excremental mentality

it seems that the whole notion of being a person falls way short of describing what we actually are.

as i understand it, our brains go because of the bioelectricity that is pumping through our nervous system. it flies around in our brains firing neurons (or maybe it IS the firing of neurons, i’m not really clear on that) and activating our stored memories to reference with current sensory input. it also travels throughout our nerves to control our muscle movements. pretty simple right? i mean, that’s how we move, it’s how we function.

but what are our thoughts then? the most common answer is that they’re something akin to magic. most people just don’t seem able or willing to conceive of their stream of consciousness as just a buzz of bioelectricity permeating some misunderstood grey matter, but isn’t such an explanation sufficient? forget the “unexplainable complexity of thought”, when there are more possible brain states than particles in the known universe (taking into account every combination of neural firings that’s possible) then there isn’t a whole hell of a lot that electro-neural activity CANT account for.

especially considering what our thoughts are actually like. my brain doesn’t read like a book, or like a speech or anything like the wonder of the mind is generally conceived as. it’s more like a cross between a broken record and a dog (is it just me or do animals always seem to be thinking about the word of the thing they’re looking at over and over: “person, person, person, person, BONE!”), repeating itself and always buzzing with total shit. i mean, obviously something productive occurs or i (also you, and you.) would be unable to function, but the volume, the sheer uncalculable and unbelievable quantity, of mental excrement that passes through my head is could be nothing but proof of the essential materiality of the functioning of my brain. it’s no amazing and finely tuned machine, more like a goat on a jewelry store, consuming as many valuables as possible and creating montains of excrement, which hide within themselves the treasures.

i think that’s the most important part of what sartre was getting at in nausea. our brains prize quantity over quality, and somewhere in the evolutionary process we realized (!) that if we just thought ENOUGH, some of it would have to be worthwhile. which leaves us now with brains that go non stop. like a stock ticker you can’t turn off, even if you want to. we have this crap, this multitude of LAYERS of crap that is constantly occupying us, always chugging away hoping to come up with something of value, and it’s fine and it’s dandy so long as you don’t mind. but don’t start to dislike it. don’t question whether it’s necessary.

i think that’s where crazy people come from.

that and texas.


happy new year, did you realize that it’s totally not the nineties at all anymore? like we’re officially “mid-zero’s”! that means that now it’s the 80’s AND 90’s lunch hour on the radio! and that eighties clothes will get EVEN MORE popular.

also i am old, and you are older.

letter to a friend.

i am good. school is done and now i am working instead, which means that i call people for seven hours every day and bother them. but it’s not so bad ’cause sometimes they dont’ mind.

i still have one exam but it’s not a hard exam and i already passed the course so it’s cool.

today i saw my friend joel from work do his comedy routine called 42 short plays by the new humorists. it was good but no one was listening because they all just wanted to see the band “lesbians on extacsy”, who were also good, but a bit gay.

steph really likes that band.

i’ts been at least a month since i drew a real comic. my hands are atrophying but i still don’t feel like doing any. am i broken? am i cheating the people? do you still want a shirt? i still have them.

i want a chameleon for christmas. that’s what you have to get me. their feet aren’t even really like feet at all, more like something that ISNT feet. also, they are awesome when they eat, but it’s hard to feed them cause you have to touch bugs.

i’ve been playing Neverwinter Nights a lot lately. it’s like d&d but it lives in my computer instead of in the hearts and sould of the other dorks. it doesn’t love me like they do but it loves me when i need it to.

i like my mac. it’s like a pc but it’s more beautiful. that’s not important.



we both know three things.

“I am, I know, I love; for if I am deceived, I am; I am also not deceived in knowing that I know. For as I know that I am, I know also this, that I know. And when I love these two, being and knowing, I add that love as a third thing of equal importance to those things which I know.”

-augustine (de civitas dei)

photo archive of december

eve - photo by jeremy clarke

 dwelling - photo by jeremy clarke

 transcendo-chromatic toxins  - photo by jeremy clarke
[transcendo-chromatic toxins]

 soon - photo by jeremy clarke

 very fucking cold - photo by jeremy clarke
[very &nbsp fucking &nbsp cold]

 reasonable day - photo by jeremy clarke
[reasonable day]

 you want some - photo by jeremy clarke
[you want some (and i’m drunk).]

stillness  - photo by jeremy clarke

at least the view is good  - photo by jeremy clarke
[at least the view is good]

martian winter - photo by jeremy clarke
[martian winter]

 i had to - photo by jeremy clarke
[i had to.]

