m had a dream last night that entailed a very specific part of san francisco. the funny thing is, this particular part of SF doesn't happen to exist.
there is this phenomenon every so often...when your (or to say the least, m's) mind maps some incongruous terrain during a dream (suppose we dub them - dreamscapes). it functions just like a lazily-drifting childhood memory...you know this place, somehow, this eerie place that seems so full and rich even though the walls are surely as hollow as your initial impressions of them. that, is an interesting point all its own; that a perception in a dream is not so much an orange-peel zesting scrape like impressions of real objects are...the visualizations in dreams are all that exists of that thing. if you are focusing on something, everything else must surely fade away until you whirl around to it once again. luckily our minds are equipped with processors supreme enough to filter all that data and make it cohesive in that precise moment, else the curtain would surely be lifted, the fog swept away.
back to the knowledge of the place. it's quite fascinating that mattress can find a dreamscape again; that dreams can be repeated ad infinitum depending upon the mind that is unspooling them. recurring dreams were dizzying in childhood; there was obviously some struggle, some lesson to be dealt before the visions would slowly fade away and be forgotten. a fistfight, an exam in school, an abysmally black deep-end of a pool with tentacled creatures of varying dispositions. now, though, it seems like there is less and less need for these self-taught lessons, these shock-therapy sessions. the insecurities lessen, or at least morph, on into later life. still, though, matches finds himself in these nietzschean recurrences when he slips from the world for a brick of hours. scenes replay themselves, but sometimes not necessarily in the initial patterns that they had laid out. on rare occasions, they manage to piece together trails and merge into one another. there is, it would seem, some sort of subconscious cartography being scrawled under the surface. and somehow, it manages to maintain an identity alltogether separate from the 'real' world. certainly, there are intersections in the realm of people or ideas or larger positioning schemes (SF, for example), but almost exclusively these snowglobular isolations hold their own barriers against outside infringement.
on this night, the barriers held but the contents shuffled themselves into new configurations. the map was the same; there were familiar locations and, oddly enough, an entire set of memories that were exclusive to the world of dreams. it is as if half of m's brain flickers off, and the agents of night light ringed-candlesticks in the more mysterious corridors of the estate. the cobwebbed library. the celestially-cryptic south wing. the moonlit garden with the overgrown shrubbery-sculptures (what gardener could be expected to regulate as meticulously through the passage of night). diprosopus (five bucks if you already knew that word) matches, turning new eyes towards ghostly figures.
but wait, there is evidence to support a theory. antimatter's mind catalogues these moments together; they are jarred adjacent to one another like so many curiosities and oddities in a stale back room. every once in awhile he trips into this place while he is still awake; daydreaming down the stairs with too much momentum, ka-thunk, whump, crumpled upon the floor in his own vertigo. he has related a few times (or tried, with little receptiveness and not a wisp of recognition) this curious mind-place, this papery honeycomb of rough charcoal dream impressions. imagine yourself a tiny, buzzing bee; you are trapped in a diamond-shaped hollow somewhere within your hive. each portion of the honeycomb is filled with its own sounds, smells, and pictures that are somehow alive and swirling around you. they are faint, until you move around a smidgen and start pushing on a wall. the wall intensifies the colors, the smells, the sounds; pushing it is pumping the volumes of all these things louder and louder. then you feel the wall giving; then the wall rips; then you are the same honeybee, tumbing facefirst into an entirely separate world that is just as cramped and just as quirky as the last. the two do not mix, there is no diffusion or pressure-balancing....you have achieved two different nooks in the honeycomb, and you can flutter freely between the two.
for some reason, m finds himself in this space with his dreams on rare occasion. when he recalls one vividly; when he can fasten his grip on even one small facet (this is while awake, requiring a brilliantly lucid focus and simultaneous haziness), he can try his hardest to remember, he can push and push against the boundary of what he recalls and, if he pushes hard enough, if he remembers the next step, the barrier of the dream shatters and he is propelled into an entirely separate experience...a different dream, completely removed and yet utterly on fire. he supposes that his otherworld experiences are all grouped together; all bound by some linearity or threaded with some string that he has not yet found a good hold on. but that shall not deter him from trying~
he would go into the dream in all its specifics, but what really would be the point by now? he has juiced the thought about all that he is willing to for the moment.
dream well, you select few.
