Purple Journal 06
Tuesday May 30 2006
After that phone call
and what he's
not hey blank iff if what why who to this, then decided to do at the end of the now called Harold's Journal
05-06, note that this document has a working spell
check (that
is stupid), since and because not to write in kl uiyuc uciqrb em en ohu yow awt
ways or way similar, you mean in this.
Other paragraphs make more sense later, as it turns out. Anyway he decided to get seriously revulsed by those two different documents, since one was written when feeling bad, as a rule and then the bad stuff was not so much evident in the Journal. The purple book sanitised the journal in an alarmingly artificial way, during those recent moments as I now recall them with bias.
What he did was finish the documents, send them into an ambiguous folder called things, and open this purple Journal, which is not entirely purple at all, but simply covers purple ground so as to be more complete. When I feel low I can look at the term purple and treat it as the purple book. At other times it is the usual kind of Journal.
However, and this now implies a major however, the purple expression I reached recently want to get into this document, and at the moment this is a simple matter of doing the basic scramble and repetition thing with the if if what how of when you/me start to finish begin the this that what of it, not you, I that of his me you said was and anyway you get the idea soon enough and learn to skip it because but his other meaning, I mean not the same as which how come if that you want means ever if that cat coffee sound like idea go for a pee sort of out and there but back to this that if what what.
As if he just wanted to express the more raw of mental chaos you decide for convenience and I suspect else and more to his out of anyway style mouse trigger moment pause beacon ready signal one.
Two it the he back for her notion plans of whatever chanced to pass a pause in that this that this if what who whenever scenario, it the then being to be speak of if and I as they say once or thrice by that. Covered. Vocab, honey, if you really want to no way not yet leave me alone. I'd just half pause at that later, not ever quite so meaning this dull to be who understands all he ever is to was seven, four powers beside the dish to count, his meaning to woman now agitated and as usual ambivalent. So much.
Now there's nothing to write and all is boring, so of course I'm going to be writing it all out and I don't want to go to Yoga at all in fact I want to spend all the time on this writing, as if to reach a somewhere of expression or I have no idea, this sort of thing. To be ultra vague and reflect the true vague aspect of reality that all precision fails to reflect.
I'd not even say to guess my own kind of meaning out of the jumble of explicitly simplified terms when I consistently fail to apply the broader vocab to which I ostensibly have access, his own ensuing sentence then more actually refuting itself, as all meaning often does, you realise.
PART TWO
In his next this style bit a phantom message of to do things in the garden with that proto compost and whatever to set off the washing machine with items from the line, you wonder, and I'd say to something else, to mean the non-meaning of this all to not quite any established philosophy or psychology as such, these as trace elements in, well, and there where we can all guess most people don't. I was sort of, but then I had to go back to where is here and work on that, I mean not to write any of this as such a you know kind of thing but to, as it were, be different with the myself of self-centred writing experiment.
Next we visit the Karen going to Earth from Dalurth in a boat we me or my character, perhaps talk about women and the Stacey, the Samantha and so on, perhaps reflecting on the Ruth or in any case. I'd stop right there, with the concept of the unknown of the female psyche and then refuting evidence or some other theories that, in question, to obscure this even more.
In another way I would prefer to return to the more standard expressions of common English as you cope with them and say in more real detail things about my thoughts and feelings, since in one way surely that is what I most need to do, that which I would write to sort of write out of me and then better resolve these tangled emotions. In one way I may even get to do that, to reach there by tonight.
In another way there is the voice of someone, perhaps a harold or sub harold, these identities being constructs less real anyway, to contrast what more actually goes on, you idiot. It would be there to better express the urgency of that this that iff if when how kind of whatever meaning, since in that way, sense, being, mode and on the other hand. Fragmented. Not asking, since if she. But then I had no real, or at least. To change his mind when it was full of this loose change anyway, at times all time, as at this you as another you/me complex biting wit challenge aspect of what he said he had to write.
It was all nonsense if you ask me. He had no idea. He was writing, yes, as such, but then the delivery of some other kind of interpretation to exactly what it was all about, I mean really, you can take your pick, vote for a factor, go for the greater mixture. See if I care. It never really was this. Richard did not listen. The canopy that was blossoming, he said a pattern of events for one thing, as if phenomenology.
Well, I did not agree with any of that. The Samantha had her own reflection and agenda, so his own perspective was going to be something else, well, he wrote that. Since the idea of her in other ways, well, he doubted them all. Then he thinks of Friday. Avoid the Tavern. Avoid the Stacey. In fact both of these example beings, if you understand something, will probably. And why bother to conclude any line of thought? Why even. I hear the mental washing machine in motion. It all goes around.
To learn from the illness concept and the higher meaning of and beyond say something like depression or woman-confusion. He jots down a note form, considering the time to be around three and the light conditions to be sort of gloomy. He doubts the going to Yoga hypothesis. But why he even repeats this notion at all, associations impinging a grossly subtle something.
Then he'd even start to wonder about the plausible revealed meaning of a purple journal, as if in this very attempt of a textual expression there might be some kind of specific implication. To fuse the harold Journal and the purple book (that may be considered a journal of Dreulor) may imply some other kind of psychic identity fusion. I would bring these two separated cases together. Perhaps to accept it all as more of a unified Harold theory.
Dim structures obscure the issue with clouds, for example. For saying his so-called meaning in the writing out process that was assumed to be expression. We doubt that entire paradigm, to grope for something better and more sort of apt. An utter fadrigoish that virtually...but why bother? You don't mean any more than I do, just by the reading of it, to translate into a semi-confused jumble within the auspices of your own curious consciousness.
I DON'T MEAN THAT AT ALL, SINCE i DON'T REALLY MEAN REALLY AND i DON'T REALLY MEAN MEANING. Who cap locks "by mistake" while Freud thinks all slips and so called mistakes, blah blah. Yes, anyway, to this you another anyway by my own version of a serrated mistake and a jilted knowing better fiasco to return to some primitive reaction that just, well, who really knows?
Me. I know. But, and this kind of but is sort of mu to the action of the last drag that S takes on her smokarette. For me to know is a subtle case of implanting the data in a matrix of doubt-mulch and then composting epistemology itself to never really know as I know to more actually know and then sort of suspend the judgement of and about the information, painfully reflecting the propositional and some certainty to lind the ontology of security to the psychology of the doubting ego, modalized and at odds with itself as I am.
