So here I sit...

Thursday, 25 April, Year 11 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

Can you believe this is the first time the string "here I sit" occurs in the title of a Trilema piece ?

It seems to me so unlikely, throughout the years, troughout the thousands yet there's so many tritely banal everyday bits still untouched. It doesn't seem probable, yet it's very much the state of affairs -- most of everything that could be said hasn't been said yet ; nor likely will be. It's the necessary counterweight to ye olde "nobody knows anybody", I suppose. Conceivably I do a lot of sitting throughout each day of each year yet the statement's not really found expression as such, and certainly not for the usual cop-out of a "reason"i.

But, the girls are gone to the gym, the coffee's done, people are passing by, and here I sit. This weekend we're going clubbing, the lists are made, we'll be doing a cvasi-complete and definitely exhaustive radiograph of the Budapest BDSM and more generally nightscene. But that's not yet, that's starting tomorrow. Right now, here I sit... last night the girls practiced sucking my cock, the expert teaching the novice how to go about it, but... that was last night. Right now... right now here I sit.

Supposedly there'd be no trouble in the world if man could just sit quietly in a room. Here I sit, quietly as you like, and thereby claim my portion to the peace of the world at large : but for my sitting... I suppose this is the Pascalian justification of the living wage. If indeed peace is a good, and if indeed they who produce a good should have a share in its fruits, then therefore they who sit about should get something for their... lack of troublemaking.

I don't particularly want anything, which I suppose is why I'm sitting here in the first place. Of course if I wanted something I'd just call for it, most likely, but that's in the end neither here nor there. I suppose I could go into how nothing was fixed since last time, my solitude's just as dysfunctional as it ever were, ever as impotent as I recall from childhood. Barren, dry, bereft of anguish, of interest even, a fact unremarkable except for deliberate, culturally constructed, what-about-those-Jones driven interest. I hear it's a big deal to all sorts of people, and now and again I lick it, but it turns out I lick it like the overpowering feline licks the face of a subdued rodent. To enjoy its tears, to taste its fear, to experience vicariously feelings forever inaccessible, a mode of living structurally denied. Submission, for instance. Resignation. The acceptance of insufficiency, of inadequacy, of impending doom, of present, overpowering, overwhelming death. Personally and palpably present, like cat stands upon mouse, like cheetah stands upon antelope, so I stand upon solitude. There's really nothing there.

I won, again, another one of those battles. It happend some time ago ; I found out through the offices of some fascinated rando. It barely registered, and in the end what's there to register ? What ever was there to register ? Nothing, if frothy, but nothing nevertheless, throughout, and at no point but nothing at all ; and so it goes.

There's a pretty red dress going by, worn by a woman whom nobody ordered to wear high heels, and who consequently wastes her dress without. I can't be arsed, so many pretty, so much red, such plenty of women... I am sated, and content, and besides, the man who owns a gold mine isn't likely to go about combing the beaches and riverbeds for nuggets, pan in hand. Perhaps once in a while, for old time's sakes, I guess. Maybe next time. Likely not, to be honest.

The sun looks nice, though, I guess there's always time to go for a walk. I hope my plaintive missive finds you well ; a bientot!

  1. People like to pretend that the failure of expression is not truly a failure of expression, but merely a matter of choice -- supposedly they sorted the universe of representation (keks), and they sorted it by a measure no less, and so and so absent bit is absent because its cardinal wasn't high enough to qualify and not for any other reason. The sheer ridiculousness of this lunatic's viewpoint should be self-obvious, for which reason it is never observed, of course. Nevertheless -- the reason online communication fails to work isn't everyone's hallucinated choice in the matter.

    Rather, it's the simple fact that reality works immediately, whereas expression works mediatedly. For a cow to have horns there's nothing further needed than the very cow itself, the horns are immediately there once one has the cow ; but for a 3d model of a cow to have horns, the horns have to be put in. Until someone puts them in, the mediated cow's merely deffective, hornless.

    Just so with everything else : we're stuck not believing that before I said "here I sit" I never sat, because the burden of mediacy is so utterly staggering it simply can't be imposed upon he who must carry it. This in turn induces a rather difficult to navigate duplicity, whereby you'll readily believe me when I claim I had been sitting all along (and plenty of other things) even though I won't believe some other that he'd been doing who knows what since who knows when because "show me where you blogged about it". []

Category: Zsilnic
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7 Responses

  1. IMHO there's nothing wrong with sometimes spending a day listening to bird song, watching trees grow.

  2. Coming up next, "MP: oh, I spent a whole day not spending any money [by eating from the piles of stuff I bought the other days before]. Totally counts as being poor for a day rite."

    Some folks just have no fucking idea.

  3. Mircea Popescu`s avatar
    Mircea Popescu 
    Tuesday, 30 April 2019

    @Stanislav Datskovskiy Certainly.

    @anon Amusingly enough I think that's already a Trilema piece.

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