Getting harder. I came to a point where I began writing real things and then it started to fall apart. Too much pressure. I have to go back to streaming. To Just Writing. No need for deep thoughts; I mean, I don't have to push them away, but if I'm not thinking about something coherent I don't need to force myself to do so. I need to get better at streaming. Need to get more comfortable at writing at top speed at writing continuously. There's no other way. Maybe another way. See. Here Just Keep Writing. Anyway, clothes are masturbatory in soft silk in rough linen in a hair shirt I called to you. That is, which is masturbation: soft silk or hair shirt. When I touch myself, when I strike myself, if I hold myself up or hold myself down my self-involvement is unsavory, bitter, metallic.
Coming back. Antipathy gives way to apathy and finally just to pathos itself; that final, singular root of all that is painful and all that is true. Cultured, ash-like masses shout, shout in disunity, in that familiar rhubarb chaos at last at last and the universal all familiar sound is the only real change we have. That scale, that ugly, monstrous scale of a city. The city, the bastion of culture and crowd, of anonymity and re-anonymity. Modern plumbing, plumbing the depths of the complexity resulting from a person and a person, multiplied and reconstituted as a singular mass that has oh-so-much in common, every shared epiphany some kind of trite surprise that, oh, you consume the shit they pump out, too; you have your own shit-filled feeding tube you chose, your target demographic, you target. We're all coprophagics after all and oh the transgression has no taste. It's not the taste that attracts or repels us because this transgression is so much stronger; it's a little bitter but really it doesn't taste like much at all but when we bite down we gag in ecstasy.
Fashion is the same root as all cultural change. A study of fashion could perhaps be the basis of a study of cultural change. Music changes in the same way that fashion does; art is a little different. More self-conscious, more literate, smarter, but less powerful as a cultural force. Maybe that's just what art is now. The novel used to have a comperable force, but it seems somehow different. Ultimately, music and fashion both seem more cyclical; they do not actually repeat themselves, but they constantly consume their pasts in such a way that the pieces of the past are transparent and distinct, like corn. Maybe it's a continuum with fashion at one end and then music and then the novel and then art at the other end. Art is always a tricky category (duh!). But I'm not even sure what the continuum measures. Cyclicality? Everydayness? Should we subdivide fashion as we do art (high and low)? I don't know. I think really when I say I don't understand fashion I'm realizing I don't mean that it's an entirely foreign process but merely that I don't have enough data to form any concrete ideas about it.
Now: see. Eventually we get something concrete. But don't push it. If I want to spend a paragraph:_experimenting_: with punctiation—I'll goddamn do it. But no, I probably won't do that much because punctuation takes a lot of keys holding down to do new things. More likely I'll just do words and words and words. Punctuation doesn't take up much space anyhow—except the dash. That's a good one. Makes justification more difficult but it does take up space. I wonder if someone's done a calculation to determine how long a 10-page paper would be if all the colons were replaced with dashes. Actually it probably would only be a line longer, if that. But it was a nice thought. Cat sits on small round table like a pedestal, tail wrapped round white feet and chest puffed out below big, pleading eyes. Kitty's hungry.
