book 5 - Hands

Lots of shit-stains, gotta clean this shit up, damn-it!

Start (June 14, 2026)

hAPPY-

Even if I want to say that I wake up sad and depressed, I just don’t. And it’s not that I’ve gotten so caught up in what I’m doing that I don’t have time to address anything or anything. In fact, I actively address these concerns in my journaling. I’ve grown to become so much more sensitive as well as articulate. And it actually feels great to be alive. But at the same time, I recognize well what it means to be okay. What it means to be who I am, after everything, after years of wondering and wandering. It feels funny looking back, but no, it’s never truly just funny. It’s all of the things, and usually, I’d have something to say. But other times, I just don’t, and that’s its own writing. The articulacy as well as the moments in between where everything both shuts up and drifts into ambience. The rain, the clouds, the chatter of the people around. You’d think I had it all together, and the funny thing is I do. I’ve lived a life as much as anyone, and sometimes, I can barely even adjust to anything, and other times, it feels like everything’s just landing on me like egg on hard rock. Other times still, it all passes me by, and I can barely even begin to face it all. I’ve known it all, all manner of feelings, as well as great unknowns and dissonances. My life has been all about dealing with these dissonances and wandering through these tall, huge labyrinths I can barely even begin to escape. But it really is just a matter of sitting down and enjoying oneself even as there are many big questions yet unanswered. It’s not like they’re my personal ones anyway. I’ve already integrated a lot of myself and have taken the time to address my personal concerns, so whatever lies beyond those is just curiosity and perhaps dread of something far larger than myself. All of my writing presently is continued exploration. If I knew writing then, I know writing now. Even more so. And through it, I have been able to capture a lot of the pieces that didn’t necessarily make me fundamentally more okay, because at one point, I already reached a point of okayness and even cloud-nine happiness. But whatever else is extended appreciation of all of that which my life is. I am only as much as I am, but I am multitudes, the mass of all that I am, a prolonged journey into a world so big and bright, a self so full and rich, and a medium of expression that keeps yielding as well as confounding. I’ve barely even begun, yet I’ve become so much, already. It’s funny, yet it’s as somber as gray clouds. Ha-ha.

I want to do a full experimental diagnosis of where I am mentally, emotionally, psychologically. But it feels like the oblique is the only place to find it, but maybe, I’ve collected, accumulated enough of myself in all of those obliques that I can begin to synthesize, just one step of faith, with a breakthrough in short order.

I am a person. I live and go along. I also sit and stay. Long enough that the wind keeps rustling. I don’t usually write, but when I do, I write with my soul. I say “usually” when I write thousands of words a day, but it honestly feels like most of my writing is not me writing but me thinking and being and existing in all the ways a person can, breathing in the beautiful scent of existence and being one with it. Writing is merely the exhaust fumes of all that perceptive effort. And less effort, more falling from a great height but never landing with burnout, exhaustion, or breakdown. I am always at the edge of my creativity, finding new frontiers in which to play. I don’t know what I do most of the time, but when I do, it’s that moment after a whole day spent with something, and then others and then some… and then done. I give myself that… or it clicks and it feels real great. And I allow myself that, give myself that, have set it up all my life, feels like, but really, it was a patient, painstaking path to get here. And here I am. With all that I am. What’s a word to a person? Not life itself, but the place where feelings meet in the act of writing, with the words being mere active brain activity and emotional processing and smiling, crying, ranting, and all that that the brain manages and undergoes. It’s a fun-happy-thing to be alive overflowingly that I can say all this. I feel good.

And it never feels that it is simply just that, but it is all the simplicity in that moment of saying it and feeling it with a closed-eye embracing smile. I feel it all, down to the rudest smile to the brightest to the biggest to the most exquisite. The complexity, sophistication, elegance all blended in a perfume-like grin. I feel it all. I feel it. As big as the clouds, as sorrowful as death, as longing as infatuation but without getting lost in it, as heartful as eyes that soften so much they feel like they might dissolve. Cotton. I wonder, and I step with a “might” in my gait, that “maybe” that feels like it embraces everything openly and without walls. I feel it all. Embracing. Hugging, Fully coming in a mixing motion, being one in motion. I feel it all.

