bumblebee
fly to me
sting me once and
die
September 29, 2007
September 26, 2007
why do *you* think we are to exist
squeaktoy ninja: i think we exist to experience; to stretch the fabric of our emotions; to find peace amongst the madness
sofistiktd lady: why does madness exist
how matches wishes to answer that question...how hard it is to do, in practice! what would we be without this sea of possibilities? spoke with the jeff today about art; about how it exists as a record of a mind, about the places we have the ability to find. matches' favorite line of the conversation was when jeff said that the mind was like diving into an ocean...the deeper you go, the less natural light there is, and the easier it becomes to get scared. art is like a sunken treasure, dragged up to the surface...mysterious and crusted with remnants of the deep. dynamic minds have gone to these places and fumbled along the floor...but artists are the ones that can bring something back, that can describe somehow these things that one cannot pierce with sight or net with touch.
all the chaos that we are wedged between, these grinding fault-lines that crumble and scatter us; these seem to be necessary, don't they? most people swirl melancholy and malicious undertones into the words - chaos, madness, confusion, static. but how limited, boxed, and bumpered would we be without them? how prodded and persuaded into common areas? we all have choices in the matter, and we are in a better situation for it. the design is brilliant. there is such a contrast between madness and control...which is to say that, of course they are different, but they do not necessarily need to be separate. nobody will get anywhere by roping in every element around them and maintaining a stance of the strictest control...one would be too tense, when life is about dancing. to issue control as universal law is to be drawn and quartered willingly, to select stasis. a person is not a rope, not a chess piece~ we only avoided the red tiles in elementary school because we imagined them to be lava.
which is absurd. but, we could choose to be absurd; it was practically expected of us. and if matches was given a choice between absolute control and absolute absurdity; well, which would you pick? one cannot measure out one's life in teaspoons.
it still exists, this madness, this extreme freedom. it forges us into who we are. what do you choose to do with your personal time, since every possibility lies open to you? every path, every discipline, every study. what do you choose to imagine? matches still braces his back to the wall every so often, pretending there are ninja enemies around the corner. you probably wouldn't catch him doing it any any social functions, but there it is. that is just one simple freedom of mind, but it serves to illustrate that consciousness can immerse itself however it pleases, at any given moment. that, is the madness; infinite possibility. the madness tends to get a bad rap, because the choices of others also carry the possibility of carving up our emotions like a halloween pumpkin...but that's just one of the calculable casualties of solitary minds existing in a social context. people are going to get hurt by any number of things; one of the foremost being negligence. it seems shady that people can be hurt merely by someone else's focus being diverted to another thought, but that's the way things are. it tends to have more to do with the person getting hurt than the person doing the hurting~
"When you get the blanket thing you can relax, because everything you could ever want or be you already have and are.
...You can't deal with my infinite nature, can you?"
~ i heart huckabees
matches maintains that keeping the madness alive should be a singular priority for just about everybody. one of the most brilliant charms of life is the ability for one moment to be completely different from the next. if there weren't a veritable ocean of possible configurations (and locations) for the mind and the body, then we would not have nearly the capacity for uniqueness that we currently do. instead of wishing all of our problems away, we should revel in the idea that we are the masters of our own destiny, and that we can dive into the depths whenever we require it of ourselves. the art that we currently have serves as a series of bookmarks...the dog-eared pages of the human experience. we marvel that minds have found their way into these puzzles, and applaud those who can bring back tales of their adventures. to bring genuine contemplation into the world is a decision that very few are willing to commit to...and while it is a flame that can never quite be put out, matches thinks that we should all try to nurture the spark within ourselves when we find occasion to. illumination is a scarce resource, and we can put to good use all that we can get~
sofistiktd lady: why does madness exist
how matches wishes to answer that question...how hard it is to do, in practice! what would we be without this sea of possibilities? spoke with the jeff today about art; about how it exists as a record of a mind, about the places we have the ability to find. matches' favorite line of the conversation was when jeff said that the mind was like diving into an ocean...the deeper you go, the less natural light there is, and the easier it becomes to get scared. art is like a sunken treasure, dragged up to the surface...mysterious and crusted with remnants of the deep. dynamic minds have gone to these places and fumbled along the floor...but artists are the ones that can bring something back, that can describe somehow these things that one cannot pierce with sight or net with touch.
all the chaos that we are wedged between, these grinding fault-lines that crumble and scatter us; these seem to be necessary, don't they? most people swirl melancholy and malicious undertones into the words - chaos, madness, confusion, static. but how limited, boxed, and bumpered would we be without them? how prodded and persuaded into common areas? we all have choices in the matter, and we are in a better situation for it. the design is brilliant. there is such a contrast between madness and control...which is to say that, of course they are different, but they do not necessarily need to be separate. nobody will get anywhere by roping in every element around them and maintaining a stance of the strictest control...one would be too tense, when life is about dancing. to issue control as universal law is to be drawn and quartered willingly, to select stasis. a person is not a rope, not a chess piece~ we only avoided the red tiles in elementary school because we imagined them to be lava.
which is absurd. but, we could choose to be absurd; it was practically expected of us. and if matches was given a choice between absolute control and absolute absurdity; well, which would you pick? one cannot measure out one's life in teaspoons.
it still exists, this madness, this extreme freedom. it forges us into who we are. what do you choose to do with your personal time, since every possibility lies open to you? every path, every discipline, every study. what do you choose to imagine? matches still braces his back to the wall every so often, pretending there are ninja enemies around the corner. you probably wouldn't catch him doing it any any social functions, but there it is. that is just one simple freedom of mind, but it serves to illustrate that consciousness can immerse itself however it pleases, at any given moment. that, is the madness; infinite possibility. the madness tends to get a bad rap, because the choices of others also carry the possibility of carving up our emotions like a halloween pumpkin...but that's just one of the calculable casualties of solitary minds existing in a social context. people are going to get hurt by any number of things; one of the foremost being negligence. it seems shady that people can be hurt merely by someone else's focus being diverted to another thought, but that's the way things are. it tends to have more to do with the person getting hurt than the person doing the hurting~
"When you get the blanket thing you can relax, because everything you could ever want or be you already have and are.
...You can't deal with my infinite nature, can you?"
