there is a glitch with the subtitles around 9 mins which stays on for a couple minutes but it goes away
This was like my version of sitting down for coffee with Byun-Chul Han earlier today. Brilliant. Thank you. Loved the Park Chan-wook cameo. Those suicide deterrents on the bridges are hilarious. It might work on my fat ass. "Do I jump today?" "Nah, I want some Kimchi and noodles instead..."
Not only am I trapped in these 4 walls I am trapped in myself! No hope of escape except for the Other. The Other doesn't even know I am here. All tidily kept away.
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Martin Stimming's favorite song he's ever created:
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Where oh where is my atopic Other? I have to leave the house to find It/Her. I am confined here. I am confined to myself/in myself.
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Here is another song I have been diggin':
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How am I going to dig myself out of this depression if I am so so isolated? I agree with Han in that erotic desire will jolt me out of this thing. It's just slightly complicated of what erotic desire entails. Unfortunately, it's not to be found on Tinder or Pornhub. It's found in the real world. The real world that I cannot enter. I wish to find use in the useless. Do nothing.
Atopy (philosophy) – placelessness, unclassifiable, of high originality
That's what I look for in an Other. That could bring me outside of myself. In fact I know her. She exists in this very town. I know of another and another that live across the USA. I know a waitress that lives in Paris. I could go as far as to say they are everywhere but I haven't found that to be the case. There aren't any existing in this blasted rectangular box!
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Another great one from Nathan Fake:
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But I am trapped in myself. I only see my existence. Self-obsession. Self-centeredness. I haven't had erotic desire for a woman in a long time. I have had sexual desire. Many times walking on the beach I am sexually attracted to a multitude of women at the beach but sexual attraction and erotic desire are not the same thing. I remember I was at a dinner with a date and she was going through her purse and she put a condom openly on the table and looked at me with her fiery eyes and then put it back in her purse. It caught my eyes a blaze as well as my loins. I wanted to take her right there on the table. That would get me out of this "funk."
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I can't get one atopic Other out of my head. She was a painter. I loved her work. She is now a failed painter. That is ok. I love her more. She once told me I shouldn't listen to Lauren Hill because she doesn't want white people to listen to her music. I told her she and Lauren Hill are crazy I am listening to her music regardless so fuck off. She is now an instructor (black belt) at a Taekwando studio.
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I think just thinking about these women is lighting a fire under me. Psychological research suggests marriage has no real benefit to happiness or rather that happiness goes up in the honeymoon period and then dips down. I wonder if there is any research comparing "with a partner" versus "single"? Ok. That's a lot to fucking parse through at this time.
I don't know why I share so much on here. I don't even feel that tormented right now. I don't want to kill my self but I don't mind talking about killing myself. Just a case of ennui. I remember I took a break from here for like 3 days. It was interesting. I turned into some gamified karma robot on Reddit. I followed 20+ disability activists on Twitter but I never go on Twitter. Pretty standard things for me to do. I need to re-read The Transparency Society. I need to get out of this house. Unfortunately, I need to get a job. Maybe I will meet my atopic Other there.
It's interesting that I have been off of facebook for so long and that doesn't even enter my mind. Twitter I rarely check. I checked my Instagram for the first time in a long time because I got an email update and was curious. What a superficial cess pool that place is. For some reason I don't consider LP to be a part of the digital panopticon.
Maybe because it's my sole narcissistic outlet I go H*A*M*. I am trapped in myself remember. I only go out for walks and I was saved by the existence of an attractive woman in funny pants. I had never seen someone wear pants that silly outside of a clown or Jasmine from the Disney movie "Alladin." (I would never watch a Disney movie today).
But I am trapped here in these walls in myself. I can't even go to the barber. I look like Tom Hanks from Castaway. How, am I suppose to go to a job interview looking like Tom Hanks from Castaway?
Overall, it's just the same rehashed stuff over and over and over.
I miss the Other. I mourn the Other. I need the Other. I want the Other. I need the Other to crawl out of myself. I am like a Russian doll. My true essence is somewhere encased in at least 4 encasings of myself.
Many people are experimenting with the drug Ecstasy. I heard you say once that a lie is sweet in the beginning and bitter in the end and truth is bitter in the beginning and sweet in the end. I have been meditating but I don't have the experiences people report from the drug Ecstasy. Is the drug like the lie and meditation the truth or am I missing something that could really help me? –"XTC" by DJ Koze
Futility in writing. The time slowly passes. Why is the night always the hardest? In the mornings I get toast and magical jams and coffee. At night I just get darkness, coldness, silence. Perhaps the nights are best suited to passive entertainment, stupors, and sleep. That's never been my stilo (estilo). Mannn... I was thrown into this fucking world. How did I end up here? HERE? HERE , RIGHT NOW? Sitting at this damn table again. At this damn computer again.
