I think it's got a bad reputation. I don't even know what it is. But I have an idea that nihilism, narcissism and Nietzsche's will to power -- they're all connected, linked up, lined up, hooked up tight as a drunken triangle, like a machine that drives and pushes something or everything or nothing all the time. (Emotional)
For three weeks I slept alone in a hotel room with a desk, a sink, a closet, a rug, a door and a bed with two pillows. I watched TV most of the time when I stayed in there and I watched myself in the mirror. I'd put one eye on the TV and the other eye on the mirror. I'd watch my body move this way and that. Narcissism is one thing, but nihilism is like a different idea that there isnt any truth to anything, no values, nothing that means anything, no meaning...and I'm ok with that. That's all fine and dandy with me. I've thought that way for a long time. In fact, I once started writing this story, a theory really that the so-called "original sin was MEANING. Meaning or making things mean something was the original sin that cursed the world. (Mind of a Shadow)
So in my story we had this garden and in the middle of it was the fruit tree of good and evil. Of course, good and evil is what something means. The great liberator of knowledge had the finality of a poisonous spider and so I wrote the story of how the garden of eden was the beginning of narcissism and nihilism: "I slept with the egyptian only twice -- once on her stomach biting the back of her neck and once on a planet so immoral it's impossible to even think about it." Narcissism was as mysterious as a lighthouse: no longer the effect of constipation (because I drank so much coffee in the morning before I took a hot shower) it gave me hemmorrhoids that felt like a wall of bricks around the tree in the middle of the garden protecting the unfaithful servant because it had no moving parts in her body anymore. (Room of Shadows)
Adam's real name was Adagio and Eve was called Evil. They ran for days and never slept, crashed hard, nobody could wake them, they wouldnt answer phones, read mail or pay rent. They picked blisters off their faces. They loved to look at their own legs and they would touch themselves, touch their smooth skin. They pulled things out of their skin, things that itched, pulled out of their body pieces of things from Planet Zero. Once she blew her nose so hard and loud in the car she was driving, she lost a blood clot on the mirror. Her face turned red and her hair was covered in beautiful dark red and purple blood; she even threatened to stab people with forks if they didnt pay her for the work she did and they seemed to love it. I'd sleep on the bed in the hotel room before I'd get up and I'd hear the sound of sex in another room. I'd try to guess which rooms they were in. (Tattooed Arm)
In my story, they were brother and sister, or two lovers, or two schizophrenics having hallucinations, or two strangers at a bar. Nihilism and Narcissism slept on scratchy woolen blankets laid out next to each other on hard wood floors with entire families picking out their laundry, standing waiting for the mail, for their government checks, drinking hot coffee, smoking cigarettes. They heard voices from inside their headphones, voices without bodies, shadows within and without. They hated the slow dance because it usually spun out of control and then there was no key, no chords, no meter and no purpose to it, which is nihilism. (Untitled)
My hotel room was too small for all of us to fit in and narcissism made me sweat. I couldn't remember my name and I didnt know for sure if my name was really even important. But the girl in the room next door, down the hall a few feet, the girl with the swollen right red eye and the left green eye said there was a space, or there might be a space between imagination and intution, between trust and love, between a to z and back again, on another floor of the hotel, where the elevator didnt go. She said it might be the dark moon shining against the window, hitting the stone towers with black lightning, starring at blue eyes and a red sky. Whatever it was, I didnt care. I was always hungry, but I never ate. And I never drank. But I finally apologized for hiding behind the screen and watching her eyes roll up into the back of her head. I wrote a poem dedicated to nihilism and narcissism: "backward collars of the church hide crosses in their pockets/adolescents paint pimples with cream to hide their imperfections." She seemed to like it. I thought about it every morning before I took a hot shower. The water was so hot and so wet, and the window was open and the wind was cold. I'd get out of the shower and the cold air would blow into the shower stall and turn me on.
There were a few couples in the hotel who wore leather belts that held up the baggy pants of men who in the hotel, which was also called Eden. Women fell into the crack and got lost eternally entangled in the testicles of fat men. They made it mean something that religious delusions were supposed to be good and men could hear voices and make up stories. The fruit tree was able to talk and grow scabs. It pealed off my skin during the night when I slept, when I was taking photos of my legs outside the bed covers, when the sores got really bad and dirty, and turned beautiful and sexy and that was the end of the game. It gave suicide a bad name, like narcissism had a bad name. The problem with narcissism and myth as truth was that they became a belief in a universe selected for extinction. This was the cost of evolution and there was always a little change coming back.
