I am the autodidact. Well, I am a autodict, but not necessarily the autodidact. Hopefully, even equally lonely, i'm the less deceived. But am I the less deceived? And if he has mauvais foi, I at least have a mauvaise foie. It parties w/out, a force of nature. And I shatter PNC by neither wanting nor not wanting to be there. The autodidact, in a tent of prisoners of war crowded together is at his happiest. For then, at their lowest, they are his equal. And by the transitivity of identity, I am a group of prisoners of war. But it's absurd to suggest i'm a group of prisoners of war. Therefore i'm not an autodidact. BUT, does it follow from my being the autodidact that I shatter PNC? If so, my not being the autodidact could really shore up logic. I'll take it; the set of premises 1) i'm the autodidact 2) I don't want to be in or not in are inconsistent, and not because 2) is contradictory in classical logic.
This is a timewasting way of saying i'm alone.

Abermals bin ich. Sentence over. Perhaps to be added: on a friday night. But my german doesn't go that far. In fact, I quite am, this moment, having just watched, thru the shivers and welling eyes of art, the candy coloured clown they call the sandman scene from blue velvet on the youtube. Fine, fine stuff. What is frank thinking when he gets upset?
Another week gone, and back in my room. Next week i'll be back in my room and home. Will any progression have been made in these 6 weeks? Some progression has been made, and, given the nature of time, the answer must be thus affirmative. But one fears. I grow old, and as it gets older, it gets weirder that one's mode of being with others is so deficient. And the veritable bayeuxicness of the suspirations, asseverations and perorations I weave on the screen of my mind and the screen of my computer and the foolish already noted fantasies I feed myself on - do i wish to be free from them? i.e., tho my voice be plangent the now, my stomach be calm. Ultimately this question is pointless. I need to be given the option. Another thing to do: smile more frequently, or at least shake off somewhat the rigor. The rallying cry of the phenomenologist re science doesn't hold here. My face is to be as flaccid as some goo, leaking constant into queasy smile. Constantly have the questions in mind that people tend to ask to other people in social situations which I tend to be in. I begin to bore myself.

Well, liebes tagebuch, a damn fine if without palpable Erfolg day of socializing somewhat clouded - for there needs must be a besmirchment, this being me, Beckett's logicalest character - by scholarly worries at even tide. Hmm. There is a sense that even tho no-one knows who I be, I want to hold things back. But I won't, tho my fingers don't dig my brain. es gibt ein Maedchen. Now I think it's in fact very likely that i'm misinterpreting friendliness for something else, but I think there might be something. For in addition to being a neurotic freak I have some vaguely desirable qualities; it is not inconcievable that she appreciates said qualities. I am prone - wikipedia says so - to way overanalyse things. And so it may be. There are certain facts about her making it a priori unlikely. But - and here comes the Evidenz, tho were it Husserlian! - she, despite having only made my acquaintance recently, sits besides me in class in opposition to people whom she's known longer; and singles me out to talk out when waiting outside said class. That's it. I've said my pathetic piece. I'm glad i've recorded it for posterity and prosperity. Hope bleeds eternal.

Just a little pre-sleep blogly attempt at experimental psychology. Benights these days I tend to engage in fond fantasizing til the wee hours. This is bad because a) it means I sleep not, b) the fantasized in my experience seldom becomes reality. So, to indulge in some very paranoiac thinking, if there is something I want to happen, I shouldn't think about it. I feel the urge to rilkean italicize, for the Rilkean italics are about Leben, Sein. die, die sind. und ich bin nicht. I don't deserve the italicisation. You can feel it; well, I can. He wrings out the word sein. It's painful for him, the pained poet, to poeticize being.

die sind

By all this of course I mean i'm butting up tho not sexily or even really against the spectre of living girls, whose living pains me to no end, the un-murderableinaconcept other people. They suck. And another week roles by. Now heed brain, i'ma stop typing. Stop dreaming!

