cheerupfyodor
12-20-2008, 07:35 PM
hi there, ive been putting some words together recently, just wanted to see what different minds think of this idea...
The allegory of Hubris
Or, the means of production
The house: the flaw(S) of intention
Why materialise ideas that require arduous physical labour? It can be practical to rely on instinctive processes to lead the idea up short elaborate paths. When the time comes, they disappear into the wilderness and are abandoned lacking the moral fibre only toil can incubate. The irony manifesting itself in this murky puddle of ideas is given enough time; even faeces can be polished to shine like gold. That is not by any means a negative attribute, only a simile that just made me smile. This is the flaw.
I want to blurt it all out in one paragraph, even one sentence but I am beginning to find that my aching labour to be quite, fun. It has depressed me to hell and back, I worry about worrying and to top it off fixated to create an illusion of seeming which is more rewarding than actually being! I haven’t quite worked that one out either, yet.
This attitude has been conjured by the square I inhabit and from which cannot stand to bear it’s constants. I feel annoyed knowing I have to rise in the morning at the same time to do what needs to be done. I feel irritated knowing to endure the same conversation for the fifth, sixth time with the ever unchanging Hubris who is forever there, who even bites me and believes it to by my doing! I understand the intention of everything in this square.
Maybe everything is my doing methinks a little, coming back to the first few paragraphs makes me flinch in embarrassment, deleting it would only reinforce my denial of what I was only a few months back, a vanity that might be a remedy. My stupidity seems to be my doing or un-doing, but until people stop plying me with drugs and alcohol gratuitously, my stupidity will continue to grow and the consequence shape me. Most irritating is a shimmering verberation in the spine when I catch past actions in the mirror of my mind. But mostly, cruel fantasies of what might be thought and said, and the superficial view of myself in other eyes. **** them if they think little of me, they are of no use to me anyway. The time they spend together seems to merely fill the in between hours of actually doing something, its fine, but what use other than collecting lame stories where the only entertainment comes to being bored, and destruction is never to far away when I get bored. There is a negative outcome to this ephemeral creation of sorts, to borrow from an equally depressive read. While it may be practical, and produces something, its consumption is short lived and that is where creation ends, the illusion of production. I ignore sensibility, and the ache of morality hurts my bones. The man that wandereth out of the way of understanding, shall remain in the congregation of the dead, or to quote Stevie Wonder When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer.
It’s this ****ing square, with no corner to be self contained away from the sounds that are heard by all eight ears; venomous ****ing sound which knows no bounds. Ha, ha; “woe is me” with full bodied tongue in cheek. Please, make no assumption that I exist perpetually in a dreadful state of being. As a test, a game, I alienated myself from everything but alienation, and then to claw myself back into existence in the murky underworld of unplanned action, oddly timed with the new year, the 8th of December. In clouded thoughts meandered streets only returning to the square to sleep and assert my presence in the fractured unit. I have wandered streets, some days I spoke to street corner philosophers and madmen on bicycles stating the obvious, and beyond the test, aching hips and sore soles with little more than coffee after coffee to irritate a plagued mind. Not much was produced really.
There is light in the abyss that haunted the bleak eyed vision you might be pleased to know! A vision of a black void that stretches to the horizon with only a grey figure contemplating the leap. A light far off, scorching the sky as if Apollyon himself kindled it. I run and run from it to escape its fume, knowing full well I have to approach it with gnashing and fiery teeth; that is, when I know what I am fighting.
You hear a sound that wakes you
Roll over, and go back to sleep
It’s the things in your head that make you wonder
Why wonder what is, what it is; is part of the wonder
The fence
It is looking at a broken fence trying to assemble the forms on the other side. Brief glimpses of colour and shape pour through the cracks, the viewer oblivious to the true nature. It could be anything from the absolute mundane to the richest fantasy. Not knowing for me at least, is integral to find new ideas and concepts to propel an initial idea further, even to resolve a current idea. It has served me so well and perhaps not linear as I might expect. I am aware of the new boundary and I test it with friendliness and reverence. Not so much am I concerned with exploring what is beyond -as of yet- though I am more than willing to accept whatever should manifest itself to me, I have come into contact with the things that invite themselves into my company and I’ve responded and set them free again.