I go around, and for a while, I feel I’ve already reached the end, but I’ve just allowed myself to feel it all in that crisp, clear-minded, even blurry, obscure moment, the fullness of an emotion, fully enveloped, developed, blooming, crashing, crushing, scritching tactilely. I am. In that moment, when I think I’m about to reveal the fraud that couldn’t even get at that, I see instead a face with a warm, kind, childishly simple smile that slowly turns to a grin because the locked-eyes staring gets long enough, that crisp feeling of friendship warmth. I know it too well, and “too” not in any overwhelming way, but in the way it floods and inundates you with love. To see yourself that way, and to see all them through you (him, her, them). The people who’ve been with you all your life, even as many of them have already left and drifted apart. You keep them in your heart, in the mirror when you look, ghostly apparitions still warmly shoulder-to-shoulder, arms over. There’s a crisp, simple magic to that. And it never truly feels overwhelming, beyond what fullness inevitably makes you feel.

I genuinely, genuinely, genuinely want to know it. And I do. But again. Again. Again. And it easily comes. And I feel it. In my heart. Full. Like deep warm kisses that envelop each other. There’s something in that moment, closed-eyed, the world full and warm and embracing and true. Dissonance is a nice addition to all of it, because it makes fullness even more complex in the way beauty is always unraveling, making its fullness ever more felt.

It hurts. And the tears drop like petals, welcoming the stream along the gutter, light shining ever more pleasantly. And whatever dissonance and hurt found “found family” in the hotel lobby where people are gathering and coming and leaving. The world as it was, crystallized in moments like these. Hearts touch, ever so slightly, then like softest lips part.

I feel like I’m at the tip of a very long, long journey. The adventure’s just begun! And if it gets cut short, the loose fabric rolls to the ground, the world always meeting it, never having truly left it, but not ever allowing it ever to consider itself any more than it fully already was, which was more than enough and unyieldingly perfect. I feel it. What smile, optimistic, adventurous, full of wonder and awe, was already thinking of starting fresh and new, continued then along, and, by ending, if it happens quickly, only furthered itself that direction, but not to disappointment or fault, just the way the sound goes down, low, and until silence. And that silence never feels truly dead, something always hovering, meaning something, moving. The past, the present, the feeling of fullness that never left. It was all there like presents at a funeral casket. It’s just begun. And indeed, it has! See, the clouds soar!! Don’t grieve me, welcome life. But yes, in the same motion of grief, feel life flowing most vividly, tears blurring into warmest smiles that can never forgive death and always, in some way, feel life and it one and the same, perhaps unacceptingly, but eventually, subconsciously, unconsciously, one with that knowledge. Denial as perfect as acceptance. The grief is an expression of life.

It’s hard to describe, but it kinda feels like a Makoto Shinkai film, but not in an escapist sense, but in a fully encompassingly human manner, the way the world goes and you feel everything in the breeze, all the memories like petals gust-blown off the steps into a flurry in the air.

Trying to Revive Jesus

I literally have no frickin’ clue as to what the hell I was on about, but for some reason, I was making all the sense, and I guess I still feel that. Of course, it’s been almost a year since I wrote those entries, but even if I’m not immersed in the act of writing it any longer, I sit here in admiration. What I have now, post-book4, feels strange. It’s dumbfounding. It’s like I’m skiing or some shit, gliding on ice. Everything’s already done and happened, the fullness of all of it internalized into my Writingbastion. I’ve become the utter-thing all of that gestures at now. Yet here I am speechless.

I wonder why. I feel every single thing coursing through me without it being some kind of force surging through me. It’s already a part of my blood flow, invisibly. The “coursing feel” is metaphorical and not in the way that they’re actually differentiable, but at this point, just a way of reviving even for a little bit in prose the feeling of that, even if that’s not real anymore. I’ve become One with the Fates. Those grandiose things, and it’s just Tuesday.

To think arrival would come so early. Is it Christmas? Fuck, I’m trying to make light of it with humor or hope that by doing so somehow find some part of myself to portal me into a brand new world of re-feeling—Fuckery!

What is it? It should burst through me and emanate into the space like some Goliath Jurassic Park figure thing. Shit!

Yet I’m like hands that’ve not found some use yet. It’s not rusting yet, but when I’m this still, it doesn’t feel like stillness. It feels like actual speechlessness. And I guess, I’m contradicting that, huh? I’m clutching damn smoke!

If there was something, something that could get it all fixed, I don’t know how, but there must be something. Something in my head that I’m not entirely penetrating and claiming (as if!) for myself. Can’t know. Dun’t knuw. I feel like a child babbling along and taking whatever sweet little nothings and making something big out of ‘em. Fuck-it. New motto <--

The most arrogant (realized?) version of myself is apparently very humble… and speechless.

I want to burn shit! And fucking gorge myself on those fucking spoils and make something actually creative out of them. Damn-it!