~ i heart huckabees
matches maintains that keeping the madness alive should be a singular priority for just about everybody. one of the most brilliant charms of life is the ability for one moment to be completely different from the next. if there weren't a veritable ocean of possible configurations (and locations) for the mind and the body, then we would not have nearly the capacity for uniqueness that we currently do. instead of wishing all of our problems away, we should revel in the idea that we are the masters of our own destiny, and that we can dive into the depths whenever we require it of ourselves. the art that we currently have serves as a series of bookmarks...the dog-eared pages of the human experience. we marvel that minds have found their way into these puzzles, and applaud those who can bring back tales of their adventures. to bring genuine contemplation into the world is a decision that very few are willing to commit to...and while it is a flame that can never quite be put out, matches thinks that we should all try to nurture the spark within ourselves when we find occasion to. illumination is a scarce resource, and we can put to good use all that we can get~
September 24, 2007
chaos theory #4,8,15,16...
presently matches is listening to a slurry of techno and underground hip-hop songs that are being beamed into his proximity by way of a recommendation of sarah's: 'pandora.com'. and it has spurred him into a short discourse on one of the most phenomenal aspects of the internet that he has been witness to thus far. the internet mirrors life in that there is an entire goldmine of possibilities in it, through it, as it. maybe even two goldmines, side by side with crumbly and winding passages between them. the downfall is that, much like a mine, there aren't many natural sources of light to aid your vision as you stumble around inside of it. for the most part, you can only feel around the walls and link from one website to another of a similar sort. getting somewhere new was a problematic process until recently...you could only skip to a new area of interest if you already had some sort of map for it that you brought with you.
recently, though, mattress has been using the internet as a tool to orchestrate vast teleportations into uncharted regions. thanks for the most part to the StumbleUpon firefox extension, and the aforementioned Pandora. in case you're out of the loop, StumbleUpon collects information of what sorts of broad categories of interest you find yourself grouped in, and the launches you rocket-like into a series of random but highly-commendable websites or projects in the same circulatory system. Pandora does basically the same thing, but in streaming-radio format...spiraling out of artists that you like into new ones that you weren't aware of. and matches is a giant-panda-proponent of this concept.
in life, we generally get a small sample of what is going on. for every one thing that you learn, its prism shoots out colors onto a thousand surrounding objects. you realize how vast knowledge is, how unattainable and unscripted it is. is? is, conditionally and perceptually~ people become what they know; that isn't to say that grass-hopping isn't possible, but generally the farmer's son is what he is. but what if he were throttled into the city? what if he were dropped into a concert hall with a thousand stringed-instruments littering the floor? he would probably take something away from this sudden exposure; his photograph would have a second moon dodged and burned into the background. an ascended perch of success will allow a bird to spread its wings into different reaches and corners than merely where it first flew. confidence runs in deep grains.
and so matches is enchanted by this concept that people are infusing into the internet, because it has such far-reaching connotations. before, matches had to sit at the record store and dig through the crates to find another artist that he might like as much as whatever is already on his plate. he had to navigate the social networks for people with similar auditory tastes, so that a new avenue of possibility could eventually be unearthed in a long process of judgment and comparison~ now, all he has to do is plug in his headphones and type in a name. and as with most things on the net, it carries the benefit of being 100% free.
and don't get m started on StumbleUpon, which has already devoured hours upon hours of his time - all well spent. it is so inspiring to be catapulted out randomly, because it offers the chance to see what people are really doing; you can see all the evolutions that creativity has taken recently. it's a shame, the amazing things that are not publicly known-about...these ridiculous things that are happening right under our cyber-noses. and for the most part, they are all things that you can become personally involved in, contributing in some way. they all have the potential to affect you, to alter your life and to offer some slate for expression.
it's quite a thing.
recently, though, mattress has been using the internet as a tool to orchestrate vast teleportations into uncharted regions. thanks for the most part to the StumbleUpon firefox extension, and the aforementioned Pandora. in case you're out of the loop, StumbleUpon collects information of what sorts of broad categories of interest you find yourself grouped in, and the launches you rocket-like into a series of random but highly-commendable websites or projects in the same circulatory system. Pandora does basically the same thing, but in streaming-radio format...spiraling out of artists that you like into new ones that you weren't aware of. and matches is a giant-panda-proponent of this concept.
in life, we generally get a small sample of what is going on. for every one thing that you learn, its prism shoots out colors onto a thousand surrounding objects. you realize how vast knowledge is, how unattainable and unscripted it is. is? is, conditionally and perceptually~ people become what they know; that isn't to say that grass-hopping isn't possible, but generally the farmer's son is what he is. but what if he were throttled into the city? what if he were dropped into a concert hall with a thousand stringed-instruments littering the floor? he would probably take something away from this sudden exposure; his photograph would have a second moon dodged and burned into the background. an ascended perch of success will allow a bird to spread its wings into different reaches and corners than merely where it first flew. confidence runs in deep grains.
and so matches is enchanted by this concept that people are infusing into the internet, because it has such far-reaching connotations. before, matches had to sit at the record store and dig through the crates to find another artist that he might like as much as whatever is already on his plate. he had to navigate the social networks for people with similar auditory tastes, so that a new avenue of possibility could eventually be unearthed in a long process of judgment and comparison~ now, all he has to do is plug in his headphones and type in a name. and as with most things on the net, it carries the benefit of being 100% free.
and don't get m started on StumbleUpon, which has already devoured hours upon hours of his time - all well spent. it is so inspiring to be catapulted out randomly, because it offers the chance to see what people are really doing; you can see all the evolutions that creativity has taken recently. it's a shame, the amazing things that are not publicly known-about...these ridiculous things that are happening right under our cyber-noses. and for the most part, they are all things that you can become personally involved in, contributing in some way. they all have the potential to affect you, to alter your life and to offer some slate for expression.
it's quite a thing.
September 19, 2007
lack of maps
oh, this world is a curiosity. can you come up with a word for us? a machine-stamped button, a basic name-tag that explains a person in terms more complex than 'hello, my name is?' we attach ourselves to our names, like people who get tattoos that mean absolutely nothing to them. 'names are solid; names exist!' we flash them around as if they are more than smoke and mirrors. we tout them as some compression of the thoughts and feelings which we lay out on blankets across our world, for all to see. they are like the surf, constantly drumming all our castled-complexities down into one rendered and encompassable smoothness.
but what can we say about ourselves, beyond names? it cannot be said, with all certainty, what our drives and motivations are. we possess many associated animal and carnal traits, but we are not entirely defined by them. we have no magnetic north. we fumble around for a number of years, then barrel group-thinkingly into the labyrinth of society. it is extremely hard to be an individual and not be swept off into various dustbins, to be a grain of sand outside of the groomed zen-garden's contours. we submit, and are sorted like geological specimens.
the worst of it is this pressure to be marketable, to be 'useful' to society, when society's sense of 'use' is far off the mark of what it likely should be. teachers and progressive non-profit workers make no money. they should be doubly-honored for their self-sacrifices: both for their initiative to help make things better, and their willingness to exist in a substantially lower financial bracket for it. matches digresses. the point he is traipsing towards is that if there is something that you love to do, as a human you should have the right to do that and still exist comfortably. if a man loves nothing more than to sit next to a snake in the desert and play an oboe, then he should be able to concentrate all his efforts on that, and not feel icy stares on his back for choosing to live differently. he should be supported and applauded by his fellow men for following his heart, and not be forced into putting a spin on his act and busking on the boardwalk with slivers of sales pitches in his feet.
