Thank you, Ibra. Not many pages from each tome survived my paranoid anxiety, but, taken as a whole, even if a few egos are bruised along the way, if I present it as a "psychological reading," then it may become something of a breath of fresh air, yes, especially when I am a mere memory. For soon we will be no more, and at least I can give a concentrated "example" of how to juggle several lives together.
Now I will sound like Henry Fool getting some classic saying mixed up, but I am no more the author of these notes than the air is the wind passing through it, as they say. Like most literature, it is simply a trail pointing to other authors, and many, many notes. Those are what was salvaged before I set them each, very slowly on fire in a fire pit. It's kind of "spiritual" I suppose, and between me and "the world." I am sure to attract some enemies for having the audacity to lay my heart open bare before the entire species, but as much as I could stand to reveal was kept in tact - which, for the most part, is only a small fraction of what has been scribbled. I have spared the archeologists from having to scour through the details of my inequities and debauchery. I honestly consider some radical theories, and when I found some kind of contradiction, I made a note of it. I have alienated many people in my life with my "little remarks." I try to be careful, but - sometimes it's best to remain silent. The world of thugs, gangsters, and secret governments are all about codes of secrecy, whereas I must appear to be a real airhead (omega) to such types, the betas following the orders of their alphas.
The reader will witness a scholar struggling to compose himself in human society while also existing as a Steppenwolf. I think, after having had to skim through to "be sure not too many double-takes," I have a sense of what I have been "struggling with." It may very well be universal to the human condition, but to each of us, it feels like only we experience the world "schizophrenically."
How could we not? The animal man may be a natural born schizoid. I'm just trying to bravely share my notes, even though such a thing is unheard of in machismo infected societies. No, according to the knuckle-dragging dunces, only "playwrights" keep "diaries," otherwise it is something "girls" do. And yet, I am living proof that sometimes janitors and semi-skilled maintenance men do as well.
You know, this is all very revealing since the Greeks always used the feminine when referring to the "Spirit" or the Mind. I don't know, I'm just a make-believe scholar. What do I know? I refer to my Muse as that which compels me to continue pecking away at programming and mathematics; but I call the Demon that which commands me to get these notes uploaded to The Wayback Machine.
If in the future, a literate human animal will entertain those scribblings in their minds, then i will have made it to the other side, the side I am usually peering at from the other direction. I am curious to know if some feelings and thoughts might "live" or "reside" in another mind. Something whispers to me, "Do not be afraid of revealing your inner-dimensions. The pages will not be appealing to those it is not intended for, and it will only attract those who might handle the rawness of this inner reality.
No doubt, I will be written off as a madman, as I should be, I suppose. I don't know how it ends.
It's hard to imagine Salinger writing his novel in a fox hole.
I'm not sure I could find that kind of "composure." I realized that I am no novelist. I do not have to be Dostoevsky since I don't have any money to ** g-a-m-b-l-e ** ... no severe life-threatening debt to any dangerous Entities. I'm certainly no Kafka. Hell, I am a real lazy bastard in comparison to K. Hell no. I'm not THAT kind of writer. I am the kind of writer that programmers might appreciate when they read my comments in the code. They learn two ways, from the code itself, reinforced with the comments. Maybe my diaries are like the comments in "the crazy program that is this life-world," and taken as a whole, others might learn something that I can't possibly learn or benefit from - since I am, after all, inside it.
But others are also inside their own lives. Who has time to scribble? It's amazing how one might even have to hide the material as it is written just because many in our lives, in our world in general, cannot stand the fact that we do think thoughts that are not always appropriate. We live through a great deal of chaos and confusion. Not many novels are able to get that level of our existence across. The comical part is the "thinking oneself a genius." This is the part that forces me to identify with comical characters such as Ignatius Reilly or Henry Fool.
And yet, one is not always in the mood to play the clown, to be the village idiot. Some of my writing is more coherent than others. Those snooping in there would be advised that some of the material could be fascinating and distract one from their "duties." It is always safer for me to play down the intellect, but there is no hiding it from oneself in a diary -- unless I was drunk [those pages were mostly turned to ashes years later].
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Lo and behold. George Orwell was right about scribbling down the forbidden words in our heads. It is great revenge against the teachers, work associates, etc, who may have abused us or taken us for "mentally soft." I swear, if they only knew how badly individual thinkers want their voices to be heard. Back in 1990 or so, when the modems were just firing up, poor old Ted K went through unnecessary means to be read or taken seriously, and he ended up being mocked anyway. George Carlin claimed that writing was what he enjoyed the most. He could express his sickest thoughts. I've been expressing those thoughts for a long, long time. My first suicide attempt was at age 19, so ... this entire life has been "overtime." Wait until I collect my pay!
Is it not possible for a poor man to get some respect from this world without resorting to extreme measures which only reveal the actions of a terrified creature? Maybe the outcome of all these copied pages is beyond my own comprehension, and that the weird way life unfolds will make the pages take on a life of there own, communicating ... jolting ...
I sometimes toss and turn and regret ever having taken up the "habit of writing."
As I said, current notes are mostly entirely technical. I have too many other outlets (this discussion board being the main one). Life is too weird. I could die any day in an "vehicular misadventure" as Thomas Ligotti calls it. I really would like my saved pages accessible to the poor teenagers of the future who are in search of an honest man, even if that honest man turned out to be F.UCKING NUTS.
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