Ironically, this discomfort is its own fuel, but hey, let me have this shit. As hypocritical—or whatever this can be called at this point beyond irony—as it is. What’s (this) god but a bunch of sticks I’ve put together to form something indivisible and un-feeling? Re-feel that shit! Please, godamitt! Take the shit and pour lava or liquid on it, watch it erode, and then, from the little crumbs or whatever tiny debris comes out of it, make something with genuine spunk, fiery fucking pleasure, a bit of fuck here and a bit of toss(-ing) there. Something with at least a bottomless hole of… unsettled ambition. As cringey as wanting to feel it all through that start again, when that was its own rightful anchor at first. Whatever I’ve generated, has eaten itself and spat out the shit and then eaten that as well, somehow. I’ve not found a gap in the symmetry I’ve fucking torn into totality.

What’s a magic word? Poison the wells? Have a go at fucking myself, maybe three times there on the rough-spiky-edged bed? Try something with genuine creative spunk (said that already). Lay three bottles on the bedside, try them on like clothes, pour them gently at first then in a burst like squeezing a carton of its juices and doing it all over my own face, hoping in that creamy white, I can sense a bit of myself, a liveliness that can be called being alive. The fresh, slimy feeling of detestment, of having ambition streak my veiny arms and the weight of my mouth groggily, scratchily munch on flesh, on the growling voices that I’ve collected just for my own amusement, to make myself into something with a little bit of a bitter tirade, which is used then as a launchpad for “even greater things”—happinesses whose flavor don’t demand from me anything but unbridled, all-feeling expression. I wonder. Sit still long enough, start itching, scratch it, watch it bleed, blood running down my thigh, feel it like burns, words spill out, an interrupted cry-laugh-growl-gasp-howl. I made my bed and I will lie in it.

The blood tastes like goo. I gobble it up like the hand even I have cannibalized to produce fire before. I’m that irritable, creatively inspirable. I’ve got a flight of fancy. An episodic explosion of my-self, the symmetry longing for dissolution, dismantlement, something where shards and cracks taste like delicious madeleine cake. I want to fucking eat that and make that the bed I lie in.

All of this is extremely metaphorical.

Yeah

Had a feeling that the only way forward was to go even further, past that threshold. Now, I’ll get misunderstood a lot, but hey, I guess that’s what it is. Language is malleable, but it has to meet the growing, evolving, squeezing self. If not, I’ll start rambling numbly, bumbly, dumbly. Funnily enough, this is just its own sardonic win-by-default.

Grrr

But without the crazy language, I can’t unreveal myself. There’s something about becoming that doesn’t answer any more than it has already answered, and when you add to that, you get more of the same, not that it’s redundant to keep becoming, but I feel at least in this technical case, it’s very much a done deal of just yeah, well, pop goes the weasel.

I feel I’ve said this a million times. In innumerable different ways. And every time is a new time of defeat. High time for defeat!

I’m fucking myself over with classical music playing in the background.

I’m really trying to re-invent myself with a bunch of words. hA-hA!

But yeah, looking back through my writings, I’ve said something pretty cool stuff. Phrases. Shit. Things I’d like to do again, totally novelly. But yeah, it’s up to me to crack the bottle that is this inane thing I am by default.

Man, those stuff I wrote then really did feel good to write. Shit.

Shit-Stainer (June 15, 2026)

Disgusting 03:33:35

My ambition is actually disgusting. What I put myself through just to squeeze out hard gems because I know it’ll change me. I am so willing to be changed it’s insane. If it was just sitting down and waiting, that’d be great. I did that. I did that for years actually. But the fact I’m now chasing it like a fucking disgusting little sex-crazed addict. God. This shit I’m doing. It stains. Changes. Whatever change I had before. This is just as much, if not more so, even though this is already post–whole entire birth-to-present life closure. I’m making my way into some whole nother shittery. I’m going so far beyond that it should be dizzying when you think about it. The willingness to forget everything and be totally immersed in a whole constrained situation to that degree? What am I doing?! But every single fucking time, I am multitudes. I fuck myself raw and dry. It’s horrific. It’s not just humiliation fetish. It’s becoming the abused thing I stomp on using constraints sourced from the world around me and through situations inside which I put myself. Fire. Every time. I get genuine creative growth. Cognitive, too. Imaginative. Yes, yes, yes, ALL OF THAT!

I’ve created some really interesting shit because I shit-stained myself that way.

Embodiment 11:06:59

In the strangest and most after-all-of-that-integration way possible, I am the story of my life.

