I found this post-it note from yesterday, on the topic of Kierkegaard, etc:
the comfort of religion seems essentially wrong if it is the result of such a momentous, transformative, complex experience. It seems more likely that one would have to continue in torment, in a constant reaffirmation, confronting the paradox and dangling from some precipice evermore.
[Whenever I come to the end of a page or the last bit of blank space I get a little desperate in my images -- as if I were trying to cram a comment on the ending of things into words which may not admit such admixture]
I feel strongly that while religion attempts to make a space in a hostile world for the believer, it succeeds far more often in diluting the contradictions and rendering something powerful and symbolic and momentous into a saccharine and alien arrangement of cliches.
-- And I meant to say more, but I'm exhausted and off to bed to wake up and try again to sit at my dull desk and continue to think of something more than the pages of paper I fold and staple and compile. Only three months -- three more months of dull desks and fluorescent lights and people who ask me what I'm reading and then look at me as if I've grown a second head when I tell them I do this for myself. Yes, I read strange titles and foreign authors and I read them for myself.