It's impressed upon me more and more these days that life is the phenomenal side effect of reproduction, and like all side effects and side alleys and detours, fuller of riches than the main way, choked as it is by liars and charlatans, pandering to their biology with selfish moans, until they seem in their ultimate inevitable predictability to give birth to an infinitesimal and tiny orgasm, and, falling back disappointed, still claw at each other like plaster saints, like dying lovers in renaissance pictures, seeking some crumb of consolation from already cooling flesh, flesh that they see, already, crumbling and becoming dust, flesh that they see too readily was a nameless mass, a commonplace abode for an immortal soul, and not worthy of a word or of any effort. They have tricked themselves into love.
How many things are seen for what they are but not named. How often does the heart lie. How unceasingly do we deceive ourselves and invent language games to bypass the hole at the heart of life. We sometimes clearly see, but are always afraid to name, the void at the heart of life, the worm in the apple, the empty space in the middle of pleasure.
At night I'm profoundly emotional, tender, and full of serene regret, wondering at symbolic meanings of empty windows and streetlight. Alcohol opens up a metaphysical void for me, and leaves me strangely determined. It seems to me that I begin to see things in their true light, and how inconsequential they are. A door handle, that, sober, I would placidly turn, now seems like the merest dross, that I must reject, and batter out of my way, mere gross matter, and in every thing, only that, a turning to face sordid matter, concrete, streetlight, window-frames, masonry, all the monuments that man has built to his suffering, all the fucking utilities that he had blindly made to surround his wretched pissing and moaning. I see them in their true light, and cast them from me, painfully conscious of the time I have wasted in acquiring such rubbish.
I want something else, not petty matter, not petty orgasms, but things of the soul, the summit of some tremendous pyramid, made of spirit but clothed in matter, the pinnacle of some triumphant ideal, that one can sometimes achingly find, at last, in the arms, in the hair, in the mouth, on the thighs, between the legs perhaps, of some symbolic woman, standing in, as it were, for the ancient goddess that in the bronze age we all paid obesiance to, standing in for the symbolic muse, becoming the flesh in spirit, the spirit in flesh, and myself, the godhead, the drunk, completing the Trinity and granting myself absolution from the sins of the material world