January 29, 2008
January 27, 2008
breadcrumbs
notable: it came up in conversation over jazz the other day (yesterday) that chris thinks that the geometric representation of time is a spiral; a coil. he thinks this because of an acid trip long, long ago. matches also has this same idea of time...it cycles back upon itself, and yet so much has changed in other spaces and capacities - we cannot assume it, then, to be circular, for to be circular would be a return to a precise past reference. m had gleamed this idea from somewhere within a joni mitchell song, but he cannot recall which one at present. regardless, the point of interest is that (conceivably), chris had this idea because the drug opened up a door somewhere within his mind; light pouring out from a keyhole that he found an angle to gaze through (albeit somewhat forcibly; hypnotically). joni mitchell could have had this same experience, on the same substance, and imparted its profundity into two solitary lyrics. loosely. this is what music is....a vision. still, antimatter finds it of interest that those lines grabbed him by the horn (what horn?) when he heard them; he was in a state of mind to accept what they had to offer, and it made crystalline sense at the time. it still could be said to. but m has never touched acid, and the idea that a tracer or echo of it has influenced his perceptions of the metaphysical is, well, like he said. of note, dimensionally~
doves - snowden
(no reason or rhyme to it; but you should probably listen to this song if you are reading this page. consider it a recommendation.)
does the weight of life feel a slight more burdensome lately? it seems this way. not to say that much has changed in a worldly sort of way...moreso to mention that, the older one gets, the more pressing it seems to leave an impression, an impact, a solution and a helping hand. there is this giant world, and we can make what we will of it (while conforming a little so as to make our own way). but, what will you do with it? it does not seem enough to live life in the most basic of possible ways. matches notices this subtle (actually, not even so subtle) tendency towards setting up camp, resigning oneself to life as businesses would prefer to have us see it. but there are intangibles, non-mentioned small prints in the books that m reads (and what else could fiction be described as but a handbook for a way of life); these things are excluded from the standard contractual obligation to society. out of sight, out of mind, no? but life is there, and ready for sculpting, shaping, painting...can we just ignore that? isn't it worth a mention that nobody enjoys their occupations very much (or so seems the general consensus)? le sigh. comfort and complacency managed to wedge their way into the list of priorities, and they have been scrapping for a top spot on the list for some time now.
instead of making generalized comments and blanket statements about 'people', mattress will discuss himself with you. he feels conflicted in that there is pressure to land a decent job and trudge on in that manner until the swamp turns into rain and into clouds and finally into sunshine and grassy fields. first of all, that is quite a projection...an assumption, we might as well call it. if there is anyone who seems unsatisfied with their jobs/lives, it is the people that are found to be working in corporations for the last 20 years. you must take m's word on this one, and only one the basis of his one last job in san rafael~ even so. it calls into question the 'eyes on retirement' philosophy.
"one of these days i'll blow away..."
~ doves
but the conflict is the ease of that proposition. there are so many facets of life; one of the most difficult decisions is which to commit oneself to. let us flail at the air...m chooses reading/writing as his first burrow. it is blissful, it is worthwhile. it is also devastatingly difficult. he thinks that this is the most serious problem of all in the scheme of decisiveness...the career path is, for the most part, defined and pre-determined. please those above yourself. please those below yourself, if you're feeling particularly spirited on a given day. beyond a defined job, things become nebulous, terrifyingly personal. what will we do? how shall we go about it, without direct guidance? the career path becomes the easy path, it becomes the path of least resistance. we act upon the same laws as the universe; we are eerily funneled into these designated slots.
but our nature screams out against it! matches hears it. you hear it. he has done his fair share of beating it down, just to conform as much as he has thus far (more than he would have liked). but this is the rub...he distances himself from anything that forces his nature to submit. he mentally distances himself from his jobs, from his payroll, from all associated aspects of it somehow (apologies, co-workers). he knows he is bigger than his occupational functions, and that is apparently a hard thought to swallow. that, is the interesting part. his nature knows what he is doing, and it is constantly calling him out on it. it feels disingenuine~ it feels not like himself. can we admit that? is there something to do that will feel wholeheartedly like he belongs amongst its intricacies? oh, but those paths are not easy. they constantly bring the freshness, the newness, the self-shredding and rebuilding like so many knotted cords of muscle. they are, in short, a pain in the ass, a challenge, a steeper route up the mountain.
