this post is an assemblage or a blitzkrieg of thoughts.
Working in a bookstore and that respectable looking woman from a block down timidly requests to take out the Herpes for Dummies, of a similar work of literature. How do I feel about knowing 'it'
I feel one is walking a threatened promontory over a very threatening ocean, the task of knowing
reality is Himalayan. I have endeavoured to, if not eliminate, then sabotage self-defeating patterns, seeing my past not a series of events but my past as a character, I have tried to eliminate self-defeating narratives that define me. I have tried to establish an awareness of how I reference myself, in what category and what shelf.
There is no self-defining point of anchorage for ones self. Nor is there any pre-ordained certainty.
I am almost fundamentalist in my ironic reservations about what reality is.
I am always on the prowl for insight, but that was when I was apple cheeked.
Must I stoically accept uncertainty...this would be a rather depressing sobriety.
Should one be coherent about it all, have a theory and set it down in a persuasive argument, or should one undermine certitude, be wary of the ready transmissable, or should one argue cogently, in pithy and parsimonious formulations where intelligence can gain a toehold.
Is impotence be a kind evolved kindness, would it be better to lapse into a docile adherence in the face of the irreducible. What are theorists desiring when they theorise about desire.
Are there apostles of futurity if the future is a cipher. The limitations in criticism means that they can be regarded as docking manoeuvres. Is coherence impossible. I have experienced drawn our ostracism for my views. There is no spectator triumph, no heroic moment, no moment of glorious martyrdom
Is psychiatry a philistine form of reductionism? You may well ask
Working in a bookstore and that respectable looking woman from a block down timidly requests to take out the Herpes for Dummies, of a similar work of literature. How do I feel about knowing 'it'
I feel one is walking a threatened promontory over a very threatening ocean, the task of knowing
reality is Himalayan. I have endeavoured to, if not eliminate, then sabotage self-defeating patterns, seeing my past not a series of events but my past as a character, I have tried to eliminate self-defeating narratives that define me. I have tried to establish an awareness of how I reference myself, in what category and what shelf.
There is no self-defining point of anchorage for ones self. Nor is there any pre-ordained certainty.
I am almost fundamentalist in my ironic reservations about what reality is.
I am always on the prowl for insight, but that was when I was apple cheeked.
Must I stoically accept uncertainty...this would be a rather depressing sobriety.
Should one be coherent about it all, have a theory and set it down in a persuasive argument, or should one undermine certitude, be wary of the ready transmissable, or should one argue cogently, in pithy and parsimonious formulations where intelligence can gain a toehold.
Is impotence be a kind evolved kindness, would it be better to lapse into a docile adherence in the face of the irreducible. What are theorists desiring when they theorise about desire.
Are there apostles of futurity if the future is a cipher. The limitations in criticism means that they can be regarded as docking manoeuvres. Is coherence impossible. I have experienced drawn our ostracism for my views. There is no spectator triumph, no heroic moment, no moment of glorious martyrdom
Is psychiatry a philistine form of reductionism? You may well ask
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