Do you isolate? Do you manufacture your own loneliness? Do you surround yourself with people so selfish, so self absorbed, that you might as well be alone? Or are you yourself the selfish, self absorbed one?
Do you examine all your own bad behaviour, actual and potential, to see what stories you might wring out of it? Do you store up the slights, the dismissals, the hurt and harm you perceive in the words and actions of others? Do you wreak a kind of revenge, in your own head at the very least?
Do you wish you had never met whichever significant other you currently dally with, and at the same time wallow like a hippo in the physical presence they place in the room? Are you secretly pleased that you’re not actually alone?
I would like to meet you. We could be disgustingly depraved together. Our dysfunction could be sublime, each feeding off the other, churning out words. You could put them to music. I could fill a book. Or a small pamphlet at least.
Attack Decay Sustain Release. What else is life about, if not that? How else do we envelope ourselves in meaning?
Answers on a postcard.
Days ago, before Christmas, I read something randomly that mentioned Wilhelm Reich and his orgone accumulator.
Today I read another something randomly that also mentioned Wilhelm Reich and his orgone accumulator.
I decided to search on orgone accumulator to find out what on earth it was. It seems that it’s similar to Noel Edmonds’ box of magnetic energy, except you can sit in it. And you might need to bury it. Which made me think of Toru Okada in The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and Mitsusaburo in The Silent Cry, and the unnamed protagonist of The Miner. They bury themselves underground to symbolise their psychic death, though. Reich’s box of energy symbolises psychic life.
You can also use the accumulated orgone gathered by your orgone accumulator to power a cloudbuster. This reminded me of my disappointment at Kate Bush pronouncing on the wonderfulness of Teresa May. (Warning: that link contains references to Ken Livingstone as a sex machine.)
Meanwhile, the Momus post reminded me of the desire for a more creative, less Protestant Work Ethicy, life inspired by reading Roberto Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives.
That’s what I’ve done this morning, instead of being productive. I’ve accumulated a bunch of nonsense.