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Johnny Walter

[ website | The Inmost Light ]
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[27 Jul 2010|10:09pm]
I'll be there when you're dead.

H.G. Gadamer [30 Dec 2009|12:16am]

Nothing exists except through language.

Грех твой найдет тебя.

M/P [18 Oct 2009|07:02pm]
Faking my own defeat for the benefit of others is part of my survival. Don't feel too proud.

The sacrifice. [06 Oct 2009|09:15am]
And the shadowless defeat.

And what would you care, my gentlest one? [29 Sep 2009|10:10pm]
Care. Caru. Cearu. Kara. Chara. Lament.

Care means lament. Lamentum. A great deal of lamentum comes from caring. So, we don't really care. It is my belief that you do not act upon your "care." Somewhere in there is a lack of action. And mine. I don't act to care nor care to act. It is a cold dreaded thing, to care. I might have cared once. I might have cared about the bareness of your unhappy toes. I cannot care now, however.

Winter really is coming. It is so easy to pretend that nothing happens during winter, and yet so much does happen. This is because winter is the season that I warm myself to personal reflections. Uninfluenced. I hear the exact same things from people. The exact. It's not that I find the general statements offensive, but the overall repetition if quite repulsive. All people state the exact same things about me.

"But I'm not everyone."

I don't  care.

Though you likely are "everyone." Selfish, silly, walking yet immovable.

You should care about yourself. You should search for those few individuals who'll invoke certain spouts of "friendship" from your gleaming eyes. Set aside those who don't know or bother understanding your personal reflections. Set aside those who don't care. Set me aside. Be honest with yourself. Be merciful to yourself. Set me aside.

-Johnny

Your membership has expired. [20 Sep 2009|07:01pm]
Words, words, words, words!
You may as well listen to the birds.

Despise not the ash... [18 Sep 2009|08:29pm]
Don't patronize me. I'll patronize you.

I've been meaning to express a few things. Avidly. But all things pass, what a blur! There's a love I've yet to express and yet a deep rooted hatred of which I will begin with. And to do so, there's a good deal of people out there. I have come to the most satisfying condition and the adumbration that I just might be the best person to hate. Other than being the self proclaimed herald of all things febrile in nature, I am a simple target. To begin with, I already claim animosity against your very existence. I smirk. And after all, I am alive. Little good will Pol Pot do you there. I am also "within reach," am soundly content with being so and strive towards every effort against the isolation of body. Of mind, however, I speak little. I can only grant you the leverage that my smirk is a most accurate representation of my mind given this moment. I just don't care.

And there's much I don't care about. I can't say I pay much heed to your natural dissatisfaction of loneliness, for to me it is a state of great, great glory. It is in fact the most peace inducing word that I can think of. I am alone not because there is no one around here, but I am alone because I dare not have one intrude upon my true moment of self-knowledge. That moment probably being life. Which is a funny thing because for the most part l find that I wend through a circle to meet its end. Of course, come reality and life is a labyrinth whose end is death. And back to that, I sound self-centric, but really, I am a dirty misanthropic vagrant traversing about and finding people to be little things here and there blocking corners or cold beaten stones by which I continually trip upon, making my journey ever more at odds with its end.

But I do not beat stones, stones beat me well until my pulse loses its echo. Now, for some stones, I can clearly pay my dearest sympathies for not recognizing their presence, whereas others are to be thrown into a dark basin of decorative perplexities. As it would seem, these basins are just black cities where ideas sound like the music of a drowning ugliness, delightful yet remarkably irritating. These ideas are your clothes, mottled with colors that cause swelling of my eyes, and they are your names, your bitter-sweet relationships, and even your gestures. "The flesh rages and riots, and the spirit follows it helpless and miserable."

There comes a time when things no longer matter. Silence is the very thing by which I gather the various broken fragments of my life. And by the very unique endearment of Silence I find in it a tone of divinity. Silence is a known divinity whose beauty has been firmly unacknowledged by all things. A very absurd violation. 