"or you can share your essence with us
'cause everything about you couldn't be rugged and ruff
and even though you tote a glock, and you're hot on the streets
if you dare to share your heart, we'll nod our heads to its beat."
~ saul williams - 'black stacey'
it seems such a strange concept, that we must conform to prescribed standards and modes of life. america is the land of freedom and opportunity...if you've got the finances to back it. if not you'd better start learning how to cater to someone, so that you too can feel the trickle-down of recycled money flowing your way. what would the world be like if money followed the same patterns as the water-cycle, evaporating at the shoreline and redistrubuting? perhaps it already does? but you'd better hope for that prime reservoir real-estate when rainclouds appear on the horizon.
such was the sub-point. substitute that prior pessimism for optimism, and you might unearth what mattress truly would like to mention: that though it seems like there are only so many paths to travel, we have the power and precision to forge new ones all the time. we really have no definition as humans...attempt it and you will end up dizzy in the spin-dry cycle. it means, on a positive note, that the only barriers existent are the ones that we create for ourselves. some of the most refreshing moments, on a year-to-year-to-decade basis, are the ones where we find out that we can still surprise ourselves~ forget the labels and the names, the minefields and the glass-ceilings. to quote the digable planets: you gotta do what you feel.
"be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid."
~ goethe, 'faust'
but what can we say about ourselves, beyond names? it cannot be said, with all certainty, what our drives and motivations are. we possess many associated animal and carnal traits, but we are not entirely defined by them. we have no magnetic north. we fumble around for a number of years, then barrel group-thinkingly into the labyrinth of society. it is extremely hard to be an individual and not be swept off into various dustbins, to be a grain of sand outside of the groomed zen-garden's contours. we submit, and are sorted like geological specimens.
the worst of it is this pressure to be marketable, to be 'useful' to society, when society's sense of 'use' is far off the mark of what it likely should be. teachers and progressive non-profit workers make no money. they should be doubly-honored for their self-sacrifices: both for their initiative to help make things better, and their willingness to exist in a substantially lower financial bracket for it. matches digresses. the point he is traipsing towards is that if there is something that you love to do, as a human you should have the right to do that and still exist comfortably. if a man loves nothing more than to sit next to a snake in the desert and play an oboe, then he should be able to concentrate all his efforts on that, and not feel icy stares on his back for choosing to live differently. he should be supported and applauded by his fellow men for following his heart, and not be forced into putting a spin on his act and busking on the boardwalk with slivers of sales pitches in his feet.
"or you can share your essence with us
'cause everything about you couldn't be rugged and ruff
and even though you tote a glock, and you're hot on the streets
if you dare to share your heart, we'll nod our heads to its beat."
~ saul williams - 'black stacey'
it seems such a strange concept, that we must conform to prescribed standards and modes of life. america is the land of freedom and opportunity...if you've got the finances to back it. if not you'd better start learning how to cater to someone, so that you too can feel the trickle-down of recycled money flowing your way. what would the world be like if money followed the same patterns as the water-cycle, evaporating at the shoreline and redistrubuting? perhaps it already does? but you'd better hope for that prime reservoir real-estate when rainclouds appear on the horizon.
such was the sub-point. substitute that prior pessimism for optimism, and you might unearth what mattress truly would like to mention: that though it seems like there are only so many paths to travel, we have the power and precision to forge new ones all the time. we really have no definition as humans...attempt it and you will end up dizzy in the spin-dry cycle. it means, on a positive note, that the only barriers existent are the ones that we create for ourselves. some of the most refreshing moments, on a year-to-year-to-decade basis, are the ones where we find out that we can still surprise ourselves~ forget the labels and the names, the minefields and the glass-ceilings. to quote the digable planets: you gotta do what you feel.
"be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid."
~ goethe, 'faust'
September 17, 2007
boy-scout badges
matches is watchin' a movie. very relaxing. not that he is incredibly stressed to start with...but relaxation seems a good thing, no? where do we draw the line between productivity and complacency? he would rather not be one of those people who always feels the need to be rifling around from spot to spot, ever-busy and twisting their calendars for the last drips and drops of time. but he also envies those people to some degree.
what constitutes a meritorious use of one's time? when we have no definition, no prescription for who or what we should be, what do we do with ourselves? mattress feels justified when he is scribbling away, whatever being justified means. it is something; he is something. what is it to be productive? how do we even know what is valuable, or what we should spend our time producing? the true currency of life seems to be experiences...we are all equal in that we have an equal number of moments (if we're lucky). even if someone's may not seem as exciting or crisp as another's, they have probably had allthemore time to dive into the echoes and extract some other wavelength, something more than surface from them.
the only problem comes up when things feel too stale...cycles we are running again and again; time that we could be capitalizing on in some different capacity. in a sense, it is good to keep busy. but matches thinks he sees too many people confusing busyness and methodical occupation of one's time. what is it, to be busy for money? to stretch yourself too thin in a job that nets excess amounts of time? is money really a profound enough goal to justify spending so much time (out of a different sort of wallet that is largely ignored) in pursuit of it? so much daylight time, whilst the birds are singing their beautiful songs? raar~
so what are the rewards that we are reaping for our choices? this is a question that m has been asking himself, absorbing himself in, for some time. but what matches wants to say here and now, in this instant where he feels it, is that we should stop stockpiling. stop accumulating. stop fretting and fraying endlessly over all the concerns of who we should be, or what we should have, and just let time flow through us instead of the other way around. matches spends too much time worrying over his possessions, and his skills, and how he should chip away at his days to make them the most aesthetic in retrospect~ it only does a certain kind of good to look towards the future...if you keep your eyes trained on it, then you only catch now as a mere peripheral. something blurred, on the sides of your vision. the future will happen; it has a tendency to do that, no matter what transpires. but the only way to collect any coins of perspective to spend in it...is to pick them up along the way (which is happening; * ; whoops there it went). there is something new going on everywhere, at every time. it just takes a mind to push the button.
and breathing in, i am myself.
and breathing out, i am here.
