originally blown up on Boatzone3, my main sleaze:
“Sometimes, like now, I have great need/to live outside of metaphor,/to know a dawn that’s only dawn/and corn that’s corn and nothing else.”
-Andrew Hudgins, “Reflections on Cold Harbor” from After the Lost War
The other morning I was hiking and shit was very autumnal. I noted how the trees were bare, and how, with leaves upon leaves scattered before me, it was hard to discern wherein lied the trail. That’s a metaphor for something, I figured, and got to work grafting it onto my inner whatnot, so I might have a vivid and actionable clump of imagery for the next visit to the shrink’s office: a spoonful of symbols to help the “I have lost hope” go down.
Being this depressed means resenting signification in general, as well as human meaning-making in particular. Like language, the semiotic life of objects threatens my kind with a slippery slope from meaning-making towards identity, belonging, and simply being in this enchanted, human world.
Of course, words and symbols sometimes fail. But not without putting a bowel-rattling fright in us, first.
Perhaps there’re still those for whom “Hell is other people.” For me, hell is identity and meaning, twin rudiments of civilized life. I only want to go somewhere, and see something, without thinking of anything else. Alas, there’s not much non-symbolic that I can find, save death and hopefully certain types of sex, in which the miracle of clinging, cleaving lust can fucking shut up the deferral upon deferral of signifier, signified, connotation, speech and discourse.