Karen asks me about this woman, S, as I gaze moodily over the parapet of the science-fiction boat that floats over the surface of the imaginary planet Dalurth that Karen is the ruling Goddess of Just as Dave Rowlands is now the ruler of the planet Earth that she hopes to reach. I say well, the thing is I hoped for one kind of relationship and got another, sort of expecting some more intimate outcome according to what behaviours I interpreted only to find the reality quite otherwise and S to have a different agenda. Is that not sort of obvious, Karen? When will the real therapy ever start?
It has started, she claims, while I mix therapists past and present, while on the other hand no more therapy is due, you are just the ferryman as I eventually escape your mad imaginary planet and return to Earth.
So not fast, Karen, since you go to the Earth now ruled by Dave, whatever that means. It clearly provides me with a loophole. As you know the imagination is my special realm in which, among other things, women do the kind of things I prefer, although this mostly translates on the lower motives of sexual fantasy, where reality tends to fail most bluntly.
Why not establish this writing as clearly within fiction? Karen asks, and so I say well, I recall your theory about how important it was to separate the imaginary from reality. Since I assume you have no idea what really goes on the conclusion is that what I really seek is the mixture in which I cannot separate my factual journal from my fantasy, perhaps to best reflect some kind of inner truth, if you like.
I pause at the epiphany of quasi-meaning, driven to write, to write fast, but what is selected, well. Karen sighs and glances at the waters below. I look at my wristwatch strapped convincingly to her ankle. What does that mean, she asks. I shrug, referring her back to my previous comments about meaning generally. When will she understand? When will she pay attention and remember the details? When will she show an interest in my mind?
PART THREE
Since that was one of my theories, and in fact I could soon come up with a theory demonstrating the higher purpose behind a fusion of so-called fact and fiction. Now the time is way past Yoga. I heated food and drank another coffee after that and returned to write part three of the today entry, in one sense hoping to sort of resolve or reach something in the process.
His notion fluctuating in the morrow wind from the not what of who with why, since what she does next, as if here to pause, to consider more crazy letters, to wonder why I write or think I have to write if I don't even seem to be clear. In another way some other pattern, while Mother would miss me at Yoga and then may worry, as she does, and may think of calling yet not be sure if this is a good idea or not, perhaps counting as a too-supportive gesture for all we know.
As the absolute knowledge scenario did not pertain the smarter ones would ignore it to deal in the pragmatics of the relative or functional information such as it was to them. They were given an ideal category. Meanwhile I just write a bunch of nonsense and would have been better off going to yoga, as if I think and worry too much about every detail that seems significant to me, and what a strange list that is.
Please forget it can we talk to Karen or are all women to be....then, in more of a disjointed anyway that angles to the counter-culture and prefers the deontic mode because at least or if I do mean something more direct and I just don't want to say it perhaps I can write a few more hours of nonsense and then be able to tell you.
Now I assume you are Rashalika, and you have never assumed this yourself, thus reality schizms at the early stage and any motions to communicate and reconsile the differences never seem to get back to the point, that metaphorical point now understood as the case where you are indeed Rashalika.
Rashalika is something like the ideal other to me, as you know, and ultimately not different at all, and in some way the person I call god when god is a person to me, a notion I can hardly swallow so that Rashalika is a Demonlord rather than a god. I that he fragments identity meaning you as there me not without a second anyway.
Anyway, I was not a writer myself, but had this complex plan of building various text engines that incubate another kind of meaning and then make it possible for me to write something just as if I were the better author I would much rather be. All highly stupid I'd often assume, considering the tacit motives and so on, the silly psychology of being better as an image preferred by some insecure ego that is mostly me I am led to suppose, while there must be other and different to this in any identity, be it personal or condusive.
Then I decide not to express myself in such a way any more, and so write a completely misleading and bogus passage of text. This would be my first understanding of it, you see. But then later I find it does speak for some part of me in a way that is not actually so bogus at all. Then I'd be thrown into a state of pondering confusion and sort of avoid reaching the obvious conclusions that I could have made and really moved on with my life instead of dealing with all this whatever.
Yet more obviously I presented the above paragraph with no intention of actually doing what it claimed was my intention, for explicitly I speak of it as a hypothetical activity while actually thinking from some other vantage point, writing in another way rather than in the bogus way I claim. It is all highly boring, simple and obvious, if you ask me. This is a smokescreen.
What I don't tell you is that I don't seem to be clear about the whatever it is that I must be hiding. Where have you been hiding? She asks this, yet more actually it is not where that matters to her but why. Like an elaborate mind game we can say only what is not entirely true. Or.
So why bother? He has this ideal theory about accepting and learning from any situation. Once the situation is intense enough this gets forgotten and the more personal reactions take over. Again I can learn how I don't live up to many ideals. He thinks in a cynical way. But I don't really know what it is that I am writing or intend to write, perhaps assuming wrongly that I should know to start with, that it must be the standard version knowledge that counts. For this value, this literature.
Imagine that this changes from pure text to actual literature, an idea presented here to further my smokescreen hypothesis. In literature there is the art of writing, so what I do is something creative such as fooling with language or the intersection of fact and fiction and fantasy. In some primal evocative passage I then render the emotive back to meaning via a dialogue amongst yourself, yet how I do so remains a mystery for obvious reasons.
Then I claim this must be text and everything here can only be fiction. Clever reasons exist for this, yet due to other technical reasons I never spell these out so you are left in the dark. Then I switch on a small light. By this light you can see the art within the scope of literature, and so you disagree with what I indubitably prove about the pure text. And, if I call this smokescreen what is the real issue here obscured?
As if I know. Well, return to my comments on knowledge, in that case, I shall never never repeat myself. Never repeat myself, never have children, never create the literature that lives on as a me because...wait. Insects. Porridge. The very edge of Bohemia. Will I do my exercise today? That chicken. The potato and beans. 6:15. I write in a feverish way, as if I really want to write something. Indeed as if I really want to write something else. But no, I am possessed. This simple theme. The real me trapped within the demon identities and performances and smokescreens. Big deal, since more actually than that, and here he pauses, not having any further information, thinking this a wrong turn sort of paragraph as if I must really know.
