from David Foster Wallace’s ‘Lyndon’

“Boy, I get a smell of happiness off their upset, however. I think they enjoy getting outraged and vilified and unjustly ignored. (…) We gave it to them too easy, boy. I mean their Daddies. Men that I was youths with. And these youths today are *pissed off*. They ain’t never once had to worry or hurt or suffer in any real way whatsoever. They do not know Great Depression and they do not know desolation. (…) We’re taking away folks’ suffering here at home through these careful domestic programs, boy, without giving them nothing to replace it. Take a look at them dancing across over there, boy, shouting *fuck you* like they invented both fucking and me. (…) I see some animals that need to suffer, some folks that need some suffering to even be Americans inside, boy; and if we don’t give them some suffering, why, they’ll just go and hunt up some for themselves.”

‘Lyndon’, short story, is part of the book “Girl with Curious Hair”

#literature #quotes #quote #suffering #davidfosterwallace #lyndonjohnson

so, what do you want?

You want to have a travel-through-time-and-space-and-become-a-more-warm-inside-person experience?

Watch Doctor Who.

Want to have a metaphysical yet loveful and human-consciousness-and-behavor-perceiving experience?

You read Murakami.

You want to have a completely blank experience or possibly just come out even worse than you started off?

Hug me.

“A pause to prose and pause”

And so it comes that the poet can no longer bear to verse to punctuate to divide to paragraph rhythms allegories neither embellish.

Prose becomes necessary, also the pause that follows — to think because all that was written, though still true, was badly or mildly felt.

                But he feels.

—-/ /—-

“A building gets torched. All that’s left is ashes. I used to think everything was true about everything. But now I know…” (James O’Barr)

“Have you seen above?”

Oh! Have I seen land!
            I’ve seen land, safe coasts
            and green and
            swimming waters

Throughout every sea
          I’ve sailed or un-
          shipped to…

Yet I have not seen ocean
    in its almight
Pressure too much
    The feel too much to enlight

(but frightful as it is
therein spreads life!)

– – –

“Three little syringes in a pile of blood and epoxy resin — and a note-to-self”

No more analogies, metaphors, figurations, interpretations or comparative analysis and all else involving oceans from a self-taught with no teaching skills who can’t even swim.

There are other means to stop the brain

Climb up a mountain. More pressure, less air. Lower the oxygen going to the brain. Dumb one self. It’s kind of like sniffing glue, except that you come back with scratches all over and built up musculature.

“Despite it all”

Life has being a ever
growing puzzle of
beautiful pieces
each itself another puzzle.

It has presented itself to me
as fractals of Beauty and Tenderness
Yet I wait and long for its end since childhood.


“I had begun having nightmares about the reality of adult life as early as perhaps age seven. (…) Then, when real sleep descended, it becomes a real dream, and I lost the perspective of someone merely looking at the scene and I am in it — the lens of perspective pulls suddenly back, and I am one of them, one part of the mass of grey faced men stifling coughs and feeling at their teeth with their tongues and folding the edges of papers down into complex accordion creases and then smoothing them carefully out once more before replacing them in their assigned file folders. (…) and in the dream, as our eyes meet, it is impossible to know what the adult me is seeing or how I am reacting or if there is anything in there at all.”

from David Foster Wallace’s “The Soul is not a Smithy”, one of seven stories contained in the author’s book “Oblivion”

I had too much to dream last night*

Last nights dreams involved cocaine, cigars and anal sex. I think it’s normal if I’d wake up feeling like those people who scream “U-/S/-AY![x2]”.

There was also some Edgar Allan Poe in it. I couldn’t remember The Raven, which I’ve known by heart, at least parts of it, since I was like 12 or 14, but couldn’t get it. But parts of it appeared as I browsed my mind, as in using some sort of search mechanism, only it was written in an older kind of english, more phonetical, and I then had to re-write it as the original poem was, and then wasn’t quite sure I was doing it right.