I began to doubt my own mind and panic over everything, especially getting to the bus stop or taking a ride across town at rush hour. I started taking clonazepam and trazodone and lexapro and flomax and lisinopril and hydrocodone and codine and morphine and other stuff several times a day until I was hooked on all of it. I didnt live in present time anymore. I was in a future time, but my body was in one spot and I went exterior and far away from it in another spot, outside and far from it. I shoved myself back into my body, rolled myself backwards in the rain, slammed myself down on the wet street in my underwear soaking wet, but I was beautiful to look at and took lots of photos, narcissistic photos and nihilistic nothingness of my body. In my dreams, sleeping in the hotel, or sitting at the computer downstairs at 3 or 4am, I dreamt I was buried in a bed with a soft cable wrapped around my neck with a scarf when it got cold. I liked to wear leather wrist restraints and a metal ring in public places just to embarrass myself. This made it impossible to remember the color of my own hair.
My bed in the hotel was on a platform off the ground on stilts and there was a wooden ladder that I had to climb every night. I had soft lights built just for me so I could see the soft shadows against my body, to make shadows on the wall outlining my body against the wall when I floated around the room. I could smell polished oak walls, waxed wood floors, stained wood beams, the ceiling and a stone fireplace and flowers from the kitchen garden. The winter snow fell silently on the full moon coming thru the window in my hotel room, and I had sex with myself but I never woke up. I enjoyed it anyway. It wouldve been OK........all this wouldve been OK, but sadly it was over by the time excitement turned into resentment. My name was on my lips like spit, and my body was at its lowest point of ecstacy: self-love smelled like an outhouse in Montana.
Even after therapy, I still wanted to abuse myself because I still had nightmares and my arms had one thing in common: I was ashamed to move to a cheap slum because the laundry rooms were pieces of art. I was becoming extinct: a secluded beat, worse than a sacrificial angel. I had no inspiration after three nights in vegas. An old woman blocked her phone because I had no money, no way to stay away from lonely, no therapy, nobody got crucified, no prophets and no little drops of glass on a mirror. There was so much confusion about the Tao. The ivory addiction kept me bleeding and narcissism became extinct.
For three weeks I slept alone in a hotel room with a desk, a sink, a closet, a rug, a door and a bed with two pillows. I watched TV most of the time when I stayed in there and I watched myself in the mirror. I'd put one eye on the TV and the other eye on the mirror. I'd watch my body move this way and that. Narcissism is one thing, but nihilism is like a different idea that there isnt any truth to anything, no values, nothing that means anything, no meaning...and I'm ok with that. That's all fine and dandy with me. I've thought that way for a long time. In fact, I once started writing this story, a theory really that the so-called "original sin was MEANING. Meaning or making things mean something was the original sin that cursed the world. (Mind of a Shadow)
So in my story we had this garden and in the middle of it was the fruit tree of good and evil. Of course, good and evil is what something means. The great liberator of knowledge had the finality of a poisonous spider and so I wrote the story of how the garden of eden was the beginning of narcissism and nihilism: "I slept with the egyptian only twice -- once on her stomach biting the back of her neck and once on a planet so immoral it's impossible to even think about it." Narcissism was as mysterious as a lighthouse: no longer the effect of constipation (because I drank so much coffee in the morning before I took a hot shower) it gave me hemmorrhoids that felt like a wall of bricks around the tree in the middle of the garden protecting the unfaithful servant because it had no moving parts in her body anymore. (Room of Shadows)
Adam's real name was Adagio and Eve was called Evil. They ran for days and never slept, crashed hard, nobody could wake them, they wouldnt answer phones, read mail or pay rent. They picked blisters off their faces. They loved to look at their own legs and they would touch themselves, touch their smooth skin. They pulled things out of their skin, things that itched, pulled out of their body pieces of things from Planet Zero. Once she blew her nose so hard and loud in the car she was driving, she lost a blood clot on the mirror. Her face turned red and her hair was covered in beautiful dark red and purple blood; she even threatened to stab people with forks if they didnt pay her for the work she did and they seemed to love it. I'd sleep on the bed in the hotel room before I'd get up and I'd hear the sound of sex in another room. I'd try to guess which rooms they were in. (Tattooed Arm)