This desire for little is an act of clarification and understanding where/what we are; absurdly the want to not want, something I would actually kill for. So many times we are pounced by offers that incite us to want. Automatically; or, zombiefied we jump to the sounding gun and consume, hoard and abuse anything, rendering want into generic fancy. In that wake a devastating image appears of a cripple dragging the earth with tattered cables. As my vision intensified, the invalid on its trudge cunningly ensnares harmless insects for its own cruel company, only to pick the wings from the humble beings.
This is starting to divert away from the initial point, as I have already noted, my ideas meander with a direction of logic and end up poetic tripe that is of little meaning and use to anyone. That is to imply they would be of use even if they had a consistency to them.
I feel I say I a lot, Point proven. I say a lot.
In a moment of madness yesterday, I found myself traversing this new boundary. I now have a slight concussion and a swollen jaw and a little less intimidated by the parameter to say the least. I believe this is because I picked myself up, dusted my hands, rolled a cigarette and proceeded to laugh at myself before making a “dignified” exit. During the embarrassing episode, I broke a bowl. It was a cheap bowl I too had purchased in a thrifty student fashion. Therefore was not only able to replace it with not much expense (in time or money). I had an ingenuity to decorate it with a light hearted assonance rhyme describing my remorse,# to soften the social fall. A rhyme that I cannot remember for the life of me.
A lot of bangs and thumps I hear since the pointless act. It seems my intervention has disturbed two evils, one being a painful struggle to recollect puzzles of mundane situations. Under scrutiny a form of events finally ebb back to my train of thought, though it appears more vivid if I stumble upon it by chance. Amusingly my memories are in disarray at the best of times, yet I have not been so aware of it until recently. The second evil, the more noise I make, the more I hear in response. The less, the more Hubris pokes me to jig like a fool.
I have retreated indoors, predominately to escape a bitter air starting to choke Coldharbour Lane. Brief trips to the shop have become ritual outings because it is so itching (the road’s name is very appropriate this time of year). This allegory appears to be an attempt to absolve and to put to rest past actions. No, I wish it to have more malice than that. It is a pure critique trying to make sense of a new surrounding and sensations, complaining every step of the way.
“And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit. And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.” Revelation 9:1-2
There is a man outside the coffee shop, a tired, surrendered soul that manages existence in a manner of shakes and shuffles. There is a beautiful girl next to me but one. Her existence is so much more inviting. We all have something in common; we smoke, this is the object I am going to focus on. The attractive girl smokes straights and the man smokes rollies. I prefer rollups purely because it makes me do something. It also is economical and therefore practical. They both are playing with their fingers. NOW, they are synchronised. Such subtle similarities overwhelm these distinct characters, yet their situation has transformed their objects and their total being into something quite else.
As tends to be, attractive women never have suitor far off. A Gentleman has walked in and quite rightly has gone to get her a drink. As I consider myself a gentleman too, and know my flaws only too easily. And can read this idiot like an open book, I know full well that he wants nothing more than to **** her brains out, just look at his mannerisms, I mean all that in the best possible manner of course, I am not implying he wants to only rag her brains out, that would just be uncouth. Oh! It turns out he has not bought her a drink after all! He’s not getting anywhere, He talks to much.
He talks about past stories… Why?
It is what we the pedestrian knows. Stories of people. **** I am so arrogant, there’s nothing wrong with talking about stories. Stories of glory.
(the second coffee has given me the shakes, ****)
The man is full of Hubris. I have met him again it seems.
(to control it, is the answer. My hand has stopped shaking, I will not submit to ****ing coffee)
Funny to think my criticism involves telling a story of events. It is a medium to convey at least. It just proves I am one of the pedestrians.
I wandered on for quite some time…
I was given an ultimatum at half past four in the morning last night, Hubris came up to me from behind and said.
“You’ve got two choices, one: I beat the ****ing **** out of you right here, or two: you wait here for a minute.”
It was weird, I didn’t feel frightened and I didn’t feel any adrenalin. I sobered up, looked around me and tried to cross the road.
“get back on the ****ing pavement” was my order. I got slightly worried here, I was thinking of all the crap I would have to go through tomorrow; cancelling my cards, picking teeth out of my cheek and re-shaping my nose. I worried that something might happen to the girl I was with, worried she might also **** the situation up. As I learnt from my past experiences with Hubris, it tries to assert a dominance over the me. This is obvious by the options I was given. BUT I saw a weakness, it was thick as ****, so I decided to exploit that. A great rule of chess my dad taught me, was to make the other person feel that they are winning, when all the while you are playing the puppeteer.