office party - photo by jeremy clarke
[office party]

tasty doom - photo by jeremy clarke
[tasty doom]

losing battle - photo by jeremy clarke
[losing battle]

self-portrait in g minor - photo by jeremy clarke
[self-portrait in G-minor]

blue season  - photo by jeremy clarke
[blue season]

the moon?  - photo by jeremy clarke
[the moon?]

empty geometry  - photo by jeremy clarke
[empty geometry]

 gnosticistic - photo by jeremy clarke

feets - photo by jeremy clarke

even the pigeons are cold  - photo by jeremy clarke
[even the pigeons are cold]

photo archive of november

ninety-nine cents - photo by Jeremy Clarke
[ninety-nine cents]

commute - photo by jeremy clarke

broken magic - photo by jeremy clarke
[broken magic]

dreamstuff - photo by jeremy clarke

indy(ie) - photo by jeremy clarke

falling  - photo by jeremy clarke

fuck you - photo by jeremy clarke
[fuck you]

november - photo by jeremy clarke

not really that calm  - photo by jeremy clarke

zuzammen  - photo by jeremy clarke

northern dew - photo by jeremy clarke
[northern dew]

fluid motion  - photo by jeremy clarke
[fluid motion]

strike  - photo by jeremy clarke

reflexion  - photo by jeremy clarke

hamster  - photo by jeremy clarke
[it plans]

 contrast - photo by jeremy clarke
[stark glory]

mic  - photo by jeremy clarke
[the new humor]

nietzsche  - photo by jeremy clarke

molecular agitation  - photo by jeremy clarke
[molecular agitation]

keyboard  - photo by jeremy clarke
[one simian at one keyboard?]

street  - photo by jeremy clarke
[falling angels]

portrait  - photo by jeremy clarke
[art in the age of mechanical reproduction]

[backpost] thoughts on self-image

Found on an older blog and posted here for historical purposes.

Looking at pictures of yourself is such a strange thing to do. i mean, who the fuck is that person? is that me? does my nose really stick out that much? are all those curves actually part of my face?

usually i try to stay behind the camera, but i know i’ll regret if later if i have no images of myself so i let people steal the fire when they ask. but it really does kind of phase me to look at the results. i find it hard to believe that my girlfriend can have sex with me without laughing for example. also, i tend to feel fat, which i don’t believe i am, or at least not really…

it’s a usefull philosophical tool though, like we tend to just look through the window of our vision out at world that we process instantly. the things we can do without having a single thought are amazing. but when you look at a picture of yourself you’re confronted with the fact that you’re really out there. not just your eyeballs and brain, but all of you. When you see a picture of yourself, especially one that really doesn’t represent your “residual-self-image” you’re confronted with that part of you that you really can’t control, maybe it’s the auto-pilot that gets caught in the photo (which would repudiate the traditional cultures that claim that photo’s steal your soul, maybe they just steal everything else?), and, being forced to look at it is what makes viewing the photo uncomfortable. i dont’ think we like to be reminded of our mortality-limitations-just humanness, at least not in such a dynamic visual way (it’s easier to brush of the existential unease of a question like “why are we here” than it is to look at yourself making a face in normal conversation that you would grimace at if anyone you were talking to made it).

maybe it’s just me that thinks that though, maybe everyone else just looks at photos and says “yup, i’m ugly” or “yup that’s just me”. i’ve always had a weird relationship with my body, and rarely do i look in a mirror without having to re-confront the stranger i see there.

[backpost] thoughts on media concentrations

Found on an older blog and posted here for historical purposes.

it wasn’t a matter of motivation this time. usually there was a feeling of boredom, lazyness and apathy, like actually caring about this silly thing just wasn’t worth the effort.

but this was different, there was motivation, just not to do this. an urge to write in a journal, to build a journal, to find readers for a journal. to take, look at and publish pictures, to copy the amazing world outside (and inside) the home and give it a chance to be as beautiful-monstrous-ironic and amazing as it truly was. there was even a skewed kind of motivation to work on the sound project, but less.

all this, but it still seemed that the comic must be drawn, that it was the important thing, that people like the comic, people respond to the comic, the comic is popular. the fact that the comic must be maintained untill the t-shirts could be sold ALONE should have been motivation to complete the panels, but the apathy remained. the feeling that very little was left to be said with this format, that its subjectivity had been stolen by overuse, corrupted by the redundancy of time, and had effectively become passive.

the ideas no longer stimulating, it seemed like a waste.

but they still loved it, and asked for more.

and there are comics to be finished.