mostly in the order that it is coming into the forefront of my mind.

I figured that writing down the thought as soon as it appears is the closest you can get to the distillation of a person as is possible: but I don't know, I guess I forgot that lies can happen beneath everything. And yeah, you can find the lie or the contradiction, whatever, and you can find the evidence of action to reveal what a person really means—or at least that's what you do with a novel. With a diary, I don't have to tell you what I've done, so you won't know. I will lie and neither of us can know.

I guess what I am trying to say is: I guess: Um: Here is the issue with the farm-to-table method: I have no fucking idea what I'm trying to say, at least not explicitly. My brain feels it knows enough and presents me with the idea that Liv misses me and I do not miss her. She sounds sad whenever I talk to her on the phone. It is a distance thing. I have outstripped her, like I outstripped Adrian. No, that's not the same thing. But really, I can't think of what makes the situations different except for that I was angry at Adrian and I am not angry at Liv.

It is normal to outstrip people, isn't it? What direction are we moving in? All of them? That makes sense, because I imagine you can outstrip person A, and then you can be outstripped by person B, and then person B can be outstripped by person A and it can all be for different reasons, it can all be in different ways, but the point is one has outstripped the other. It is not all on one plane.

God I am tired. I don't even know how I got here or how to taper off. So I'm just gonna chop it, haha. Let it bleed out on the floor, dry up and flake away.


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