Clouds 12:34:30

In the end, it was a long joke I made. I became the person that I am. I went through everything in my life like browsing through pages, but if my eyes flashbacked to everything like I was back there, all over again, not a single immersion even off by a little, always there completely, never bereft of the experience in any measure or degree. I’ve been here all this time, present, in the way overwhelm deteriorates and unmakes you. But at the same time, who was it deteriorating and unmaking? I ended up who I was, am. There’s barely a difference now. What’s the rain sound like? It’s like that. You hear it all the time, and you hear it across your entire life. At one point, you should’ve ended it, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Nothing could end it. And you’re here now, as much as the wind blows, as carefully yet how freely it does, delicate, precious, the morning sun, going by in a drizzle. It’s barely an inconvenience. Barely anything even. To begin with, start with, end with, laugh with, cry with, do all those things I’ve said so many times before with. I’ve barely even become, and I’ve become all I am.

It was a long time ago.

My name is [Full Name]. I’ve become me. The way a person sees the clouds and “there(!)” is day.

I looked up at the clouds, there was I.

The fragments consolidated. Made whole. What better way to put it?

I’ve really, really fucked myself.

I’m reaching integration levels I can’t even (begin to) fathom. What is me?

Was I ever the person that I was?

I’ve become. In more ways than one.

There’s a (wry?) laugh hidden here. I can’t seem to find it.

Everything’s in me. now.

I feel it like the clouds.

Where was I⬛ again

Sometimes, I look at the clouds, hoping it’ll be different, but what was I thinking about again?

Being, existence, all those words. Before all that, what was life like? Before integration.

Before everything I know now.

Hmm 17:40:17

I guess that’s it.

Formative Portals and Copyworked Systems: Magical Clunkiness and Corrupting, Life-Becoming Infrastructure (June 15, 2026)

I realize that’s what it is. They were all portals in themselves—isekai worlds, a whole world-building. Books as experienced, books as re-readable objects, places as experiences, places as re-visitable and continuously historically changed locations, experiences vs. re-experiencable objects, and all. But I’ve reverse engineering these portals so that they’re effectively systematized, or, more precisely, incorporated into my system, with the hub of understood, studied portals and all. That’s what my writing has been doing all this time.

Most of the time, we read a book where you’ll read words pertaining to the topic or fictional world—e.g., “earthshine”—and we just move on to the next portal as if the last one never existed. We just know because we can recall, but that isn’t the same as actually strip-mining these books and having all of these commonplaced phrases from many different books in one large text document.

While “system” implies dead, cold, and analytical, when you have a system in place to access continuously different portals in a user-interfaced hub, it means infrastructure for what would otherwise just be someone tapping away in a document with nothing in their head except the ones they’ve already well instinctivized to the point of exhaustion. The technical skill there isn’t really skill so much as someone voodoo-ing their way to what they consider art or beauty. Though instinct is still a form of skill, just not evidenced the way so many different papers get cross-referenced and you can understand any single paper by everything else, where words turn from belonging to the vocabulary of a single sacred text into literature.

It’s not just books. It’s everything else. We tend to experience things that could very well be fonts for creative explosions, breakthroughs, and inventions, yet we fall back on things that come naturally to what we were culturalized to believe are adequately “creative,” often pertaining to themes, topics, and ideas well-trodden rather than to novel ones crafted from taking full ownership and management of the whole journey of inspiration so that our brightest and most original ideas don’t get butchered in execution or our greatest executions butchered by isolated (self-blind), non-improving, non-reflecting, self-collapsing (unevidenced) tritedom.

Lost Content

A crucial part of this is realizing that “arrivals” are feelings, not states or actual end points. / the actual font of creative existence. / We fully feel and believe in them [arrivals] while continuously marching forward as the actual state and animated end point of creative life. / than to literate (verbization of “literature”), the way a literature circulates continuously not out of dunning krugers but of irreplaceable accumulative effort even in the most seemingly redundant ways for each essay adds to what couldn’t be worded any way else by both capacity and self-styling as one indifferentiable source.

[The page refreshed right as I finished the whole much longer paragraph (now paraphrased fragments above), and it's gone now. I don't recall it.]

But note that this captures why impression (what I attempt to recall now) is not so important as the flow as explicitly captured (in phrasing as inseparable context that grant value to the words, terms, neologisms) in the moment, because aliveness is just as much the evidenced as the experience, where evidence is indivisible with “earthshine” as experience. I am not reviving what was lost, but writing something new to make up for it even while not actually replacing anything. Loss instrinsically characterized what was written to make up for it, even as the loss remains eternal unpaper-over-able. The texture of experience is not perfect. It is what it is. And replacing or improving it is impossible, because everything is weighed by everything else, including what we perceive as redundant or lost forever. We don’t actually have a way to debate or argue or engage in evidenced combat with the lost text (happening in its own isolated portal, which can be later textized and, through that, incorporated once it’s had its full universally its-own development). But the shape of the hole necessarily produces the need to bridge the gaps, which writing and the system aims when reverse-engineering the portals which are universally separated from one another and brought together in a single strip-mining project with copy-pasteable, pit-against-eachother-able (divide-and-conquerable, or DaC) lines of text in one single document.

