Love is everything, a practical and passionate force. We should get rid of its bad connotations. It is essential to enact it as something strong and true. I feel that love should make itself known in the world like a rain of bombs, like a burst of shrapnel. I want to overturn authorities and stamp them in the dust not from spite but from love, love solidly embodied.
I want to become the agent of love, expressed as danger.
I call myself the enemy of fashion, of cynicism, of corruption, of post-modernism as a world-view and philosophical stance, of trivia. The antidote to all of this: the power of the individual, the strong feelings of the mass, love expressed through destruction.
(These thoughts are for K.S. 13/2/83-2/9/08)

What i want out of life is freshness, and to look on the world with loving eyes. I want to understand nature and then comply with it, that is, to do what is natural. But first i feel i have to understand the messages of nature, interpret her language in a way relative to me, so that my life can be enacted like a sweet gift, a natural progression, and not a loathsome burden. I want to be natural and self-assured.
I want to embody love as a living force, passionate and raw, not simpering and delicate. To harness destructive forces in order to love more fully is to me imperitive. I want to turn my love into a frenzy, to totally exhaust myself, and thereby know that i am fully alive. Destruction and love are to me related concepts.
I want to destroy.... in order to create. The contemporary world is absolutely loathsome and empty to me. I reject it because it cannot contain me. I believe that people should take power. Anger and violence directed up the class scale, from the bottom upwards, is to me the only legitimate and relevant anger. I will never again battle against people in the same position as myself.

I take the whole thing as an absurd joke. What i want out of life is an end to bullshit. I want to burn away the trivialities in my life and leave the essentials, the good and wholesome things, things felt and communicated naturally and honestly.
This is the task of increasing numbers of people.
I come remember from solitude and frenzy. My pride and constant companion: mortality.
The present tense becomes the past. I like becomes he liked. The fear of being forgotten. To love becomes to have loved. and so on.
Hence the endless recurrence of the same hideous traps, that despite myself i fall into.

And yet to admit of doubt, and doubt is the only real constant in everything i write or will write, even if such a language could exist, would the end result be interesting or instructive? And since our starting point is zero, a blank state, not interconnection but the gut instinct for connection cut off, refuted, how on earth can another soul be reached, be made to know?
Every case of conversion requires a certain brainwashing, and every "success" is of his nature, through the mere mechanism of being known, bloody-minded and predatory to the point of seeming abhorrently vulgar, tasteless. Insistence on superiority of a product, in an age which adores marketplace competition. The fact is that in rejecting all this you reject teaching and learning and a chance at connection, in words and opinions. In rejecting the marketplace you reject wider communication.
My messages can no longer be bright, cheerful, fresh, stylish, can no longer be attractively clad in novelty, like a nice, gleaming product, or even a nastily gleaming product. Maybe my product is unpalatable, maybe my messages are uncomfortable...
So here we have it: everything i write runs down to one thing; a wordless state, a pre-verbal act, a voiceless condition. Following the trail till the trail ends.

I think really that a new word or a whole new language must be invented for what i begin to feel. The old words seem empty, every one a cliche, as if to use them would condemn me, for immediately i'd be entangled in their morass of associations, their web of images. Not lively images, but rather blank, stale tableaux, arising out of mental lethargy.
But what i experience now, and for what it's worth this is an attempt to express it, is not a mere absence of fullfillment but something rounder, deeper, more intense and more tangible, more felt and expressive, making itself known insistently. Coming from all points of the compass at once, and occupying the whole sphere of what i call my life. To mention specific maladies would be misleading, as the root of each would only lead back to a greater cause, the main event, the prevailing curse of which i intend to speak. All problems are interconnected and together make a thriving sort of bacterial community which constitutes the self.
What's needed is a new language which takes as its first principle non-connectedness, seperation, emptiness. A language built in every case on the mutual cancelling-out of hope and despair. A sophisticated and useful vocabulary of feeling, with everything taken into account. Not dependent on the truly primitive semantic notion of opposites: espoir and desespoir.

The bitter arrogant souls of humankind, their unfulfilled potential! Too many of these pink fleshy probes wandering around through the city streets and in their precious cars, old-faced drunks sniffing in bedrooms, happy old ladies in bingo and memories and shopping bags, the billion upholders of the status quo, the thoughtless myriad throng waning and weeping in night and day, drunk kids laughing manically in blood-filled electric lust, all of them creeping like ants to their pre-ordained destinations, with thoughts of TV sex music food alcohol, all the yuppies of forever in clashing restaurants, and the students! Bloody, yapping, dumb little students light-headed and laughging at nothing, wet behind the ears, arrogantly ill-at-ease, stupidly relaxed and all-knowing. The cabdrivers and their fuck-witted tearful partners in dives and hotels, all the junkies in their cavelike abodes, the fat pox-ridden prostitutes with mean faces and abortions, the swish restaurateur with his new silken tie, the punk girls at streetcorners plotting some vacant doldrum, the brain-dead casual boys frozen in a violent stillbirth, the craggy-faced oldsters in caps and pathetic solitary meals. All of them asleep, awake, fighting, fucking, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, crying, till every activity becomes the same thing, every sound merges into the same neutral, high hum of life, and even the death cries and weepings of bereavement contribute to the constantly-swelling symphony, until finally the great sound, the great protest produced by all this humanity, becomes the same tone, huge, sublime, grotesquely beautiful, a soaring panicy spasm of the collective voice... It flattens out into the hush of the cosmos itself, as understated and calm as the distant sound of waves on the shore... And there's your communication, in which you are enmeshed and enmerged, and in which every protest you make becomes a newer tremor of its ultimate failure.

Every face turned away from every other face, coldly in their respective rooms. I sometimes wonder if even the luvvy-duvvy couples smooching on parkbenches can understand each other in even the remotest way, i wonder if such an understanding is possible. Or is it just the cold collision of alabaster statues accidentally, cold marble on cold marble, frigid flesh and heartless clay.
At moments of clarity like these i realise that my friends and companions are not just few in number, but that they are non-existent, that i am a lonely speck lost in a sea of lonely specks, each of us anguished and confused, bumping into one another, stumbling, mumbling, but never once communicating anything worthwhile. It's as if i go out in the morning onto the street and find it filled with plastic shop-window dummies who at intervals drop electronic, pre-programmed words from their frozen mouths, their eyes locked-in on something far away and hopelessly artificial. Their human souls have been swept away or lurk frightened within them, as does mine.