* The Electric Prunes – I had too much to dream (last night)

diaries from the rehab

It’s been three days. Three days out of thirty-three years in which I have been able to read and write at least since I was about four, maybe five, and this is the first time I ever remember having been impeded ––no! Prohibited from writing. I actually believe that maybe russian anarchists and the Marqués de Sade felt less troubled finding ways to write while confined.

And the reason? Well, I could, and that is a fact, kill myself with a pen. It would takes lots of strength, but it is doable. Okay. Thing is, they also prohibited me from taking in the pen’s refill. You know, the ink refill, confined in a soft plastic rubber-like tube? So I can’t take a pen or an ink tube into the clinic because even this second one carries suicide risk (don’t ask me how).

One look around any room in this institute an I can already think of various manners of assaulting, fatally or not, anyone here, yours truly included. Bureaucracy is stupid. Burrocracy11 does not treat addiction. Bureaucracy obstructs art.

It also took three days to get the books I brought with me when checking in. Note that they were already with me. They had to go though “customs”, which is also understandable, but that administrative area is close by the patients house where I would be settled in. Meaning: they never even left the institute’s premises. Still, three days. I had to read Hemingway. Slowly And I mean slowly. That’s slow- — take a big pause there… wait… just a little more… now: -ly

11 That’s a wordplay on “burro” (portuguese for “stupid”, “dumb”), which slightly resembles the brazilian word for bureaucracy, which is “burocracia” [bu.ɾu.kɾɐ.sˈi.ɐ]

If you don’t have a song
To sing you’re okay
You know how to get along

If you don’t have a date
Go out and sit on the lawn
And do nothing
‘Cause it’s just what you must do
Nobody does it anymore

No I don’t believe in the wasting of time,
But I don’t believe that I’m wasting mine

If you don’t have a point to make
Don’t sweat it
You’ll make a sharp one being so kind
And I’d sure appreciate it
Everyone else’s goal’s to get big headed
Why should I follow that beat being that I’m
Better than fine

Irvine Welsh’s Ecstasy

“Of course, it was Thursday. Last weekend’s drugs had been well and truly processed by now, the toxins discharged: sweated, shat and pished out; the hangover finito; the psychological self-loathing waning as the chemistry of the brain de-fueck it self and the fatigue sinking into the past as the old adrenalin pump starts slowly getting back into gear in preparation for the next round ay abuse. This feeling, when you’ve cracked the depressive hangover and the body and mind is starting to fire up again, is second only to coming up on a good E.”

excerpt from “The Undefeated”, 3rd story in the book. Totally recommend this great piece of scottish literature!



This day starts off a any oher normal day: we grab a botle of vodka and hit downtown where scholars are waiting for us to get wasted.

Lucky me there’s some left from last night, so we make a quick detour onto te public library’s bathroom and say good day sunshine to our itchy noses

‘I love the smell of junkies in the morning!’
‘You’re some hellish son of no sorry jolly bitch now ain’t ya!’

Abey dain’t hear me, or so it seems, and we just head down to this private ed inst on where we normally meet our underage friends and talk ’em out of later classes. No hard convincin’ job that is.

We got vodka, let’s hang–
—I’m in.

Moms and paps sing proud songs someplace far.



Abey & I have been hangin’geter fae some time now. No short for Abraham or sorts– just Abey. As in Hey Bet ye can’t gulp that absynth filled glasse in a sip! or A’babe will ya spare a dime or some mair in exchange for sips of the cognac we’ll hopefully get from it?

And there we are when the cops come: two ol’ time (not that much I’d guess) junkies pissing on cheap vods in our toon’s postcard plaza with these legally-drinking impended kids a couple of hours before noon. IDs are passed thru, radio calls come & go and they tail off gifting warnings:

-Should drink at the bars, all oaf ye. No need to get the neighboors calling us everyday. Also, it is illegal to drink in public spots like this.
-Fae real?
-Yes. We just don’t care. Hope not to see you again ’round here.
-Hear ya.

We chop a farewell couple of lines and stroll off in search of new hangouts.