"The next real literary “rebels” in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the “Oh how banal.” To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows."
David Foster Wallace - Literary Hero
The other day I read the entire contents of this page. Reflecting upon self reflection - what kind of paranoid depravity is that? I have uncovered what was previously hidden behind a veil of self ignorance. A veil so flagrantly obvious to those other than myself, one-part irony two-parts tragedy: I experience redundant thoughts most of the time, recycling iterations of the same two or three themes hoping for an interesting offshoot into the ‘novel’. Embarking on pointless tangents through long perorations about god knows what the fuck.
Will I eventually save the world?
She asked me why I like reggae so much, but what she really craved is that I would pick some other genre from the piles of records I had on the countless shelves in my old dusty apartment. Sometimes when she is coy I become aware that I’m inescapably sensitive, and that my ego can get satirically enormous at times, penetrating my skin like a handicap too delicate in its awkwardness to make for polite dinner conversation. I told her that reggae had scooped me up from my own Nietzschean abyss nonetheless, and that it tossed me onto to the warm sun baked surface. Up there, where the water is warmer, and swimming around aimlessly in repose seemed more cheerful than drowning in the piercing depths of pointlessness. Up there I found the shore, and before I got my land legs back, the whole thing froze over, and I was happy in that nostalgically sad kind of way, because no matter how malign my dark side was, I could never dive back in again. Now I only skate on the surface. That’s what reggae is: skating on the surface, where carefree is wisdom, and the fiefdom of fear is a cautionary myth of shattered ice, told to scare little children who stay up past nine o’clock cultivating existential thoughts.
But I miss the deep sometimes. How it engulfed my every sensation, and tangled my thoughts in contorted positions that became more comfortable the longer I yielded to them. Comfortably annoying - a labyrinth too entangled to make unraveling worth the effort.
romance in the time of digital mutiny…
عجز بالإنجاز، و تشوشات في الهويه
بس تجديد جواز سفر مش أقل من خمس ساعات و ترجاي عند الأحوال المدنيه
تلاته كيلو ذل و خزي و تحميل جمايل
و الغشيم بيسألك ليش مهاجر ع كندا يابن الهبايل؛
الانسان أرخص ما نملك
مواطنة أغمض من سر البقبق
Deutsche Bank Art Magazine: The starter pistol disguised as a paradox signifying a new age of dark tragicomedy…the loss of contemporary-norm comprehension. Surrealist banking, modernist leverage, avant-garde marketing, pre-reformation post crisis atonement. Like a misplaced collaborative penned by Beckett, groped by Ionesco, undressed by Bunuel, and fucked by Dali. Phonier than JD could have ever feared - cacophonous to the point of satirical self-parody. But they will probably prevail in the same fashion that deception prevails…in the crafty ways that human naivete often triumphs over recent memory. Masses acting as pallbearers in their own grand funeral, funded by mortgages resold to them in neatly packaged invisible SPVs.
Tomorrow: Contraception tips sponsored by the Vatican - stay tuned!
I miss stepping outside with you where we can be alone in cleaner air and I can kiss you privately. I miss the delicate art of regulating the dampness of my own lips before we would start; too dry felt cruel, too soggy vulgar. I miss how it felt as I let you into my self, inhaled you into my heart, and how you’d purge my fears and anxieties as I exhaled you. I long for the moments when you made everything so Hollywood, so vintage memorabilia. I felt cool with you, present, like that print of James Dean on my wall, or that Sepia-filtered photo of my dad from ‘72, with orange blue outfit and sideburn glory. I miss the forlorn moments when I’d reflect, deeply, like never before. The glow in your eye was – is – familiar, warming…an interlude when time stopped for a brief minute so I can make sense of it all. I miss the desperate self-loathing you inspired, provoking the duality that exists within me. I miss having so much of you, gluttonously much, never enough. So much that you couldn’t run out, ever, even if I tried to consume you for days on end. I know now that you’ve tricked me with your poison; it was you who had been consuming me all along. Towards the end, you turned into the inevitable, sad cliché of a clinger, living in the glory of days gone by. I’d gotten used to you, and you used that against me, clouding my vision, binding me with unhappiness. I see what you really are now: an undemocratic tyrant of Basharian proportions. And still I miss you. Inside my soul resides a cigarette with no flame.
There’s a hell of a good universe next door where you can’t be, I think I’ll go there instead.
//Nothing changes if nothing changes//