Been in Tennessee in the mountains for a week.
Going home tomorrow, and all I can think is, “Fuck how am I going to do this again?”
Every day I’ve been out here I wake up, realize that I have nothing to do but exist through the day, and find some interesting way of doing it.
Yesterday I hiked ~8.5 miles over 2400 feet of elevation and played around on rocks by a waterfall.
Today I read about aesthetics on a rock island in the middle of a stream covered cascaded serrated by the sound of rushing water.
I thought not one moment about fucking Tumblr or serving coffee or looking nice to/for other people. I played Scrabble with my wonderful girlfriend and parents, and did a few other mundane things. But they were fun, and nice, and passed the time without complicating it unnecessarily.
In a few words, this is all shit and clutter and doing it my heart is never aflutter. There’s no bliss (of any type, not anguish nor happiness) in the endless perpetuation of discourses that ensure only themselves.
All appeals to extra-lifeworld phenomena are destined only for stability in a fundamentally unstable world.
This is the appeal of psychedelics at base, but also the appeal of any genuinely alternative lifestyle: these things do not revolve around the sustaining of any status quo, and they are not interested in reasserting a tired and easily discernible logic.
If the methodology of an unstable existence seems obvious, then it is most likely because the person doing the discerning lives similarly or has lived similarly. In this light ‘true understanding’ is just an abstract way of saying ‘shit I have also done or am doing’.
So it is no wonder that there’s only so much to write about it…words do fall short at some point, and usually that point has something to do with the fluidity of existence…in that most theoretical attempts to clarify experience not-so-subtly try to nail it down as though it were a storm shutter on a picture window.
Most people in the world have hammers though, so to them everything looks like a nail.