OK, lets say I do know. Why don't I write it? Assume that I can write it. There are no extraordinary reasons that get in the way. I am what gets in the way. Then I guess that I do this out of fear or something.
Then I shrug, you see, Karen, the thing is that I don't know exactly what I mean at all. Perhaps I just stuff all ignorance into the empty mental locus and so, in an obvious way, that is what I don't know. But how can I still apply the familiar concepts and categories to the mental situation when they are suspect and in fact I deal in no clear fact. Fact as the fiction of logic. All that hazy stuff I often get excited about, as if on to something clever or profound.
Well, I'm sick of me and my stupid mind. I'm sick of this absurdly self-centred Harold. I hate the purple Journal already since it is nothing but a silly reflection of my own mental vanity and arrogance. Why would Rashalika ever want to read it? He that speaks writing to back forth another in reflection of speculation itself obscured?
But it is too late and nothing I write is singularly true or goes for all my opinion in general, being so fragmented I'd assume. It is too late since the purple Journal has begun and in a way I am sort of now more fully into a writing phase and think that I may well write a great deal, that I may be writing a lot in the near future. What I write would generally go into the journal or the purple book, and as a fusion of both it now all goes in here since I don't do much in the Darsan these days and in one way that which might go in there, such as the conversation with Karen on the trip to Earth, can be included in here.
So much so obvious you idiot, Harold. According to the non-idiot theory of life I would not keep making the same kinds of mistakes and getting into the same problems as in one way I blatantly see myself as doing. For example, here I insult myself rather than treating Harold with self respect. This can be deemed a mistake. My other theory has to avoid the entire notion of a mistake and see things differently as the beauty of nature. Now who cares? He obviously makes the mistakes.
Now I would much prefer to live up to ideals and not be this kind of problem person, to write in this way. Even the non-acceptance of myself reflects back to me as a problem. I assume I should like and respect myself a bit more, then extend this to others and get out of my own damaging headspace. Yet most other people are just counter-indicated by the currently functioning attitudes of the crazy harold. Most people are boring and mentally slow. If not they are focussed on details I find meaningless, that I don't relate to as at all significant.
Thus by 6:37 I have not seen another human being all day and I am writing all this crass trivia into my computer by myself as if some magic could transform the material into some valued literature of the future, or other egotistical wish that, if you ask me, I should know better about already. Apparently I don't.
Now I don't accept the reality of duality at all, thus I am continually engrossed in dualities of all kinds and automatically think in such terms to despair of myself for so doing at a later date. I just thought of this real/ideal dichotomy as an example. So much of all I do is contrasting my reality with some ideal and judging myself harshly for the failure. I don't think I should do this at all, thus it becomes another Ideal. In reality I continue the contrast and the judgement.
All this writing is about my mental reality, it could be claimed. Even when it sickens and bores me, insults me and argues with me it tends to claim more attention than anything else. For a while it may be Stacey who is the focus of the attention, and I get quite convinced that she is some real person out there who impacts on my life while actually intending something different if you ask her. Yet soon enough I have an imaginary Stacey to deal with and a reflection into the general battleground of my reaction to women in general, a seething ambivalence which is apparently triggered by the women in question yet ultimately seems to all come back to something about my mind, my emotions, my fragmented self.
Can it be assumed that Rashalika is really interested in this immature stage of the Harold being? In one way this is assumed or it seems even worse, to be writing about me and to me with no kind of redeeming purpose or excuse, as if I think it sinful, as if to be writing these things about myself must entail the judgement that I really should not do so.
That aside I suppose that in this writing I would cover other more general topics and write about the other people, although always explicitly in direct reference to myself. Only spoke to one other person all day, and that was a kind of argument with an anonymous person who told me their name and I forgot who called from Brisbane and assumed I was female the whole conversation, as is typical, and got my name from a data base that has not useful information on it such as this is Mr Kruger, not Madame, and he never buys things over the phone or changes company or is ever interested in whatever you claim is going to save money. He gets agitated and irate. He does not listen to the news and no he does not care what goes on in "his own backyard" if that's your euphemism for Australia and who cares what you think about being informed? Take my name off the data base. As if.
So the only other conversation is with my cat and this purple journal. The time is seven, and I feel sort of a general change, this being the one I explained already, and here I repeat that I never never repeat myself, if if it is really funny or something. How stupid, of course it is not funny. Of course I struggle with the presentation of some self image here that others like Rashalika could find amusing, meaning I don't have many friends and feel insecure and unappreciated, no matter who actually appreciates me, as you can well imagine.
So what I did in the third part of the purple journal was to give a bit of background psychology and sort of come around to the more obvious of notions that the writing was all about me. I hated to admit this, on one ideal level, since it spoilt the exaggerated self image I preferred to present. The image said I was more humble and less self-centred, more genuinely interested in others and the world around me. Well, you can forget about that ideal for starters, even if in one way I may be sort of exaggerating the alternative and hating the duality and looking for another escape and planning to change as soon as I can and having no patience for the slower progress of reality in action and then sort of pausing here to let the motion do something while in another way what really interests me...hard to say, but it's usually some kind of more profound something else.
While you must be sick of me by now I go on to make this worse by giving an example. I'd have this notion of the transcending spiritual pattern behind everything; all events and phenomena, all being and meaning, action and reaction. Like a magic of subtle association I think of tapping into the subtle pattern more directly, an intuitive sense. And then sort of break though into a higher purpose and understanding.
The very idea falls as a carcass and the vultures of idealism soon spot the meal of death and begin to spiral down. With this understanding I'd vault over a whole plethora of personal problems, never to be so depressed or confused again. It snowballs as the vultures meet a metaphorical difference and you are not quite sure while I rave on about then teaching this to others and being so special by solving the so many problems of the other people so quickly. We need some kind of instant satori as far as I see.
Which is obviously not too far, and more actually I have to learn about the patience, tolerance, acceptance of the slow path to somewhere just a little bit better. Stuff that for a joke. He does get cynical, as you know, and, for what you don't yet know I'm sure this maniac is bound to fill you in so that you will know more. In one way he is never quite me and I don't like him or his attitudes or his methods or see much point in this kind of writing, seeing it simply as the reflection of immaturity, as the stage of blind stumbling before much of any real growth or wisdom has a chance to develop. This is the stage of fragmentation in which I resent and cannot seem to accept myself.
