Monday, 12 July 2004

Ambitions towards ambitions

Ambition has its disappointments to sour us, but never the good fortune to satisfy us. Its appetite grows keener by indulgence and all we can gratify it with at present serves but the more to inflame its insatiable desires. (Benjamin Franklin)

There is something to be written today, something formed in the shallows of fatigue.

I feel everything is part of it; a holistic fabric in which every nuance and angle of experience is fathomed and determined by the whole they discern. The walls begin their first beguiling charge of the day, and I must register all that surrounds in order to live what I am living.

Digital skip of laboured, memory-intensive media player.

Burst biro spilling onto filthy table.

Light shining through the lamp without a bulb; mimicry.

Smoke less.

Conversation in the other room, ordered squares of the gallery.

Rows of hung, damp t-shirts, wilfully preparatory.

Documentary, watched, ingested and disliked (but mainly because I left ten pounds in the cashpoint).

Moisturiser never used, skin doesn’t warrant it.

Just eaten.

For my eighteenth birthday, I received a hat.

Plasticine sister you sit upon my monitor and I have never animated you like I promised I would.

Crockery, not mine.

A-frames and expertise, le fosse septique and Berlin.

An ache, a thought of her (these must be nearly as tiring for you as they are for me).

Bed and the echoes of last night dreams of disappointment.

I must stop here, I have reached where I need to be.

I have reached a point without even meaning to. It is those ‘echoes of last night’ that dominate, they resonate beyond their words, because they are their words.

The echoes are the echoes!

The echoes are the echoes.

This of course was all founded in the dark asymmetry of sleep. Last night I questioned everything. The relationships I keep, the ambitions I hold, the bravado I sustain and I reduced it all to fantasies, and the indulgence of dream. Dwelling upon these questions is exhausting. They force consideration, but the consideration of them is their sustenance. They live to be discovered, and they discover living.

Whatever excuses I feed these anxieties, still their ability to consume remains and flourishes. This sensation often occurs in dreams, when precisely the thing that you need to do (for me, it is often running away from a pursuer), you are totally unable to do, and you are suspended, swimming in the viscosity of hopeless, detached time, but all the time nakedly and horribly aware.

It is only a dream. (But it still terrifies you)

And so, ambition cannot satisfy, only disappoint. Never has this been truer than with my own ambitions to oust ambition, attempts to rid myself of the anxieties of the future. It is an essential focus that requires itself but must defeat itself. It is the snake that eats its own tail; the snake is the proud owner of a discernable beginning and end but it appears as a circle, and it will destroy itself.

The more things turn in upon themselves, the more things will be destroyed, and more truths revealed. Beauty lies in self-awareness, but it is the death of all things.

Both the written and spoken word serve to suspend the infinite, to show you that something may be continual but only within its own realm, like a ball which contains the infinite on the inside, but from another view point its finitude is there to be rolled away. As I wrote, just moments away, listing what I saw/felt/remembered, I had a purpose but no path. Through this approach, inevitability and the cycles of ambition may be alleviated, purpose may be abandoned and perspective entertained.

And then you might be allowed a conclusion of sorts.

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