Well blogy, it's that hour quand l'homme - cet homme - est las de manger camembert, and who knows of what la femme is, and so the former which breaks his silence, partly to speak of the spectral latter, who is both the femme archetype, and also yet another watt girl, to join the baleful list detailed below.

Which is a paragraph, ruminative, trochaic, intended to - as portentously as possible - sketch the argument of no doubt the coming months, namely that I go abroad in 1 1/2 weeks, in search of love and knowledge, to a reputed university, and am talking to a girl on dating website living 58 miles thence, whom i've been emailing i think for 3 weeks. She is: .... I hesitate, for to say of someone, that they are F G and H is to categorise reductively, to judge, to limit. She is a living walking waking human being, with a past and a future full of potholes and scenery, a human being goddamnit and not an idea thereof, tho perforce it's only ideas i've so far or human beings ever ( more pessimistically) come into contact with. And I think I'm prone more than most to paralysis of choice, which is perhaps easier than the fear consequent on the making of a choice. I need to remain, whatever this should happen to mean, open to the other.

Yes, I need to remain open in general, body posture wise, experience wise. I am going to be undergoing an interesting change soon; living further from home, and able, crucially, to make a new start, socially, since at my last uni I started fuck poor, unwilling because unable, unable because unwilling, or neither or both, to socialise. I want to work on my negligible social skills, but I don't think really they're too bad. What I need to learn is how to hold a conversation w strangers. To wipe off the rictus of panic that buggers my CNS in such situations. I think I am at a nice stage whereby if nothing amatory should happen, I will be ok. Obviously, projecting this indefinitely causes heebie jeebies; but there's no reason thus to project.

Anyhow, a long summer has passed; some good intellection, not much else. Still roughly following a buddhist path, trying often unsucessfully to keep unpleasantnesses far hence, of sound mood mind and body. Perhaps I'll keep this blog up; I should.

Written a few weeks I think earlier:

O lebensbaum, o wann sommerlich? Well well well, darling, if I may call you that, it has been a while, hasn't it? Wherein gluehenden coals, burning easy, traversed here and there with the asperities of the hot-coal worker, whose feet burnt scurl reddens, as the face of me reddens when's instantiated nearby the topic of this much awaited blog: sociality.

Let me put that in english. The months have burned away gentle like drowsy embers; but the odd vicious pain, the oh mon dieu who am i, how am I still in my monoautic bla bla bla bla.

Hypothesis: that 'thinking makes it so'. Russell, of course, in his Philosophy of Mathematics of 1903, says something similar. Take the belief that Watt is socially adept. In order to understand this, I must stand in a relation to a proposition consisting of me and socialadeptitude, knitted together by some sort of exemplification relation. But if I and socialadeptitude were thus knitted - o kallifragious thought! - then it seems like I am socially adept, and there's no need for my face to burn when a stranger says 'hi'.

But seriously, folks, could this not be the case? That thinking makes it so. Noel Edmonds wished for a tv show and some other jizz, and by crickey, he got it. NOW I'm no Noel Edmonds, but is there not precisely revealed here THE ESSENCE OF SECULAR PRAYER? Namely just think. Because Noel betokens in english and hebrew 'No God', as of course you know.

Now now; there must be some_ limitations to that which thinking makes so. For it's unlikely I could think that there's no such phenomenon as quanglement, but perhaps that I'm a cool dood, that the ladies want my shit ( so to speak, obviously)?

Radical condensation of the foregoing: I want to find a way to reprogram my brain. Not to find myself in the sputtered argent fields of headiness, of one's brain being tranched by invading chemicals of panic, waving the red flag dermally, "I surrender this social exchange, please back away from me posthaste". Cooly and calmly to breath; to know that others don't give a sainted piss about you, really.

(nice dfwesque illustration of my malady. When I walk, and I walk past somebody, my face tightens up because I feel myself to have an odd face in repose, and am selfconscious thereby. Now a) I probably don't b) It probably is so that when I tighten my face it looks odder als wie zuvor b) Most people aren't such arm tors as to wonder how their face shd look in repose, since they're aware that people don't give a shit about no face-reposey bs).

Now unfortunately this blog's somewhat got away from me, in the exhiliration ( sic) of prose. But it reflects a serious train of thought.

Fuck it, I'll talk some more.

Hypothesis: That one's phobic reactions, tho clearly physiological. AND HERE IT ENDS.