but would you rather take a craggy mountain path, bristling with nature, or an escalator which maintains the same grey scenery and droning hum for its duration?
we both know the answer, and it is a matter of perspective. acknowledge what your inner monologue tells you; it is the closest friend that you can have. be that friend to other people, if you can find the time to. and the key to finding time? not wasting it.
doves - snowden
(no reason or rhyme to it; but you should probably listen to this song if you are reading this page. consider it a recommendation.)
does the weight of life feel a slight more burdensome lately? it seems this way. not to say that much has changed in a worldly sort of way...moreso to mention that, the older one gets, the more pressing it seems to leave an impression, an impact, a solution and a helping hand. there is this giant world, and we can make what we will of it (while conforming a little so as to make our own way). but, what will you do with it? it does not seem enough to live life in the most basic of possible ways. matches notices this subtle (actually, not even so subtle) tendency towards setting up camp, resigning oneself to life as businesses would prefer to have us see it. but there are intangibles, non-mentioned small prints in the books that m reads (and what else could fiction be described as but a handbook for a way of life); these things are excluded from the standard contractual obligation to society. out of sight, out of mind, no? but life is there, and ready for sculpting, shaping, painting...can we just ignore that? isn't it worth a mention that nobody enjoys their occupations very much (or so seems the general consensus)? le sigh. comfort and complacency managed to wedge their way into the list of priorities, and they have been scrapping for a top spot on the list for some time now.
instead of making generalized comments and blanket statements about 'people', mattress will discuss himself with you. he feels conflicted in that there is pressure to land a decent job and trudge on in that manner until the swamp turns into rain and into clouds and finally into sunshine and grassy fields. first of all, that is quite a projection...an assumption, we might as well call it. if there is anyone who seems unsatisfied with their jobs/lives, it is the people that are found to be working in corporations for the last 20 years. you must take m's word on this one, and only one the basis of his one last job in san rafael~ even so. it calls into question the 'eyes on retirement' philosophy.
"one of these days i'll blow away..."
~ doves
but the conflict is the ease of that proposition. there are so many facets of life; one of the most difficult decisions is which to commit oneself to. let us flail at the air...m chooses reading/writing as his first burrow. it is blissful, it is worthwhile. it is also devastatingly difficult. he thinks that this is the most serious problem of all in the scheme of decisiveness...the career path is, for the most part, defined and pre-determined. please those above yourself. please those below yourself, if you're feeling particularly spirited on a given day. beyond a defined job, things become nebulous, terrifyingly personal. what will we do? how shall we go about it, without direct guidance? the career path becomes the easy path, it becomes the path of least resistance. we act upon the same laws as the universe; we are eerily funneled into these designated slots.
but our nature screams out against it! matches hears it. you hear it. he has done his fair share of beating it down, just to conform as much as he has thus far (more than he would have liked). but this is the rub...he distances himself from anything that forces his nature to submit. he mentally distances himself from his jobs, from his payroll, from all associated aspects of it somehow (apologies, co-workers). he knows he is bigger than his occupational functions, and that is apparently a hard thought to swallow. that, is the interesting part. his nature knows what he is doing, and it is constantly calling him out on it. it feels disingenuine~ it feels not like himself. can we admit that? is there something to do that will feel wholeheartedly like he belongs amongst its intricacies? oh, but those paths are not easy. they constantly bring the freshness, the newness, the self-shredding and rebuilding like so many knotted cords of muscle. they are, in short, a pain in the ass, a challenge, a steeper route up the mountain.
but would you rather take a craggy mountain path, bristling with nature, or an escalator which maintains the same grey scenery and droning hum for its duration?
we both know the answer, and it is a matter of perspective. acknowledge what your inner monologue tells you; it is the closest friend that you can have. be that friend to other people, if you can find the time to. and the key to finding time? not wasting it.
