the edited trouser press (or: three short, three long, three short)

I'm the only one-detail
tumbling down


I feel like

the world is

going to end


let me preemptively put my trousers on
incase someone comes to the door
I like to
s-i-t in the bed
and look out of the broken glass
in the warmth and the sweat
you bring me coffee
and tell me to write
and that makes me feel encouraged
even though

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mental graveyards

I feel like this blog is under metamorphosis. Not only a place where I lay my thoughts to rest, but a place where ideas die, become obselete.

“Like Clavius Earbrass, she often sat in front of the keys, tapping out eloquent sentences that were completely devoid of meaning or context. She rubbed her right wrist in painful resentment. Perhaps this business wasn’t a good idea after all.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll fashioning myself as a George Gissing of the noughties; perhaps we are ready for a second derivation?”

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Mono no aware


My grandmother (approaching infinity) meeting my first kid (2 weeks)
My first kid (two weeks) meeting my grandmother (approaching infinity)

(I’m spending less time on posts these days as I’m kind of busy, and I’m hoping that writing the ideas down in an experimental way at least will help to solidify certain things in my mind. I haven’t bothered researching anything or backing up my ideas with actual philosophical foundations, but we shall see whether life goes on in the absence of lofty quotations. Expressly: standards are slipping.

“I’m also trying to enter more narrative into these whatever they ares,” she said, putting down her espresso cup, laughing in irony at all of life, teeming outside her cold silent writing room, that she is attempting to capture at the expense of experience.)

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I must start categorising these posts

If I put down the booze and the Danish butter biscuits for long enough I manage to immerse myself in more artistic endeavours than this, my incessant snacking. Just eat a bit more at meal times then you won’t get hungry, says my inner monologue. What I produced during this most recent experiment in crayons and watercolour was surprisingly fruitful and pleasing to my aesthetic sensibility. Having been on a surreal jaunt through the junctions of the information superhighway, I realised that most of my inspiration comes from an era during the 20th century, say the 1930s to the 1950s, that I view as a golden age in abstract and expressionist modern art. And I wondered: if I had been born and awakened during this period, would I see myself nestled like a fledgeling sparrow, like a tiny shoe amongst shoes in a shoe cupboard, within the bosom of my artistic contemporaries, or would I be harking back further still to decades past, which I would view as the golden age from that contemporary perspective?

They make a very satisfying crunching sound.

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A list compilation.

I’m not even thirty…that’s the joke and it’s the best I can do. A frank and personal look at the hallmarks of middle age, my fourth decade… well, somehow it does not arrive for another two years, but I already feel that I am living that particular dream. Ahem: My fourth decade brings with it the post-post irony of genuinely expressing and feeling my emotions. In essence, (1) no longer caring about embarrassing myself in front of others. Continue reading