Chronicles of Infection [05/2011, entry ???]


Yes, you can stop rubbing your eyes already, it is true, it is reality, you are not dreaming, this is the latest, not-quite-greatest new blog entry from the Independent, Lyrical, Fantabulous Republic of Themzinistan, aka my brain on writing deprivation, time&reading surfeit and many other elements of disquiet.


No, this is unfortunately not a new Calvino novel but the m.o. I hope is similar/familiar: find a cozy spot in which to snuggle up in with your wi-fi capable laptop [or better yet, print these pages out, go old skool, use paper], tell your friends/co-op-comrades to either turn down the volume on the TV or kill it altogether, tell them you’re reading the new Themzini post, prepare and have at the ready whatever victuals you might need to read through these few paragraphs [a bottle of soda water, a cup of mokaXpress joe, a washed carrot, possibly a fruity-flavored yoghurt or a candy bar]. If you live in Switzerland let me ask you this: what do think of the chocolate-covered Farmers with little pieces of Apple? Pretty damn divine in my opinion. If you live in the USA let me ask you this: do you belong to those who love the sweet splendor of whatchamacallit but are perfectly aware of what a nutritional abomination it is? How it must be the most egregious caries-catalyst known to our species? If you live in Italy, I would suggest this: read this with a cold can of Lemon Soda, if not for yourself then at least for me. If you are a reader unfamiliar with Lemon Soda let me explain: it’s exactly what the name promises, lemony, as well as sparkly – add to this bits of lemon pulp and you get one of the best sodas, ever.

Put your cellphone in silent mode, no vibrations. Unplug your landline if you know what that is or even still have one. If you are feeling a bit tired, like I said, drink a coffee first or have a redBull or one of its equally effective and often better tasting surrogates. What I’m saying is: create a small bubble of space-time that cannot be popped by the distractions of modern-day living – with other words – get in the mood.

Or don’t. Tell an imaginary version of me to go fuck itself, write a comment below to that effect and, I would suggest, stop reading now and go do something better with your time. The time of our life is obviously ours to dispose of, nothing better in life than to do with it as one sees fit. As opposed to alienation. But that’s a different narrative.

I know, I know, I know. This is not the right way to start off a new blog, a heightened sense of expectation that is certainly going to be disappointed by the actual product. It is not good expectation management like trailers for Hollywood blockbuster movies. Those two and a half-minutes are 9 out of 10 times as good as it cinematically gets and watching them, at an innermost-core level, one knows this. One then goes to the cinema due to a masochistic impulse to have confirmed that the world can never ever live up to one’s expectations and that there is something irredeemably foolish about expectations/hope for a not even better but just different world. The trailer-actual-movie disparity is the template of postmodern pessimism, no doubt.

Whatever it is I write now will inevitably fall short of such a bombastic, grandilographic opening sequence. But I do feel committed to trying to rouse the spirit by way of words, the most abundant, most precious, most abused resource of the human spirit.

[The graphosphere, as vital as it is to our collective cultural survival, is becoming more polluted by the day with every online newspaper edition/entry. But this too is another, uninteresting narrative. It is most strange and bad magick: whenever I begin trying to write something I end up writing something quite different from what I intended to, even if I, eventually, obliquely always manage to backtrack from the tangent onto the main circle whose radius anyway is infinite.]


Again, I do feel committed to trying to lift our spirits by way of words, i.e. to evoke the feeling of my gaze first settling on the face I wish never again to be absent from my life, to recapture the emotional eruption one or two moments after President O was declared the victor, to make you feel that sudden and total lassitude that only ruminating on one’s own inexistence [not extinction] can sometimes bring on, to whisk you away on a speed-of-light, cotton-candy cloud of warm, fuzzylicious feelings, …, to ultimately stoke heart-rendingly unrealistic expectations that when shattered become a nostalgia for something…something what?… something lost, a moment jettisoned, a buoyant opportunity fumbled and forever lost at sea, in the Pacific of one’s life-gone-by.

I wish, I belatedly hope.

Since the last entry enough time has died to approach my topics of interest in a non-linear fashion.  

I have been thinking about keeping only a mental blog instead of writing everything out and analyzing it down to the most boring, only-interesting-to-me detail. Why would I do that? A jumbled, pointless, unjustified resentment due to not having a greater readership for which I alone, with my second-degree digital & PR illiteracy, I alone am responsible? Maybe partly. Though, on second thought, even a single caring reader will redeem one’s every effort!

Another part of it plays off of an idea I gleaned from C. D. J. [a talented & productive Swiss-Danish artist on the come-up] and which has passed through probably many a thinking person’s head: that in writing down your thoughts, ideas, emotions you are in some undeniable sense giving them away. I am commodifying some of my interior individuality and making it amenable for qualified [digital] mass consumption, rather than just soaking in the absurd juices of my inner existence without ever touching a key. Keep it all inside, let it condense, become stronger, grow deeper, then POOF! Cioran writes about this too. A mental blog for me would be trying to think hard and explicitly about a particular topic without the immense benefit of writing it down. I sometimes would even try to arrange these ideas into nicely worded sentences, printable lines, speaking them in the non-volume of thought and then, buddhistically calm or pervertedly masochistic, letting them glide into oblivion. The void. The mental blog’s entries would only have a brief existence before becoming shadowy memories. Often it is hard not to think that this is not ten or even a hundred times more dignified than a shitty layout, obscure blog. Like so. Which soon enough too will inevitably cease to exist. But then again it is hard to pretend not to be a foot-soldier of order, fighting entropy to one’s very last drop of blood.

Other topics have come to mind:

–       the experience of reading j. updike or more particularly “Rabbit, Run”, which is not the way I had imagined it at all [haven’t see almost none of the alleged cynicism, will wait&see though]

–       how the experience of reading e.m. cioran and f. pessoa relate and differ

–       how I was “ambushed” by a shippping of five fine books, two of them paperback, one Wallace, one McCarthy

–       about the existential unreliability of the Japanese ground and speculations on  fed-up/vengeful “mother earth” imagery

–       my baseless jetliner-into-building-block phantasms

–       the astonishingly nauseating reaction of parts of the US public to a human being’s death when that human being has been stylized into a minion of evil [i.e. the absolute other]

–       etcetera

After such a long time it would only be right for this entry to ramble on breathtakingly for pages and pages so that a pdf download would become the only sensible resort. It would only be right for a few of the above topics to be thoroughly elaborated the way so many topics before have been painstakingly analyzed.

But, but, but.

The two main themes here are exaggeration/frustration and the idea of the mental blog.

So thank you and goodbye, my dear reader.

[R.I.P O.B.L.]


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
This entry was posted in Everyday Polytricks. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Chronicles of Infection [05/2011, entry ???]

  1. Chrisss says:

    Book Suggestion:

    “Eleutheria” by Beckett. His first play. He hid it in a trunk for 40 years or something. I think it’s about what all his books are about: chilling to the max & uselessly.

    peace out

Reply disabled

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s