Journals of Lord Malinov

the poetry of madness

mine, mine, mine, down, down, down

I'm a happy miser.

The best revenge is living well.  Perhaps "best" is a bit strong.  A bullet to the brain can be damn satisfying revenge, too.

I can joke lightly about such things because I am not a violent man.  I have the power within me, I suppose, but intelligence can be a heavy restraint on physical intercessions.  It is the unusual case where violence is a reasonable solution.

So saith the Malinov.  Praise me! Praise me!

I'm a huge Invader Zim fan - thanks to Cliff the computer dude.  "You should have heard the lies she told about you!" 

Computer dudes know things about us.  They even know that we know and know that we are powerless to prevent them knowing because of their relationships with our machines.

Cliff knows many things.  I, personally, appreciate Cliff's discretion.  A good computer dude must be discreet.  Loose cannons are quickly melted into cannonballs.

Can I turn a metaphor, or what?  Praise me!

I am embarrassed by the stupidity emenating from the eX.  Was I blind to the dysfunction or was it an evolutionary condition.  She has the machinery, but emotional trauma is mucking her gears well beyond anything I've seen before in her.  I am responsible for much of her trauma and for that I am sad and sorry.  Sadly, any undoing cannot come from me, other than very indirect support, which I am obliged to provide, for her role as mother of my children is far more important to me than anything interpersonal between us. 

Forgetting emotionally requires de-energizing the memories.  The wizards call this reframing, a nice little metaphor in it's own right.  Reframing a memory is fairly simple - but a fifteen year relationship has an exceedingly vast number of memories associated with various aspects of our growing together and apart.  There is no easy road. 

Life is pain, princess.  Avoid people who are selling things.

The fan fried on our downstairs AC.  Two different dudes offered to replace the whole system for four grand.  Nice fellows.  We found someone who would replace the fan, costing us a neat three fifty.  

So much of our troubles arise from a failure to communicate.  It is difficult and, at the least, laborious to verbalize with another person to reach the many layers of understanding necessary to arrive at a mutually beneficial transaction.  We typically grab a short-cut and we pay in various ways.  Sometimes quick and dirty are the only way to get anywhere.

In some ways, it is difficult to love at forty-three.  Not because I feel less, nay, quite the contrary.  Rather, complexity dilutes my intensity.  As a youth, I could spend weeks in creative states, constructing the fables, sets and librettos of a ferociously passionate love.  I still burn with the same fires, but my attention is demanded by many directions. 

There is a danger, working at the levels I now work, when we develop the idea that we cannot afford our own time.  A few hours of my time can be worth a quick ten grand.  Very few things that I want to do are worth paying that kind of money to do.  Therefore, I should always work.  Quod Erat Demonstratum.

One of the Japanese Kamakazi pilots - one who failed his mission - said that before the plane took off, he checked his watch for the time.  Then he realized that with his death immanent, time had no meaning for him anymore.  He threw his watch away.

US forces prevented his suicide by shooting him down.  War can get weird.

Time was invented so that we could meet at the bar for a drink, even when the clouds covered the sun.  Clocks were invented so that sailors could navigate latitudinal voyages.

Otherwise, time has no meaning.  We abuse ourselves with the concept of time.

Everything we do takes time and every plan requires constant amendment.  Every day requires sleep and sustenance.  The feeling of pressure, which comes from frustration, generates flight-fight responses.  We rush from frustration.

All well and good, except that rushing doesn't cure frustration.  It increases frustration. 

You want the truth?  You can't handle the truth.

Slow

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 07:51 | link | comments |

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