and it is fine to keep collecting. just be wary of becoming a collector, unless you have found an anchor of value in the items...one that is meaningful to yourself~
smile ; )
what constitutes a meritorious use of one's time? when we have no definition, no prescription for who or what we should be, what do we do with ourselves? mattress feels justified when he is scribbling away, whatever being justified means. it is something; he is something. what is it to be productive? how do we even know what is valuable, or what we should spend our time producing? the true currency of life seems to be experiences...we are all equal in that we have an equal number of moments (if we're lucky). even if someone's may not seem as exciting or crisp as another's, they have probably had allthemore time to dive into the echoes and extract some other wavelength, something more than surface from them.
the only problem comes up when things feel too stale...cycles we are running again and again; time that we could be capitalizing on in some different capacity. in a sense, it is good to keep busy. but matches thinks he sees too many people confusing busyness and methodical occupation of one's time. what is it, to be busy for money? to stretch yourself too thin in a job that nets excess amounts of time? is money really a profound enough goal to justify spending so much time (out of a different sort of wallet that is largely ignored) in pursuit of it? so much daylight time, whilst the birds are singing their beautiful songs? raar~
so what are the rewards that we are reaping for our choices? this is a question that m has been asking himself, absorbing himself in, for some time. but what matches wants to say here and now, in this instant where he feels it, is that we should stop stockpiling. stop accumulating. stop fretting and fraying endlessly over all the concerns of who we should be, or what we should have, and just let time flow through us instead of the other way around. matches spends too much time worrying over his possessions, and his skills, and how he should chip away at his days to make them the most aesthetic in retrospect~ it only does a certain kind of good to look towards the future...if you keep your eyes trained on it, then you only catch now as a mere peripheral. something blurred, on the sides of your vision. the future will happen; it has a tendency to do that, no matter what transpires. but the only way to collect any coins of perspective to spend in it...is to pick them up along the way (which is happening; * ; whoops there it went). there is something new going on everywhere, at every time. it just takes a mind to push the button.
and breathing in, i am myself.
and breathing out, i am here.
and it is fine to keep collecting. just be wary of becoming a collector, unless you have found an anchor of value in the items...one that is meaningful to yourself~
smile ; )
September 16, 2007
let's go, broncos
it is so silly to let external things get the best of us~ we have cores so much deeper than any of the nuisances that constantly try to burn us up...we are redwoods, towering in the forest and impervious to fire. on the underside of the world, just below our feet, there is a mirrored image of each of us, standing tall beneath his or her actual self. m wishes that our reflections bounced back our strengths, not our weaknesses. perhaps that is merely a cultural trinket to be tossed away - the commodities of today forming the laughable rubbish of tomorrow.
so yes the broncos won their rival game today, and yes matches watched it with delight. and he feels good that his (?) team triumphed. but he also remembers other times, walking dejectedly out of sports bars because whatever team was psychologically embraced at the time got demolished by the competition. he remembers it ruining a good part of the day, this loss by a sports team that he is somehow loosely-associated with, or which he follows and knows a few statistical scraps about. and that's just ridiculous. m has barely any real grounds on which to remark that something like that would affect him, and yet it tends to. he feels pretty good that the broncos won. and it's great to feel good...but it also makes him think of how ridiculous it is to let something like that drag down a portion of your day, if perhaps things don't go quite as well. he probably would have suffered that same fate had shanahan not called that last-second, kicker-icing timeout.
and it iced like a smooth buttercream frosting on a carrot cake, just so you know~
but the point is certainly not football. the point is that we, as whatever it is you consider yourself to be on this world, in this whirling universe, are more dense than most suspect; it seems out of the question to let your happiness or wellbeing be scattered by any such emotional distress. we all have hidden caverns riddled with treasure and history, just waiting to be looted when there is a need. emotions are such fickle wisps most of the time...the football depression is a perfect example. there is such richness in our lives, so many under-appreciated aspects, so much that we constantly forget in order to economize our thinking. being a person is a process of dealing with external things...there is no getting around that. but to let them white-wash our minds of everything that fortifies and nourishes us, to give them reign enough to dismiss our notions of who we are, what we can enjoy, to let them steal your joy from you...this is a bit of madness that matches hopes we have only inherited recently, and that can be consciously isolated and controlled.
only a few rare emotions are worthy of that highest time-thieving and mind-shifting honor, that solemn depression or euphoric elation. you will know them and feel them like lightning, cleaving to the core, when they arrive in your moment. but it is mostly silliness to confuse mild winds with a full-blown storm, and carelessness to let your happiness be whisked away by such slight and trivial alterations.
"i will seek out a face, a composed, a monumental face, and will endow it with omniscience, and wear it under my dress like a talisman and then (i promise this) i will find some dingle in a wood where i can display my assortment of curious treasures."
~ viginia woolf, 'the waves'
so yes the broncos won their rival game today, and yes matches watched it with delight. and he feels good that his (?) team triumphed. but he also remembers other times, walking dejectedly out of sports bars because whatever team was psychologically embraced at the time got demolished by the competition. he remembers it ruining a good part of the day, this loss by a sports team that he is somehow loosely-associated with, or which he follows and knows a few statistical scraps about. and that's just ridiculous. m has barely any real grounds on which to remark that something like that would affect him, and yet it tends to. he feels pretty good that the broncos won. and it's great to feel good...but it also makes him think of how ridiculous it is to let something like that drag down a portion of your day, if perhaps things don't go quite as well. he probably would have suffered that same fate had shanahan not called that last-second, kicker-icing timeout.
and it iced like a smooth buttercream frosting on a carrot cake, just so you know~
but the point is certainly not football. the point is that we, as whatever it is you consider yourself to be on this world, in this whirling universe, are more dense than most suspect; it seems out of the question to let your happiness or wellbeing be scattered by any such emotional distress. we all have hidden caverns riddled with treasure and history, just waiting to be looted when there is a need. emotions are such fickle wisps most of the time...the football depression is a perfect example. there is such richness in our lives, so many under-appreciated aspects, so much that we constantly forget in order to economize our thinking. being a person is a process of dealing with external things...there is no getting around that. but to let them white-wash our minds of everything that fortifies and nourishes us, to give them reign enough to dismiss our notions of who we are, what we can enjoy, to let them steal your joy from you...this is a bit of madness that matches hopes we have only inherited recently, and that can be consciously isolated and controlled.
only a few rare emotions are worthy of that highest time-thieving and mind-shifting honor, that solemn depression or euphoric elation. you will know them and feel them like lightning, cleaving to the core, when they arrive in your moment. but it is mostly silliness to confuse mild winds with a full-blown storm, and carelessness to let your happiness be whisked away by such slight and trivial alterations.