And you don't quite see me in the acidic light in which I often like to see myself, since why would you? As Rashalika or some other reader of the future I suppose you would tend not to be the harold, and not the way I am now, so would you have this image? I challenge myself with this notion (since I don't actually give a stuff about you) and in this kind of light grudgingly concede that this may be sort of valid or interesting in some way to someone else.
Actually it is valuable and interesting to another part of me, yet I'd prefer to keep that secret, keeping many secrets, because I suppose that would be even worse, as self-centred admissions go. And then I'm writing in a sense more directly to myself, as if text were mirror and speculative darsana to the philosophy of all that reflection style stuff you read about in Zilberman. I mean I did not really, and here I fall flat on my face, non-real of the not-meaning that is the greater manifestation of whatever the hell is really going on here.
PART FOUR
The screen is dark and only coloured diodes indicate that the infernal writing machine is on. The Harold has finished exercise, stretch worship, Kata and a call from Mother. He returns to the darkened screen and hits the mouse click. The new computer, always slower and more cumbersome than the old one, presents a blue screen with a button to click my username before starting on part four. Also I drink coffee, a fourth and thus unusual cup.
I scratch my brain as if to elicit something worthy of literature, but in another way it is not altogether about what I try to do, since this is part of the unknown element. So I simply reflect on the emotional upheaval of recent times that mostly started with Stacey, not that I intend to write the details of previous events as such, plenty of such writing exists including four letters to Stacey that she will not read. With a cascade of other events and emotions I happened to reach the today of even more dedicated writing.
Here he pauses, and the binomial of what you rashly considered was something else has impinged on our collective unconscious such that the not what of a more complete whatever can edge into the matrix of the mish-mash which, while presented as a format hard to follow, ends by assimilating a sense of boring obviousness by often writing in a similar way. Now I don't pretend to pretend the subtle auspices of text here, I really am pretending. And, what is more, far less than normal seems to indicate that, in other words, what merges into the greater so what of all time.
Time, itself a fulcrum of destiny, belittles the moss-grown carpet of your moral fibre, and all of this, not being a more sensitive that for the occasion, did not know what I was on about and this was why I had to explain.
He explained then, quite succinctly for a change, that the mobius dynamic of and right away you stop and say no, those words, that very attitude, come off it, we can recognise your mad spiel style and doubt that real meaning could ever be thus any better presented. Often he pretends to have some more complex meaning than language itself, for personal reasons of trite self-image, yet in simple words he could probably say more, and more honestly.
Oh really? I scoff, you call that literature. Wait till I tell the Karen in the boat who has high cheekbones and a kind of cute overbite. As if this had specific meaning at all, since the Karen would prefer the simple lexicon anyway and I imagined turning on the computer first thing in the morning, or, which is different, when I eventually drag myself from the sack to reluctantly face another day. Yet the strange thing is that something like writing then appears as an effort and the sure road to boring depression, which involves the bread, coffee and a default armchair seems like the only thing I can imagine doing or ever managing to do from that initial point of horror.
The thing is that my negative thinking has become quite automatic despite any attempts so far to change it. To wake up as Harold is generally a bad move altogether, and I have the unfortunate habit of reinforcing this with a wish that via sleep I slip into so quite different reality that is much better, perhaps avoiding the next wake as harold scenario altogether. I don't think this exactly helps. Once I'm awake and realise a few things about me, and that I now face another day, what I do is stay in bed for two or three hours, trying to doze off again of somehow escape and postpone the day. Slowly I reach the condition in which I realise there can be no kind of escape and I may as well get up. This is often a horrible moment. Another day as Harold. It often hits me as a depression by the time I reach the kitchen.
Often the worst thing to do next becomes the only thing I can imagine; there's no energy or motivation to aim for anything else. In a strange way it seems like an easy solution to the first part of the day, to not actually decide or try anything, to go with the default armchair scenario. After some time, perhaps hours, in that wonderful chair I can feel quite terrible. I have by then meticulously recalled all my recent problems, worries, inner conflicts and negative thoughts. I have told myself many times how much better any other activity would be. I have ignored my better advise and felt stupid and guilty about it, to stubbornly remain in the armchair of gloom.
While this is sort of common I don't actually stick to this pattern as religiously as it is presented here. On other days I do other things and come up with different kinds of problem, emotion and inner conflict. And while that is sort of common I actually do have some better days altogether. I can't wring much self-pity from them at all, thus they seem useless.
This bizarre kind of rationalization is more a reflection of sarcastic humour or the attitude of Dreulor rather than a perspective I really endorse, yet in other ways I can never decide what is really me or not me, what is an identity or demon, what is my personal truth or some deviation or act. There's a kind of postmodern confusion. I apply different theories at different times. I might be singular in some instances yet in other ways seemingly multiple and fragmented. The many things I know for sure all get doubted at some point, from some other position. He thinks my true perspective is impossible; the viewpoint of the son of a barren woman.
He lied about the other things, and what extra writing decorated the edges of a personal chaos without hope. His writing was an act of desperation, you see, a kind of strange psychological result of all the recent kinds of internal trauma he seemed to go through; the women, the theories of psychology and relationship, the reflections into his own dizzy psyche, the wave of depression and other emotions. He told you it came to this.
And I would like it all to be topical interesting literature, I have this ideal and so what? That can just get in the way of me just having to write something for reasons of mental health, you might say with that gross medical model that you seem to adopt blindly, and I would then say I hope to change the next day distinctly, to repeat the notion that I want this kind of writing fever to continue so that I would start my writing early and have this kind of purpose in the purple journal. Mother thought this fused purple journal was some kind of clever idea. She is proud of me for writing when it should be hard while in fact I wrote via feeling compelled to write, as if my options were limited to write or go completely mad again.
I make a sign over the top of the screen. It says Rush! And in large letters PURPLE JOURNAL . This is aimed at me in the morning, so I will turn on the machine and start writing rather than hit the armchair and start the depression. It is a crude method so it might just work on me. Yet I know that I can always know better when I default to the armchair. That is the silly thing, it seems like the easier and thus preferable option. I can fault it as a lazy attempt at escape, yet such thoughts don't often help since they just get recycled as ammunition with which to criticize myself and feel worse.
