Notebook - 5
(Find all notebook entries here and / or read an explanation of what this is about here)
19th December, 2022
I am hungover. This seems a good point at which to write a notebook entry. I'm in that strange liminal state.
I got drunk 2 days ago. This hangover comes from drinking on Saturday night. I didn't even drink that much, compared to my peak. But I'm no longer 18.
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Schrödinger's notebook. Basically, since I made the decision to do this, I've been paralyzed and unable to do this. The presence of an observer changes that which is observed.
Rousseau, at the beginning of his autobiography, makes a ridiculous claim to the effect that: here you will see me exactly as I am. I will not hide, I will not try to make myself better or worse than I am. You will get the truth about a man.
Utter bullshit, of course. And especially ironic that it comes from Rousseau.
So, yeah. I can't promise that. The nature of this project means that it changed as soon as I decided to embark upon it.
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When people come to the website, for a few days this will be the first thing they see. This worries me. Will they ever come back?
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Man, my head hurts. And a drowsy numbness pains my sense. I definitely drank too much hemlock. Was Keats describing / inspired by a hangover? An overly big night with Wordsworth and Charles Lamb and Leigh Hunt and the rest of the boys? And the next day he wakes up grumpy beyond all get-out, absolutely furious with life, head hurting, and thinks, fucking hemlock.
You know, I think there's something in this thesis. I just went and looked the poem up. And at one point he writes, "Away! away! for I will fly to thee / Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards." And who is Bacchus? Greek god of wine, of course.
This reminds me of a conversation I had with M the other day. About how we're physical beings, about how so much of our state comes down to basic animal facts. And instead of attending to those facts we construct grand narratives (note to myself: why do I write "construct grand narratives" instead of "tell stories"?).
It reminds me of how one day I felt unbelievably sad. The world was grey and empty. Nothing, nothing mattered, and all was suffering, devoid of meaning or consolation. I sat down wearily, heavy with the unbearable weight of nothingness. I ordered a beer. I looked at the menu while I was sipping it and thought, fuck it. Nothing matters, so I may as well order a Flammkuchen. I ate the Flammkuchen. And suddenly I was absolutely fine. Not sad at all. Not facing the abyss. Absolutely, sparklingly fine.
How many great works of art have been created because the artist was hungry, do you think?
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Right. Time to attend to the flesh.