Humiliation, as an emotion, like from showing a vulnerable side of ourselves, is part of the broader effect of loss, because it is a threat on integrity or sense of self, a perceived gap between ourselves and ourselves. When we lose things crucial to our sense of self, like what I wrote and lost to a page refresh just now during an irreplaceable, ungetbackable flow state that is a whole self-contained extended moment of consciousness and, thus, aliveness, it is the same as experiencing a gap in who we are during vulnerability. But by “crucial,” I’m not saying the self itself breaks. I am talking about the sense that experienced variations, like when we expose ourselves to challenges that allow us to grow our self even while disrupting the sense of it. The record or proof of that aliveness and creative insight as debatable, wrongable (as in “can be wrong” and thus useful by virtue of that), serving-to-improve-me text is gone, disrupting who I am humiliatingly in the same vein as losing crucial data of the past that my mind can never refill integrously. But in all of that, the neurological brain that loses, not through disease but functional disuse in an area, gains through compensation. While we associate this with skills, this encompasses the self as subject to humiliation and loss of objective data pertaining to one’s past, like how writing grows to become even more precise to capture and integrate these—actual improvement from shambles. In my case, I lost to the page refresh what I wrote so masterfully just now, so that’s already within writing itself. But even inside, writing still grows in the same motion as the operating, thinking, processing, feeling brain. Because this is a very rare event, it’s not that this will stop happening completely or I will do something practical to make it never happen again. It’s about these are everywhere and crucial to our own growth since the brain both needs the flow state and the disruption of it to produce even greater ones even more impenetrable and requiring even more nemeses. Working on the verge of falling composure gives us room to become more of ourselves like we’re a resource that keeps giving if drilled with those “deep well pump systems” they use to drain water from deep underground. The psyche is just as adaptable as intelligence, and the difference between them gets negligible the closer we get to the text as dormant till human-vivified. The system is very well experiential. Object in the same motion of recollection, revisitation, and real-time experience. My deepest humiliations and losses are crucial guides for my most insightful ideas, because like daily sweat, they create something better than insight left floating in the text layer without confirmation and thus the means to develop beyond text as roboticized assumption. The portal is very well the everything-ends-here arrival moment as well as the study sessions at the strip-mined text library composed of reverse-engineered portals re-accessable as DaC copyworked text.

My improvisational making-songs-on-the-spot singing guitar-playing sessions feel as crisp as humilation, not the same as it, but the same motion in its impact on my creative life. Writing is the same, every time. The stakes, the vulnerability. If one feels nothing, they’re aggregating data, which is part of the travel, where you just go on and along, same-thing-same-thing. If one feels something, it is just as crucial, for growth happens on the edges and verges (composure-breaking) as well as the interstices (mundane data clumping), on which my flow states and managed fractures rely. We need micro-growths and -frictions that can feel very much like micro-sleeps in the way they assault you and then you realize you just did a micro-sleep, though crucial in a positive way.

My clunkiest moments are where I know I’m reaching beyond and there’s something that eludes me even still. That is magic.

But yes, it’s not about re-capturing the magic of those portals in system and more like the system becoming invisible as infrastructure for you to focus on just traveling to your next creative event. You own the magic, not the system, but the system turns on the notifications for you to watch and “own” the experience yourself in a Youtube video format. The strip-mining is not freezing experiences, but trusting you to do all the work, since a bunch of text fragments means nothing except to the person who can see (personal mind, imagination) so much in them. Beyond re-access, the hub is not a collection of portals the way they’re all still separate. In copyworked text, they’re not just lines of text that arctically happen to be together sequentially. The system itself rightfully and correctly corrupts the portalage (what I will call the whole as mashing of portals). E.g., I met someone (person, soul, being, personality, friends, family, relations, history, memories, perceptions, observations, ideas, data, moments, changes, corrections, clunky and elusive magic) on the way (i.e., road, infrastructure, sequential yet warm, alive, full, fresh, vivid) to Chicago.

Self-Provisioned Breakfasts: Anti-Deputies (June 16, 2026)

Everything hits me like morning breakfast. I can barely even begin to say anything. And it’s already here, being eaten; I’m eating it. And the taste is there, delicious, wonderful, fulfilling, filling, warm, fresh, exciting, thrilling, relaxing, motivating, start from scratch, everything rolling into the new age of exploration. Simultaneously, it’s not just that one mood or tone. “Everything” means everything. The different oblique memories and connections in my mind lighting up, and they’re coming from many different places and oblique feelings that don’t map onto any pre-existing emotion except a sense of having lived the way a person does in all the ways that they do irreparably (not as a negative, but as a state of life, of livedness, aliveness, birth to present, the whole shebang).