Actually I have little idea about what I am going to write. It is strange in that sense. I mean often a compulsion to write goes with the ideas and thoughts I keep thinking that want to be written down so to speak and keep nagging until I write them. But while packed with ideas, often in conflict, I don't have this sense of at all knowing clearly what it is that wants to be written. This could be sort of deeper and more spooky. I mean it might be that what actually wants to get into the purple journal is material that has not yet even made it into consciousness yet, like some subconscious energy that is in the process of being translated into some kind of literature.
Well, I'm reading a book about Freud as literature rather than medical science as he began, and these ideas must influence me. And another thing, I want to record my dreams in here as well, rather than in a separate, lapsed document. In fact Ideally I would somehow get all my current fiction in here as well. This need not be too hard, since I can make notes and comments in here, to have yet another level of fiction. You see the Darsan books involve characters who are planning for their own part in another future story that is seen as a book to be written later using the Darsan itself as the rough workings out stage. This was just a devise to make the fiction interesting. Yet I can be planning and working out in this document what later goes into the second level of the Darsan, which is now four parallel books if you don't know, and of course Rashalika would know so who are you?
To find out who you are I will do some strange things in the later text of this document, since I cannot find out directly it would appear, since we imagine that you are a future reader and thus currently in the unknown position of cognition. I aim to do something clever and freaky so that we can get around this apparent mystery.
Then I go well, you can just ignore that idiot, he will do no such thing, mostly because he will simply forget about this absurd claim and never attempt to follow it up later. When I write a document each day is a self-absorbed kind of event. I can tell you nothing much at all about say the whole document of the extant purple book I yesterday called finished. I don't remember what I wrote, and the only consistent theme is that I designed it to improve low moods. Having plenty of these I must have written a fair amount of text I suppose. This journal will be in some ways quite similar. I can only pretend that I have some overall intention or theme besides the obvious ones for such a journal.
Now Matilda and Drishnu(?) are on Duskavin. They live for many years with Glerph and the other monks of the "Religion". They get into meditation, lucid dreaming, dim structure philosophy and related things. At the moment they have a conversation with another character present (Dragon?). Actually I can't think of much more conversation for them and want a way to jump about five or ten years when the practices are more developed. I did think of some silly idea with a timing devise, but I could work on it more in here.
Actually all I'd have to do is start a new part with the heading "Ten Years Later". What kind of devise do I really need to work out in here? What I do here...and here I am not sure, is something else. Perhaps the spiritual pair can meet Glerph and other beings in a dreaming episode, and then find a way to the Temple of Rashalika. Or to go through other realms and stages before reaching such a goal. In one way I see absolutely no advantage in writing the rough ideas in this document, I will be no better prepared or anything for the next document and in fact it may retard the process of getting around to it. But what do I know? I know I want fiction in here as well as straight journal and dreams.
Oh who cares what he wants? He never gets that anyway. This is all something else. I may be possessed, or the writing of some other identity since I feel sort of different when writing this, my attitude has shifted, my fingers are lighter and faster on the keyboard, I can sort of...but there is no lasting confidence, nothing too clear, it can be just as my performance or whatever. In doubting I slow down, the feeling fades. Was I really getting an inner identity to the surface where he would write to you?
That was a bit strange, I'd now reflect. He was almost getting into something more related to mania or actually psychosis in which the other identity would seem to be in possession. That was the theory. Perhaps if I doubt less and just accept the state of mind more it would write something very insightful or whatever. If that is a healthy thing to do at all, which I question generally.
The intellectual theories differ and never quite catch up with the overall reality of what is happening. I could have thought this document was about fusion and a more unified identity process, but nothing so simple and singular applies, or if it does I'd only really find out later, like when you read this and there's reflection of the whole phase.
10:30 and I think of a chicken sandwich. I felt really guilty to pay for the suffering life and death of another battery chicken, which I bought in sudden impulse more than anything. I have some ethics from Buddhism and Jainism which I often assume I should follow. I should follow all the ethics and values I know of, contradictions and all.
Wednesday May 31
PART ONE
He thinks of a dear Julie because, and slightly more actually than the vaunted plausibly that's often enlisted, this pattern phenomenology returns and several new chunks of raw, meaningful information now wait on the marble slab of mind. They wait to be written. However their expression fate is now within the domain of my conscious will and I might decide to never directly state them, to include them later, to present them as metaphore or whatever. One or two of these chunks may well become obvious to you, since I reflect on your reading as I write, and what is your name? If I knew that, but then I'd say other chunks you cannot guess at all really, they only seem guessable to me since I see what appear clues when I have the knowledge, apparently.
In another way I wish to experiment, so I want to see how I write if I do have these secret chunks kept waiting on the slab while I go ahead into other detail. Even so I'd have to at times take elaborate evasive tactics so as to avoid giving away crucial slab clues. The Taj Mahal is made of marble.
What I will admit at this point, and this could have remained on the slab, is that I practiced my musical performance at about 9 AM this morning and I have had two cups of coffee. I worked on a new song and a baseline for "In the spirit" which I have not sung with an instrument before. I have a couple of other slow songs like this, Tanganeal and perfect river. Music should not be that hard to match, while baselines are easier than chords.
Now I don't have that much I can think of writing so it might help to forget my experiment and just spill the beans on the chunks on the slab. Toss into a pre-heated wok and garnish with curiosity. I have mentioned the pattern and began part one of today with a chunk-related meaning, but wait. Do you notice any particular difference yourself between the writing of yesterday and that of toady? Is any clue obvious or not? I mean there is nothing very special about these info chunks as such, no big deal at all, but the very tactic of keeping them a secret sort of alters their value. And some things that seem quite obvious to me may not be transferred into text that clearly at all.
Other chunks are more obscure I suppose. How would you guess? Anyway, I tell you that there are four of the chunks on the slab as far as I can tell, and you may know none of them. As I write it is so hard for me to predict from here what might be guessed and what remains quite obscure until actually spelled out. Some quirky part of me says lets just veto all clear and direct chunk meaning from this purple journal. It may exist elsewhere, for now as notes jotted on a pad by my left hand.