Xtu Jesu on a bike but i'm woe begirt. It's a dark sunday, i feel like i've been up for ages, i'm tired and have done nothing. My stomach is a ball full of knots. Mond und Licht ist voll Schmerzen unter-gangen, weil i---ich bi--in befangen. Little joy re dating site, much oy. To turn back into myself would appeal, to throw myself into work. I just don't feel built to not be alone. One needs to expose oneself, to peel back a layer of skin, to deprickify the hedgehog self. But it turns, like Homer's gums exposed to wind; an augenblick and ecstasy, un coup d'oeil and agony. There is no settledness, and the stomach won't thank you. And there is nothing ; just hours going to make up empty days, and meaning intentions never to be brought to meaning fulfillment. The monologue ; the words are thought and come a second later, in order predetermined. The thoughts ; a closed circuit on this and on that side of the pillow, sometimes raised, progressing about 6 feet up, into the dark cool toilet, the moon or just night thru the bathroom window, the thoughts cogging onwards.

Another saturday night. Reading Faust anxiously, feeling like i'm wasting my life like him. Flieh! Auf! Hinaus ins weite Land! There was some moderately depressive book whose name i can't remember which i read and there was a line in it, all i want is for this pain to be purposeful. Now if you ignore the overly emotional connotations, that's how I feel. That is, I want the fact that i'm trying to put myself back into the world to bear fruit. It's funny - Faust can't do it himself. In order to live he needs to make a pact. I've been trying to do the same, I partially blush to admit. Specifically, i've been praying: the last refuge of the scoundrel as lisa in the simpsons says. This is a very odd attitude for me to take, as i'm not religious. It means i don't think I can do it. I would never dream of praying for uni success, something within my reach. I think I need to cut this thinking out. By assuming that it's only by something akin to a miracle - a benevolent god existing and choosing to help out in such a situation - that I can live a peopled life, what am i really saying to myself. I'm prejudging it, big style. Another thing that occurs to me is that I need luck. I think, if I'm lucky i'll manage to have an exchange w someone bla bla. Again, in the academic world, I realize that luck is sometimes important, but one tries to work around the effects of fate, by e.g. doing all one possibly can to prevent unluck. I need to realize that to me at least, socializing is akin to a fuck difficult, painful exam. Anyway. Goethe will at least partially keep me company tonight, as my 1st half of a romcom slithers.
It occurs to me that all my eggs shouldn't be placed in the college basket. They've already got gallons of friendly friends. The net may be the way to go. fuck, can't be bothered writing anymore

fled the smog and autocity of the peopled city, languishes homely, onely and lonely, with the constantly prefixed percievedly.
Well. The problem is the lost years, 18-23, prime growing years when my then wispy turd's-beard was speckled with puke from my constant drunkenness. I am an 18 y/o, d.i., in a 25 year old's degenerating corpse. Struck up via dating site a conversation w an interesting lass. sie lebt aber.
Ultimately what can one do? I feel like an ex-con.
But anyway. What I wanted to consider, humble reader, is the following. why do people like e.g. lynch's eraserhead, Beckett's trilogy? There is something there that people feel? There is humanity, even there, among people so disjoint? For whom life is a box, w as much freedom as a coffin. This is it. I'm surrounded by the young and free. It causes me no end of joy to know that there are unyoung, unfree, unborn and yet half dead people, if only in literature. That I am not alone, that life is hiding, squalor; that language constantly fails, sticks in the throat; that to be orthogonal to others is not the province of me alone. Alone, lone, lonely; there is nothing worse than something unique really. What we want is to jar before something, to take a second before realizing that the purported unique thing isn't new, there is a precedent. The absolute scariest thing in the world would be to be completely unique.
This is utter bullshit, an insult to my normally civilised and sharp complaints.

