I confess, I read books late at night far in excess of my chronological age. There is one I have loved who never loved me back. It is a refutation of those who I’ve stood with.
There are times late at night, I dream drunkenly of beaches and of palm trees at night, artifacts of the past. I live on my idealistic youth alone. It’s long past it’s expiration date. But years have passed and years will come before I give my final gasp; I still love her.
I haven’t seen her but for glimpse in five years. Likely I won’t see a glimpse again. I’m a coward…. I’m a realist! There’s no hope but in idle dreams.
I don’t want reality.
I want the poetic verses that never existed, I want sublime feelings that only exist in sheltered people yearning to break through, I want what only can be found in books no longer read, and the bottoms of bottles still yet to drink.
Days ago I passed a house I will never live in, except in my fantasies. There was a soundtrack played, as I imagined myself in the gardens, my fingers running through the ironworks, painted white, but rust showing through. Of grass and eroded concrete. It was as real as the guitar strummings in my mind! White linen suits and gatherings of people I’ll never know! I’m too poor for such follies.
I want a grand home. She’ll be there. I want sensations of things passing, of things not meant for people with calloused hands and minds like mine! It’s as a simple as a bossa nova. The sun burns my face because I work under it, not sigh on a lounge chair.
But that’s it, isn’t it? To live second hand in dreams? I’m not a corpse yet. I can still feel my hands, my feet, my heart… It’s stupid for one my age to be how I am. But it is what it is.
I love hopelessly. I age inevitably. The years pass by. I hear its slow music and I choose not to weep, but to dance.
There will be no one to respond. That’s life.

The picture you see at the top of this blog is of the Shinkansen pulling into Nagoya Station. It was taken in my first week of Japan during my teacher’s training. It seems so long ago. Years, but a blink of the eye in any way you look upon it.

Memories, I am deluged by memories.
No, not memories. That bespeaks of stories. Maybe they are stories. But above all else they are sensations. Impressions. I float through life living impression by impression. It doesn’t matter if it’s a picture of a train on a humid summer’s day, far away in time and place (and what is time and place anyways?) or the bubbles that trail through a freshly poured glass of beer. It all builds and folds into each other.

That’s what I want to tell you. That’s why I can’t keep putting things into boxes. The train, the beer, the opening bars of a song, the silk cravat around the neck…

The winds have picked up tonight and gust strongly. They blow within and without.

I have imagined countless future vistas that I did not write. I have visited the past on sleepless nights that were gone the next morning. Life is short, and that is reason enough not to do anything.

I drive daily to work. The same highway, the same time. I crave regularity, the tedium of rattling air conditioners and idle chitchat. It dulls the senses. But that’s not such a bad thing.

I live between tall green mountains I never climb and a blue ocean I rarely enter. On the other side of the mountains is a city I hardly visit. The idea of even traveling that far makes me anxious. Of all three I have memories, retold time and time again in my head. What need is there for new experiences?

To do nothing, nothing at all, is good practice. Just sitting, untold things spin out of my head; my self bifurcates and fractures, bits walking off to lead their own lives. The world outside and the world inside fold against each other, an endlessly moving tesseract. There’s no need to explain it to anyone, no point at all.

My intestines hurt. What is it about visceral pain that makes one turn their mind to all sorts of crankish social philosophy? It’s enough to stir even someone sunken into the deepest lassitude. Pain makes you not care that what you’re doing is a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy. It makes you relish your blatant thievery and your celebratory lack of originality. It’s all part of being a thoroughly bad person. Why am I bad? Because it’s the only recourse in a world where everyone is just so damn holy!

Yes, it’s a great world for holiness and the holy! Just showing your tits will get you on the quick list to beatification and canonization, where you can be *Our Lady of the Lantern Jaw* complete with t-shirts and laudatory television show guest appearances. God help you if you present like a baboon in heat; you’ll be the second coming! No, no, no. I am no prude. A prude is disgusted because they are secretly and shamefully aroused by the spectacle. I am disgusted because nothing arouses me anymore. But I digress.

So I come to it: The Neoreaction. It goes by other names, most of them rather juvenile “the Dark Enlightenment” which makes one think of teenaged goths cooking up a philosophy half Schopenhauer, half Bauhaus lyrics  in some suburban basement of Tempe Arizona. Even worse yet, “The Red Pill”, which strikes one as something someone who reads mostly movie novelizations (when they can be arsed to read at all) came up with while popping their pimples. Reheated secular gnosticism from someone who doesn’t even know what Gnosticism *is*.

Hah! Lest you think I’m being far too critical, I am not. I’m a failed academic, a disenchanted intellectual, who cleans toilets and empties dirt to eke out a rather meager and colorless existence in a back end town of a back end province of the Great American Empire. Just a little forgotten nook of their far-flung colonial holdings. Picturesque, but rather expensive and bereft of serious minded people. Let’s be honest: The Neoreaction is a creation of our times. We are an era that educates and provisions talented young men with everything they need to enslave themselves… or set themselves free. If there was enough opportunity, enough chances to carve out a meaningful and satisfying existence, there would be no Neoreaction. The Neoreaction is the creation of a generation of superfluous men who discovered their superfluity. Seeing what they were embedded in, they decided to go another route.

