transcribed from the paper journal of Mssr. Heyan Auringe dated August 25th 2006
A friend is someone who is; not only capable and willing, but also positioned properly; to tell you things you don't necessarily want to hear. My writing, the people in my life, and their correlation to my artwork has unfortunately been censored, forfeit of context, and diluted near the point of incomprehensible nonsense (in addition to the degree of incomprehensible nonsense that I'm actually aiming for) far too long. Obviously there is a huge difference between recounting details of my life and attempting to embarrass or incriminate someone just to have some chest-out gloaty thing to type.
And just in case the difference between the two is unclear let this be ample warning that if you don't want to read about yourself in tomorrow's entries then don't associate with me today. By the same token, if we've not experienced a problem (you and I) with any of this in the past then it won't be a problem in the future. It should be more than evident that I'm not in the habit of disclosing specifically identifying or unflattering information because I'm not as socially inept as many of my readers, but even in all my carefulness and common sense I still receive complaints about what should be left unsaid due to some vague concept of cherished friendships or illusory privacy.
No more sanitization or sterilization and no more appreciation of other people's arbitrary boundaries. What I find blogworthy rarely ever makes it to the blog. And not just the bloodied, covered in feces pink parts either, but everyday life matters and overboard explanatory editorials like this one. It's despicable for an artist to sacrifice their talent, their madness, and their surrender to the spirit of sudden inspiration at the expense of someone else's psycho-social hang-ups and insecurities. I absolutely refuse to paint a fig leaf over the sausage and the salmon.
Leave my sight if you're uptight about being characterized in my writing (even though your absence won't guarantee your anonymity or exclusion) or locate some other profoundly verbose chaos magickian in clear stiletto heels who also happens to be a gorgeous hopelessly romantic twenty-something.
With that said, please be aware of what an honor and privilege it is to be included in my work and my life. It doesn't happen often enough. I've held back far too much for far too long trying unsuccessfully to spare other people's feelings. It has made me an increasingly shittier duller writer as well as proving what a journalistic pussy I am for even attempting to play by anyone else's rules. If the message is still unclear allow me to fling a palm full of smegma-laden sweat from my scrotum in your general direction as a visual aid. Thank you for all these years of unnecessary privacy and intellectual seclusion.
It's always the ones who proceed to talk about how they respect the priority of your passion and admire your devotion to your creativity that will drag you down lower than your professional rivals, your enemies, and your family combined. What they really means is, they respect what the potential of your potential could potentially do for them in the long run just so long as you don't make them look bad or acknowledge their relationships to you in the process. This structural apparatus also has its dangers. For example when we must struggle with adversity or quickly choose which hole to invade and mutilate first in the absence of a three sided coin to flip. As such it remains one of the leading causes of destitute loneliness amongst writers. Some people just don't want their relationship to a wordsmith being exploited for the sake of giggleshit-driven art.
Could be what prompted the insufferable derision of my sister back in November of last year when she commented that I "still got it" or something to that effect which is the equivalent of saying good luck to an actor before opening night at the theater. You say break a leg, not good luck. Which is a perfect illustration of how apparent negativity is pulled to the forefront in order to both ease pressure with the light of levity and to effectively aggrandize a Murphy's Law-esk superstition that seeks to cancel out every worst case scenario by stealing its thunder before lightning strikes so to speak. Part sleight of mind, part deflection or deferment of conscious deliberation and/or lust of result or relief from anxiety. A polite society is humorless one. A humorless society knows nothing of magicking outside of the subtleties of obedience training.
I mean she had a point, but it was beyond the point. Compliments are curses to artistic OCD cases like mine. You wanna tell me how wonderful I am you have to offer acutely relevant insults.
You will notice that even in a paper journal he is writing about his www experience.