I've been writing in the conversationalist vein for about eight years. It doesn't seem like I can do much more with this style. Like a nagging injury I can't free myself of it.
I desire to convey existence. Thoughts, feelings, me. I'm not only concerned with removing the filter between words and what's ruminating through skull, I'm trying to remove the filter between the world of perception and experience and expression.

Certain facts appear obvious periodically:
Women perceive men in a real and palpable way which every heterosexual man reading this can understand: Look at another man.
End of fact. They see them exactly the same as hetero men. Just guys. Every once in a while you see some man, like Johnny Depp, and remark, "Gee, women must find him attractive." Other women are thinking exactly the same thing. That's why he's attractive, he inspires competition. A wealthy man, a rock star, artist, etc etc. inspire competition between women because of their very uniqueness. They also may say they like his broad shoulders or green eyes or cheesy smile. But this usually comes after she's determined her interest level. Women's only definate point of reference is other women's interest--the more girls in your harem, the more want to be there. When this is all boiled down (and I'm making a marvelous leap here) if there existed only two women and two men. The more attractive woman would be the one with the most aesthetically pleasing configuration of body parts and facial characteristics. The more attractive male would be whomever the other admires more.

Male attraction is much simpler. It's based on what we see.

Women will never know the furious, pulsating lust embedded in the visual world of every man. But then again, men will never know what it's like to bear children.

Standing in line. Massaging my bruised right thumb, a recurrent, nagging injury. Surrounded by The Crowd, each table its own hive swarming aimlessy in discussion.

I can feel the bone connecting thumb to hand fully. It occurs just then: I am merely a skeleton surrounded by mushy organs surrounded by flesh. I peer out at other humans, only to see them as skeletons too. Sitting, conversing, sipping, laughing, reading pontificating flesh-skeletons. The feeling lasts an instant and fades. It feels absurd to believe there is meaning in life. It feels even more absurd to take this bit of nihilist existentialism seriously.


apparently blogger did not miss my last two posts. Excellent comparison potentional between two attempts at describing the same event.

Nothing else, the well is dry.
Except this, the ultimate compliment for the 21st century: call someone a machine.


ladder fall [pass 2]

Fell off a ladder today. Blogger lost my first entry so this one will doubtless be of indifferent quality.

about 20 feet up the side of a house, the ladder fell straight backwards--I fell straight down, spilled paint and was left straddling the prone ladder shocked and bemused.
No injuries to speak of. Although the crew seemed convinced that I was hurt.

I felt precisely as one feels just after and auto accident--shocked, amazed, disbelieving, intense, high, and anxious.
Furthermore, the sensation of falling straight down was tremendous: so sudden, so shocking and surreal yet verisimilar.
Far from being frightened, I was chuckling and felt a rush of adrenaline which was rather enjoyable.

From what I can tell, there is no discernible meaning or purpose in life: Therefore I've never been able to justify why one should continue to live. We're all going to die sooner or later. Why not sooner rather than later? But, one also cannot justify why NOT to continue living. Why not later rather than sooner? I can't even justify the question, except to know that I've asked it.

Alas, death is our ineluctable fate. It's where the the collective is headed. I would much rather it be a parade than a procession. I had a (very small, perhaps dried up with no paint) brush with death today and it wasn't frightening, but pleasantly exhilarating.

In summary, the experience of falling was so intense and vital, that within minutes of the incident I came to this precise conclusion:
The next time I fall gloriously from a ladder, I wish to expire upon landing.

Of course, I don't intend to ever fall again--that would be suicide, which is unjustifiable.

The ladder slipped backwards while I was elevated about 20 feet. The top of the ladder slid straight down the house and I landed on the ground, straddling the rungs. Only minor damage to the window frame and some paint spill on the house. I was perfectly fine.

Adrenaline injected through my nerves and affected me almost like a drug--for a moment, all I could do was stand looking at the fallen ladder as others came to my aid. They were sure I was hurt, despite my contention that I was absolutely fine. They disagreed, and told me to walk around and see.

The feeling conformed in every detail to how one feels after an auto accident. Shocked, in disbelief, intense, relieved, amazed, anxious and high.

The sensation of falling was enjoyable enough that I feel as though the price was well worth the raw emotion and consequences(some wasted paint, embarassment[only minor], and fear).

I've never been able to find, ultimately, any definitive meaning in life, and therefore unable to justify why anyone should continue living. For the same reasons (or lack) that I cannot justify living, nor can I justify suicide. Alas, ineluctably, I must one day die, and because it was so intense and enjoyable, I've resolved that next time I experience such a glorious fall, I would like to expire upon landing.

Of course, I do not intend to fall off of a ladder ever again.