The other route? Well it depends on taste, I suppose. If you could, imagine a city. Not some orderly planned city of square blocks and superhighways, but a city built on cart-paths and only halfway modernized. All the roads squiggle and loop and intersect multiple times. I like to think this city has a certain Central European flair, where you can stand at an intersection and turn one direction and see buildings once looked on by Hapsburgs, turn 90 degrees and see a rotting block of Marxist poured concrete, and then turn once more and see a glistening skyscraper of mirrored glass and steel with a McDonald’s on the ground floor. We are going on a walking tour to find the neoreactionaries in our grand city. For if anything is true, the neoreaction is not seperate from the world but built into it, as an emergent entity. I wish to go through each and every avenue and comment at length at what we find, after all, I am a flâneur first and foremost. I am not a regular at any one spot. I am always just visiting. A word of warning: those looking for some sort rigorous sociological analysis, shall receive none. There’s already countless electrons spilled on that. Expect little in the way of inline citations. This is a dilettante’s impression. Savor it not as you would by going to a library, but as by walking through endless cafes and parks! How you live is far more important than the coherence and complexity of how you *think*.  

So I hope, anyways, my track record is not great for this sort of thing. In fact, one could say I always pick the worst possible time to do such things. But still, It seems like fun, a nice way of passing the time.

In ever more prosaic ways I slip into a torpor. My life is a period of episodes of disquiet, not worth recounting in way, shape or form. My youth a series of illuminations, gone and perhaps never to return. C’est la vie. If it comes, it comes. I can’t wait for it happen, nor conjure them into appearance by mere desire.

I live in a place where there are palms and pandanus. A life slowly being eroded by a global culture of capitalism and consumerism, or pop culture stretching thousands of miles, eroding everything in comes in contact with, annihilating dialects and traditional mores beneath it’s waves. If I can, my last gasp will be to build my own house. Like Mr. Biswas, perhaps. I will record what it is to be born at the end; to come of age just to see the last edifices tumble like sandcastles on the beach. The house will be built of words, constructed of every last memory and image distilled into the most precise concentration. As I sip shochu and taste cigar smoke, so shall I try to choose my words. It’s all nonsense, maybe. But, before I die that death in a rented room, working that pointless job, I will say it. As much as possible, I will try to breath it out of my fingers and head. It’s all I am good for at this point; telling stories. I can’t live in the manner of others. Not anymore. God damned me. I’m a writer. Fuck my life, I’ve got words to say.

I stand on the edge of the precipice, watching the waves hundreds of feet below. You need silence for stillness, for the emergence of novel ideas, new sounds, glory. Glory? Only the glory that comes with a flower blooming, a moth emerging from a cocoon, a wet rock that appears and reappears with the beating of the waves.

“Do you have it?”

I don’t know. It’s all so much, isn’t it? To want something you can’t put your finger on. I feel like I crawled from the ocean and scaled the cliffs, instead of hiking here from the roadside. There is pain. In my teeth and throat. Real honest to god pain. My teeth are worn and cracking and sometimes I think the coughing is the cancer that will kill me. When I stop moving, when the sensation and the tumult stops it’s still there, humming like the cities, the endless flow of humanity.

“It’s white noise.”

And this is half-baked mysticism. But it will do. It will have to suffice. For now, anyway. I don’t have the words to say it any other way… No, I’m not going to jump. I don’t have it in me to jump off a real cliff, or a metaphorical one. But I can try not to let myself be submerged.

I don’t post much anymore. I don’t play music much anymore, especially now since my room was burgled and some of my instruments stolen. I’m not even bothered much by this fact anymore. I should be honest. Utterly honest.

It feels like I’m losing the battle. What battle? The battle with what I suppose could be called depression. Not the sort of depression that is prescribed medications (though at times that old friend visits for a week or so). Is it ennui? Is it the long dark night of the soul? I don’t know what to call it exactly. It is the feeling of being insensate, a sleepwalker through life. Acedia, is what the monastics called it.


It’s been sitting heavy on my chest for over a year already, but it’s been lingering there for awhile… since I returned from Japan. I feel that I’ve accomplished all that I’ve been able to accomplish and all that remains is sitting in the waiting room waiting for my number to be called, while I smoke, sip tea and read books to pass the time.

I’ve not been able to admit it because it is antithetical to the online world I’ve immersed myself in, the niche of the “dark enlightenment” with its call to become a man of action in a world slowly spinning out of control. To admit apathy, to refuse to embrace a vital existence, to see oneself as distant from a passionate carving of one’s own self is to admit failure and surrender.

But I can be honest now because I’ve stopped caring what anyone thinks, and I don’t even really know what I want anymore. I’ve been estranged from everyone and everything for so long that being adrift seems like destiny…


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