"i will seek out a face, a composed, a monumental face, and will endow it with omniscience, and wear it under my dress like a talisman and then (i promise this) i will find some dingle in a wood where i can display my assortment of curious treasures."
~ viginia woolf, 'the waves'
September 11, 2007
water-torture
"but here, as she turned the page, suddenly her search for the picture of a rake or a mowing machine was interrupted. the gruff murmur, irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes which had kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (as she sat in the window), that the men were happily talking; this sound which had lasted now half an hour and had taken its place, soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then, 'how's that? how's that?' of the children playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, ' i am guarding you - i am your support', but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all as ephemeral as a rainbow - this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror."
~ virginia woolf, 'to the lighthouse'
ah, how easy it is to slip into white noise. it has probably been some time since many of us have enjoyed an undisturbed silence...the ticking of cities is ever present, dominating our rhythms and redefining sound to our continuously-cultured ears. as jesse once mentioned, two-hundred years ago the air was not abuzz with wavelengths and frequencies...even if for the most part inaudible, they still must knead and roll us curiously, somehow; bumping into our walls and columns and fanning out into complex fractal patterns. wing-beating butterfly, hovering hummingbird. so many 'silences' that we appraise are just moderately-bent pitches and variations on the theme - somehow there is always a noise, seeking out an ear. matches remembers many times sitting in the boulder shambhala center, focusing in on the present and trying to achieve some sort of harmony with it. that temple resides on a pearl-street crossroad, and it will be ever-permeated by the bleating of car horns and the growling of engines. in that relative sanctuary, strangely-situated as it is, these things become the most intrusive, obnoxious clatterings on the planet. perhaps that was part of the plan...to integrate transcendent observance into even the most bustling, business-like thicket possible.
a soothing tattoo to her thoughts, though. i suppose we are all winterized to crash through these dins (reflected upon constantly as mattress if often woken in the morning by hammerings [and not the windy-day, berry-tree kind] and the subterranean trollings of various construction equipments). could it be possible that we really have become completely comfortable with nestling into these noises? does silence have to mean loneliness? who among us has even really experienced a genuine silence...some eclipse of events whereby we happen to be in a remote wilderness at night, the kind where you can hear your heart beat just at the edge of your reasoning, and our minds have not elbowed their way into the moment with the ramblings of an inner monologue? matches wonders what it would feel like to disappear into that nothingness~ possibly he has come close, but not quite slipped under.
a worthwhile experiment: have you perchance ever let a thought exist within you, and not qualified it with any words? of course you have. but try now to realize it as it happens~ let that thought start to cocoon itself, and then release it into your consciousness without actually letting your brain scribble a recipe of words for it. feel the shape and the color of it; exist with that edged knowing of it, without the necessity for any labels...nouns, verbs, and adjectives are the enemy here. don't tell this secret to the enemy...keep it hooded by your senses. isn't that neat?
lastly...do you feel 'guarded' by sound? by this marked passage of time? does it lull you into rocking-crib serenity? sometimes, matches...sometimes. everything must exist in the dimension of time...this is a condition of life. possibly, probably, the appeal of sound (of song, of music...) is also present in the undeniable fact that it will be gone the next moment. if you want to know what something is, look to what it isn't. perhaps beauty must have an element of decay; or melody, of rhythm, of shaded undertones and minor chords. the treble clef may be more significant than almost anyone has previously guessed; it may hold stars and secrets.
"but time, is on your side
it's on your side, now
not pushing you down, and all around
it’s no cause for concern
come on, oh my star is fading
and I see, no chance of release
and I know, I’m dead on the surface
but I am screaming underneath."
~ coldplay - amsterdam
~ virginia woolf, 'to the lighthouse'
ah, how easy it is to slip into white noise. it has probably been some time since many of us have enjoyed an undisturbed silence...the ticking of cities is ever present, dominating our rhythms and redefining sound to our continuously-cultured ears. as jesse once mentioned, two-hundred years ago the air was not abuzz with wavelengths and frequencies...even if for the most part inaudible, they still must knead and roll us curiously, somehow; bumping into our walls and columns and fanning out into complex fractal patterns. wing-beating butterfly, hovering hummingbird. so many 'silences' that we appraise are just moderately-bent pitches and variations on the theme - somehow there is always a noise, seeking out an ear. matches remembers many times sitting in the boulder shambhala center, focusing in on the present and trying to achieve some sort of harmony with it. that temple resides on a pearl-street crossroad, and it will be ever-permeated by the bleating of car horns and the growling of engines. in that relative sanctuary, strangely-situated as it is, these things become the most intrusive, obnoxious clatterings on the planet. perhaps that was part of the plan...to integrate transcendent observance into even the most bustling, business-like thicket possible.
a soothing tattoo to her thoughts, though. i suppose we are all winterized to crash through these dins (reflected upon constantly as mattress if often woken in the morning by hammerings [and not the windy-day, berry-tree kind] and the subterranean trollings of various construction equipments). could it be possible that we really have become completely comfortable with nestling into these noises? does silence have to mean loneliness? who among us has even really experienced a genuine silence...some eclipse of events whereby we happen to be in a remote wilderness at night, the kind where you can hear your heart beat just at the edge of your reasoning, and our minds have not elbowed their way into the moment with the ramblings of an inner monologue? matches wonders what it would feel like to disappear into that nothingness~ possibly he has come close, but not quite slipped under.
a worthwhile experiment: have you perchance ever let a thought exist within you, and not qualified it with any words? of course you have. but try now to realize it as it happens~ let that thought start to cocoon itself, and then release it into your consciousness without actually letting your brain scribble a recipe of words for it. feel the shape and the color of it; exist with that edged knowing of it, without the necessity for any labels...nouns, verbs, and adjectives are the enemy here. don't tell this secret to the enemy...keep it hooded by your senses. isn't that neat?
lastly...do you feel 'guarded' by sound? by this marked passage of time? does it lull you into rocking-crib serenity? sometimes, matches...sometimes. everything must exist in the dimension of time...this is a condition of life. possibly, probably, the appeal of sound (of song, of music...) is also present in the undeniable fact that it will be gone the next moment. if you want to know what something is, look to what it isn't. perhaps beauty must have an element of decay; or melody, of rhythm, of shaded undertones and minor chords. the treble clef may be more significant than almost anyone has previously guessed; it may hold stars and secrets.
