30 December 2024

Something is jealously gripping Dave on the right—by his arm and leg—something that desires to control, to have, to possess him. A weird, abhorrent version of Linda. There is a furry marsupial in the can by Dave’s arm. A sheet of water cascades down onto him. Kate is on the left. I see faces, phalluses, breasts in the background pattern. Fingers with nails. At the top-center, there is a camera—or an eye—or an orifice. My dear Watson, I am sure you’ve seen all I have, but failed to make the deductions. Contemplating the grotesque, incomplete painting. The horror in it.

2 January 2025

You did not come, 2024. So that was not what the date indicated. Another major event: the global temperature averaged more than 1.5 degrees above pre-industrial levels. Weather will play a bigger role in 2025.

Plaintive voices—people and hadedas. The fake thunder of a metal sheet. The imploring coos of a dove. “Will you listen to me?” A far-off whooping cry of an exotic bird. The low hum of sea sounds generated by the suburb. The noisy, plaintive family next door—not listening to the dove. They must think they have something better to say. “Good, better, best”—as if there’s anything better than good. But good is the most glorious: the currency of the spiritual realm.

And how is it measured? Whatever is valued more is more glorious. How is value measured? Through the aesthetic, the dialectic process of the senses and the mind to measure beauty. There is only bad, worse, and worst before we get to good. The exotic bird has come closer. Kate wears a shirt with a grid on it. The veil of water overwhelms whatever is coming out of the cones above her. A star presides over this nativity scene—above David’s head. An owl in disarray appears in the middle can. A dog in Kate’s can. Now the monotonous drone of a generator. Kate has put on clown makeup.

God cursed humanity at the Tower of Babel—confusing their language, creating different cultures, different aesthetics, and therefore different systems of valuation. If God put the curse on us, we cannot overcome it. If we become like gods, then the intensity of the hell we create will increase. The curse mitigates our suffering.

8 February 2025

Hottest January on record—1.75°C above pre-industrial levels. Whoopsie daisies. Sorry, kids.

17 February 2025

Terrain soldiers’ boots hitting the ground—marching, rhythmic, synchronized, constant. Monotonous. An eccentric music—another music—playful, interspersing, reverberative, reciprocal. In between. A different frequency. A higher frequency—whatever that means.

Distant rumblings of the suburb. The city. The beast. Competing sounds. Sounds of competition. Because there is not enough. There is lack. Satisfaction eludes us.

The girls sit at the table, their long hair making their heads look bigger—towering, slightly elevated compared to the boy. Higher—whatever that means. White fluid. Fluidity. Pouring down and up. Cascading, reflecting, rippling, chaotic, complex, undulating. Issuing. A sheet of water. Falling water. A curtain. A surveillance camera. An eye. Brooding. Or a peephole? Who would be watching? Who would be interested? I cannot see the significance—but maybe it is the future? We will have to wait and see.

25 February 2025

Geopolitics and the individual. “No, I am not that—but yes, I am.” It’s complicated. Am I a human shield? No, I am not—but yes, I am. Am I an innocent civilian? No, I am not—but yes, I am. Do I agree with the ruling government? Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. I would make a lousy president. Thank God I am not God.

Will the roof fall down? Will it fall on my head? Is the sky falling down? What will the global average temperature be for February?

26 February 2025

“Things”—whatever they are—thoughts in the mind originating deep below in the water. Coalescing. “Things” in the sea winding their way up toward the surface. The rippling, reverberating water. Signals maybe. Electric currents. “Things” forming, becoming, dividing, determining—but still whole. Paradox.

Reverberating, cascading, undulating—up and down—whatever that is. Rising out from the surface, following the branches, forming branches, going up and down dialectically. Circles within circles. Reflecting. Eventually reaching the forest canopy. Running the gauntlet. Passing the test. Breaching the firewall. Reaching the cerebral canopy of consciousness—still in touch with the roots, the undetermined sea, the whole.

Connected to life. The living self. Repeating but different with every repetition. Paradox. The same but not the same. Not simply inside, not simply outside. In-betweenness. Part of the whole—but the whole. Like: “I love you, but change.”

Sextupl... oh, sex, sext... oh, sextuple... Oh, sex, sex... oh, sextuplets! Yes, that must be quite an experience. Six, sex. Sick sex. Text. Context. Life.

1 March 2025

The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.
– Dostoevsky, *The Brothers Karamazov*

3 March 2025

It’s called “Banana Fam.” A dog that has family resemblance to its owners—a family of brothers. I can see their erections through their pants as they grope at their genitals and grin.

A wall of flame as the orgasm.

8 March 2025

Dream: Jacqui refuses the duty of announcing dinner to the family, claiming it’s not hers to do on this occasion. So I decide to step up—but though at first it appears they are listening to me, suddenly I realize there is a vast concert on the go. My field of view opens up to a large stage with people performing through a loud electronic sound system—and that’s actually who the vast crowd is responding to.

I feel sheepish, to say the least.