Oh, boo hoo. [12 Sep 2009|10:21pm]

No body kisses me anymore.

Я вас любил... [10 Sep 2009|07:40pm]
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.


                               Ах, да! Как я полюбил...

Вот ублюдок! [17 Aug 2009|09:28pm]
Уйти.

Действительно ли Вы умны? Действительно ли Вы счастливы? Вы никогда не будете знать Джонни Уолтера. Вы должны уйти. Вы хотите знать его?

Он - мертвец!

Life pain. [10 Aug 2009|04:06pm]
I have recently coined the phrase "life pain." It refers to a particularly challenging or uncomfortable phase during one's life that alters his or her stress to an unconditionally impacting level. So yea, I'm having life pain. It's a useful phrase, to my surprise. The fact that I communicate through/with my mind so very often leaves me bare as I don't wish to repeat certain things over and over again, so the phrase "life pain" is very much in order.

I received one of those War Resisters League booklets again in the mail. Despite the incidental case of my growing knowledge, this controversy is still ripe in merit. I mean, almost tasteless merit, if that makes sense. Considering its age and what not. It's annoying.

I don't like writers. Most writers. Perhaps just "east coast" writers? I know two good "writers." (Of course by "writers," I refer to the solidly poor drugged/drunk student sweating for the holy grail of literature.) No, I mostly see ridiculous out-of-hand auteurs here in California. I exclude the self-proclaimed writers whose wrorks I've never encountered. You've yet to be judged. Good writers are competently elaborate, but wrong. Just wrong, that's the best sort of writer. Good writers do not think they are philosophers. They perhaps envision themselves as philosophically artistic, but not philosophers because that becomes deranged and tearfully aggravating.

Oh, but I really like writers. I like them because they entertain me. I've spent, no, I've toiled with just about every incessantly irritating worm that dares to breathe the "I Am A Holy Intellectual" sentence down my twisted spine. It is time for me to be entertained. I want to sit back and listen to you say useful shit. I want to ask you a question and have you elaborate on a level that begs more questions, etc. A writer's entertainment does not entail heavy details set on describing actions. I hate actions. I hate actions so much. But actions beget thoughts. Hrm. Sometimes.

-Johnny

I have a problem. [23 Jul 2009|04:31pm]
YOU CANNOT DIGEST MICROWAVED FOOD, BITCH!
LEARN YOUR FUCKING LESSON ALREADY! God damn me.

I'm not happy. This is going to be a long fucking worthless summer. I hate summer. I'm a winter person. I would say that it is nearly impossible to motivate me to do something during the summer. I am immovable.

I sometimes feel as though I write in this box for the world. I should never forget that what I'm actually doing is releasing my mind from constipation. And yet when speaking about people, I'm vague. I should be just in case all goes to hell. I mean, fuck you and your social dynamism, but goddammit, if I even HINT...

I guess in that sense I'm a back stabber, but I more so see myself as being merciless. You will never give me air if I tell you what I truly think of you. I'll save your breath.

I'm ridiculously cute. I just am. A narcissist. Boo! Look at the little hypocrite! Yes, I hate self-flattery in any sense, but hell, I've been decorating my life with cute shit lately, and I'm just going to have to project it on the world. Or someone.

I think I'm just waiting for someone to say the right thing to me. I want to hear from people, I just don't really want to hear ABOUT them. Maybe an idea you had. Maybe something interesting you read, but just not you. Not your taste in music. Not your fucking friends or family. I just want you in a normal setting talking about normal little things and please, please spit on me if I insult you. My sense of humor will always insult someone. Directly.

I'm still not very self-aware, but I'm OK with that. I'm not confident, and I can pick my flaws apart the same way I can pull a kid's teeth out. Mommy doesn't like you.