"but time, is on your side
it's on your side, now
not pushing you down, and all around
it’s no cause for concern
come on, oh my star is fading
and I see, no chance of release
and I know, I’m dead on the surface
but I am screaming underneath."
~ coldplay - amsterdam
September 10, 2007
we know of an ancient radiation
first off, some beach pictures. who says oregon is cold? the anthill-looking lump behind matches (in his huck-finn-rolled pants) is actually a colossal spire of rock far-off in the surf, and the kiddos are rooting around for shells, sparklies and shinies (of the larger persuasion in the sediment scale). matches does not actually know the couple in the last one, but certainly they were photogenic~
and after much searching, m finally found a piece or two of sea-glass.
every time matches sits where he is currently sitting, people somehow decide to swarm in on both sides of him and light up cigarettes and/or cigars. what does one do in this situation? m was here first. that will be item number twelve that he misses from colorado: government fume-control.
matches is currently being battered about in the gauntlet to try and control his own thoughts, and thereby his destiny. had a few discussions on the subject, and it was basically decided that as human beings, we have the ability to control what (and when) we think about. these loose thoughts define our consciousness, our moods, so it seems best to cord the reins in your own hands, to actively defend against the haunts and the wraiths that may steal your attention and motivation. we all do this economically on a day-to-day basis, but certainly there exists subject-matter that tends to dominate the playing field. this is the sort of chess game that matches is talking about.
so far it is proving to be a tricky tricky endeavor; there are rules of physics here that mattress is for the most part unfamiliar with. it seems to be a game of blinders, a strobing vision...toying with distraction as a means of passing the time. it works, it fails; life is a grand experiment in the liminal middle-grounds. occasionally, a volcanically-dynamic moment will come along...some epiphany, something that eclipses everything else. those are the easy times. certainly m's mind can carry him to lofty heights, but he lists upon those clouds and cannot maintain his balance for long. those are usually when he feels on top of his game...the best, most true incarnation of himself that is possible. surfing on a rocket. the turbulence is part of what makes it brilliant; pinwheeling chaos only making for prettier colors. this is why matches used to take philosophy classes shortly after dawn, when they will set a precedent for many following hours.
"An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day."
~ H.D. Thoreau
this game of escapism and ignoring is not easy on most days, though. one would think that after living for 24 years, the mind would be a little better understood. but matches bailed on his psychology major long ago, so he cannot map himself with terms and buzzwords. probably for the best, he thinks; self-discovery is a dish best-served single. sarah told antimatter that the latter should read select parts of 'the secret', which he is reluctant to do because the goldmine of his bookshelf has always maintained a measured skepticism for anything that oprah latches onto. but, it is always nice to have some tangible sentences, or even just words, to hang your own cloaks and ideas about yourself on. so maybe he will look into it, if for nothing more than to stretch his vocabulary, and thus his ability to express himself even to himself, into the depths of some psychological dimension.
can he control his mind when he is dreaming? not yet; those are the worst and best times. but at least that has helped him to understand something else more, if only by a shade.
dreams are a brilliantly-strange manifestation of identity anyway, so perhaps it is better to focus on the infinitely-more malleable conscious thoughts for now : ) it's always possible that the latter will follow suit, and then matches may be left with a flush~ a formidable hand for most any occasion.
and after much searching, m finally found a piece or two of sea-glass.
every time matches sits where he is currently sitting, people somehow decide to swarm in on both sides of him and light up cigarettes and/or cigars. what does one do in this situation? m was here first. that will be item number twelve that he misses from colorado: government fume-control.
matches is currently being battered about in the gauntlet to try and control his own thoughts, and thereby his destiny. had a few discussions on the subject, and it was basically decided that as human beings, we have the ability to control what (and when) we think about. these loose thoughts define our consciousness, our moods, so it seems best to cord the reins in your own hands, to actively defend against the haunts and the wraiths that may steal your attention and motivation. we all do this economically on a day-to-day basis, but certainly there exists subject-matter that tends to dominate the playing field. this is the sort of chess game that matches is talking about.
so far it is proving to be a tricky tricky endeavor; there are rules of physics here that mattress is for the most part unfamiliar with. it seems to be a game of blinders, a strobing vision...toying with distraction as a means of passing the time. it works, it fails; life is a grand experiment in the liminal middle-grounds. occasionally, a volcanically-dynamic moment will come along...some epiphany, something that eclipses everything else. those are the easy times. certainly m's mind can carry him to lofty heights, but he lists upon those clouds and cannot maintain his balance for long. those are usually when he feels on top of his game...the best, most true incarnation of himself that is possible. surfing on a rocket. the turbulence is part of what makes it brilliant; pinwheeling chaos only making for prettier colors. this is why matches used to take philosophy classes shortly after dawn, when they will set a precedent for many following hours.
"An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day."
~ H.D. Thoreau
this game of escapism and ignoring is not easy on most days, though. one would think that after living for 24 years, the mind would be a little better understood. but matches bailed on his psychology major long ago, so he cannot map himself with terms and buzzwords. probably for the best, he thinks; self-discovery is a dish best-served single. sarah told antimatter that the latter should read select parts of 'the secret', which he is reluctant to do because the goldmine of his bookshelf has always maintained a measured skepticism for anything that oprah latches onto. but, it is always nice to have some tangible sentences, or even just words, to hang your own cloaks and ideas about yourself on. so maybe he will look into it, if for nothing more than to stretch his vocabulary, and thus his ability to express himself even to himself, into the depths of some psychological dimension.
can he control his mind when he is dreaming? not yet; those are the worst and best times. but at least that has helped him to understand something else more, if only by a shade.
dreams are a brilliantly-strange manifestation of identity anyway, so perhaps it is better to focus on the infinitely-more malleable conscious thoughts for now : ) it's always possible that the latter will follow suit, and then matches may be left with a flush~ a formidable hand for most any occasion.