Fucking amazing scene in the wire(s4e9) I watched yesterday. There were these hood kids,in a special class behind their delinquancy, and they won a prize to go out to dinner with their teacher. They were all looking forward to it. Then they went, and they were completely out of their depth. They had never had dinner in a restaurant, and felt deeply uncomfortable with the politeness and helpfulness of the waiters. They walked out of the restaurant in near silence, and as they were being driven home, they began to act up. It reminds me of something my psychoanalysis lecturer said the other day: we can't take too much reality, and the child learns to live in the world by venturing forth into it, then retreating when things get too "real". For the kids, the idea of a fancy restaurant and waiters to serve you and fine food was all well and good; but the reality of it, that was a whole different thing.
Now here's an anecdote. When I started college, there existed something, such that x was a girl, x liked me and indeed i liked x. One day after class we went for a drink (non boozeaholic obv in my case). We had a conversation and shit, and in my opinion, it fell flat; I dun fucked up, to use (non racistly!) an ebonic auxiliary. She continued however to ask me to do things. But partly out of fear that something actually could happen, and partly, I think, because I felt that I had indeed fucked up that drink, that i felt embarassed to be in front of her for revealing my true, percievedly-inadequate self, I refused. Moreover, and here's the kicker, I became rather standoffish, almost unpleasant to her, from having been very interested and comparatively friendly towards her. So I acted, moderately, like a dick, because I felt I had embarassed myself. But it's lamentable; how ( or so, at least, I think; i'm sure the real in this case would be just as disheartening (perfect word, i think - the feeling of the heart sinking)) would i like to be in this situation now!

The relief of having things you have to do

As above. Work has begun in earnest in university, and my thoughts are bending philosophywards, and not so much woe-is-mewards. I did, however -ahem- join a - ahem - dating site. Perhaps such a stigma shouldn't be attached thereto, but anyway. It seems to me like a good, positive, step. Tho i'm not exactly throwing myself into it. I need the intersection of the sets of non-drinkers, social retards and very clever people. It is alas small, if not non-existent. Natheless, hopefully perhaps perhaps some NT, as we call them in aspergese will well initiate something. Of course if they were to, more or less my worst nightmare would be realized, but then what is life if not the realization of one's worst nightmares. And on that portentous note I end.

Time to kill @ home before going back to angstville. It's twee, but i really need to count my blessings, or at least some sort of secular version of that infinitive phrase. I have a good, healthy generally happy family. I do something I love, which absorbs me and which I have the chance to be really good at. I have pleasures: in addition to philosophy, there is literature (reading my namesake recently; on the back of the book it says beckett helped the disenfranchised of society. While I doubt the general truth of this, reading people like Beckett always makes me happy - i feel as disjointed as one of his heroes); there is comedy - how can one not be happy after watching arrested development; there is the fantastic mathematical beauty of well maths and Bach.
Yes, my life isn't perfect, and my stomach will continue to groan and my breath to get caught panicked in my throat; but it's not so bad.

back home for the weekend, and my douleur, it se tient plus tranquille. Three weeks into the new term tho and my best laid plans are coming up arosily. perhaps recursive decomposition holds the key. so i shd concentrate on learning one skill: and the most obvious one is starting up conversation where the option exists. I do this kind of, but could do it more. I'm not filled w my useful dolorous zest; i'm gonna stop writing now.

A nighttime blog. Not quite ready to sleep, thinking to parp my thoughts out that they don't bother me in bed. Well, another week more or less gone. Nothing to show; they could make a romcom of my life. Or at least, the first half of a romcom, tho it would probably test badly, most people knowing that students are awful arseholes, and those who don't probably were awful areshole students and waxed into awful arsehole adults. Y'know, moody shots of me walking thru the dark and noisy populated city, puzzling over some difficult text in an empty library, then coming, as some I would say by Coldplay wank crescendoed, to my dark and empty room.
(little storylet: abalienated from life i went alone to cinema having poorly slept during the day to see funny people ( punctuate as desired (but never double parenthesize)). Now this is a fairly gash film, w/ Sandler dying of cancer until he doesn't. But motherfuck me if I wasn't damn near welling up when the I would say by Coldplay wank started blaring and he was looking at photos or whatever it is dying people do in films. So yeah, the moral of this story is that emotions are stupid)
I'm talking about movies alot these days. Maybe i shd make this a therapy\movie review blog. I do look uncannily like Jon Lovitz's critic.

