Tuesday 16th December 2003

Ladies and gentlemen, finals week is over for Our Hero.

The Dude abides.

posted by antimAtt @ 17.17 (gmt+0000)
to /happiness/hatelife

Sunday 14th December 2003

"i think they caught the wrong person. the man from the day when the airplanes hit the biuldings in new york, his name was ladan. i think because they are from different countrys someone got mixed up."
-My First Journal [http://www.hatelife.org/s/189553]

The incisiveness of children can break my heart.

Topavia, tell her she's smart. If I have kids I want to have one like her.

posted by antimAtt @ 18.54 (gmt+0000)
to /happiness/hatelife/meta


I'm transparent and opaque at exactly the wrong moments [aside]. Ditto honest and deceptive.

I forget.

I tout myself as infinitely patient, but in reality I can never wait.

I'm perfectionist to a fault. [segue]

"I'm like a chocoholic, but for booze." [http://www.theonion.com/]

I waste time. For example, I spend too much of it whining to you ridiculous people about my flaws.

I'm a child, but not in the ways I wish for.

posted by antimAtt @ 18.46 (gmt+0000)
to /hatelife/unhappiness

transcription of organ music

Transcription Of Organ Music
-Allen Ginsburg

I began to feel my misery in pallet on the floor, listening to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.

The room closed down on me, I expected the presence of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and ceiling, they contained my room, they contained me
as the sky contained my garden
I opened my door

The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had arisen
to think at the sun

Can I bring back the words? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye?

The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing among them
The privilege to witness my existence—you too must seek the sun…

My books piled up before me for my use
waiting in space where I left them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use—my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
I saw the red blossoms in the night light. The sun is gone. They had all grown, in a moment, and were waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them…
Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
I am so lonely in my glory—except they too out there—I looked up—those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the window waiting in blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive—all creation open to receive—the flat earth itself.
The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
The Father is merciful.

The light socket is crudely attached to the ceiling, after the house was built, to receive a plug which sticks in alright, and serves my phonograph now…

The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open. The kitchen has no door, the hole there will admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen. I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gratuitously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Provincetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me if I wished to enter.

There were unused electricity plugs all over my house if I ever need them.
The kitchen window is open, to admit air…
The telephone—sad to relate—sits on the floor—I haven't got the money to get it reconnected—
I want people to bow as they see me and say he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of the Creator.
And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning for him.

- - -

Once, I thought that Ginsberg wrote poetry by pulling words from a dictionary. It pissed me off that this drivel could be called poetry. Then I read it in an altered state of consciousness. It's like Blake said. We see through a glass, darkly. If the doors of perception were opened, we would see things as they are: infinite.

posted by antimAtt @ 13.03 (gmt+0000)
to /hatelife

Saturday 13th December 2003

there's one thing I love to do and I know I'm not the only one so don't deny it

Chewing Jell-o is retarded. Any beast can chew a colloid. Swishing Jell-o, on the other hand, is unquestionable evidence of an advanced intellect.

posted by antimAtt @ 22.16 (gmt+0000)
to /happiness/hatelife/silliness
with no tags

The saddest thing in the universe is a student pigeonholed into studying on a Saturday night, when he could very easily NOT be studying on a Saturday night. Finals week is lame, kids.

posted by antimAtt @ 19.16 (gmt+0000)
to /hatelife/humans/meta/unhappiness

Thursday 11th December 2003

Am I the only person in this post-Matrix world who gets freaked out by seeing Hugo Weaving in The Lord Of The Rings?

"Welcome to Rivendell, Mister Bagginson. We .. missed you."

posted by antimAtt @ 22.03 (gmt+0000)
to /entertainment/hatelife/silliness
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