September 7, 2007
duck duck duck duck...goose
matches had a dream last night in which he got cursed by something or other (the voodoo sort, not the new-yorker dialect preference). a red-black tribal marker was imbued onto his chest, and a hulking indian fellow behind him (in the market checkout-line, for whatever reason) gasped and explained that it meant that matches must go on a quest, and that he would accompany him and defend against evils on the road. he said that the journey was difficult and that one had to really affirm one's faith in the goodness of life to be able to brave what was involved. at the time it seemed like a novel prospect, like that was something obtainable because it was simply so obvious how good life was~ life is brilliant.
if you didn't know, matches uses the tilde as a punctuation; so he has the authority to end a sentence with it and pass effortlessly into the next~ you would get to do that too, if you had pursued an english degree. if not you're out of luck.
the dream was significant because mattress lacks a visionary quest. it has come to light over the course of many jobs and places....there is no specific job or place that he feels tailored for; no mission mapped for himself. and perhaps nobody does, but people seem to have general impressions of what will make them happy. this is the closest he can come, this 'writing', because it is an endless documentation of the confusions and tangles that we wake up to morning after today, with the todays and the tomorrows and the yesterdays constantly changing numbers and looping back upon themselves.
where is the real drive, the purpose; how can one justify doing something instead of another thing? instead of a nothing? the point spins itself somehow out of the doing, and who knows how or why that happens. refer back, perhaps, to crinkle-crush. it just does. travel the continent; what does it matter? we reduce explanation down to these very basic terms...'to see', 'to feel'. to experience. and that seems to be what it all comes down to...we experience, we engage ourselves in whatever manner possible, and then we mark notches in what we do not like so that we can avoid it next time, make room for something new that we may enjoy. they define us, these experiences, but we are also something separate. and that has made all the difference.
when matches thrusts ponderance upon himself..."who is matches?" it seems like one of those complexities that are overlooked, because one cannot function if one tries to sink into the question. but it must be answered at some point, mustn't it? or do we exhale finally, still hoping to find out? matches asks the question, and all his senses blur. the reel of time catches a nail; it smears together in flickering flushed colors; certain rhythms emerge and maybe if you're lucky, a cluster of papery thoughts somewhere inside is compressed into a rock that things can anchor themselves upon to start spinning again. certainly it does not seem to hold any definite answers...but it somehow makes sense. it just does, no verification necessary; somehow we carry these totteringly-overfull emotional knapsacks around with us, and it all keeps itself untumbled, cohesive, packaged. who's that? that's just matches.
this has absolutely strayed from the dream. but the question, of what would be important enough to have such conviction in the goodness and importance of life, hinges enormously upon identity. m wishes for some quest, something of water-tight nobility and completely opaque with weight and purpose. some experience so dense that it completely encapsulates the person experiencing it. he wants to battle a pack of wolves with only a staff and his courage; he wants some object of unimaginable value that has lingered just over the horizon to finally come into view. maybe that was why the fellow in the dream was indian...maybe it was most simply explained by the traditional "spirit-quest", the climbing of mountains and the discovery of some power within a person.
mostly he wants fulfillment as an end-result of the occupation of his time. it seems like a fleeting thing; it seems like a scarce resource in the modern world. one wonders how one would invest it, were one to find it, and what it ultimately would mean. but one can also knock at these doors all day without ever going through a single one.
is it all just coming to light? is this part of it?
"is there anyone out there, because it's getting harder and harder to breathe."
if you didn't know, matches uses the tilde as a punctuation; so he has the authority to end a sentence with it and pass effortlessly into the next~ you would get to do that too, if you had pursued an english degree. if not you're out of luck.
the dream was significant because mattress lacks a visionary quest. it has come to light over the course of many jobs and places....there is no specific job or place that he feels tailored for; no mission mapped for himself. and perhaps nobody does, but people seem to have general impressions of what will make them happy. this is the closest he can come, this 'writing', because it is an endless documentation of the confusions and tangles that we wake up to morning after today, with the todays and the tomorrows and the yesterdays constantly changing numbers and looping back upon themselves.
where is the real drive, the purpose; how can one justify doing something instead of another thing? instead of a nothing? the point spins itself somehow out of the doing, and who knows how or why that happens. refer back, perhaps, to crinkle-crush. it just does. travel the continent; what does it matter? we reduce explanation down to these very basic terms...'to see', 'to feel'. to experience. and that seems to be what it all comes down to...we experience, we engage ourselves in whatever manner possible, and then we mark notches in what we do not like so that we can avoid it next time, make room for something new that we may enjoy. they define us, these experiences, but we are also something separate. and that has made all the difference.
when matches thrusts ponderance upon himself..."who is matches?" it seems like one of those complexities that are overlooked, because one cannot function if one tries to sink into the question. but it must be answered at some point, mustn't it? or do we exhale finally, still hoping to find out? matches asks the question, and all his senses blur. the reel of time catches a nail; it smears together in flickering flushed colors; certain rhythms emerge and maybe if you're lucky, a cluster of papery thoughts somewhere inside is compressed into a rock that things can anchor themselves upon to start spinning again. certainly it does not seem to hold any definite answers...but it somehow makes sense. it just does, no verification necessary; somehow we carry these totteringly-overfull emotional knapsacks around with us, and it all keeps itself untumbled, cohesive, packaged. who's that? that's just matches.
this has absolutely strayed from the dream. but the question, of what would be important enough to have such conviction in the goodness and importance of life, hinges enormously upon identity. m wishes for some quest, something of water-tight nobility and completely opaque with weight and purpose. some experience so dense that it completely encapsulates the person experiencing it. he wants to battle a pack of wolves with only a staff and his courage; he wants some object of unimaginable value that has lingered just over the horizon to finally come into view. maybe that was why the fellow in the dream was indian...maybe it was most simply explained by the traditional "spirit-quest", the climbing of mountains and the discovery of some power within a person.
mostly he wants fulfillment as an end-result of the occupation of his time. it seems like a fleeting thing; it seems like a scarce resource in the modern world. one wonders how one would invest it, were one to find it, and what it ultimately would mean. but one can also knock at these doors all day without ever going through a single one.
is it all just coming to light? is this part of it?
"is there anyone out there, because it's getting harder and harder to breathe."
September 5, 2007
forty-four aggressive seagulls and i and she makes we
ah, back from washington. matches had a wonderful time; bumbershoot in the company of friends was top-snaggle...been meaning to go to a concert for ages, only to have the emotion summit at a cohesive bundle of musicians all performing in a rare and beautiful sunshine-day in seattle. he really digs that city.
and this prompts a question of what it is about places, so very distinct from people, that draws individuals to them? to begin with, cities~ what kindred spirit can be found swimming through the streets, so much that a city stands out from another? certain places feel like home, even if they are nothing like home proper. they just mesh smoothly with the mind, like a puzzle box; no jagged edges that stand out to scrape harshly on.
" son, i been plenty places in my life and time
and regardless where home is, son, home is mine
we all got to have, a place where we come from
this place that we come from is called home
and even though we may love, this place on the map
said it ain't where you're from, it's where you're at."