There are interesting aspects to the experiment. It deals in knowledge and ignorance, in guesswork and the nature of text as a medium. I don't know what is obvious to you, suspected or whatever. My ignorance goes here. It also goes both ways since neither of us know or can predict if this document ever reveals the chunks directly or not. If you can guess that leaves me baffled, since as far as I am aware I have not yet decided. I could just expose them in the next paragraph or never in here. If you can guess from here that would be most intriguing and reflect upon time itself, as well as knowledge.
Perhaps this is boring and meaningless to you and all you notice is that yesterday was more interesting than today. Who knows?
Dear Karen (he began, but decided to finish this as a separate [Dear Harold, (another letter began which struck him as an even more interesting angle)............so in the end I just had to write, Love from Karen] document in the odds folder. By the same token...and anyway, they might be interesting to be included here.
But not quite yet. Hello, this is the Karbal agency. We offer a range of free phone councelling services that cover significant issues ; life improvements and major decisions, philosophy, spiritual and religious issues and mental health. If ... and then I admit something a bit more silly that I did before this concept entered my noodle (please forget those chunks on the slab now).
First I wrote the absurd bogus letter to me from Karen, a very simple tactical difference but sort of interesting if in rather obvious ways that simply reflect my own desires and obsession. In the letter she has to call me after dreams and therapy and great harold significance that somehow became a sexual love obsession she has for me and so on, She just has to write. I may write her a reply, as if this may even help me on some level when more actually I imagine I just drag up the past and can't let go. Who knows, I claim, this process could be my special way of letting go, and I may benefit to write to ten girlfriends of the past with one angle or another. Dear Stefa. I return to the odds folder, only slightly less ambiguous than the things folder. I didn't mention music to her or my performance.
Them my letter from Karen includes a bogus address and phone number with an 8298 since I'd think she lives in the hills. I rang the number and asked for Karen. A young woman answes, seemingly embarassed at such a wrong number, which I fully expected. Then I thought of this Karbal agency lark, for all I know I could randomly collect a bunch of callers who heed my advise.
I sweet fool around with the windows and try something to place this now mushrooming conceptualization of a Karen letter into this document. I looked in the mirror and laughed this morning. This whole crazy situation. Let us add new dimensions of reflection while fresh on the slab.
27 Vincent 31/05/06
Dear Karen,
as i write you this letter I notice several curious similarities in the dim structure pattern. Now just as your letter arrived I had planned to write you a letter on my system anyway, and this letter then conflates the two, just as did the last Samantha letter that I wrote. I also noted the similarities in my series of responses to Stacey and Samantha, that I would first present some directly confronting and harsh appeal based on a gut reaction of the initial response to rejection, and then try to appeal more broadly while boasting of my value and significance in her life. So while I respond to you I will be alert to the patterns and pretend that my burning desire for you is not the issue of major concern, knowing there is something very funny in the whole situation of all that happens.
Now I was going to write things about how you always return to me in fantasy and if anything become progressively sexier and more wildly erotic, always directly interpreting your earlier insistence that Imaginary Karen says this that real you never says, yet your letter fills me with joy as somehow it fulfils my most idiosyncratic of fantasy desires. I am so glad that you now love me with an obsession which also includes my role as some significant transforming genius in your life.
A bell rings, my darling Karen, and I see ever more clearly a pattern that I sort of knew all along I suppose yet never quite so starkly. We know how the schism between my troubled real relationships and consuming imaginary ones is itself a curiously problematic dynamic. Now it seems that I have to somehow relate to the real women in terms of my own system of ideals or assumed values and meanings. Yet in this relation I go through several distinct phases of appeal. In various ways it is as if I must present this ideal image of what I assume the woman should respond to, and under any surface actually desire and need.
Or, let me think, Karen. Wow, I'm so glad our intimate connection is on the way, but in terms of pattern I have the freaky Idea it may not be you. After all that letter you sent was in fact a bogus one I wrote myself, pandering to my desires. 'Our' intimate connection is perhaps referring to another woman, real or imaginary. Now I just had a full on fantasy session that mostly featured you, saying all that which you'd never say of course, and such explicit language, Why does it even turn me on?
Dear Samantha, I really enjoyed our little conversation and would gladly help you out with that amount of petty cash again for a similar visit, your sweet fool, Harold.
Now in the pattern that is letter four, we see the kind of reversal in which I be anything for her and adjust to be what I now assume she must really want of me. This is not based so much on my own self image, but a very fluid reflection based on my latest understanding of her image, which I deduce as logically as I can from the evidence while in some ways going by what I think must be the likely truth of several possibilities.
Dear Stacey,
Do you have a boyfriend now or any interest in a new one?
If I decide to visit one pub once a week, and I like three barmaid in three different pubs, would you prefer me in the Tavern on Friday? If so, is there any reason you can think of that might help me decide?
Do you think there is some strange pattern at work here if all three begin with S?
If I admit that i performed a magical ritual that finished with an S in a love-heart after I snuffed the candle, to later burn that paper and eat some ash, would this count as more "freaky pattern" evidence?
Are you real? I now consider myself unreal and
now if peoplr use some kind of act or presentation to relate to other acts of other people, and there were many deeper layers of these acts or masks, how can we ever know our truth? What seems my deepest truth at one time and circumstance can later turn out to be another kind of act or persona.
How do you recognise your deepest truth?
Now if I am here attempting to relate to my idea of women I come to the point of having letters within letters, so do I have a deepest letter?
Ideal fantasy scenario A; I see the utimate pattern for me, I write the deepest letter and the ideal merges into the real, that perfect woman somehow reads the letter, perhaps via the purple journal on a website. Then, just like your bogus letter, Karen, she writes back.
According to my Father's ideal there are other details involved in the great sex education talk. Now masturbation is a sin, Harold (thus ideally I never do that). You might be forgiven for once or twice, but basically it's a sin. You don't touch it. You wait. In time you will meet the right woman. She will take it into her hands. Then she will take it into her body. Due to certain religious values you then marry that woman. End of story.
Now karen, my Father hardly ever talked to me in such a direct and sober way with pure adult advise for me. This explains partly why I am so shy. Being an antisocial child I had not much of a clue. A boy asked the girl to dance at the disco, but so what, then he waited for her active role, the passive male in the story waiting for her hands and her body. No woman I ever knew followed this design, I could not marry any of them, as it happened, though I thought I had other philosophical grounds demolishing the entire concept of marriage as an ethical or honest transaction.
