According to José Esteban Muñoz, "In Freud's initial definition, melancholia spills into the realm of the pathological because it resembles a mourning that does not know when to stop."
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What a spot-on horoscope today:
The mists of your memories will do nothing but cloud up your vision today, and you will need clarity to make some important decisions. So try to live in the present moment each step of the way today. Face forward and keep thinking about the next adventure instead of leaving some of your heart in the past. Dwelling on failures -- or successes -- is nothing but a waste of time. Turn away from your memories and toward the opportunities that will come your way.
Capricorn (12/22-1/19)
It was less painful than it was confusing.
It's still hard for me to understand what it was that exactly went wrong.
The creative alchemy for a while, and to some extent throughout, was
truly extraordinary. Why couldn't that survive the quotidian, the male
ego, etc.?
...I never had much of a feeling for 'things'. On Easter Sunday last year I was visiting New York & David & Sara were there from San Francisco. After lunch we got onto the subjct of the object (haha), & I admitted to David I never spent a whole lot of time on the topic, & how, with respect to Walter Benjamin (& Proust) this often made me feel insufficiently bathed in melancholia & thus somewhat detached from the haunted modernity I loved as emotional color & theory but never appreciated as viscera. David, a curl of mild shock in his voice, said, "You don't think of our lives as it's lived amid things?!."
"dense machinic excess"
"horrifically licentious little algebras"
"bewildering opacity figured through poetry"
"oh, poetic time"
So I was in the park just now. The roots of the chestnut tree were sunk in the ground just under my bench. I couldn't remember it was a root any more. The words had vanished and with them the significance of things,their methods of use, and the feeble points of reference which men have traced on their surface. I was sitting, stooping forward, head bowed, alone in front of this black, knotty mass, entirely beastly, which frightened me. Then I had this vision. It left me breathless. Never, until these last few days, had I understood the meaning of"existence." I was like the others, like the ones walking along the seashore, all dressed in their spring finery. I said, like them, "The ocean is green; that white speck up there is a seagull," but I didn't feel that it existed or that the seagull was an "existing seagull"; usually existence hides itself. It is there,around us, in us, it is us, you can't say two words without mentioning it, but you can never touch it. When I believed I was thinking about it, I must believe that I was thinking nothing, my head was empty, or there was just one word in my head, the word "to be." Or else I was thinking . . . how can I explain it? I was thinking of belonging, I was telling myself that the sea belonged to the class of green objects, or that the green was a part of the quality of the sea. Even when I looked at things, I was miles from dreaming that they existed: they looked like scenery to me. I picked them up in my hands, they served me as tools, 1 foresaw their resistance. But that all happened on the surface. If anyone had asked me what existence was, I would have answered, in good faith, that it was nothing, simply an empty form which was added to external things without changing anything in their nature. And then all of a sudden, there it was, clear as day: existence had suddenly unveiled itself. It had lost the harmless look of an abstract category: it was the very paste of things, this root was kneaded into existence. Or rather the root, the park gates, the bench, the sparse grass, all that had vanished: the diversity of things, their individuality, were only an appearance, a veneer. This veneer had melted, leaving soft, monstrous masses, all in disorder—naked, in a frightful, obscene nakedness. I kept myself from making the slightest movement, but I didn't need to move in order to see,behind the trees, the blue columns and the lamp posts of the bandstand and the Velleda, in the midst of a mountain of laurel. All these objects... how can I explain? They inconvenienced me; I would have liked them to exist less strongly, more dryly, in a more abstract way, with more reserve. The chestnut tree pressed itself against my eyes. Green rust covered it half-way up; the bark, black and swollen, looked like boiled leather.
I remember one night as a kid sitting in an over-lit Subway, nursing an enormous Dr. Pepper, being 14, in love with my solemn isolation & considering, lost in a trance of new thoughts, the fact, or the meaning of the hard yellow both [sic] I was sunk in. I was trying to picture its origins & sources, who'd made it & where,, & under what conditions. Until then there'd been a fuzzy kind of magic that governed my relations to things & their appearance in the world, but the table seemed to quit this spell, suddenly breaking through clouds. Deprived of my immature chains of causation through which to substantiate the facts of its existence, the table seemed to seek not the breakdown of a magic bet a better brand of sorcery to compliment the absence of a theory I was wholly conditioned to persist in. The table grew tired of feeling my eyes boring into its surface with mute incomprehension, & so, as if to satisfy my mystical impatience leapt up & started dancing there, not possessed, come true. When it danced it was like a Swiss army knife dancing with each step revealing more lacerating plumage that cut through the tender & tactile air above my head (which had something like the dampness of a sapling), & when it was done with its volleys & cuts a dewy light-bulb had been carved and stationed in the orbit of my skull. It burned warm, & would multiply too; I would find it screwed into the socket of every single lamp, fastened under the cradles of glass-hooded streetlights, & fixed into heaven – the sun.
