The following will never be an adequate account or survey of what happened.
Dionysus’s beard is growing, and be prepared to suddenly see it gone soon.
Undoubtedly, a year of profound inquiry. knowledge and learning, from university courses to personal inquisitive tasks, from reading about and critiquing texts ranging from faeces, piss and semen to Christ and God—you don’t get more wide-ranging than that. 2010 is a year best described as a “penultimate” year before all the big shit happens, and as is usual with the penultimate-anything, it is as consequential as much as the sperm which infiltrates the egg. So nine months from now, next September, we’ll see if correct decisions were made (this means that if the result turns out to be feminine, decisions were wrong. No one would want a female demigod).
Dionysus has learned (again, and hopefully once and for all) that the things we desire are always fleeting, always out of hand, and we purposefully place them out of reach. So, let’s eliminate what we desire. Let’s just focus on what we need. But at the same time, resist a pragmatic Realpolitik approach to getting what we need. If anything, let’s be Kantian, delusional and happy and stringent. Or preferably, nihilists. (Cross Reference: The Big Lebowski).
The year of deception and cuckoldry, from literary medieval cuckoldry to real life cuckoldry, and that’s breaking news for many, the kind you’d expect from WikiLeaks. Never trust the people you meet, not even when they’re drunk. Everyone is out there to seek his wanted end, which will never be you or any other person. So thank you, Sophie, you wise cunning cunt, you validated me and defined me as a perfect thing. I know about it but be not afraid. Dionysus is always too intoxicated to hate.
People are formless, much like a Francis Bacon painting.
This unfortunate and overwhelming experience has made me realize how ill-informed our decisions can be, how adverse some people’s situations can be, how they can hold you in such high regard as to make you their means of escape (which isn’t such a bad thing to be a means to, even though, at some point you will be abandoned), but then you (meaning me, I, the me-that-exists) ignorantly and selfishly choke and kill. And for that I’m apologetic. I apologize for all the scathing remarks which were only childishly witty feeding an ego with no limits–but nevertheless, stay away, I can’t handle you (you infinite she-of-absence and thunderous presence which is still absence. You were always absent. I never could hold you at will).
Bacchus is laughing. Too bad he doesn’t know he’s a knock-off of a Greek God, the ultimate Dionysus, God of excess and intoxication. Dionysus is on mount Olympus, evading rain drops in his all deceiving and immaterial dance, he laughs around the mountain (because he thinks he’s Zarathustra), but then stumbles upon a fixed monolithic statue which makes him weep dry tears which turn his grapes to foul raisins which twist his tongue and make him stutter horribly.
Witnessing his momentary laughter and dancing, spoiled brats dubbed Dionysus the new Lady Gaga, causing him more distress and agony. Even Rasputin was disturbed.
Beneath that mountain which overlooks everything and nothing, everyone and no one, there’s a girl unfairly called Zulfiqar with her locks of black. She plays a violin like the gypsy of The Red Violin and she meets all kinds of men as she entrances them with her wonderful instrument. It’s a shame she’s only a master at playing and not a master at wooing. Soon enough, she’s outplayed, quite maliciously and the master becomes the slave. And her all-time cousin is envious of her playful ability for the simple fact that she has no ability except a neigh which disturbs and casts away.
Dionysus is the corpse-like confidant. Dionysus’s wine is only drunk when needed. Dionysus’s wine is never wanted. Dionysus is the God that is used and thrown away.
The sheep that needs care and which demands wanton attention is dreadfully burdensome. Answers to impossible questions force a sigh. Need I say more?
Socially noteworthy is the Michael Jackson (MJ) pandemic. Everyone likes MJ. Everyone wants MJ. MJ is the new thing; wanted in all forms. MJ, our new form of decaf coffee; our new form of reality TV, reality given virtually; warfare with no casualties; safe sex; chocolate laxative. Notice the pattern: things consumed excessively, but these things lack the substance which once defined them. The opium without opium. Zizek would say, “Today’s hedonism combines pleasure with constraint – it is no longer the old notion of the “right measure” between pleasure and constraint, but a kind of pseudo-Hegelian immediate coincidence of the opposites: action and reaction should coincide, the very thing which causes damage should already be the medicine.” But isn’t that very esoteric and unintelligible?
Should I mention sleeping? Photography? Sexual confusion?
You can watch what might be one of the best film scenes of this year here.
All shall fade. All shall fade. Because of this:
Followed by this:
On the other end of the sea, a blossoming flower finds it hard to cope with the cold English weather, but sap boils when the need arises. This is the way of the world. Only the people who adapt will survive. Check it out here.
The wine is dried up, and Dionysus enters the New Year weeping, heart ablaze and sleep deprived. Dionysus enters depleted and hurt and disgusted, on the verge of vomiting. [Vomiting is just another form of excess.]
2011 will be worse, which is a real incentive to live it. The countdown is at six.
Now, let’s watch the weather change.