… Secret life, like under water. Also in these lines. Or in that, what speaks from them.
This kind, with which I have been living in a buffer for years (the digital column) wants to be half visible, on the other hand, he wants to remain missing. A bit like a ghost driver, which has not yet been discovered, but gradually established: And, shit, I steered in the wrong direction. There could be a bang soon.
Exhausted and tired, what there are no words for, because annoying, acknowledge fatigue.
3h needed, one 45 % these thoughts, here, One way trip, marionroad, to kick out, at last. Since 2017 my external life has come to a standstill. Since I continued this diary digitally in the buffer between myself and the outside. That was, when it finally knocked me horizontal, after twenty years of semi-horizontals. And contrary to the excessive ivory tower, in which I had been romping around until now, A thin front window came loose. Just a bit of wind, A delicate breeze penetrated the walls from outside, strangely at the time, as I headed towards the greatest ME-induced isolation.
Seeing myself with a new look; I, that I had only understood myself from the inside, back then, According to als. But at least completely. Complete and different. As if I had—- Woman of the Twentieth Century— a right to specialness—had— as if being a woman could somehow excuse the illness, rehabilitate, lift—– Not? This tiredness, the terrible exhaustion that the body causes in me. Creating the conditions for new life every month, tear off, restore, crumble, build up. Even now, where I am gray and me, – Beauvoir – The woman should therefore be the kind
receive, and for that it needs continuity, it receives the flying sperm, etc. of the man, who puts himself into the world’ and blah–
but she could also have desired it? This woman, I mean? Go and really desire …?
Abe ok. I have my period, and I can't think about it for seven days. Everything has to be excused, what defines me, for thirty years. Extrapolated, that amounts to many years, in which I cannot think. But in the overall perspective, e.g.. From another planet, that's a laughable comment. (Or from Gaza.. No, I shouldn't have thought/said that.)
So kicked out. I have almost half of the entries from marionroad. Reduced by 1500 entries 700. But maybe I'll reduce further. Maybe, I think, I can go down gradually. So, like I did in “Disappear”, Manu, did for years. So I reduce further. Approximately up 100 pages, would be an idea. 100 Pages correspond to a slim novella. Not a sentence too many. Or reduce further, from 100 on 50 from 50 on 30, from 30 on 10 etc. Then there would be headlines. I mean, How often do I think?, I could keep painting, compact– let the entropy grow in one direction, then into the other. Dizzying point that circles around the void like a fly.
Life really has no essence anymore, when the thing between a woman's legs becomes a source of shame. ( Well, So I read Houellebecq again. Him, whom I gave a cactus to at a reading almost fifteen years ago. Who, as an old man, now imagines the world as a surface full of young millions of pussies— Pussies, all of which he/the white old man should be entitled to. I loved Houellbecq, back then, when no one knew him. For none of the reasons, from which they now make a clown out of him. But for his deeply touching humanity, his depressive misery, though— and that's why his first novels were the best—- but, as I said— what I actually mean is, that I also understand him as an old white woman, grad. As an old white woman, whose fate of lonely drunkards he still describes in a shocking and sweet way in his 'Serotonin'.
————- oh, Good————— ‘woman’s love is a tectonic miracle’—– That's what Houellbecq said, the sexist—- Now I remember Beauvoir: our gonads have a neutral common ancestor—
then in chapter two the man's body became a man. The woman's body becomes a body in a woman, which is a body. (Beauvoir).
I mean, marionroad, I've put these lines in the cache here, because I lived anyway, was still there. Even as a cripple. But I haven't done my silly little job yet. And that brings me back to Romand, the imposter, back. He fascinated Carrere. Because there is a surface, a thick carpet of conformity– and an abyss—- I was also concerned with the truth of it. (when I could think a little bit, in the middle of my cycle). Is it just a kind of approximate value ….? The truth? I thought, and! I also want to go to the surface now, because no one is downstairs with me; Underwater. Except one, which also took place on 31. December 2024: “Our own history has outlived us.” –
“But why have you never conquered a woman again?, since me? Of, the whole body …. You think I'm a generalizing black and white painter. Hi and. I like you very much. But look, it's pointless. We are even more undesirable as a couple than we are alone. This is how we stand in the world. That was our constellation. Unsexy. The two of us are still doubly rotten photo albums. My most loyal one, I'm suffocating.’
And, but, he simply knew and knows too much about me! Of the, which became history with me!!!!!
To December 2024: But it was the acquaintances, in whom I also saw this loyalty. When someone waves at you, waves and waves goodbye in the door, it still upsets you. Like a dishwasher, your emotions rotate, these fake ones, double real, beautiful baroque pearls. Grandsi and Grandpa always waved to us with this genuine loyalty. Solange, for an infinitely long time — back then—- until we disappeared behind the last tree on the block— They knew, what we didn't know: inside inside, There is finitude in their bodies— it pulsates slightly —–
not knowing about the huge frame of infinity, drum yesterday.
But: the ignorance, Unable to grasp—– it urges.
The loyalty of an old friend, that rings every Christmas at the panorama control room. The intimacy of a sister, with which one dealt in crises, Clay vessels shattered. Standing there again like the damned ones, blessed blood relatives, as if it were easier to stand by one another in old loyalty. (and, but goodness, I also wanted to merge into new things.
Coming home to Sickhouse is too: come home to the buffer. The vacuum I created.
.