winter in st. john's

These craggy cliffs and rocky shores and battered winding roads
the screaming gulls and screaming winds and harsh atlantic prose
the wistful frozen bleakness of this lonely island town
the icy mournful waves reaching for what will not be found



reflects too accurately the part of my soul i want to leave behind.

i wont miss this gorgeous haunting place.

spspspspspring

i think i've narrowed the trigger down to the sound of water dripping from rooftops, running through the streetside gutters, the sweet scent of dirt and gravel and dried grass released finally to seep into the mutating chilly air. the perilous ice is gone and we regain the feel of our footing on the hard dry earth again.

i missed that friction between me and worldly things, hot and rough and tangible. spring is like a stimulant drug in me; it makes my brain buzz around like a bee in a jar, makes me feel like the world is mine.

and why shouldn't it be mine?

RIP objective meaning

Sometimes when I'm alone I make tea and I read philosophy excerpts out loud. I pretend I am in an 18th century coffee shop in europe speaking passionately in mixed tongues at a table filled with great minds. Yesterday Spinoza told me that there was no such thing as contingencies and that everything existed only out of necessity. God is everything and he exists only because existence is his essence, and everything that had ever occurred and ever will occur only happens because that's the only way it can happen. Our will is not free. I loved the simplicity of this idea, but Francis Bacon then cautioned me to be most wary of what I found most appealing. The human mind loves ideas that are easy to imagine and understand, and truth to many people is a means to be able to live contently, and not an end in itself.

Philosophy murdered my sense of objective meaning cruelly and thoughtlessly and now I'm trapped deep in this existentialist pitfall where nothing is more meaningful than anything else and everything is ultimately pointless and there's no higher power and no rythm and no reason and no pattern behind the chaos, just chance and madness and hangnails.

it's not so bad though. it just means that instead of searching the world for the true meaning of life i thought i knew i was sure i believed existed, i make my own meaning. i make it from scratch, with my sheer character, with ideas that i find lying around my head under couch cushions, with paperclips and odd buttons and elastic bands, i will make something great with what i have, like how McGuiver does it.




reading philosophy is like chasing wild geese
that are invisible and can throw smoke bombs.

understanding the universe is like licking your elbow
neither of which I have stopped trying to do