So in conclusion, Karen (or whoever), when you arrive I will be waiting and you will know what to do to snare me in matrimony at last. What more can we ask for? I miss you and wait for you to call again,
Love from Harold.
PART TWO
The time is twenty past ten and I recall the secret slabs on the chunk of raw, ambidexterous data or whatever I call this joke. What is the joke? What exactly was funny and why? Could I not have actually told you all these secrets and yet by never giving then the identity you still don't know. Consider that in the patterns of mystery, knowledge and ignorance.
Dear resident of 39, we have met in the past so you know me. I have considered the phenomena pattern as best as I can and performed the rituals. A lack of affection, the stable character as bolted doors open, some trouble with authority, petty cash for conversation and a sacred triangle.
You are who sees this all. Thus now you know me. Choose.
Now this kind of letter also reflects curious elements of the struggle to relate. Here the significant image becomes a magician and the letter seeks to have meaning to anyone who reads it in one sense, while delivering mostly obscurity or the presentation of say some special knowledge in a cryptic mysterious form, as If I even had a sleepy clue who reads it in what way and what the result would be, if any. I like the idea of it in one way, yet by the time real people read it they just know I'm crazy, end of phase five.
I have gone through some very diverse moods and inner states recently, going through a series of changes, letters, meanings, decisions, hopes and the greater whatever. I gradually come around to the notion of seeing Stacey on the usual Friday as if that initial pattern starting with a sad double rejection letter has begun repeating on a longer cycle, now several days passing before I get into the secondary reaction. Now do I anticipate it based on the series of extant letters to her? Or is this new cycle and the whole point just to notice how I do react anyway and then seek patterns in it?
Yet I suddenly think of a repetition, the notion of presenting her with several letters, this time to other females (S?). That idea triggered rare laughter during what was mostly a herendously yearning and love-sick time.
Dear Samantha(?),
I'm writing a book which contains you as a character, and letters to you, all based on impressions and so on, which may be becoming more of a fiction. Do you want to be involved in the writing, or in directing the character of Samantha? Drop in again sometime, I enjoyed your last visit,
yours, Harold.
Here we return to a more specific person, angle and appeal. With unwanted excesses sort of stripped away, having run through the gauntlet of previous letters, this one has a more sort of clean character, and rather than my direct impression of her at stake the whole is reflected back into this purple journal itself, presented as an obvious partial fiction, like our real social acts and masks anyway, and then cast in terms of our mutual writing interest. No kind of direct deal, bargain or conditional decision features. Yet in a fairly subtle way it hints at a double meaning, to be directing the character of Samantha.
Not only is there space from directness in the sense of a fictional character, but she is known by the name of Sam. For all I know she is Samone ! (Oh Honey, please do that again...) So a Samantha in writing may also be a less direct reflection. From here I pick up one strange grain of plausible information that I sort of know yet never fully apply. My attitude and logic is mostly direct, as if to insist she give a clear meaning and response. Perhaps after all this immense termoil I have learned one useful thing about women, they often prefer to be indirect and less fixated on a clearer meaning, which may strike them simply as a more male characteristic. Perhaps I need to apply the indirect in any letters.
Letters differ from my usual social approach, in which I find it so hard to act the part of the direct taker of the initiative, the one who does the asking and approaching. Socially I'm indirect. What hell I gave myself the week I waited to ask Stacey out. Part of me wanted to just go Jesus Christ, I'm never going to do that again.
Yet I could function more smoothly if I didn't force me out of character, just trusted my more natural Harold character which I'd say worked for about ten girlfriends so far. I only asked a few times as such, yet in cercumstances where they were just so obviously in my path, meeting me sort of half-way. Most of the others involved some unusual features of meeting where the roles and asking scenario were just not there. If that's how it works for me should I be at all thinking of character revision to be what the usual Adelaide she expects when if you ask me I click with the unusual woman?
There's a female Rashalika theory that seems to mean something to my sense of pattern. If I write to the ideal you who I relate to then this intire book is written as a letter to her, to my beloved Rashalika. I am not exactly practical in approaching reality, you must have noticed. I write to you as you who knows, I worship your image which is presently androgenous or slightly male, since in a way Rashalika for me is a higher self deity and generally male. Yet rarely has she ever been entirely female. Do I need a new image to worship? Can I ever do her justice in drawing or sculpture?
Harold, are you completely mad?
What? Why do you ask? Well not completely, but you know there is to me a gain in the mental illness experience. Like these intense emotional changes recently, in one sense you can call it related to illness, yet I'n not actually going through mania or psychosis and in one way I cope with going through such intensities due to previous experiences with what was even more extreme. Now any person of whatever background may go into some trauma or crisis, so it may not now be sort of just my illness, and such people without an experience of such intense tangled states are less prepared and less able to cope with these kinds of upheavals that can hit anyone. Or are some higher mystics immune?
Then without warning I take a secret chuink of information from the marble mental slab we mentioned and tell you. Insomnia. That's one difference between the entry of yesterday and that of today. So I lay in bed. I did not sleep at all, and that was why I was up drinking coffee, playing guitar songs by 9 AM and so on. Big deal, I told you that the value was in the act of secrecy itself. Information is variable and may be of little apparent consequence in itself, yet the secret creates a mysterious power via the dual ignorance and curiosity that tends to arise.
As I write of this topic again I seek more understanding, more pattern, for here indeed is something about relating to females, the contrast of male and female thinking and being. Women tend to cover more mystery, though I tend to have more that the average male share, and thus be more secretive and in the darker shadow where the light of clear knowledge is not shining, where clear facts are not seen, where we must then use more feeling, not seeing. Intuition, not intellect. Leaps rather than steps. And this duality....
The time is close to the witching hour and I feel most strange. I was sort of tired and drained by 4:30 in the afternoon and planning to go to Karate, yet I had not done my own routine. I managed 27 pushups despite fatigue, long stretch/worship in shiko dachi and about 23 karate kata in the kitchen. By five It was raining again and I did not go to the training at the dojo. It seems a bit bad, having also missed yoga this week, but what a strange week and I've been fully into the writing, this document being part of the evidence.