In my story, they were brother and sister, or two lovers, or two schizophrenics having hallucinations, or two strangers at a bar. Nihilism and Narcissism slept on scratchy woolen blankets laid out next to each other on hard wood floors with entire families picking out their laundry, standing waiting for the mail, for their government checks, drinking hot coffee, smoking cigarettes. They heard voices from inside their headphones, voices without bodies, shadows within and without. They hated the slow dance because it usually spun out of control and then there was no key, no chords, no meter and no purpose to it, which is nihilism. (Untitled)
My hotel room was too small for all of us to fit in and narcissism made me sweat. I couldn't remember my name and I didnt know for sure if my name was really even important. But the girl in the room next door, down the hall a few feet, the girl with the swollen right red eye and the left green eye said there was a space, or there might be a space between imagination and intution, between trust and love, between a to z and back again, on another floor of the hotel, where the elevator didnt go. She said it might be the dark moon shining against the window, hitting the stone towers with black lightning, starring at blue eyes and a red sky. Whatever it was, I didnt care. I was always hungry, but I never ate. And I never drank. But I finally apologized for hiding behind the screen and watching her eyes roll up into the back of her head. I wrote a poem dedicated to nihilism and narcissism: "backward collars of the church hide crosses in their pockets/adolescents paint pimples with cream to hide their imperfections." She seemed to like it. I thought about it every morning before I took a hot shower. The water was so hot and so wet, and the window was open and the wind was cold. I'd get out of the shower and the cold air would blow into the shower stall and turn me on.
There were a few couples in the hotel who wore leather belts that held up the baggy pants of men who in the hotel, which was also called Eden. Women fell into the crack and got lost eternally entangled in the testicles of fat men. They made it mean something that religious delusions were supposed to be good and men could hear voices and make up stories. The fruit tree was able to talk and grow scabs. It pealed off my skin during the night when I slept, when I was taking photos of my legs outside the bed covers, when the sores got really bad and dirty, and turned beautiful and sexy and that was the end of the game. It gave suicide a bad name, like narcissism had a bad name. The problem with narcissism and myth as truth was that they became a belief in a universe selected for extinction. This was the cost of evolution and there was always a little change coming back.
I began to doubt my own mind and panic over everything, especially getting to the bus stop or taking a ride across town at rush hour. I started taking clonazepam and trazodone and lexapro and flomax and lisinopril and hydrocodone and codine and morphine and other stuff several times a day until I was hooked on all of it. I didnt live in present time anymore. I was in a future time, but my body was in one spot and I went exterior and far away from it in another spot, outside and far from it. I shoved myself back into my body, rolled myself backwards in the rain, slammed myself down on the wet street in my underwear soaking wet, but I was beautiful to look at and took lots of photos, narcissistic photos and nihilistic nothingness of my body. In my dreams, sleeping in the hotel, or sitting at the computer downstairs at 3 or 4am, I dreamt I was buried in a bed with a soft cable wrapped around my neck with a scarf when it got cold. I liked to wear leather wrist restraints and a metal ring in public places just to embarrass myself. This made it impossible to remember the color of my own hair.
My bed in the hotel was on a platform off the ground on stilts and there was a wooden ladder that I had to climb every night. I had soft lights built just for me so I could see the soft shadows against my body, to make shadows on the wall outlining my body against the wall when I floated around the room. I could smell polished oak walls, waxed wood floors, stained wood beams, the ceiling and a stone fireplace and flowers from the kitchen garden. The winter snow fell silently on the full moon coming thru the window in my hotel room, and I had sex with myself but I never woke up. I enjoyed it anyway. It wouldve been OK........all this wouldve been OK, but sadly it was over by the time excitement turned into resentment. My name was on my lips like spit, and my body was at its lowest point of ecstacy: self-love smelled like an outhouse in Montana.
Even after therapy, I still wanted to abuse myself because I still had nightmares and my arms had one thing in common: I was ashamed to move to a cheap slum because the laundry rooms were pieces of art. I was becoming extinct: a secluded beat, worse than a sacrificial angel. I had no inspiration after three nights in vegas. An old woman blocked her phone because I had no money, no way to stay away from lonely, no therapy, nobody got crucified, no prophets and no little drops of glass on a mirror. There was so much confusion about the Tao. The ivory addiction kept me bleeding and narcissism became extinct.