A daytime blog. Quietly Jesu meine Freude, the motet that could make me christian, plays, w/ city noise accompanying. Profound tiredness of sociality, even family sociality. One of my checkpoints passed empty. Am I actually doing anything? i.e., intentions are good, but one needs some positive action. Perhaps one's self needs to be the first to go. Caught a sliver of Sandra Bullock's odd vehicle 28 days, in which she plays a hard living alkie who learns the true meaning of xmas or some such bullshh. Anyway, in it earnestly madtoothed steve buscemi played a councillor, and he said r.e. dipsos' post-stoppingdrinking social intercourse, get a planet. In a year, get a pet. If, in a couple of years, both are still alive, then have a relationship. Now when I first saw this movie a few years ago a few months dry, I assumed that the relationship was with the plant/pet. But today, I read in a textbook on botany that - and I quote - it is impossible for a human being to have a physical relationship with a plant*. Accordingly, owing to the illegality of beastiality when not in holland, and the film wasn't set in holland, or if it was, no indication of this was given, drawing on Aristotle's distinctions of different types of living soul, I am lead to conclude - quartus non daturwise - that he meant the relationship to be with fellow homo sapiens.
To conclude, i'm tired, and at least pseudo-lonely. And perhaps indeed like iron pyrite under analysis it'll be revealed to be false; but in the absense of such analysis, it feels real.And there seems nothing within my power to do about it. One can align oneself outwards; one can aim the cannon, but a shot needs to be fired eventually. And therein lies the problem.

Goddamn it! Well, contrary to my edict, for all x, Possibilityofsocialization(x) -> Ido(x), there exists an x such that Possibilityofsocialization(x) and ¬ Ido(x). Fuck. The possibility was a night out with my roommates. Not much, but a start. Now I do have real money angsties. But there was revealed in my up to now veneer of sociability the true, rancid grieving heart that weeps within me. And now i'm stressed, and sleeplessness looms, and inadeaquatio mei ad vitam (again, i write wrong in old tongues). Fuck, fuck, fuck. Know that scene in the wire, wherein all that's uttered is fuck; such is my mind now.
Secondly goddamn. I need to learn to initiate conversations. Really; two occasions there were. Without initiations one doesn't even have anywhere to begin. Ah. The relief of release: blogging like an opiate to the veins pacifies.
Is this life? Cf. the summer. There were no such pains. But, there were no such hopes. BUT I NEED TO STOP TURNING AWAY FROM WHAT CAN BE.
Wait: to what extent is my weh a function of percieved changes in the image of me held by others? i.e. the adaequatio merum ( I know there is no gen. plural btw. If ad doesn't take acc i'm well and truly screwed ofc) ad me i.e. the fact that the many adumbrations of myself that are seen will, as their number tends to infinity, settle down on the image of my aforementioned true, rancid grieving heart. For what is to be if not to hide? On that portentous note I end.

To speak frankly, I'm depressed in the mode of protentive presentification. Tuesday - to speak vaguely - offers a permanent possibility of socialization. But it is very possible, by which I mean not that it's likely to happen, but that it's thoroughly besodden with not necessarilyness. Fuck it: there are many things that could occur, sending the plan off track. Even if said things don't occur, the chances of anything happening are pissingly low. And in addition to being a permanent possibility, it's also the sole possibility, and so when anything fails to happen, i know i'ma be buried low rest of the week.
Basically it's an eggs-basket scenario. Ach leiber Herr Kappus! I know what you felt! In fact that gives me a brilliant idea. I'll send a letter to Andrew Motion, bemoaning my life its vast and ghastly etceteras; he'll write back, and in 70 years it'll be published: Letters to a young arsehole.

