there is a very subtle... ahem... "subtle" proof of solipsism - and it's not at all theoretical, rather, practical - i still don't understand why some "intellectual" would deem solipsism a "mental illness": here's to the placebo simulation of autism - or as i like to say... the real proof of solipsism being a viable position to take is... found via the anus... after all... we can all agree that we don't mind our own farts... but that we mind the farts of others... then again: come to "think" of it, this is hardly a "proof"... the self alone is only known to exist because: we don't mind our own farts but mind the farts of others... perhaps i had to instigate grandiosity with this verbiage... nothing more than martini humour... like my grandfather used to say after taking a dump... when someone was imploring him to vacate the toilet... stating: smells of strawberries in there... everyone always had to beg to differ.
the "other" golden rule still stands...
beside that chinese one:
do unto others as you'd wish to be done
unto you - obviously you don't
need any other maxims in life...
well... that's hardly a compensating
categorical imperative -
i learned this other one early on in life:
borrowing from a book on tao:
the best way you can help the world,
is for the world to forget you,
and for you, to forget the world -
i'm pretty sure there's a third...
lying: something that is an erosive substance
for long-term memory...
fair enough: lie for a day, a week...
but to have to keep the lie in check
over a year? a decade?
to have to compartmentalize it?
the great thing about truth...
you don't have to remember it...
not in a memory-mingling-with-imagination
warp of perception...
you can see when people buckle under
lies... there's an old proverb that says:
lies walk on short legs...
and truth will resurface eventually:
just look at the nag hammadi library...
.........................................
what was that "other" golden rule?
ah...
it doesn't matter if you walk
in rags, in torn garments or dirty attire...
as long as you have washed yourself...
personal hygiene is crucial...
yesterday this plump eye-catch of
a supermarket cashier transcended her
impatience by exclaiming:
you always smell so good, so fresh...
she might be on the plum side
of a: "p" ending... but as with all plum plump
girls - the skin... exfoliates...
even more so when they get older...
but today?
i don't know whether to feel sorry
for the guy or whatever...
let's just say i notice him...
like the narrator of Dostoevsky's
notes from the underground...
i notice him...
the sort of man that have to make
petty conversations with grocery store
workers... the sort of man who could
forge a cognitive labyrinth if he so chose...
but instead has to make petty conversations...
me fresh out the shower...
you know you have an aura of freshness
surrounding you when you come
across the already stated specimen...
not even your body can envelop you without
your nose sticking out into the vicinity
like an arrogant parisian waiter's might...
you just pick up the scent...
really... it's not much...
dress in rags, dress in dirty clothes...
but at least have the civil decency
to wash yourself...
his story might have so much
tragedy in it... a loney bachelor living alone...
hobbies include collecting plane models...
both parents dead...
i get it... but the biggest tragedy is?
soap... where's the soap!
i get my shit (cider 8.2% -
i have a terrible cough and my larynx
is riddled with phelgm...
i need something to cut through it...
a 8.2% cider will do just that)...
whiskey and ginger ale...
and walk up to another cashier...
she's coming around to half asleep...
i don't bother her with anything but a:
goodnight...
obviously eye contact...
and she looks... as if about to sink into
a lullaby - she more says goodnight
back with her lulled eyes than with her tongue...
i like that...
and if i see the other cashier who
paid me that compliment i'll pay one back:
it's so rare to give something so tiny
yet so profound with the most awaited
circumstance of impromptu -
that gift of spontaneity...
after all... a compliment is the most
rare exchange of "currency"...
the sort of currency that you cannot buy...
nor can you sell...
you can either give it freely -
or accept it freely...
like my old high school teacher used
to say: you can save the world
in a day for but one man / woman...
if... and only if... you give them a genuine
compliment...
no one is going to bother with
some utopian crock-shit...
i guess you sometimes have
to starve yourself from human interaction...
long enough...
to then appreciate concentrated pockets
of said interaction with a grace of
congruence, a light whipping of
whored sophistication for the elevated
aestehtics of civility...
like paying a stranger a compliment...
agreed: verbiage...
but only for a sense of...
how terribly important these things
can be...
in the realm of etiquette (god damn...
i knew there was a specific word for
such "things"!)
imagine... learning a new version
of etiquette that has only one
group of people: strangers...
and one can most certainly become
more "savage" under a guise of etiquette...
which always attracts the reflexive
mode of "thinking" whereby a courtesy
is given... while the mind replies to
the primitve echo of: you ungrateful
son of a donkey's leftover bollock!
hence the mask...
perhaps Jung did over
the concept of the shadow...
why not offer a serious
contemplation of involving the mask (der maske)
in jungian schematics...
no, nothing original on my part...
it would have to be incorporated into
jungian psychology and be...
akin to... the brothers thanatos and hipnos...
the shadow would be thanatos
while the mask would be hipnos...
would that involve reading the entire thesis
of jung? em... modern man in search of soul,
decent read: the answer to yob,
also a decent read...
the undiscovered self... hey!
i'm a democratic reader...
if i was paid to read only one
man's oeuvre... maybe...
yes... there is that specific stench...
even if you walk around for half an hour
with a freshly showered membrane...
the stench will still penetrate it...
it's not a concentrated stench akin to
a rotting egg... or off milk...
it's...
even shit can have
a sweet whiff to it...
mushrooms grow on
horseshit manure...
it's not even irritating...
it's just a stench of a presence...
it has the capacity to penetrate
any other scent...
i'd call something akin
to the antithesis of a friday night's
night club: overdid it with the cologne type
of scent... i.e. it's less sickly sweet
and more pickle piquant with a hint
of dust and pepper... coupled with
sea salt trapped in a cobweb...
which why... esp in writing?
it would be a great start to forget colour...
and try to capture scents.