Yet it is morning breakfast. You are this whole thing. Apparently. So do your memories say. The present is endlessly continuously irreplaceable, and each conscious-enough moment allowably potentially brings up wholly separate things from the previous, in each session (continuous span) of reconstruction.

The food always tastes different, yet feels somehow the same. The eggs never stop tasting like eggs, but it’s always “like,” never truly the same. The world has changed. The eggs have a different flavor. But they’re still eggs, and they contain everything eggs has contained for years. What little difference is imperceivable. And the true differences lie in our reconstructedselves.

But yes, so many memories coming from places very remote to one another, which issue during a moment even if it is zero-related to each and every one of the memories themselves, with a level of obliqueness such that the general activity, place, situation, etc. respective to each memory themselves don’t trigger it.

The brain is already capable of this level of seeing all these different things. But integration, especially as continually accumulated (released) and repeatedly synthesized and refined in capture and broadness such that it itself creates the very conditions for mashing up so many different things together to create wholly new creations as neurologically processed and experienced (new experiences), makes for a brain that’s trained to handle, accommodate, and even benefit highly from this oblique hyper-association, with greater creativity, aliveness, mindfulness, well-being, sense of self, direction, and all. Sensitivities are artificially trained to explicate, conceptualize, imagize (imagery), and conclude (not to an end, but to manage technically) vividness, dissonances, and obliqueness until aliveness and lived-in life itself is expanded. By eliminating stored-up rain, you make room for more. Progress is countable even as it is endlessly creativizable in the way a jacket can be masterable in all the ways it is experienced bodily by a person in movement and gait as well as social presentation, broader appearance, and behavioral intelligence. The person can very well be determined by how much they have been able to look through the barrel of the gun and cleaned up the grit inside, because each shot brings a whole new range of experiences, and how well one manages each pile-up of grit decides their ability to make do both with routine irritation and oblique ambition, where the act of scouring the grit obliqueizes ambition. The kilo-weighable game preserve of captured animals is crucial to improvement. My corpus is essentially that. Everything else flees past like a travel in a jeepney ride in a blur of scenery and country life, where people go about and hove into sight and dogs bark and whatever details just impresses itself on who-we-are without our understanding them or incorporating them explicatedly. We’re gunmen who think we’re mere men. By owning the gun, we own the shots, and the kills. Captured. Made preserve. Weighable heap of capture. Stock. Now go and own a ranch. Bother with the rest of the world insomuch as you can process it in your own life. Morning breakfast is your own grown and hunted game preserve food and crops. Now eat it. CLAYGO. Much of modern life hands you the keys to the kingdom. We’re not all actually wealthy business lords, but we are each in our own way playing our own fool’s treasure. We associate good views with aliveness and mistake our inner worlds as merely socially unclaimable. We’re all letting everything else speak for us (especially when we speak merely to get spoken at in the form of social rewards and external, self-contained goodnesses like mountains, events, communities, experiences, and such). We live vicariously through everything handed to us. Writing allows us to go beyond this immediacy and become so much more than just ourselves as ourselves, but ourselves as everything else and then back to ourselves like they’re all answering to me, not by some vicarious self-confidence provided through someone else speaking or doing some performance to enact and act out what we desire and claim through, but by a bunch of words. Anti deputies. Deputies and their rewards are the liminal spaces of hollow houses with beautiful exteriors, the backrooms that interspace lived-inness. Everything looks right, but is actually just uncanny and wrong. It’s everything that should be right, but just ends up falling through once you actually engage with it. Lived-inness defies this. You’re larger-than-reward. Larger-than-vicariousness. Larger-than-everything-as-of-unowneds. Larger-than-rain. Larger-than-blur. Larger-than-oblique. Larger-than-breakfast. Larger-than–words-as-experience-rather-than-anti-vicarious.

Re-Constructing the Wheel From Memory (June 16, 2026)

I’ve never found myself doing a whole big organizing effort like a master tracker in the sense of the following:

when you’re going through the effort of actually outlining everything, cleaning everything up into categories, and creating master lists, summaries, and indexes, which means tasks, calendars, documents, sheets, notes (not just daily notes, but master notes), external references and books, etc. Not the same as just journaling, writing, or taking notes. Not an everything book. Not second brain. Just literally using Google’s apps and creating this big organizing effort.

