Tildan I can't escape it. I'm more aware of the underlying fell nature of so many things more than ever.

Do other people feel this way? That everything is disgusting and covered in grot.

When I don't think about it, when I ignore it its fine. I can eat and kiss and touch and smell without palpitiation. But its so hard not to be driven by it, like an itch inside my head. I shower and shower and I never feel clean - the water is tainted the tiles are tainted.

I go out into nature, but the trees are tainted by me. I'm no aesetic.

I only find solace in the aesthetic.

Maybe thats why I'm making myself into a designer - the simple beauty of type, the gelatin print's exact nature, the straight edges and the clean prints are all safe.

Maybe thats the attracton of on e. Everything is clean. Or rather, everything is dirty, but taint free.

I fuck, and swallow my bile.

I eat, and think about robots and inergalactic warfare to keep it down.

It powers so much of my jealousy. The issue is more than betrayal. It has a lot to do with the taint - I can put it out of my head long enough to stomach a girlfrend, but if they're fucking around, its like I'm fucking a hundred strangers covered in filth.

So I wash the taint of sleep off and I tear my grotty stubble off and I douse myself in sickening deoderant. And I'm no less putrid, but I guess I'm hygenic, which is supposed to be good.

And I suffer my way through all the shit in the world, aware of it until I can't struggle to stay awake anymore.
gelfling won't 020728
blown cherry and neither will anyone else in here 020728
Tildan won't what? 020729
Blake with matt finish eyes I don't understand - there are levels of taint and untaint in my head, but I can't identify them; I can't isolate the problems. Just some things seem to make me go insane, while others don't. I thoght it was about this, but as soon as I admitted that to myself, it was about something completely different. 020818
I dont expect a crystal ball and he won't tell me still.
I hate that. Hate it.
But if you won't give me the choice then what am I to do but bury the anger and hurt and hope it doesn't fester.
A case of forget, not forgive.

but I thought this was different.
Ascolo 209. Damnosa hereditas. All philosophers suffer from the same deficiency, in that they conceive in the ideals of 'truth,' 'purity,' or 'justice,' or even more questionable- 'beauty,' what is good, and think that they can arrive at their goal of an honest and genuine life by analyzing these. Instinctively they let their ideals hover before them as a laureum baculum gesto, a proof against all dangers, and a precaution against all spiritual corruptions. Yet, in precisely as this holds, it will be easy enough to make out the fact- that these noble 'analyses' of life are merely philosophical justifications of particular ways of living, philosophical confessions of particular ways of experiencing or receiving- life: like great suns do these ideals bestow verdure and solace, and do they relieve one of his dependence upon guilt and shame, or with a noble 'ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?' are all mortifications and disgrace even prevented to lay down unto the summer's flowerbeds.

Yet, where the intense power of the nose can no longer discern the good impetus as such because it has become too noxious, in other words, too overbearing, and aggrandized; because it has become an ideal- for instance, in the figure of the saint, and in his inhuman or rather all-too-human purity and solitude; in the same way that a handful of cinnamon merely infuriates the sense of smell rather than imparts its usual and magnificent hints and hues in something that has been baked with it, man posits the realm of evil and ill-will. The feeling that we have entered upon the realm of malice excites through this ambiguity, this ultimately fantastical irritation, all those impetuses which had been previously made indiscernible by the good impetus: all of the tensions which arise in the desire for purity or for greatness, in the defiance of all things human- that is required to achieve it. Eventually those indiscernible impetuses are transformed into temptations: but, in the great man himself, they are transformed into virtues.

O paltry Aristo! Does this not mean; to imagine that the insuperable, the invective relationship of a truly noble figure with ourself is his essence and most essential being, and to assert that the saint, or in a more general sense, the great human being, is capable of himself only of that which he has transformed in us? And does there not repose behind this veritable moria our own ergo hercule: that, because the good is measured according to this virescit vulnere virtus, this insufferable gulf which arete opens up in us, we ourselves have been condemned to constituting evil! Is that our punishment? That even our greatest suns must bleed out into a bad conscience.
what's it to you?
who go