Feb 2nd--The Philosopher of Hub-Bub Begins

I want to carve out a space where untimely crickets can play and brood and watch and swim… a space far out from the boundaries of misgivings and chance, outside of the persistent call to labor, call to responsibility and call to stand up. A place away from wild goblin creatures shedding doubt and ruining us with their lies cheats and “told you so’s”.

Somewhere in the back of mind a flute player whistles out a tune, a water nymph hums out a sacred and ancient hymn that’s been playing since the time of our birth, before our birth—no one can hear her—our ears aren’t ripe for the sound anymore.

It’s awfully hard to hear anything when you’re confined to your destitute house of boxes and rectangles—shaped in the fashion of our wants—that is confinement, refinement, estrangement, “in check,” in accordance—straightened. The boxes over time creep around your eyes and fingers, working their way to your bones until they ultimately surround your pumping heart, until even that isn’t your own. You’re just a plasterine figurine beating to the drum of larger mindless forces going in no particular direction, with no particular intention in mind.

Fucking drones. All I see with my boxed in eyes are fucking drones.

I wouldn’t say that youth was lost, but rather humanity—the inner spirit labeled devil and all goes to shit. And believe me it’s shit—those cubical monstrosities you call a home, your workplace—it’s a dirt heap called 20^th century slavery: some more prosperous than others—a tribute to your disillusionment. Drive through any city and you’ll see it—mounds and mounds of cubic nightmare… boxes and boxes of overpopulated regurgitation—blocks and blocks of habit forming impudence.

Such a display of tumerous growth I suppose has its beauty. Yeah, I suppose, in certain moods and certain lights I’m in awe of such an accomplishment. To reflect on Man’s ingenuity crystallizing into such engineering with no particular engineer is something –how a mountain of steel and concrete could materialize is akin to a seedling sprouting into fruition. It raises the question of a cosmic creator, a purpose, a plan. But this plan has nothing mysterious about it—it comes about from need and desire--and I suppose the only thing that makes the outcome tolerable is the imaginations behind whatever brought it about—that amazes me. But the motivation, the source of strength for most the drones involved saddens me. But enough of that shit. Call it the greater setting of this journal—cubeosity, somewhere in cubeosity I was born.