Got it when I was 15 (with my own money which I earned at a movie theatre) to drown out the fact that I was a social outcast and find comfort in the sweet sound of badly played three chord songs with extra distortion.
Forgive the excessive self-revelation but I remembered that I still have this in my basement and felt a small pang of fondness. I might just play a few tunes tomorrow. Have a "jam" session.

I just spent way too much time colour-co-ordinating my livejournal to incorporate the awesome-fantastic photo Jono took of my shoes. Now I have a headache. And I realize that I should probably stick to writing, and leave the graphic arts to those more inclined.

When in doubt, Wallace Stevens:

Professor Eucalyptus said, "The search
For reality is as momentous as
The search for god." It is the philosopher's search

For an interior made exterior
And the poet's search for the same exterior made
Interior: breathless things broodingly abreath

With the inhalations of original cold
And an original earliness.

(From "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven")

None were discouraged or in discontent;
It was a jousting, just a tournament.
Why should they be discouraged? After all,

Thoughts can be born of thoughts and thoughts can be born of language.

The difference is a manipulation of thought versus a manipulation of language.

The manipulation of thought is spatial.

The manipulation of language, miraculous.

Did I do something wrong? Did I do something wrong? Did I do something wrong? Did I do something wrong?

You might as well read this instead:

The general pose of the statue and its surviving parts could evoke some sense of its previous wholeness, but this necessarily remains only a vague and hazy vision of the antecedent to this demonstrative broken arm, which refers us to an ambiguous absence.

Goethe’s images not only demonstrate a preference for that which is immanent, immediate and visible over something abstract, static and even transcendent, but they themselves are immanent by being visible; the images demonstrate the idea, making it concrete rather than abstract, or rather, manifest something potentially abstract in concrete visibility. 

The difference between the sculpture and the tomb is commonality versus individuation. The tomb holds one individual person, whereas the sculpture of the dying gladiator presents an experience common to all gladiators, both those who died and those who survived but faced the threat of death. The gladiator’s pain could not be more personal, as pain always is, since no one could feel the pain he feels for him, but at the same time, this type of pain can be felt by anyone who has a body. The very body of the gladiator, sculpted into an artistic form, unifies the gladiatorial experience. It inspires because of its universality, a universality as private and individual as a painful wound on one’s body. Byron reaches the gladiator’s interior through this wound, out of which the first drops of a storm of inspiration emerge.

I cannot expect people to understand my illness. I cannot expect them to divine my inner problems and act accordingly. Though these things are real to me, they may not be for others.

Insight: check.

Insight put into action: pending.

Ruins have an inherent ambiguity, since they embody a kind of break or rupture and at the same time invite recuperation: the ruin invites and even demands completion. For example, a perception of a sculpted human form which has been fragmented (ruined) carries with it an impulse towards imagining what the sculpture would have looked like while it was whole. Because the break or rupture—the very ruin of the ruin—is always physical and the recuperation it provokes usually occurs within the mind of a spectator, the ambiguity of the ruin can be identified precisely: it is the ambiguity between perceived fragmentation and imagined wholeness.

Secrecy is the condition of genius.

Please return to me, silent beloved. I now understand "Dejection".

Ditties of no tone.

“[A] shifting and unstable phenomenology of personal associations, sensations, and memories. The poet’s response to the artefacts is profoundly private and at times even inscrutable” (Scott 67).