Well, today nothing happened - in steve coogan swimmingpool attendant voice, if that pleases you. So 2 days remain, that something happens, which it of course will. Cast my net somewhat on dating site, without responses. I mean, really? My profile is more or less indistinguishable from perfection. But anyway. I wanted to blog about the general contentitude i was feeling; until I logged on to fb and was reminded of my fucking up, which has rereleased the self-directed expletives. Anyway. Good day: Hope bleeds eternal, got my accomodation sorted out for next year, with my friend, in hopefully a nice, small place. Very interesting and productive studying. Not too woe begirt about e'thing. There is always hope, fuck it, dmom needs hope. This is close to a contradictio in adjecto, but anyway. What, then, for the necessary concomitant of hope, plans? No plans. I go home after tomorrow, and not too sad about it. It is. One needs hope; tho one can't, one will, go on. While i breath, i hope. Pistis, Elpis, Agape; faith, hope, charity(?). There is undoubtably something in these words. If we take charity, as the greek and church slavonic ( Ljuby) has it, to mean some form of love, this seems like a fairly good way to live one's life.
I guess my religious leanings of late are to indicate that i need help. Moreover, it seems to me I need help in the form of a piece of luck, a piece of chance. Let us premise that I am not undesirable; let us also, more dubiously premise - no! let's not that - the name should be banished from this blog, it leads to a very painful circle - - i am liked; then, if the occasion should present itself, all could become well. So what's needed is that the occasion present itself. But it doesn't. To have done all the hard stuff and be excluded by the workings of chance! That I should have befriended on just that day! That, if ever there was, is dustuche. Really it is, it never occurred to me. Really, you fucking owe me one cosmo!

der Mann ohne Moeglichkeiten, or, the efficacy of prayer

Is it possible for the man without possibilities to be sad? When I am sad e.g. re my x's death, am i sad that x is dead or that - x is alive? If you follow me? Am I sad because of the excluded possibility or the actuality which excludes it?
Anyway, I know what you're thinking: tmwp (dmom) doesn't blog, unless in tedious fashion to recount the days many nothingnesses. But I was thinking: even if i can't take about possibilities, it's surely the case that the possibility is actual, so I can talk about it? Is that cheating?
Anyway, ima say a resounding motherfuck to the below, while still maintaining its ataraxifying benefits im einsamen Seelenleben.
Today, it was nothing, and I was fairly unperterbed until i go to my little room at close of play, when i always feel the sting of loneliness. I try; but do i? Let's say I do. God, I try, and this 'God' is both an expletive and an apostrophe. And nothing. But there are others, less endowed than me, and i'm not talking cockwise, for whom things are so easy. Well, that's surely false, but it appears so to me anyway. What one must do? I am like first order logic with no added axioms. I can't even express 1+1=2; why? Because i have no friends. It is necessary to have friends, in order to socialise, in order to meet people outside the eingeschraenkt confines of the classroom. I have no friend ergo...
Anyhoo, as per the above, what about prayer? Of course prayer surely requires one to think that almost everything is possible, and therein to wallow. So it's not exactly the thing for tmwp. But say one really believes that p will happen; one has faith. This faith manifests itself in various imperceptible ways; this enables p to happen. Now, if one were a scientific christian, it would be interesting to test this out. One prays for a bunch of things of different attainability etc; think of the cosmic ordering service; although it's bullshit theoretically, it may well work. So; can I have faith? Of course, this will be of dubious religiosity. For i don't want faith to be a better person blah blah, but for the possibility of shenanigans; so if god exists, he probably wouldn't appreciate it. But then, if one neglects the god aspect, one has no ground really for one's faith, unless one's faith in faith is founded on faith. Is this circular in a bad way? Should I start to have faith that things will happen for me? How does one do this? Is not faith per se self-deception? One says to oneself, this is going to happen; but one ex hypothesi doesn't know this is going to happen. Of course, Hegel, in a definition of characteristic stupidity, says that faith = knowledge, or rather iff in place of =. Well, dear diary, shall we try? I have faith that something will happen in the next 3 days send me into half term happy. Should I bring God into this? For the countersuggestion is: well, you shouldn't wish for something external to happen, you should rather wish that your beliefs about external things etc. ou ta pragmata again. That's a more conventional religious prayer. Now let's drop the I have faith that: something will happen in the next 3 days.

