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Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Friday, December 09, 2005

On suffering

Hen commented to say that tears of suffering water the flowers in the Garden of art. There has often been a link made between suffering and Art. Why is this? One explanation is that in recognising one's own suffering expressed by another makes one feel not so alone. Another is that suffering leads to solutions whereas pleasure leads to apathy, the suffering artist can shew the way for the readers to overcome reoccuring human problems.
Wittgenstein says there can be no "private language" a language of one's private sensations. He talks of writing down "S" in one's diary every time one has a certain indescribable sensation. He uses scorn to show that this writing down of one's pain in one's diary is senseless and there can be no private sensations that are inexpressable. This is the green light for poets to express what seems inexpressable.
Here is my "S". I woke up in a strange part of London miles from islington after escaping from "S" in a bout of carnal pleasure, that I got into after drinking a half litre of vodka. I think the place was called Penge. I needed to be at the bar for eleven o'clock shift. I left the nameless man who I had allowed to debase me for momentary illusion of togetherness, in the midst of which I still felt pangs of lonliness. I didn't wake him, I had no time for coffee or bread. I cycled to Islington, it took two hours. Half way there "S" came upon me, an awful feeling of approaching death, but not pain, just a slight numbing on the side of my face, but that was not "S", "S" was the added judgement that there was something utterly fearful and dreadful about this slight numbness, something so dreadful that I would die if it continued, though logically I knew I would not die, but something worse, that my immortal soul would be torn assunder and the true nature of the utter evil heart of the universe would be forced upon me. This is not a good description of "S". It is hyperbolic.
I guessed for a while that "S" maybe just tiredness from cycling, but I had no sensations ordinarily associated with tiredness. Limbs - no pain - breath regular, although a feeling that my breathing was somehow wrong, causing gulping. Since I have had "S" before, I did not do anything. I knew that "S" would pass, I would not be dead, my soul not exposed to the evil heart,
I will be candid, rather than falsley modest as is requisite in English society for females. I am engaging in an artistic philosophical experiment, so there is no room for subjectivity that wishes me to present myself as underestimating myself. I am a young sexually attractive girl. I am 22 years old and I am very healthy. I am beautiful in a northern european way. I live in one of the richest cities on earth and a great treasure of culture. I am intelligent relative to my conspecifics. What right have I to suffer? What cause is there for "S"? Is it the dissappointment at the carnal quick fix that failed to assuage my spiritual lonliness? Is it that my parents were murdered? Is it that my grandmother is in need of care and thus sucks my fucking life like a vampire bat on a fucking cow. Am I that fucking cow, whining, unable to cope with "S" when, as Wittgenstein was at pains to demonstrate "S" signifies nothing? In HEN'S blog, he mentions that no one saw the mother's apology because they were all in their own private hell. It was satire because they had such pathetic problems in comparison to the dying lover who failed to join the foriegn legion. Maybe they all had "S" this awful feeling that something is wrong when nothing is wrong.
I got to work and there was the manager, a young dark haired man with a lot of machismo confidence. I know (or should I say I believe on the basis of his behaviour?) that he fantasizes about fucking me, sometimes even while he is giving me instructions. He would like to fuck me, but not so much that he will take any action. I feel that I should be able to use this information to my advantage, but I cannot. Even armed with this knowledge I cannot stop him from treating me like an inferior, from controling my thoughts and emotions with his looks, from delighting in telling me how I am not doing things correctly. There is a lull before lunch, and no customers. This is the worst time. I stand there, he looks at me, I feel a slave, I feel trapped, I cannot relax, I cannot help but be ravaged by "S". There are 7 more hours of this before I can escape. I must escape. "S" intensifies into panic and I must do something. I put my hands to my lips and dash to the toilet. I think in this way perhaps the manager will think I about to vomit and take pity on me. Being about to vomit is a shared feeling that has its place in language, "S" is not. I wonder up and down in the toilet. I climb through the tiny window and flee in terror down the back street. "S" subsides, and I walk back. I think of saying to the manager that I am going down with a stomach bug and need to go home. But will "S" go away if I go back to the furnitureless squat where my grandmother lies gibbering at demons? It may just as well go away if I stay in the bar. And I can't give in to "S" anyway. It is a nameless sensation, it signifies nothing, it is a wheel that spins freely.
Or maybe there is a psychoanalytic cause. Maybe everyone, or many people, or northern europeans, or women in their twenties, or women who have just had meaningless sex, or..... is "S" guilt in some way? I don't feel guilty.


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