Tired, tired. For no reason, i've done gaff all all day. So i'm gonna blog a bit, coz it's only 10.03, not really bed time yet. The other day i complained about sensitive teeth since which time they haven't been. It occurs to me to try this with something more serious - the traumatic event of social awfulness that has (arguably) determined the course of much of my life. There were a group of us. I was about 10 maybe. I was more or less the leader of this group, joint oldest, good at sport, clever etc. We were sitting about. Previously one of the members of the group had said something about boats. I can't remember what it was, but I seem to recall it was sexual (interestingly enough I just learnt that a ship is a symbol for the female pudendissimum). I attempted to make a joke about his remark. No-one got it. Because it was related to something sexual, and I was bashful, I attempted to skirt around the topic. People urged me to explain, but I didn't. In attendance were our older neighbour, to whom I looked up to. I remember him laughing incomprehendingly, and his brother came along, and he did to. I can still in fact remember his laughing face. It wasn't by any means cruel laughter; it was simply incomprehending (is this even a word?). I remember my face burning.
That face burning feeling behind ( i use this again; it's a wireism meaning on account of) saying something that isn't understood is, I think, always burned into my mind. And it perpetuates itself - so anxious am I before saying something, so torn, it rather falls out of my mouth like fish flopping out of the trouser leg of a man who fell in a river, falteringly and stutteringly.
Is this an honest account? Will I see any improvement?
i.e. This happened; Can i put it behind me. It has indeed concretized into a personality trait; i view myself thus and project my self-understanding outwards, and accordingly in due course people do indeed come to understand me thus. Is writing dynamite?

Well, nocturnal angsties are upon me, as dreary I mourn the passing of a friday eve einsam in my einsamkeit, w/ sensitive teeth. Poorly slept again fantasizing. Am I lonely or worried that people percieve me as lonely? Most likely the latter. Spent an hour there in the library writing a short story. It is 8.13. The noise of the city, und die, die leben (that's a Rilkean italicisation there btw). Really, being is so hard it should be conjugated much more irregularly than it in fact is. I suggest I ach, you muck, he/she/it durks, we achen, you (pl) argt, they goan (pronounced g-own.). Oh for a healthy mind in a healthy body, and not this stomach!

Inadaequatio rerum ad intellectum(?)

I should stop writing in languages I don't know, but I thought this was a rather fierce\savage\deadly pun, whichever of these causes less vomit to tickle the throat w its upward trickle. But that is the truth. I spend all night fondly fantasising about all these great social interactions ima rock like a madman, then poorly slept an odd word shatters my fragile emotions. Real splurge of anxiety thruout day. Reading on psychoanalysis. Scary; we don't want to know ourselves. We have no foundations. We don't think, in order not to die. The repressed. The problem is, I think, that having given myself a goal even the possibility of the attainment of which lies necessarily beyond my control, I find myself thwarted when luck doesn't fall. I'm old; the skills I seek should have been learnt long ago. Among my classmates it's second nature.
Bleh. The anxiety like a pimple has cleared up somewhat. The key is: don't give up hope; luck may arrive - punctuation should be used ----------------( and the dash should be just as long as old Soren's) sparingly.

little blogleinette

Well, first week back at uni, back home. It has been quite good. I have been considerably more personable than usual. But it still hasn't led outside the classroom. There has been lots of anxiety, but that's ok. per ardua ad astra. I'm sort of feeling hopeful about things, tho my stomach growls, woul rather be left in peace. My goal for the next week is to somehow build on this. Direct my attentions to a couple of people, see if i can't present myself well. if i get invited somewhere that i cd concievably go to, do so. Be more talkative at dinner. Smile more. Don't get jarred behind my behindness ( that wasn't meant to be intelligible to anyone). O life! O moeglichkeiten!