“mate, I just want to take my friend home”
“that’s not what I ****ing said, I told you; get the **** kicked out of you, or wait here for a minute”
negotiation is out of the window, I didn’t want to wait here that’s for sure, I was also hoping that some distant white horse might come to my aid, fat chance… this is Camberwell. I takes two hours for them to find your house after you’ve given them directions, so God help the ones who have no means of contact.
“well, I don’t want to get hurt…but mate, I just want to go home” I tried to say nonchalantly. I repeated the same phrase for quite some time, just appealing to some semblance of moralism. This was my tactic, to give nothing but the bear minimum of what was required, minimum eye contact when he spoke, minimum response and NO emotion what so ever. This carried on for god knows how long until, possibly the frustration of not getting a reaction and could not satisfy what he was actually craving for, confrontation. He changed, and destroyed Hubris with one mediocre swoop. It came from nowhere, there was silence, then saw the cogs start to creak in his eyes.
“right then, you got to answer a question”
I could have pissed myself with laughter.
“who scored the winning goal in the 1966 world cup”
****ing hell, I do not even know who scored the winning goal of the last world cup. I hate the sodding game.
I timidly laughed “I cannot even remember my name right now, but if this is about the whole debate if it counted. I’m English so I’m going to say it did” knowing full well he probably wanted to know the name of the person who scored it. This was my attempt at checkmate, I knew this man was English, and probably stupidly proud of it too. Half my family was like this brute at some point. Before they got jobs -sorry to those chronically unemployed, it’s a dreadful disease-. This would have to make him sympathise with his fellow Englishman, his brother in arms; a load of patriotic bollocks.
“no, it was Geoff Hurst”
Is that it? Is that what he has put me through for? Nope, apparently he did it because he thought I acted like a hard man and wanted to fight me/put me in my place. He even taught me a self defence lesson. Strange, it was almost reverse Stockholm syndrome as he tried to befriend me, how nice I must be!? Well I shook his hand and the five others he was with, and wished them on their merry way. Thank **** for that.
The allegory of Hubris
Or, the means of production
The house: the flaw(S) of intention
Why materialise ideas that require arduous physical labour? It can be practical to rely on instinctive processes to lead the idea up short elaborate paths. When the time comes, they disappear into the wilderness and are abandoned lacking the moral fibre only toil can incubate. The irony manifesting itself in this murky puddle of ideas is given enough time; even faeces can be polished to shine like gold. That is not by any means a negative attribute, only a simile that just made me smile. This is the flaw.
I want to blurt it all out in one paragraph, even one sentence but I am beginning to find that my aching labour to be quite, fun. It has depressed me to hell and back, I worry about worrying and to top it off fixated to create an illusion of seeming which is more rewarding than actually being! I haven’t quite worked that one out either, yet.
This attitude has been conjured by the square I inhabit and from which cannot stand to bear it’s constants. I feel annoyed knowing I have to rise in the morning at the same time to do what needs to be done. I feel irritated knowing to endure the same conversation for the fifth, sixth time with the ever unchanging Hubris who is forever there, who even bites me and believes it to by my doing! I understand the intention of everything in this square.
Maybe everything is my doing methinks a little, coming back to the first few paragraphs makes me flinch in embarrassment, deleting it would only reinforce my denial of what I was only a few months back, a vanity that might be a remedy. My stupidity seems to be my doing or un-doing, but until people stop plying me with drugs and alcohol gratuitously, my stupidity will continue to grow and the consequence shape me. Most irritating is a shimmering verberation in the spine when I catch past actions in the mirror of my mind. But mostly, cruel fantasies of what might be thought and said, and the superficial view of myself in other eyes. **** them if they think little of me, they are of no use to me anyway. The time they spend together seems to merely fill the in between hours of actually doing something, its fine, but what use other than collecting lame stories where the only entertainment comes to being bored, and destruction is never to far away when I get bored. There is a negative outcome to this ephemeral creation of sorts, to borrow from an equally depressive read. While it may be practical, and produces something, its consumption is short lived and that is where creation ends, the illusion of production. I ignore sensibility, and the ache of morality hurts my bones. The man that wandereth out of the way of understanding, shall remain in the congregation of the dead, or to quote Stevie Wonder When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer.
