A confused otter’s mumblings and rumblings

Thursday, 9th February, 2006

Frustration is the title; “everything is bollocks”.

Filed under: Writing — Otter @ 01:17

There is so, so much to write about, that I don’t know where to begin — because begin I must. So I begin with these words, nay, this sequence of symbols, which are encoded as different symbols but are decoded for your reading pleasure. And so on and so forth as a human would understand it. You see, metaphorically? So, so much to write about, in so many ways, in so many ways. There is so much to write about, and in so much detail, that I despair from it all, and tend not to write anything. And it’s so easy to write things that aren’t true, not even according to the seemingly easy test of whether the writer believes exactly, but exactly, what he or she or it (who cares? Just words) writes. With speech, there is the excuse that it must be inexact for it to happen at all, and one hopes one’s audience understand sufficiently what one is trying to say, preferably even better than oneself. [The tendency to wish other humans to be similar to ourselves in all sorts of crucial ways, whilst conceivably useful and perhaps inevitable, can be a very crude habit, with much potential for causing harm].

I keep seeing the bollocks in what I write. I can’t help it. I probably don’t need to explain, but I will anyway, because I’m enjoying it massively:

  • I really, really don’t mean what I write, except on a very superficial level.
  • What I do write is grotesque.
  • What I write about is, give or take, boring.
  • Every single human who reads this won’t understand it, or themselves, or anything at all, but most won’t mind to any great extent, and will keep on fucking and puking until they die, which whilst undeniably a great shame, is also just not that important in any relative way. They will be very arrogant about their abilities, because otherwise they wouldn’t be able to live and fuck and puke. It’ll all be wasted on them, except possibly what they themselves create, and they just won’t care at all. Anything different will be rejected, if they even find it amongst the noise of different anythings. Any attempts to help in this situation have failed, give or take, whatever that means.
  • I keep correcting some of the more obvious mistakes, such as those of the spelling variety, never mind how arbitrary they are. I keep writing a new sentence, and then coming back to finish off an old one. It’s all a fraud, a big game in lieu of fucking. At best, we can only hope for giving people orgasms of a sort. Everyone is masturbating, and even that’s bollocks, and so is that. All complete bollocks. It’s all about who impresses who, even though it’s all just masturbation. What’s so amazing about masturbation? No-one says it’s the easiest thing ever, but it’s not far off. Complete bollocks. Don’t you see how easy, and yet how hopeless to complete, it all is? Ah well.

I’m annoyed at myself for being so angry, for writing about it when no-one will read it, because why should they, you self-righteous schmuck?

So complicated, and we just don’t care. Let someone else sort it out. I want to fuck and puke, or equivalently fuck and pray, or pray and pray, and that’s pretty much that. Why am I so angry? What is wrong with that? What does it all mean, eh, eh?

Everything is bollocks, damn it.

[I’m a happy person, don’t worry. I’m just angry too, about the bollocks of it all, including the claim that it’s all bollocks. I can’t help it. I hope you understand, although I have no right to, or rather shouldn’t expect it, not that that will stop me, or you.]

[And I’ll probably recant this one day, as it’s too trashy. It’s not Classic Literature, and that’s just not acceptable. For this, I will apologise. So I’m sorry. I hope you understand a tiny amount, although you won’t know until someone tells you, and no-one will tell you. Think about that, schmuck. Think about that.]

[If there are mistakes — “mistakes” — or other undesirable elements to this post, I don’t care any more. Don’t you see it doesn’t matter? Please go back to fucking and puking. Move along.]


Saturday, 28th January, 2006

The first post

Filed under: Writing — Otter @ 14:49

I have been intending to create this blog for quite some time, to practise my writing. I am finding out that writing is a key to success of many kinds, and it is within my principles to accept this and deal with it. My way of dealing with it is to practise it, to make sure that when I’m required to write for an Important Reason (as defined by other people), I’ll be able to do it well (as decided by those self-same people).

I am also finding that writing, though it can be a painful, tedious and slow process, is a marvellous way (if only aesthetically) to structure one’s thoughts, and one of the most effective ways, relatively speaking, to communicate with others. Thus, despite its primitivity, it should be engaged in, in the hope that it is a good way to find a superior method of structuring and communicating our thoughts. All this assumes our thoughts are worth structuring and communicating, but, pathetic as it may be, I just can’t imagine living without this even more fundamental hope, and so I naively accept it. I have failed already, but the dice were stacked against me from the start. Wittgenstein (the famous one) might have understood, but I can’t know for certain, partly because he’s dead. That’s that, I guess.

I imagine most of my posts will be quite similar, if only because the word “similar” has such an ambiguous definition. I love the inadequacy of human language, and don’t plan to stop complaining about it any time soon, never mind the hypocrisy (or any other sins you might think of) of the situation.

I will probably write a lot of proverbial bollocks, but perhaps I am not capable of more, because of the way I am or because of the nature of blogging or because of the environment I live in. So no matter, I’ll get on with it, because it might just do some good, as it seems to have done many others.

As for you, if you join the ride, I hope you enjoy it, but I apologise now for my disregard of your needs, or at least their demotion in my priorities. This is my chance to be selfish and write crap I care about in a crap way without worrying that you’ll find the crap crap, and by Jove I’m planning to revel in it without feeling guilty. Though secretly I’m not exactly managing that so far, I’m not going to worry about it. If the guilt goes away, then I’ve succeeded in that; if it doesn’t, perhaps it reflects well on me as a sensitive human being.

I want to stop now, so I will. But I’m sure I’ll return.

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