Flashes

My Sundays — this Sunday — are an amazing collision of high and low; I spent today half on Tinder, half on my typewriter, writing letters and listening to classical music. I went for a run, I read — but I also watched football. My brain — my soul — simply doesn’t understand what to do with itself: it is split, two brains rather than one, each with vastly different tastes. The feeling produced by the split, like the energy given off by the splitting of an atom, is shame. Nevertheless, I find myself having interesting conversations on Tinder, find myself writing several pages of letters to friends the old fashion way; I find myself listening to Zizek talk about the “self-commodification” of online dating at the same time. I already have more lovers than I need; I already spend all my time writing — but somehow I spend my free day trying to produce more: more sex, more poetry [sic]. It is almost certainly a kind of illness or addiction or simply the comical outcome of living in a spiritually lazy, spiritually dead, society. I wonder if I’m spiritually dead myself; I wonder if I’m actually very spiritually alive, but unsure of how to deploy my spiritual energy. We always play at being ourselves — without really understanding the script. I imagine that most peoples’ diaries are filled with concerns about too much drinking and not-being liked and eating junk food, full of self-flagellation and self-concern and self-hatred; self-hatred is the absolute norm for human beings in a commodity-based society in which they can only think of themselves as consumer goods. We consume ourselves and then give ourselves a bad review. We are…