yesterday mattress walked into powell's (fyi, the most colossal bookstore known to maybe all of north america), and was stunned into repose by the cathedral column bookshelves that towered over his head. standing there in the aisles, he got a delirious spinning-sense that there is an immense amount to the world that our minds just cannot wrap themselves around in order to function in a day-to-day capacity. here is this hive of information...walk through it with a favorite author in mind, or subject yourself to the endless confusion and contemplation of what these volumes hold inside of themselves. worlds, really. if you have no point of reference to gravitate to, then you are thrown to the chopping waves of chance and drift along until something catches your eye, some book that you pull out (or does it pull you out) because it is somehow harmonious with your own personality - some reason to extract it from the endless rows and pull yourself through the frame of its vision into, who can say where. matches, standing amongst these small swirling worlds, deep within the honeycomb of possible thoughts and adventures that can be forcefully cracked into. injected into your moments like a perception-altering drug. matches, thinking thought is a form of escapism.
imagination is a powerful thing...but what really is imagination if it truly is a thought that revolves itself through the gears of your head? what makes objects more real, more truthful, than thoughts? what strips them of their ability to be pawned off as just 'mere' imagination?
"just. what a horrible, candle-snuffing word."
~ finding neverland
to stroll down that path and let a random book select him was an engaging experience. it was probably more notable than most things that happen to matches in a common hour. it had peasant-like simplicity and also more complexity than is calculable. but mostly it was nice and he was throttled to some bendy-space, some taffied time that someone had thought up at some point and scribbled down. it was a neuron is his mind, a neuron for specifically that moment and that action, that never would have been electrified into consciousness except in that exact snapshot it was, all seemingly by adventure and gamble (could not decide between the two words, so they orbit). but it makes up a part of matches now (though the pie-chart would be too colorful and delicious, celestial strawberry-rhubarb) and that is what he finds romantic and seductive about literature.
now matches is sitting deep in the catacombs (no, really) of a delightfully enchanting coffee shop, and it is the same thing, and again the same thing. this is a space that there was no map for previously (in his mind); it was a grey void behind the picture-frame. and what matches means to say by that is that there is so confusingly much to explore in this world, that we take things in two-dimensions until we have reason (or perhaps we piggy-back onto randomness like riding a bus to the end of the line) to explore them. there are houses and shops lining every street, but we don't see their complexities and charms, we don't throw our fishing-lines of sense and perception into them. you see how the streets are becoming the bookshelves, and there are stories there, and what are they? the houses that matches sees are just photographs, one dimensional as jeff might critique in people, shallow...all these words fit together marvelously. there is some thread running between them, and it is stories and thought, and minds and people just like us. it is a history and a palette of emotions. and matches walked down the street with sarah two days ago, and she remarked on the beauty of a house...and the beauty was there certainly, but in the same way that with photographs of aspen groves you do not get the whipped mountain winds and the exhale as they wind through the tambourine-leaves. because it turned out that sarah had been a nanny at that particular house, and there were stories behind her eyes; there was depth to her picture, popping out through the seams in red and blue lines that m just didn't have the glasses for.
it is the same way with everything, with the world. there are tastes and fabric textures and perfumes (ah, the perfumes), unexpected-until-arrived-at associations, and it makes mattress shudder, in a good sort of way (for the most part), to be absurdly lost amongst them. those doorway-spaces coming or going where you are warm, or cold, and then the precise opposite temperature rushes past/through you, and well you might have to get matches drunk to get him to let slip what that rippling sensation reminds him of. but that is only somewhat the point.
what are some of your potted moments, planted and just waiting to be watered with expression? matches is a curious cat, in any sense of the word you would like to apply~
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2 comments:
Don't leave me hangin' like that man, what book did you pluck from the shelf?
the book was called something like 'living with fiction.' it detailed a lot about the merits of fiction and writing in general...quite a good ten pages or so that matches randomly flipped to~ it's one of those things where he promised himself that he would come back and read some more - but who can say if that will ever happen with that same book.
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