04/20/2021
[O]utside appearance, there’s night… there’s only the night — Georges Bataille, Guilty[1]
THE INEXPLICABLE PRESENCE OF MAN IS THE ANSWER THE WILL GIVES ITSELF SUSPENDED IN THE VOID OF UNKNOWABLE NIGHT — Georges Bataille, Guilty[2]
There’s the universe — and in the dead of its night, you discover its parts and in doing so discover yourself — Georges Bataille, Guilty[3]
Guilt arises in a zone of interference — Georges Bataille, Guilty[4]
The feeling of guilt is a renunciation by man — Georges Bataille, Guilty[5]
Awake at Night
I lay awake in my bed. It is 1 AM, I see the lightly gray colored sky, the pure solid black trees fill my vision. I turn to lay on my side. I lay here alone. This loneliness in the deep night is something new, though I’ve been experiencing it for four months. Almost every night when I was with them, we would fall asleep together. The night was a festival. Now the night is a barren desolate wasteland. Excess turned to lack. The night has no representation, which is why I feel lonely — I have no object of experience when it comes to the night. This is why in the deep night we have deep self reflection. Because all we have is ourselves, all things around us are dark, untouchable, unrepresentable, and ultimately unknowable. We fall into non-knowledge via anguish in the night.
I desire for them, but there is no object of desire because they are dead, or at least they are no more like they once were. Or, maybe I died…
Is Bataille right about the Phaedra complex? Seeing their face makes me want to vomit, but not because they aren’t desirable or attractive? Rather, is the opposite true? Seeing their face makes me want to vomit because they are desirable and attractive? Repulsion leads to attraction. Attraction leads to repulsion?
It’s in the Music
Music that is written not to be writing or sound but to be literature and passionate expression is truly divine. It makes me feel less alone in this world, because I know someone knows how I feel. Truly, nothing is more comforting than the voice of a stranger telling me my troubles in a more divine form.
Some music makes me cry.
Some music makes me want to die.
Some music gives me a high.
Some music makes me ask the question “why?”
Remember Nietzsche’s classic remark about the music and dancing to it? I do.
The music of immanence. The music of the real (I don’t know why I say this other than rhetorical reasons?).
Dance to the music of life that is the screams of the dead, the moans of ecstasy, laughs of sovereignty, and my cries.
The Will-to-Death
Philipp Mainländer is always an interesting theorist… I found him when looking for pessimists. I wanted RADICALITY, and I sure as hell found it in the most radical pessimism that is Mainländer’s. Is all action nothing but a movement towards death? Is action again just laceration? Laceration which reinforces the discontinuous ontology of the subject via marking that individual subject as individual, as isolated. Oh how it feels to be cut, it makes me cringe, my head shakes and I feel towards the top of my head.
An Exercise in Nostalgia
I enjoy going through files on Openev and finding random and interesting cards. I could do that if I wasn’t so orthodoxly Bataillean in my jargon.
Beauty of Annihilation
I strive for annihilation.
“Death is magic say abracadavre now” — Elena Siegman, Abracadavre
In the infinite labyrinth, I am lost in myself. I move like a zigzagging line, through infinity and nothingness. I lose myself. I lose myself. I LOSE MYSELF. The vocals of the music put me in an ecstatic state. CAN YOU HEAR THE MUSIC? DANCE WITH ME! My ears overwhelmed by the voices of devilish angels. I type on this keyboard like Davy Jones plays his organ, that is with the pain of loss in his mind, and the infernal rumblings of someone on the edge. I type and I instantaneously get close to crying, I cry so easily, expenditure par excellence.
The pain of loss, I cannot communicate it. Yet all my writings have been motivated to communicate this incommunicable experience. The non-knowledge of anguish is something that can only be understood once you have reached the summit of ecstasy (I reached the summit in just a single kiss).
They are the ghost which haunts me.
I feel like I’m constantly being watched by something. I am now paralyzed. I look down the hall and type, not looking at the keyboard (maybe just occasionally).
I care not for death anymore after those moments. Whatever abstract creature (this word makes me shudder) I make up in my mind wants to kill me, please do.
Bibliography
Bataille, Georges. Guilty. Translated by Bruce Boone. Venice, CA: The Lapis Press, 1988.
References
[1]: Bataille, Georges. Guilty. Translated by Bruce Boone. Venice, CA: The Lapis Press, 1988, 84.
[2]: Ibid., 78.
[3]: Ibid., 24.
[4–5]: Ibid., 136.
