'Paradise? But, like, I already know what that means. Everybody does.

'Do share, daughter.'

'A perfect place. A place of peace. Without hurt. Without sic— a good place.'

The Familiar, p. 86

We are all our own conditions.
Accompanied by our own (im)(p)alements.
Victims of sicknesses we inextricably are.
The hiccups we can't miss.
The viscous we can't lick.


Me? I'm deeply allergic.
Not just to the air, the dust, the pollens of both plants and animals.
I'll sneeze at the lightest provocation, even after I've prepared.
I'm sensitive.
I'm hyperallergenic. Or at least,
I have been.

Not just the dusts, though, that flip beneath the cracks in in my exterior,
that lodge themselves distinctly in my orbs and openings.
That's not all that makes me balk.
No, for way the heck too long, I've been allergic to...
almost life.
Otto Rank calls it "the thwarted artist," or maybe that blurrier term,
distended by a century,

I'll open up here, all right? But only if you promise not to judge me.
This is a safe space.

If we compare the neurotic with the productive type, it is evident that the former suffers from an excessive check on their impulsive life, and, according to whether this neurotic checking of the instincts is effected through fear or through will, the picture presented is one of fear-neurosis or compulsion-neurosis. With the productive type the will dominates, and exercises a far-reaching control over (but not check upon) the instincts, which are pressed into service to bring about creatively a social relief of fear. [...]

The neurotic [...] is generally regarded as the weak-willed type, but wrongly so, for their strong will is exercised upon themselves and, indeed, in the main repressively so it does not show itself.

And here we reach the essential point of difference between the productive type who creates and the thwarted neurotic; what is more, it is also the point from which we get back to our individual artist-type. Both are distinguished fundamentally from the average type, by their tendency to exercise their volition in reshaping themselves. There is, however, this difference: that the neurotic, in this voluntary reshaping of their ego, does not get beyond the destructive preliminary work and is therefore unable to detach the whole creative process from their own person and transfer it to an ideological abstraction.

So there I've been, for the most part of the last century. I mean decade. I knew what it was like to be a productive artist-type, and then a series of disorienting events and a lack of broader experience on my part shifted me strongly away from productive ego (if possibly over-eager) into a self-destructive psycho-pattern of my own hated reinforcement.

Oops! I forgot my
line breaks.

Too much control over your impulses,
you enter the realm of the neurotic,
never acting,
never trusting yourself to act.
Too little control, and you veer into
the unrealm of the psychopathic,
where most teenagers spend at least a little time.
Certainly most kids.

The neurotic is the totemic Sein,
by which I mean -feld,
(hooooooooly smooooookes haha,
Seinfeld und Zeitfeld!)
by which I mean sign, by which I mean
a pretty handy way of thinking about modern humans under our
technobabbulent-fascist, corpulent-capitalist, winner-fakes-all
Best Western society,
"We'll leave the light on.
... and that's all we'll leave on,
because it helps us see what you're doing,
and also it's gonna cost ya."

We have to keep such a tight reign on ourselves,
no wonder there's such a libertarian-baby boom,
while wielding unmarked guns... baby-shakers... etc.

So, anyway, neurosis. Tearing down as the foundation of building something new,
and as an artist you have to build/grow yourself, first.
Become your own soil.
But I let my confidence be so eroded that
the only part of the process that could take place
was the clear-cutting.
I'm only hesitantly out of that clearing.
Stepping delicately back into the forest of lively action.
I've avoided art, avoided parties, avoided doing much of anything at all.
Avoided trying, for fear of flying only too briefly.
When really
each flight's just a flap. Then another. Then a coast. And a song.

This is one of my sicknesses. The sibilant neurosssiisssss
that says, "What if you fail? What if you're embarrassed?
Better not to begin, but also never to abandon the possibility of beginning,
so that every moment is a torment of what I wish I was doing
while hardly doing anything, especially that."

It's a fear, in a certain way, of misspeaking.
Especially as it applies to things like this, like the forums,
like a chance encounter with an admired personage
toward whom you would like to spill countless diatribes,
to fill fountless cisterns of questions unwished for.

Or even a friend,
who even though distant,
is certainly nearer than most.
But to whom the fear of sounding foolish
makes me a pre-emptive


I read Xanther's description of Paradise.
A good place. A place that goes without.
And I consult the etymology, at Anwar's patient prompting.
A question that gets asked but not immediately answered.
It just gets Anwar'd. Then Xanther'd.
Then waitstaff interrupted.

Here's the Webster's Revised Unabridged (1913 + 1828):

Paradise \Par"a*dise\, n.
[OE. & F. paradis,
L. paradisus, fr.
Gr. para`deisos park, paradise,
fr. Zend pairida[=e]za an inclosure;
pairi around (akin to Gr. ?) +
diz to throw up, pile up;
cf. Skr. dih to smear, and E. dough. Cf. [snip 'Parvis' cannot be found].]

Paradise is an enclosure where you can throw up,
pile things up,
smear them around;
bake bread from the dough of your throw.

That really tosses a different chunk
onto all this business of vomit.
Johnny's trouble keeping anything down.
Sam & Hailey's frequent spit stops.
Everything hurled, even Hurls of Dudes
amongst their swirls of rudes.

I am the ralpha, and the throwmega.

our Worldhurling blur. / our Worldturning blur.

Faces turning blur from slack of oxygern.

So, since I've gotta go, I'll wrap up:

Paradise could be a place where you can't misspeak.
Where what you say is what you meant,
especially when you didn't know you meant it.

Z's books, that depend so much upon hearing what was written
even when something else was expected,
are a kind of paradise. Or a searching for it.

And this place, my verdant lawn,
will be a place of paradise
— for there is not just one paradise, but potentially many —
— potentially any
where I will toss things around and have,
in fact,
already begun to do so.

Heaven is exactly this,
just two inches off the ground.

Where's it's not so bad that
we're all inescapably haunted by
our sicnesses.


Let's also note,

The artist, as it were, takes not only their canvas, their colors, or their model in order to paint, but also the art that is given them formally, technically, and ideologically, within their own culture; this probably emerges most clearly in the case of the poet, whose material is drawn from the cultural possessions already circulating and is not dead matter, as is that used by the plastic arts.

(Though Derrida might have something to say about that.)

In any case we can say of all artistic creation that the artist not only creates their art, but also uses art in order to create.

Because Fiction's province is the imagination and thus concerned with the argument of empathy over representation [...]

Art unequestionably has an end, probably even serves a variety of ends — but the ends are not concrete and practical, they are abstract and spiritual.

(The above snip, 2015.05.20, was last updated on 2015-05-20 19:47:36 +0000.)

(Thicker Threads)