…a calm, between region as it were. Also being in the doldrums. Selling off my library is perhaps having a brain suck effect on me, watching my collection sort of dribble off into the US Postal service. It’s obvious that the texts operated as place holders for whatever I think (or thought; such are the instabilities of thinking and memory. It becomes increasingly hard to differentiate the two). On the other hand, there is a feeling of incipient hysteria lurking around the edges, maybe what had passed before for inspiration. Everything I think seems to be too close, too banal in its personal-ness, On the other hand, everything (everything of any worth at any rate) seems closer to the horizon or even over the horizon. Perhaps I could make a virtue of shuttling between the two points. From the point of view of social utility, at least here and now, the most significant (and I use the term ironically) stance is the here and now. The place of ‘art’ seems just as problematic as it ever was…and the places which aren’t problematic (let’s say painting of flowers…. or making these notes) seem worse than either use or non-usefulness. Just leaden. Even kitsch doesn’t match up, occupying some interruptive point of at least theoretical interest. Everything slinks into ‘Days of Our Lives’ maudlin melancholy garden drama. I can hear the opening chords of the soap opera now giving way to just more and more of the more and more. Prophets of haute-thought imminence will never overcome prophets of a mysterious beyond, no matter how bumbling the stories of angels, other worlds, other radical beyonds, other entities, no matter how bizarre the stories get, no matter how hodge podge sludgy things get, no matter how hysterical (out-of-body, thin line between inside and outside) the person and the sociopolitical get.