I was on a walk today and decided to plan some massive trip through Europe to give me hope but then I realized there is little hope of it ever coming together. I would fly to England to see my family then hit up Paris, Sils Maria, Switzerland, Black Forest, Germany, and Berlin. I get these ideas every so often. I think I just want the fuck out of here but really I want the fuck away from this computer and this damn chair and this damn room. I want to hug a woman and smell her hair.
Most people will go "Whoa whoa" but the only thing that is not superficial in this picture are her breasts. Breasts cannot gaze. Breasts cannot smile or laugh.
It is really hard to find a picture of atopos. It is so original that it does not exist online. It has to be seen or experienced for oneself. It cannot be objectified or fetishized.
This blog is so weird. I treat it as if a good listener is listening to me but no one is listening to me. I am writing. There are viewers so someone is viewing but perhaps not even reading. This blog is a narcissistic pool of cess. There may be no hope for me. As I drift in and out of differing levels of depression. There is no Other. There is no Eros. There is only me and my self-obsession.
A good listener will not interject with judgement. A good listener will allow the speaker to talk themselves free. The white space is good for that. There is no solemn, understanding eye contact with the white space however. No quiet nod.
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We were all sitting around a dinner table and I was happily sitting next to a young woman I found quite fascinating. Not too fucking young. We were talking about Eastern philosophy and spirituality and she kept checking her phone. It was annoying. I don't think she could help it though. She was addicted to everything including my eye contact and voice including the buzzing of her phone. What a maddening place to be. I can not dismiss her for it. I don't even know what I was doing in that situation. She saw me as some wise sage and most likely just saw me as a friend with no hope of sexual relations. I was like her therapist more than anything. She is a sex addict. I respected that. I just liked being around her. She is an atopic Other that keeps me from depression. But I am so isolated I can't see her or others. I see no end to depression. Fatigue d'être soi. I am tired of myself. I am tired of being inside myself. Lurking in a mirky, solitary puddle of isolation and narcissism. ¡Te quiero A Numero Uno! Dónde estás?
I don't think proclaiming my love in my isolated, mirky puddle really does anything. I need to leave the puddle which is impossible. If I leave the puddle I could get Covid. . .
I'm drowning in a puddle. That is what depression is like.
If I could get a good feeling from drugs and alcohol I would. It is not an offering. The offering is off the table. It may sound crazy but that's the way it works for me. Now, there is a mental negotiation involved. The word but is involved. BUT I've never had a bad time on MDMA. BUT marijuana was never a problem for me. BUT I never tried shrooms and that has been proven to help alcoholism and depression in research. I just can't risk it ya know? Alcohol worked until it didn't.
I have to get the message to ContraPoints to read "In the Swarm: Digital Prospects." She must read it. I was going to get all crazy and send this message to her in every way I could find but I am depressed not manic. Or maybe Natalie is my atopic Other and my love for her has swung me into hypomania soon to be full blown mania. Yes, she is definitely from Mt. Atopos but for now seems to be comfortable on the Isle of Lesbos. Which is cool. I don't think I am "man enough" to have a sexual relationship with a transgendered woman anyway.
I feel as if I can talk myself free, here. Well, write myself free. But the good listener does not exist, here. There are only ghosts. As if I could ever achieve freedom, here. It is only chatter and fodder for ghosts. As reasonable as I think myself to be blogs are an emotive form. Blogs do not offer the expression or the paradise of a painting or even poetry. I attempt to think myself free, to write myself free. What it truly ends up being is narcissistic entanglement. My spirit cannot truly shine as I have not moved from this chair. There is no atopic Other in view. My spirit is dwindling. I need hearts like Link. I must find my Zelda. But this isn't a game. I am not a project. The earth rotates and will continue to rotate whether I am here or not. So, this blog is a contradiction. I am attempting to write myself free when that isn't possible on this platform. Is the illusion of freedom enough?
And I sit in this chair and I sit in this chair. I decay in this chair.
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I used to have 3 bookcases of all the books I read or rather all the books I had bought. I now have 1 bookcase that I will be minimizing soon. As well as my wardrobe. It feels good to edit things down a bit. I decided to go with some of Heidegger's later works rather than to jump into Hegel. I'd love to bum some Hegel courses for a year or so but that doesn't really exist.
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United States. Jul 20 2020 05:29. Posts 9043