It’s this ****ing square, with no corner to be self contained away from the sounds that are heard by all eight ears; venomous ****ing sound which knows no bounds. Ha, ha; “woe is me” with full bodied tongue in cheek. Please, make no assumption that I exist perpetually in a dreadful state of being. As a test, a game, I alienated myself from everything but alienation, and then to claw myself back into existence in the murky underworld of unplanned action, oddly timed with the new year, the 8th of December. In clouded thoughts meandered streets only returning to the square to sleep and assert my presence in the fractured unit. I have wandered streets, some days I spoke to street corner philosophers and madmen on bicycles stating the obvious, and beyond the test, aching hips and sore soles with little more than coffee after coffee to irritate a plagued mind. Not much was produced really.
There is light in the abyss that haunted the bleak eyed vision you might be pleased to know! A vision of a black void that stretches to the horizon with only a grey figure contemplating the leap. A light far off, scorching the sky as if Apollyon himself kindled it. I run and run from it to escape its fume, knowing full well I have to approach it with gnashing and fiery teeth; that is, when I know what I am fighting.
You hear a sound that wakes you
Roll over, and go back to sleep
It’s the things in your head that make you wonder
Why wonder what is, what it is; is part of the wonder
The fence
It is looking at a broken fence trying to assemble the forms on the other side. Brief glimpses of colour and shape pour through the cracks, the viewer oblivious to the true nature. It could be anything from the absolute mundane to the richest fantasy. Not knowing for me at least, is integral to find new ideas and concepts to propel an initial idea further, even to resolve a current idea. It has served me so well and perhaps not linear as I might expect. I am aware of the new boundary and I test it with friendliness and reverence. Not so much am I concerned with exploring what is beyond -as of yet- though I am more than willing to accept whatever should manifest itself to me, I have come into contact with the things that invite themselves into my company and I’ve responded and set them free again.
This desire for little is an act of clarification and understanding where/what we are; absurdly the want to not want, something I would actually kill for. So many times we are pounced by offers that incite us to want. Automatically; or, zombiefied we jump to the sounding gun and consume, hoard and abuse anything, rendering want into generic fancy. In that wake a devastating image appears of a cripple dragging the earth with tattered cables. As my vision intensified, the invalid on its trudge cunningly ensnares harmless insects for its own cruel company, only to pick the wings from the humble beings.
This is starting to divert away from the initial point, as I have already noted, my ideas meander with a direction of logic and end up poetic tripe that is of little meaning and use to anyone. That is to imply they would be of use even if they had a consistency to them.
I feel I say I a lot, Point proven. I say a lot.
In a moment of madness yesterday, I found myself traversing this new boundary. I now have a slight concussion and a swollen jaw and a little less intimidated by the parameter to say the least. I believe this is because I picked myself up, dusted my hands, rolled a cigarette and proceeded to laugh at myself before making a “dignified” exit. During the embarrassing episode, I broke a bowl. It was a cheap bowl I too had purchased in a thrifty student fashion. Therefore was not only able to replace it with not much expense (in time or money). I had an ingenuity to decorate it with a light hearted assonance rhyme describing my remorse,# to soften the social fall. A rhyme that I cannot remember for the life of me.
A lot of bangs and thumps I hear since the pointless act. It seems my intervention has disturbed two evils, one being a painful struggle to recollect puzzles of mundane situations. Under scrutiny a form of events finally ebb back to my train of thought, though it appears more vivid if I stumble upon it by chance. Amusingly my memories are in disarray at the best of times, yet I have not been so aware of it until recently. The second evil, the more noise I make, the more I hear in response. The less, the more Hubris pokes me to jig like a fool.
I have retreated indoors, predominately to escape a bitter air starting to choke Coldharbour Lane. Brief trips to the shop have become ritual outings because it is so itching (the road’s name is very appropriate this time of year). This allegory appears to be an attempt to absolve and to put to rest past actions. No, I wish it to have more malice than that. It is a pure critique trying to make sense of a new surrounding and sensations, complaining every step of the way.