As in ontology, so in philology ( by which i mean, natch, the logos of philia, not the logos of logoi, which should of course be called logology, for then the study of the discipline of words could be called logologology, ad inf. et absurdum) analysis must end somewhere. And that, dear diary, home to my treasures, aspirations and asperities, is today. I hereby swear to leave off the thesaurology and the subtle distinctions and appurtenances, moieties &c. thereto that even that minute philosopher, Alciphron, would dismay of; to plunge into each new day utterly hopeless wrt MC, and not, as some of those new to limbo must surely do, hope that ex machina a dea will come to laetificare my decrepit age; on every blemish of optimism to make it all by all to strangle it, and thus to become, with regard to the painful, painful world of other people like a computer, for whom the possible is nothing. To put it clearly in the mathematical precision of Sartre's metaphysics: if it's through the nothing that the possible is born, then I am to plug my nothing, to become a reines etwas( une quelque chose pure). This is really quite simple: there are many actualities to feast one's eyes on, and when i'm tempted to dream, I need only look down and say, this table is white, this handwriting is untidy etc. etc. until the possible-yips are steadied. The reason for this is the following ( and btw, my analysis-lent comes in to effect after i've finished this blog): the proportion of time one spends on the possible is inversely proportional to the time one spends engaged in the interestingly actual. She and most people, are more actual than possible, and thus, in the same situation, rely less on the possible for their happiness, but presumably have actual happiness, and i think it's probably fair to say she does, and thus are less prone to the pain that the possible has in store, which has been my tormentor of late. Again this can be clarified profoundly by the word 'distractions'; if she does love me, she has other things to think of and do, is less desperate therefore that that possible - that we become together - be actualized; is less tormented therefore by the slings and arrows of outrageous postclass interactions.

I can't go on, I can't go on.

Well, the trope does hold itself as commanded. Let me recount my day. There was to be a thing. She said she was going to go. I spent the day tired and nervous, nervous and tired, breaking into, at times, nausea. Heart beating, I arrive. She is not there, and doesn't subsequently come. I conclude: when one likes someone, one attempts to see them. Perhaps she has a reason, but I doubt it. The plans I had! I even, in expectation, got a dvd that we could watch. That's sad, both dolorously and pathetically.
This has been an exhausting week, emotionally speaking, for me. First the fb, which was such a big move, which failed. Then the waiting for the response, which was another emotional fail. Then a familial visit yesterday, which was fine, but tiring, and then today, which was ueber fail. I'm tired, tired, tired. It is interesting; I can specify an emotional state which i'd like to be mine. It is that of a fisherman. I sit in the sun and wait for nibbles. Now, as far as I understand, when fishing, when one has a bite, one doesn't immediately yank the rod out of the water lest the fish isn't completely caught. One waits, until the fish is so intertwined with the barb that it's well and truly fucked. This is what i'd be; waiting, and happy to be waiting. But I want action; I am torn between not wanting to leave this term, again, empty handed, which will almost invariably be the case, as I with a real sense of sadness realize, and thus wanting to do something, with the utter impotence i feel. FUCK. just halt fuck.
I'ma read some beckett. nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi nella misericordia that you've never had, in your whole life, socialwise, a tempo felice.

just a little mantric prebed blog to say: let go. ou ta pramata, alla ta dogmata: For tomorrow, in the abstract, i have great hopes, for which reason nothing will arise. So when I be, alone, at home, tomorrow eve i want you, future trope of douleur, to be gentle, calm and quiet. For, pace below, I can go on like this, for I must, and necessarily p -> possibly p. And indeed, it is possible that (in) p(ace) ( i remain, tho not mortally). I can't go on, i'll go on. Were 7 monosyllables ever better ordered? I can go over, to my massive joy, my treasures, my evidence; and my counterevidence, the transports of woe which which induce in me is perfectly documented below. But, she is. She has both temporal and spatial extension, unlike the thoughts I tend in my little room; there is a fact of the matter in her brain, which holds independently of my weighing and counterweighing, and sighing glad and sad. If it were at all possible try if not then not. Don't force; bitchez can smell deep, dark desperation.

