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Barista’lympics

WHICH//ONE

I’m not angry but well alive,

You can’t fault me for that, right?

;

It feels easier not to say a goddamn thing, you know? My commeuppance is nigh enough. 

It’s weird watching the dam break, I think, of Hollywood. Just today was a story about David Cross accused of racism against Charlyne Yi (Paper Heart, Apatow films), and the dam seems suddenly wider. Every showbiz injustice and inequity come to light.

.

I feel myself to have cruelly abused the little power I once held. It still eats away at me- I let it.

I do very much question my role in maculinity 

I do very much think I am getting better by it. 
But work;

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The Sirens are Going

The sirens are wailing somewhere in the background of the neighborhood, but I’m far more into the evening’s radiations instead.

Cosmic.

Em. Âm. M. El. Mill.

Am I not meant to be angry?
In the chrome tab beside this one lays an unregulated thirty minute scrawl against society and culture as I feel it; and it sounds so dumb.

Shouldn’t I just shut up for a while?

;

I took the first of many
practice tests over the Quantitative Reasoning portion of the GRE Math Workbook (9th Edition)–
and scored a 66%?

That’s no bueno.

;

And I got my copy of Fear and Trembling back. Thank God.
oh! and a Fabiola book.

And a book on love that I loant out already

;;

& I’ve been well.
I’m glad you are too.

♪;

and this is going to be a very fun month.
-cheers.

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Yale.

When I get depressed I study. I also run; I am up to half a mile in four minutes at a 7.5% incline, whatever all that may mean.

When I get depressed I run, and do yoga. I open up that little Nike app and queue a workout. 20 min. 30 min. Something to get me out of my head.

When I think about- her; I do feel insecure. So I try to better myself, for that small immediate. I’m still at home, I move nowhere, but it’s progress.

I am watching Yale Courses on Literature, one that I will go back and revisit again and again, barely making headway after a third viewing, pen and paper in hand, taking feverish notes to let nothing slip by, but still. Trying to unpack the centuries of knowledge nestled within this hour and a half- with no one at my back prodding to make sure I know it. It’s difficult, but I continue my studies.

It’s insanely difficult, to feel better.
you know?
Who am I talking to at this point? Why not all of you? It’s extremely difficult to feel that I am doing better.

;

I keep grappling with this thing. It’s called a simulacra. I’ve referenced it before, but here’s how I know of it:

  • It’s what the map is to the terrain
  • It’s the replacement of reality by the reproduction of reality:
    • Baudrillard, The Precession of Simulacra, 1981.; from pg. 1565, “…Disneyland is there to conceal the fact that it is the “real” country, all of “real” America, which is Disneyland…”
      • Cue the Professor: There is, right in the middle of Disneyland, Main Street, U.S.A. It is the disnified version of the 1950’s idyllic America, the white washing of the already white washed Leave it To Beaver; this is the simulacra- a manufactured representation of reality, that then goes and replaces the “truth,” say, “reality” of the real, of the historical real. People look at Main Street, U.S.A. and think that’s how the 1950’s actually were. That’s what they want to return to. That’s the Great they are seeking.
        And it’s all a lie. That’s the simulacra.

 

  • It’s the mask. Taking liberties with Lacan:
    • Lacan, Jaqcues. The Mirror Stage as Formative, 1949.; from page 1164, “…We have only to understand the mirror stage as an identification, in the full sense that analysis gives to the term: namely, the transformation that takes place in the subject when he assumes an image-whose predestination to this phase effect is sufficiently indicated by the use, in analytic theory, of the ancient term imago.”
      • Cue the Internal: When a toddler sees himself in the mirror for the first time, he sees a happy cooing version of himself, he sees the mask, the external representation, of all the fears and anxieties writhing within- the chaos of life. He then stops identifying with the internal anxieties, and instead becomes the version reflected back in the mirror.

 

So what is this simulacra?
Is it when I see you, and we smile
and everything is going fine;

do i think that’s not really me?

this is me.
these words are me.
i don’t think there’s more truth to me than what I leave here.

;;

but what if this is the lie?
What if all these words are premeditated as the mask I put on to the world?

/

isn’t that a stinker?

and what am I doing with all of this fucking knowledge?
what have I solved so far?

//

you can see the conundrum.

.

.

.

.

.

but i have to remind myself this is progress
chip chip chipping away.

i’ve always been one to wait.

…..

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PCR

It’s nice, that my dad has a son to do all those things with, like watch the ball game.

“Can you believe this shit? The ball got stuck in the fence.”

-What do you mean the fence?

“Like, it literally got caught wedged in the wire mesh. The Yankees got a fricken run off of it.”

“Yeah Verlander is pissed. His next pitch after that was like 98.”

.

.

You don’t think I’d be good for your dad, huh?

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