“And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit. And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.” Revelation 9:1-2
There is a man outside the coffee shop, a tired, surrendered soul that manages existence in a manner of shakes and shuffles. There is a beautiful girl next to me but one. Her existence is so much more inviting. We all have something in common; we smoke, this is the object I am going to focus on. The attractive girl smokes straights and the man smokes rollies. I prefer rollups purely because it makes me do something. It also is economical and therefore practical. They both are playing with their fingers. NOW, they are synchronised. Such subtle similarities overwhelm these distinct characters, yet their situation has transformed their objects and their total being into something quite else.
As tends to be, attractive women never have suitor far off. A Gentleman has walked in and quite rightly has gone to get her a drink. As I consider myself a gentleman too, and know my flaws only too easily. And can read this idiot like an open book, I know full well that he wants nothing more than to **** her brains out, just look at his mannerisms, I mean all that in the best possible manner of course, I am not implying he wants to only rag her brains out, that would just be uncouth. Oh! It turns out he has not bought her a drink after all! He’s not getting anywhere, He talks to much.
He talks about past stories… Why?
It is what we the pedestrian knows. Stories of people. **** I am so arrogant, there’s nothing wrong with talking about stories. Stories of glory.
(the second coffee has given me the shakes, ****)
The man is full of Hubris. I have met him again it seems.
(to control it, is the answer. My hand has stopped shaking, I will not submit to ****ing coffee)
Funny to think my criticism involves telling a story of events. It is a medium to convey at least. It just proves I am one of the pedestrians.
I wandered on for quite some time…
I was given an ultimatum at half past four in the morning last night, Hubris came up to me from behind and said.
“You’ve got two choices, one: I beat the ****ing **** out of you right here, or two: you wait here for a minute.”
It was weird, I didn’t feel frightened and I didn’t feel any adrenalin. I sobered up, looked around me and tried to cross the road.
“get back on the ****ing pavement” was my order. I got slightly worried here, I was thinking of all the crap I would have to go through tomorrow; cancelling my cards, picking teeth out of my cheek and re-shaping my nose. I worried that something might happen to the girl I was with, worried she might also **** the situation up. As I learnt from my past experiences with Hubris, it tries to assert a dominance over the me. This is obvious by the options I was given. BUT I saw a weakness, it was thick as ****, so I decided to exploit that. A great rule of chess my dad taught me, was to make the other person feel that they are winning, when all the while you are playing the puppeteer.
“mate, I just want to take my friend home”
“that’s not what I ****ing said, I told you; get the **** kicked out of you, or wait here for a minute”
negotiation is out of the window, I didn’t want to wait here that’s for sure, I was also hoping that some distant white horse might come to my aid, fat chance… this is Camberwell. I takes two hours for them to find your house after you’ve given them directions, so God help the ones who have no means of contact.
“well, I don’t want to get hurt…but mate, I just want to go home” I tried to say nonchalantly. I repeated the same phrase for quite some time, just appealing to some semblance of moralism. This was my tactic, to give nothing but the bear minimum of what was required, minimum eye contact when he spoke, minimum response and NO emotion what so ever. This carried on for god knows how long until, possibly the frustration of not getting a reaction and could not satisfy what he was actually craving for, confrontation. He changed, and destroyed Hubris with one mediocre swoop. It came from nowhere, there was silence, then saw the cogs start to creak in his eyes.
“right then, you got to answer a question”
I could have pissed myself with laughter.
“who scored the winning goal in the 1966 world cup”
****ing hell, I do not even know who scored the winning goal of the last world cup. I hate the sodding game.
I timidly laughed “I cannot even remember my name right now, but if this is about the whole debate if it counted. I’m English so I’m going to say it did” knowing full well he probably wanted to know the name of the person who scored it. This was my attempt at checkmate, I knew this man was English, and probably stupidly proud of it too. Half my family was like this brute at some point. Before they got jobs -sorry to those chronically unemployed, it’s a dreadful disease-. This would have to make him sympathise with his fellow Englishman, his brother in arms; a load of patriotic bollocks.
“no, it was Geoff Hurst”
Is that it? Is that what he has put me through for? Nope, apparently he did it because he thought I acted like a hard man and wanted to fight me/put me in my place. He even taught me a self defence lesson. Strange, it was almost reverse Stockholm syndrome as he tried to befriend me, how nice I must be!? Well I shook his hand and the five others he was with, and wished them on their merry way. Thank **** for that.