One letter I do intend to post, and that is to Stepha. For my fictional angle I can present Stepha and Samantha as the competiotion barmaids for Stacey. I imagine presenting it hypothetically, yet it is partly deception and not so freaky if.........but anyway, barmaids or not there are at least five significant female names on the S list. I'm not sleepy at all at midnight and may be awake most or all of tonight. Three secret chunks remain on the slab now, you remember for us all, Rashalika.
Stacey, Samantha, Stepha, Sofie, Samone,
Ku, Jesslyn, Eva, Stepha, Annette, Atsumi, Carol, Fiona, Willow, Samone.
Here in my diabolical pattern of ten girlfriends I admit that this is a raw list and as yet I have not found or created the patterns that I seem so strangely obsessed about. Now here I have identified five significant S females.
Dear Stacey, if I write a song about you is it OK to rhyme with tasty? H.A.K.
What I could do is comb the manuscrip later, collecting the little notes and letters so that I have the selection for my pick a card joke.
Dear S, I studied women for years, still guess and go wrong. Please give me one more clue.
Besides there is always an ambiguous fringe. Sandra, Sarah...and if I think I'd know more and then how to say here I have the significant list for my next pattern? There is no definative list. Quite subjectly some rare and casual fling is off the girlfriend list while another fairly similar case was included. When does a fling become a girlfriend? Will a one night stand and a call girl be on the same list while every other detail can vary, even what you'd call a part of the definition? If I pay a woman and just talk to her is she on the hooker list or not? That's happened quite a few times.
Now here's a recent thought, and one which I'd sort of prefer to place on that slab to get our quota of secrets back up to four. But what's in it? The past you know about and the future as different or....I thought of prostitutes again, although I'd considered them off my list for years and a feature of my past that I'd rather keep that way. What matters for what and why? My real reason for avoidance was the blind date situation, which is why half of them stayed dressed in the armchair being cunningly argued out of their profession and into their actual work preference or career. Well, I wrote that for the humour, every conversation different and such interesting stories.
But now, well, what is my case here? I'm highly confused and madly into the study of women. I'm writing this book and they all go in. I have plenty in the bank so I plan for the blind date effect in advance, knowing my ulterior motive is to go mental about patterns and add material to this curious document. I get prepared for three visits with cash and time and no fantasy masturbation close to the time. With luck I might just click enough with one of them but someone else might be happier if they all stayed in the chair.
Now I could be taking notes or have some prepared questions, strange cards or whatever. They may know of the literature project and this pattern scenario theme, perhaps electing a different name for the record. The details then all depend on the so many unkown factors. We get three write-up passages in this book and work on triangle theories for a start. Numbers and shapes may be the obvious clue here, to translate lists into patterns, hell, I could already plot ten girlfriends as the Mystical Jewish Kabbala tree of life. Severity, power, glory, Chokmah, Yesod the Moon, I hardly remember a thing. But you get the idea. Five S women for a magical pentegram with Wiccan magic or whatever, I could even do the rituals if I could be bothered to research someone else's magic. I just invent my own.
The time is one AM. I feel sort of peculiar but not exactly tired and unsure about the attempt of meditation though it is past the standard time. Time time time time time. All so very strange. Think about it less. Be intuitive you dark secret. Place that on your proverbial slab, Rashalika. I know you understand and accept far more in my writing than I consciously now do myself. It is not as if I really must struggle for the benefit of your understanding, or write mad letters to women that never work, I struggle for my own understanding and you know better all about why I do this at all, let alone what it means.
Stuff meaning as a known term of the applied lexicon, I'm going to do a fadrigoish list that makes far more sense. Later. As for now he think that if they smooth by you a libido something secret however intention, to if if the be what is as you/me plexus acid. Who I then try once asking out of that what what that if again you bitch. Why if not as is not secret that to see be my twice feel couple of over and out of his shell into the phlogiston. So much more totally as if. His choice of terms wording their maze roots and dry leaving that alone. Don't call me or write me. I am returning your letter unread! The injection scuffle and the jagged face of the moon, there on the heaving sand with the stars and. Fadrigoish? They might not even but I'm writing to my beloved Rashalika firstly. Those three witches can. He looks at the edge of time for twice. Food? Hey did that petty cash ever, and over all that this what if what ah you creep, I told you that tangential slash of light darkness cloud our vision, my dear, time for you to sleep.
He stops writing the strange paragraph for now and thinks, but then fails to bother with any of that and lets slip secret two. High mood. I was depressed for several days and bad in several ways for weeks. I hit the night of no sleep and by the next day my mood is rated at 6 in the black record diary. The no sleep is linked to mania, they presume, so I must treat it as a warning sign, but I don't call 6 high enough for mania. I never get there any more. I'm just higher than you with faster thoughts and more sense of creativity.
Than you? Do I know that? And you as Rashalika, well, in my identity diagrams the personality of Rashalika equates with the highest of moods, the open doorway to psychotic realities and the most intense of super-conscious dreams. Higher than such a you? Hardly. At a peak of mania Rashalika is in some ways calm and still. His mind and body do the very fast energy stuff and he is a syrupy dense core of profound bliss and connectedness. He is enlightened, you see. She is satori, you feel. Rashalika possessed me only a few times and never for very long. Is this my fiction or can I never forget?
Well in the depression of being Dreulor I certainly remember nothing of the kind. I mean I could say in a vauge intellectual sense that in the past I felt good, yet Dreulor is so isolated from such feelings, all is gloom and pain to him. Life is suffering, living is pure hell. You notice the opposite polarity. The bipolar adaption allows the practitioner an ability to enter Heaven and hell in turn while the body is considered to remain on Earth. What on earth is that? A disability? Can you do it? He gets irate and into one of his silly critical attitudes for a moment.
What is illness? I may come up with a more interesting quasi definition later on, when you have forgoten the issue. Yet the secrets have been halved, with only two on the slab, my beloved. Do you have red or blue skin? My secret other meaning for secret is the fadrigoish I mentioned. That is my first term-swap. Exchange the term meaning for the term secret. For my magic patterns I often develop a new fadrigoish list. Swap fadrigoish for English and utter Fadrigoish for Australian English.
The cover of the book read;
TRAGIC PYJAMAS
Harold Anton Kruger
Next page;
T P J