O Schmerz hier zittert das gequälte Herz

Was, you ask, ist die Ursach aller solcher Klagen? See below. Tourettishly watt dwells, this pained evening, calling his poor, suffering self a stupid **c**** ***t, repeatedly and vehemently. Dreading bed, attempting to forestall the darkling complaints, listening to SMP. No; it calls for analysis, tho i would bei meinem jesum wachen, that is, im himmel. The platitude has before been here offered that one must make peace first with one's self before one other can adulcify one's asperities. And it's true; one must leeren the kelch, drink the bitterheit. In english: what torments me at present is that yesterday as documented i made a move, and hoped for brilliantness, but received none. And today was indeed passable, or rather passible. But still, I feel like a stupid **c**** ***t; what am i, at 25, 17ish? Where to go? The enthymeme: If I don't achieve something soon, it will be too late; the term is within completion. Writing this shakes me, almost drawing tears. To go back home, still alone? Another ungrown, empty summer? Motherfucker. de profundis clamavi. well, that's certainly an exaggeration. One must let go; and let G-d? Really, it were foolish to let the profound woe be extinguished with,,,; what to do? Ultimately what can one? Sleep and hope, hope and sleep and try to be at peace with self. There are worse things than being alone.
BUUUUUUUUUT. To complain was not the aim of this evening writing; it was analysis. But it perhapses that one must klagen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qJJvU0YASA.
deeggbasketing. The problem is quite simply that my mood is dependent on another being. Now this is perhaps not an uncommon thing; this is the thing of love perhaps, at least a species thereof. But the temporal dimension aforealluded to, and the profound sense that the occasion will never present itself, for it hasn't; other lovers can call on past loves ( obviously first time lovers are here discounted), they know what it's like.
That's it; to requote a quote i don't even like: i want this pain to be purposeful, but have no experience of this pain having ever been purposeful. Ah CUNT, i feel no better.

the first essay i handed in in first year i got 65. This is the lowest i've ever got, but the fact that it was the first essay fairly crushed me. I remember walking a long deserted street listening to the piece by bach that begins with komm eilet und laufet; i think the exact thing i was listening to was the rather sanft Sanft soll mein Todeskummer. I was crushed. I feel my emotions in my stomach; harsh things like that are equivalent to being winded, tho something different. It is not unfair to say that i'm similarly crushed at present. Really, there isn't that much of an objective reason. She dutifully added me, tho without a message. Today we spoke after class, and it was awkward. For reasons i'm not going to get into, she says she's going to stop using facebook for a while: it is conceivable that my request introduced the awkwardness of her having to break that edict to save, so to speak, face. Actually that doesn't work. I asked whether she was going where i was going; she hesitated, and nayed. Two interpretations: she was ambivalent about going, could have gone either way, but didn't; she wasn't ex ante going to go, but considered it owing to my question, but didn't. The latter is obviously the more pleasing to me, but who knows?
There are several things here. One is that, for me, asking simple things is akin to asking big things; if she knows this, then my hand is truly revealed. Of course, on the assumption that she does like me, which is empirically well supported tho nevertheless underdetermined, this won't go amiss. But if she doesn't; well, if she doesn't, then so what? One needs to learn to get rejected eventually; thru avoidance i have lasted a long time. If she doesn't know this, then all is ok. But i don't know the answer. The second thing already alluded to is the fear of rejection and or the deep embarrassment that i feel with regard to everything other related. These aren't completely separate; ultimately i'm embarrassed because I feel that the gauche things i do will be negatively judged, which is surely linked with actual and potential rejections.
Yet another thing i'm learning is that life operates according to a fuzzy logic. Better, life is an indeterministic system. Better, and completely different: life is unpredictable, and it is but seldom that things, at least pertaining to others, pan out as one would have them pan out. For I was buoyed by the joy, last night, that I would receive a charming message from the maedchen; i could visualize it happily; but no. Ultimately time will tell whether this exploit was an utter disaster, or whether again from my position of incomplete knowledge of the workings of her neurons, I am again misinterpreting. But it seems objectively true that the hopes I had pinned on facebook will not pan out, for she won't be on it to interact with.