| Seven shades of old |
[Jun. 26th, 2009|01:10 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Freddie Hubbard: Red Clay | ] |
What I would, that I do not" [Romans 7:15]
There isn't so much left to say. I have returned here like fly to shit. I have been failing quite consistently now for three years. Life is quite funny in that when you constantly bang your head against a brick wall you aren't sure if this is all a test before some earth shattering personal success, or whether this is it. From horrific overture to diminuendo al niente without the sniff of development. One's late twenties seem to be like hanging on for that bus, knowing that if you left now you could get in on time, but that the bus might come in five minutes. Not that I have much to be on time for. This is getting dangerous. Anyway, personal ambitions are abortive, romantic life aborted, job prospects null.
Mahler
Zizek
Beach House
Scott Walker
New Jeans
Rimbaud
Mozart
Hegel
Have been providing some paltry solace in recent month
This cannot help. It is just about getting over myself. Not worrying. All that self help bullshit. This inverse narcissus shit will kill me.
|
|
|
| Yeast Infection |
[Dec. 17th, 2006|10:57 pm] |
Inconsistency is the only constant at present. Back from All Tomorrow's Parties. Mishaps. Have not drank in one week. Trying to hold some things together. Drunkenness was getting a little out of hand. End of an age of me now. No more trash culture of that insidious musical variety. Feels like freedom but it sells like insurance. No more gigs, less drinking, no stereo crap. New lap top. Nice, thanks mum and dad. Got funding for 2 years research from Sept '06 at UCD. Currently pretty idle. Trying to get an essay together and a couple of papers for the UK. It sems much harder to work when you are being paid to do so. However meagerly. Difficult to approach either Beckett or Adorno without simultaneous distortion. Nevermind attempt to apply latter to Beckett. Living in Rathmines, grotty flat of 70's wood panel. It's essentially a large cabinet with some green carpet to hide the stains. No need to sweep stuff under the carpet, just rub it right in. Still smoking. A number of failed relationships exploded in my face. Well two in the last 6 months. I dont know what I expect from people. I've developed a greater awareness of the need for 'total' autonomy. All my guilt seems to stem from lapses in rational judgment. Difficult not to regress, ego tempted by "socialising". Need new approach to existing friendship. Fast becoming a resolution: ought to establish new friends and new skin for old ceremonies. Developing interest in visual art. Still hung up on Giotto, so a concise grasp of the history of painting is a bit away. Attending a diploma course at night in Trinity. Nothing else worth mentioning. (Irony as last twitches of a bombed out consciousness.) If anything is ever worth mentioning. I am not sure if I prefer myspace. Both are an ideological equivalent to ebay. Free market of alleged individuality expressed exchanged through, what amounts to, divisible lists of cultural produkts and activities. Capitalism as total system. Her quantam of wantum cannot vary. |
|
|
| waiting for bono |
[Mar. 30th, 2006|07:42 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | can:tango whiskeyman | ] |
The MA results are in, came first in class, good news: ich bin der prize winning pit bull. Beckett festival on, bought many tickets. shite though, if only the government could invest in long term art's ventures rather than fucking billboards with Beckett's face on them. Ah the old signifier/signified confusion: an ode to post modern Ireland. cuntcant. Bono in Times saying too much again. According to the shortfatleatheryone "people don't realise" that Beckett "was having a laugh". Woe to Bono. What is your job again? And Eason's who have had 8ft signs of Beckett and his Nobel achievement for years have even got some of his books in stock to celebrate this arbitrary date. What's next? Glenda Gilson drops the Vagina Monologues slot (pun unintent.) to play the lips in Beckett's Not I/Pas Moi (pun intent.) Working in bank, day four. Disaster: warring banker/boring wanker. AIB's credit cards are now available in two options both called "BE". German existentialism goes plastic, its the Jargon of Authenticity. It seems AIB's line of advertising is ontological (Be With Aib, the old mitsein) whereas Bank of Ireland favours the deontological language of Kantian duties (Banking as it should be). In anycase I will quit in the next few days. I've to attend the Symposium in TCD next week and they won't grant me leave. Plus I've been studying the Inferno. Usuary is the sin of sins. An abuse of art and nature.
Think: Did l'art pour l'art emerge as a direct mirror image of prof. banking, l'argent pour l'argent? Nice way of examining it without venturing near photography since and all the usual modernist ground.
Anyway, current favourites include: t.s. eliot, wagner's tristan und isolde, dante, harmony koreen; the book of the watchers; karl kraus; flann o'brien; the warlocks; joseph conrad; berkeley;
still with: beckett; joyce; proust; kant; adorno; schoenberg; schopenhauer; bjm; suicide; francoise hardy; godard.
LLLLearnt the wasteland and prufrock off by heart by accident in my long period of unemployment. add to list of useless skills. i have the flu. all this is still stupid. i was reminded i have one of these things and couldn't resist logging on and issuing my standard quarterly summary. any other business? no. except i've missed all the deadlines for funding in warwick and essex and all the deadlines full stop for oxford/cambridge.
i am becoming excellent at mediocrity. i grow old. 25 in 20 days.
:A |
|
|
| parlez vous |
[Dec. 15th, 2005|01:41 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | the fall - i am damo suzuki | ] |
Finished MA. results pending. impossible to do worse than a 11.1. probably first it. applying to irchss for funding. loveless. feckless. bored stupid. barely employed. fairly depressed. moved out/moved home again. obsessed with can, beckett, spector, mark e. smith, french pop, jean luc godard, girls. resolutely anti capitalist. guiltily commercial. saw suicide. buying decks. no clothes. no news. this is stupid. just making a notch. steps to the right. steps back. steps to the left. steps forward again. nothing. |
|
|
| Cunts Only |
[Dec. 15th, 2003|03:51 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  apathetic | ] |
This journal is a fast moving groove machine.* Think Sly Stone singing Suicide tunes. Think Kylie meets Heidegger. I don't do self aggrandising g*** photos. I don't mail 10,000 comments a day. It is mostly words; like disney, dachau & disko. An escape from mindfuck, an economy of gift and our currently impoverished concept of irony, lacking the very self comporting freedom it should signify . Think sugar coated psychosis, the kind of thing you blindly conform to everyday. Think washing powder and coca-cola-nisation. Think stain removal and white wash, gutter eyes and glitter mouth. And nothing in here changes anything, think vanity admiring it's own vanity. The ego on a pay-per-view. Think cappucinno machines and top ten singles. Dancing to songs you don't even like. Think fuck you and go no further. Think nausea and then long for gods. Asthma and a world so advanced it forgets how to breath. No-one reads this, and why should you?
*This, along with the other, outlandish, statements that follow is a lie. This journal is really quite boring. A diurnal scrap-heap. Nonetheless, I do like both Kylie & Heidegger, have a penchant for Suicide and a general distaste for the majority of people who frequent the web. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
psychocandy_'s journal