-Johnny

JP [02 Jun 2009|09:53pm]
The fact that I'm thinking about you right now is a MERCILESS condition.
There is more to come of this whether or not you come to me.
N'yes, as it necessarily must be, those I DO appreciate never quite notice in return.
And then those that do notice me are (for the most part) maggots.

If you're going to start assuming that you are The Merciless, don't. If you're reading this then you're probably merciful.

I feel that my head needs to be thrashed with porcupines. Let the thrashing commence.

How I feel/felt in short detail [31 May 2009|10:22pm]
I'm not going to remember which comic this was from specifically. It's the one where Nny confronts a surveyor. Nny's brief comment went as thus:

"Two nights ago, I was taking a walk at night, and this chihuahua started following me! GODDAMMIT! IT KNEW! I RAN, AND FINALLY LOST IT, AND MADE IT HOME! BUT IT KNEW! IT KNEW! Did the DOG SEND YOU?!"

After the man explains his purpose for visiting, Nny says:

"Oh."

He glances somewhat upward. A nice realization.

That's how I've been feeling for the past...week or so? Look at that page. Look at his expression once the realization strikes. That's how I feel.

"So, whaddaya wanna know?"

Les Preludes [30 May 2009|01:09pm]
I'm glad no one knows what I think about when I listen to my favorite orchestral works. It's a fine mystery.

ES MUSS SEIN! [27 May 2009|05:22pm]
Do not eat cafeteria food. Do not eat cafeteria food. Do not eat cafeteria food.

FUCK YOU, JOHNNY WALTER!

Я хочу исчезнуть. [20 May 2009|10:21pm]
Дрожыш?

This is my favorite question. At one point I wished to translate this one simple question into millions of languages. We've all felt it. I think I feel it now. I feel a bit of an ----- -------. I imagine myself as I am not, but this is pleasant. My mind is really the best journal I could ever have. I remember my moods and intensive experiences so well. I carefully remember just how the weather felt yesterday and can tame my mind to that memory at any moment. I find that my language(s) is incomplete. Language is very incomplete, and I take great joy in this. There is a point in which defining mannerisms and personal accounts becomes too futile for contentment. This is quite odd.

I want you to leave me alone. I want to stop thinking about the General You and applying You to practically everyone I meet because no one I meet is the General You nor do they compare. I want someone to hate me a little more welcoming. No. I want someone to hate me. I want You to take a good moment here to tell me that I am "a skin dog, and I have the skin of all dogs." Good rot! I want to have a fine, detailed discussion about My Blood. Yes, My Blood. I want to tell You that my blood is the blood of an order, a command. My blood is sick and I revel in its --------. You will then inform me that I have no blood by a slow, warm insult. "Slug!" I will smile. This is indeed a warm insult. A clever one. I am a slug. You will say this, perhaps repeat it, with a smile. I'll call on You. Yes, You will repeat this word a few times more. I will be angered, I will have some dark ambitions here. I will ask for ----. Before I can reach him, I will lament a speech on his behalf, naming him the one savior of my foul deeds. I will drink a cup of murder. You will squish the slug.

YOU [15 May 2009|04:16pm]
You make me feel about as comfortable as a trashcan.

Ничто. [14 May 2009|11:19pm]
Я собираюсь смотреть кино. Перевод к сожалению на испанском языке! Это будет приемлемо. Я знаю, что никто не заботится об этом, но я хотел говорить кое-что.

Сегодня - хороший день! Так или иначе...

Но Вы знаете, что я очень красивая. Ха ха.

-Джонни

И что же делать? [29 Apr 2009|09:13pm]
Дайте мне мою кровать. Я хочу спать. Я хочу тихий сон. Я утомлен слушать к люди говорят. Я так устала! Я не хочу убить…. Я должна изучить себя от "А" до "Я." Я должна выучить больше. Я читаю Артур Махен. Какой человек! Я нахожу, что у меня ещё длинный путь...

Тема любви, во-первых, которую никто еще не отменял. Еще какой любви!

Бит более трудне....Ба!


-Джонни

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