So while I know how to use Sheets, I’ve always just ended up writing in Markdown for the most part and using Visual Studio code’s Explorer View and different workspaces to access different text files and whole folders and subfolders for countless different things.

I might be mistakenly thinking that there is an actual difference when there’s none. I already use Google Maps anyway, which is its own special thing. One can argue that Sheets doesn’t really do anything different, and I myself have not needed Markdown tables all that much. I’ve gotten used very much to integrating everything into writing and journaling. It’s how I got better at reading, strip-mining texts linguistically, and constructing ambitious passages.

These ambitious passages do double in turning a bunch of data into something grounded in synthesis and insight, so it makes raw data so much more useful. Nevertheless, Sheets doesn’t have to be just about raw data. It can very well go in tandem with my writing. But the fact I haven’t used it that much at all and have defaulted to writing goes to show how powerful wrtiing can be when you use it for everything. In past times, you can see how writers will write out geometry, cartography, imagery, and all that, where limitations themselves boosted writing ability, which in turn made them much less reliant on raw data visualized through other means, which can make for much more narratively coherent and engaging material than if it was just effective data, which nevertheless is still useful in the matter of real-time, actively-used-while-driving-traveling-and-using-ride-apps Google maps.

Even dates, name lists, and counts get solved easily in text files with Markdown lists, so it’s not really an issue whatsoever.

For the longest time, I did tell myself that I wanted everything to be in the writing itself, not anything else. I didn’t want any kind of external framing or apparatus to do the work for me. I wanted to benefit myself wholly in the writing where you can just have a plain text and have all the work done just like that. In my case, it’s also Markdown, but more importantly, it’s basically plain text for 99 percent of it. The Markdown is just a formatting formality at this point so that you can see each entry structured within headers and then close and open entries and even look at the outline of them. But yes, it’s safe to say that spending all that time in plain text with that intent already baked into everything I wrote developed a philosophy and mindset where I shun things that can’t speak for themselves in writing as its own separate, crucial means and basically say nothing at all with everything else speaking for them. I have turned writing into the mode of self-actualization, of getting away from relying on buzzwords and illusions (e.g., people taking pride in having read “licensed” books than in actually writing vulnerably out of themselves rather than reaching for familiar imagery that feels validating in and of itself, when everything should only be personally meaningful after having grappled with everything in and of itself as much as one has perceived them and defaulted vicariously over all one’s lifespan) that are easier to fall for when your brain is optimized for them rather than having spent time building everything in-house from the “what is a dog?” to generating a multitude of analogies to capture nuanced and complex ideas that come to you experientially and even in somatic ways.

To get here, I had to stop the act of being right once and then never again. I had to start being wrong in all the ways I could be wrong, and yet, in every single one, rightness (some kind of integrity, or at least a participation that declares itself something else in hopes of getting rid of the muck of being represented by everything else—some attempt, some attempt) accumulates, not truth. But the rightness of someone expanding surface area, of someone coming out of the void of vicariousness into the light of their own being—earthshine, 50 times brighter than the moon. So you see. I exist as a medium of myself—before anything else and before even myself as everything else, before even the act of existence as something in which you have participated for so long and to what end which you might find yourself grappling with one day, though relatively earlier in my case due to a collapse of structures that I held dear to everything—whereas you see others participating in the world, and by such, their volume of words amounts to everything else and then nothing else. There’s no point they ever think of it as anything other than what makes sense, and when things make sense, nothing actually bubbles from beneath the surface. Hollow exteriors, born from things that never thought to become—become, the way void casts its own shine—after eradicating their own visions of the lights smothering them and fooling them previously into thinking they themselves were owners of those lights when their shine amounted to voiddom. Writing is neither falsehood or truth. It’s where a bunch of words gather. I will not look at the stars no (any) longer. I will die here, today, with the meagerness of these words and without even death’s claim, or even life’s. Let me wallow in the way that I am, by what I am not, and then by that, nothing. And in that void, a sense of having shone myself my own earth. I want to be. So I try. I can’t even navel-gaze. I can only look at the words. And that’s not me either. Look again. (Look, again.) The act of writing was always for me the act of fighting everything else and then myself (as everything else) and then never again, for it was just a bunch of words. My grandiosity is baked in the very act of transcending myself as everything else, everything else as myself, my life-world, born from the sky and the ground and the everything beneath, the formation of all into one (-> what one has to destroy). To become was to destroy. Writing is the residue, the debris, the leakage. I will become through brimstone and fire, through cleansing, through forgetting, through recalling but something else entirely uncannily because that reconstruction is of the me in the present. And even after all that, all the surface area from all that residue is still critical. The me today is built on so much that do not at all reflect what I’ve become. I am everything I’m not. Without the “I’m nots,” I wouldn’t be me today. I would lose my way. The act of writing is to commit so fully into understanding even if it means using tools and frameworks because you have to build everything else (i.e., your believing putting-in-your-own-words of everything else which I’ve said you have to destroy but have to believe in fully without the intent to deconstruct but to deny the self anything it was previously to make way for understanding and then from that, even greater understanding) in-house themselves to challenge yourself the writer of them simultaneously so that you can come to debate, reflexive eradication, and dialectics. You have to do it. You are not an enemy of the world any more than you are an enemy of yourself as the in-house re-constructor (think the way our head does memory reconstruction every day) of them. You are a recaller of the world. The self and the world is baked into that. In writing do you reconstruct/recall, and that endless present-oriented becoming in the act of writing outputs a ripe (for crushing) bunch of words.