~ mos def, "habitat"
ah, mos. if anyone can tell him mos' most shining moment, matches will dispatch a buck or two your way with all haste and conviction of good cause (hint: it's on a cd, not a dvd). portland is phenomenal; it is refreshing to see a city like this. seattle is something that matches cannot quite pin down just yet, but it is also a place with definite and pronounced appeal. what he wants to whittle this point down to, though, is the appeal beyond any family or friends, the attraction beyond personal ties. there exist, clearly, some places that feel 'right'. california did not feel so right...not bad, but not right. portland feels more right. neither of them is colorado, but that thicket is so densely populated with friendly-familiar and also savage animals that matches has a hard time saying whether it is his own weaved webs or the genuine raw appeal of the place that tether his mind to it so often. if a mind can be mapped in the world, then that is where ninety-percent of his is resting, in various peaks and valleys. his emotions, charted all over that terrain, would make an entirely new sort of topographical map with geologically-improbable spikes...from subterranean-cave to mist-curling mountaintop in the same square meter perhaps~
antimatter had a cosmic conversation with josh a few months ago (on the phone, suprisingly enough; considering m has never been a phone-person) about shapes. the world can be collapsed down into the reaches of our minds in a given moment...when you walk into a room, your perception-tendrils reach all around the walls and map out your current mood in this most-current atmosphere. not often do you think 'outside the box', when you are confined in one. not that this a bad thing, is just goes to make a point. the mind and the body are amorphous, but certainly they have individual preferences about how they like to be stretched and puttied about. did you know that your sense of smell is all a microcosm of the fit-the-shaped-block-into-the-sameshaped-hole preschool game? this is why things smell differently than others...receptors absorbing different shapes and activating different whatevers. obviously matches is not scholastically-versed in all the intricacies and buzzwords, but you get the point. reflexes as well, m contributed to the conversation. without a notable thought spinning its way through your consciousness, somehow when the toothpaste is knocked off of the shelf, your body naturally liquidates and is quicksilver-shaped by the current moment and what it requires of you, re-solidifying in the precise configuration necessary to retrieve the toothpaste from midair before it touches the ground. there is the frozen statue-state afterwards, posing in shock and amazement in this position, as if offering to toothpaste as a sacrifice to the gods. that is the shape that the moment required. this happens without thought, pure instinct, in an almost fiction-flash of a second. and matches thinks it is worth contemplating~
we are shaped by our world, and we also can bend it matrixspooningly to our ideas. mattress is thinking that perhaps this is why some places just project that good vibe...they reflect our thoughts back to us in appreciable configurations and rhythms; give us stable ground to stack up our cardhouses instead of rumbles to tumble and blunder them. perhaps this is why some people prefer a molasses-paced country village to a buzzing metropolis...it syncopates better with their natural timings; bounces thoughts and such back at them precisely when they are ready to catch them. perhaps this is why he can always be found at coffee shops...because they steel and protect him from that settled stagnation and quietness that the house usually steeps in. he, perhaps, needs some rocks thrown in his pond, some ripples to ride shore-ward before his thoughts are grounded by harsh realities.
matches is outro; this game being called on account of hunger. have been eyeing people's crepes for an hour now~
and this prompts a question of what it is about places, so very distinct from people, that draws individuals to them? to begin with, cities~ what kindred spirit can be found swimming through the streets, so much that a city stands out from another? certain places feel like home, even if they are nothing like home proper. they just mesh smoothly with the mind, like a puzzle box; no jagged edges that stand out to scrape harshly on.
" son, i been plenty places in my life and time
and regardless where home is, son, home is mine
we all got to have, a place where we come from
this place that we come from is called home
and even though we may love, this place on the map
said it ain't where you're from, it's where you're at."
~ mos def, "habitat"
ah, mos. if anyone can tell him mos' most shining moment, matches will dispatch a buck or two your way with all haste and conviction of good cause (hint: it's on a cd, not a dvd). portland is phenomenal; it is refreshing to see a city like this. seattle is something that matches cannot quite pin down just yet, but it is also a place with definite and pronounced appeal. what he wants to whittle this point down to, though, is the appeal beyond any family or friends, the attraction beyond personal ties. there exist, clearly, some places that feel 'right'. california did not feel so right...not bad, but not right. portland feels more right. neither of them is colorado, but that thicket is so densely populated with friendly-familiar and also savage animals that matches has a hard time saying whether it is his own weaved webs or the genuine raw appeal of the place that tether his mind to it so often. if a mind can be mapped in the world, then that is where ninety-percent of his is resting, in various peaks and valleys. his emotions, charted all over that terrain, would make an entirely new sort of topographical map with geologically-improbable spikes...from subterranean-cave to mist-curling mountaintop in the same square meter perhaps~
antimatter had a cosmic conversation with josh a few months ago (on the phone, suprisingly enough; considering m has never been a phone-person) about shapes. the world can be collapsed down into the reaches of our minds in a given moment...when you walk into a room, your perception-tendrils reach all around the walls and map out your current mood in this most-current atmosphere. not often do you think 'outside the box', when you are confined in one. not that this a bad thing, is just goes to make a point. the mind and the body are amorphous, but certainly they have individual preferences about how they like to be stretched and puttied about. did you know that your sense of smell is all a microcosm of the fit-the-shaped-block-into-the-sameshaped-hole preschool game? this is why things smell differently than others...receptors absorbing different shapes and activating different whatevers. obviously matches is not scholastically-versed in all the intricacies and buzzwords, but you get the point. reflexes as well, m contributed to the conversation. without a notable thought spinning its way through your consciousness, somehow when the toothpaste is knocked off of the shelf, your body naturally liquidates and is quicksilver-shaped by the current moment and what it requires of you, re-solidifying in the precise configuration necessary to retrieve the toothpaste from midair before it touches the ground. there is the frozen statue-state afterwards, posing in shock and amazement in this position, as if offering to toothpaste as a sacrifice to the gods. that is the shape that the moment required. this happens without thought, pure instinct, in an almost fiction-flash of a second. and matches thinks it is worth contemplating~
we are shaped by our world, and we also can bend it matrixspooningly to our ideas. mattress is thinking that perhaps this is why some places just project that good vibe...they reflect our thoughts back to us in appreciable configurations and rhythms; give us stable ground to stack up our cardhouses instead of rumbles to tumble and blunder them. perhaps this is why some people prefer a molasses-paced country village to a buzzing metropolis...it syncopates better with their natural timings; bounces thoughts and such back at them precisely when they are ready to catch them. perhaps this is why he can always be found at coffee shops...because they steel and protect him from that settled stagnation and quietness that the house usually steeps in. he, perhaps, needs some rocks thrown in his pond, some ripples to ride shore-ward before his thoughts are grounded by harsh realities.
matches is outro; this game being called on account of hunger. have been eyeing people's crepes for an hour now~
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