27 minutes later:

To be honest, this felt like me saying all the things I’ve already said, but much more explicit. I guess that’s most things I write. I guess that’s the point of writing. Understanding through explicitness. I mean, it’s not like I ever truly fooled myself into thinking I was saying anything new. But that’s the point. I was re-constructing the world I already knew so intimately, and yet, through a bunch of words, I discovered so much more than if I just let assumption have its way completely. I didn’t actually know what I was going to say before I started writing. Everything happened as I wrote, and so when I come to familiar ideas, that’s usually because I came to it from a whole nother direction and through different phrasing, analogies, and conceptual avenues. Ultimately, you get to see how I think in real time. You get to see me recalling everything from scratch in each entry, a vivifying of my life. The feeling of being alive. Of hearing the train horn like morning breakfast as well as everything hitting me all at once, like fresh bagel being both filling yet so distinct in being -> me. Everything is new again, because I approached it with fresh eyes. That is the novelty of which I speak. New connections out of a very known world of memories, imagery, and past experiences. The person I am now having access to something the younger self who had accumulated it all didn’t. Writing did that for me. Post-integration. Re-approaching. Re-calling. Re-constructing. Re-mastering. Re-tracking. Re-discovering. “Newly understood.”

14 minutes later:

Generate wheels, until you can’t even tell what a wheel is supposed to be, anymore. Your actual new inventions themselves become “can’t even tell what [that] is supposed to be, anymore.” By that point, you’re in a constant arms race against yourself. To stop is to ossify who you are, to be dead to yourself even as you may be vivified by others to themselves, like a historical figure actually dead but still alive to people generations after their time. But in this case, you are alive, but not living the way people vivify historical figures and others vivify you to themselves. But others “becoming” (transitive, not actually to turn into, but more so vicariously vivifying and thus vicariously initiating your “becoming” [moving, thinking, breathing statue] but not actually) you isn’t you. One has to do the work oneself even as others vivify one to themselves. We live in ranked structures, participation brackets, and versuses, so statues can “become” (can be made to fight) each other. That’s aliveness without the work. It’s competition.

The wheel forgets its wheelness. The structure forgets its structure. The world forgets its worldness. You forget your youness. We just have to initiate that process ourselves, not of actual self-forgetting, but of deliberate “forgetting,” so that we never become ourselves, the way one becomes oneselfness. Loss must never be seen as a deterioration of invention. It is the engine of it. Aliveness is re-invention, not of the self, but of the inventing which is the actual self as alive to itself.

The self-security of re-invention is itself its own positive self-affirmatory grandiosity.

In that sense of re-invention, I don’t have to be anything. I can just be myself. Yet I am always something, always there in the moment and breathing hard against the window of a current way of existing, because that current is everything I am there and then, not as reflection, but as real-time life-to-death. That’s me! No denying that. But myself is the person after all that and then that again and then here right now, in spite of the fact I’ve always been breathing hard, still somehow breathing, existing, being, becoming, always, always, something, something. I am. The way a person is-es. Yet I am not anything (don’t have to be), to be exact. Myself here is in constant self-denial, where you are always momentary blinded and then the next, the next, the next, toward and, in that “toward” [as site itself], the destination of the myself. The now is an encompassment of all that I was in present reconstruction [not rote memorization, head-white-banded [hachimaki] Anki pomodoros, coffee guzzles, or putting-into-one’s-words study, but rather very much a person walking as a person throwing shit and their weight around and counting words], ever so perceptibly.

The clouds are loud enough to bring about myself [stimulating the skull to actualize].

I am alive—the torrent of everything (I know and actively am getting to know) [obliquely] whiplashing me.

“Scratch” in “from scratch” means “lifespan-wide re-construction” as bunch-of-worded.

To be continued...

Gift [give me time to cook]