January 20, 2008
into the looking glass
seem to be somewhat off and on with writing here...so much chaos that can interfere with one's writing schedule. noticing, off and on, hither and thither, the difference between spending time alone and spending it with others. lately m has been functioning in a much more social capacity. even when this is the case, he should still be scrapping together some fragments of time to write in~ suprisingly, or perhaps less so, there is something poignantly, offensive, about entertaining guests and personalities. which isn't to say that it offends...rather that, one always remains slightly on edge, as viewed in opposition to the nature of solitude. instead of sinking deeply inside the mind, there has to be a degree of receptiveness at all times; a radio stuck on vocal frequencies and small niceties. matches still finds himself in many an atmosphere that should be conducive to mental deep-sea dives, but his lung capacity is truncated, pneumoniacally, because a certain percentage of his psyche must remain alert to the presence of society and some notions of its expectations in regards to himself. that sentence was a mouthful; he knows because he said it. have you ever seen one of those samurai movies where the main character, having been woken in the dark of night by some slight aggressive movement on the part of an enemy, springs to his feet with weapon already in hand? being social is somewhat like this, always some guard to be projected. have not yet learned to apply the skill of subconsciousness to this arena...every affront by another mind, another perception, is like being struck with a stone and rattling, ringing. static; distortion; misplacing of thoughts as they are dropped in mid-stride.
can you imagine exploring a cave, probing the depths, and then being yanked back to the consciousness of the surface by a scream from whomever had been lowering you down on the rope? these are separate worlds; crashing them means (at least, currently) that one must take precedence over the other in terms of priority. is this something that thinkers learn to confront and sublimate? or is matches doomed to require a certain tapering and distance from the company of people, especially ones he knows well?
"i feel sad, when you run, run, run, run, run..."
~ air
in other news, please do yourself the favor of going out and buying a stellar set of headphones or speakers. you can't believe how much you're missing; how surface instead of submerged. mattress will ponder the idea of transmission...what is should entail, how it may be improved upon, deign some sort of value system (well, deign was the word he wanted to make use of, but certainly if anything he believes that transmissions are of a higher nature and are condescending to his level~ listen to a harmonic note and honestly tell him you believe otherwise). shook.
can you imagine exploring a cave, probing the depths, and then being yanked back to the consciousness of the surface by a scream from whomever had been lowering you down on the rope? these are separate worlds; crashing them means (at least, currently) that one must take precedence over the other in terms of priority. is this something that thinkers learn to confront and sublimate? or is matches doomed to require a certain tapering and distance from the company of people, especially ones he knows well?
"i feel sad, when you run, run, run, run, run..."
~ air
in other news, please do yourself the favor of going out and buying a stellar set of headphones or speakers. you can't believe how much you're missing; how surface instead of submerged. mattress will ponder the idea of transmission...what is should entail, how it may be improved upon, deign some sort of value system (well, deign was the word he wanted to make use of, but certainly if anything he believes that transmissions are of a higher nature and are condescending to his level~ listen to a harmonic note and honestly tell him you believe otherwise). shook.
January 12, 2008
everything in its right place
or rather, the lack thereof. the whole desmond fiasco in 'lost', as well as matches' own misgivings about what he should be doing, seem to globulate into a strange curiosity about life. added to this question is something m has been reading on the nature of the human spirit, and whether or not it is purely a conspiracy between the imagination and with bodily sensations.
basically the premise seems to be that our emotions, which one could arguably say are the most spirited part of us, exist in conjunction with the body....that nervousness, etc. are basic physiological reactions of the body, and that all of our shadings (which contribute notably to what we feel and who we are) are dependent upon systematic processes within the body. alright, it was a sliver more optimistic than this....it said that the mind and the body work together, in a sound unity, to produce the essence of what we would call 'consciousness'. mattress thinks that this is probably a very basic belief at this stage of our evolution...everybody can agree that their body has some sort of effect upon their state of mind. but the disturbing thought in the book was more along the lines of stark determinism; that our emotions did not really belong to us (proper; dependent upon what you would like to determine 'us' as) but were rather domino effects in mid-fall.
the problem that anitmatter has with this is that emotions are responsible for most of what he considers to be the greatest human achievements. art, music (seeing a particularly spectacular live jazz ensemble last night, m is spun full of good thoughts regarding what it is about music that has such a powerful and sympathetic magnetism. but that shall wait), love; perhaps even the notions of feelings themselves. these things are indefatigable; they push and pull, regardless of our current state - they contort and stretch us into something larger, something nobler than our base instincts. but instinct is rooted in the body...it is mindless, stomping...pushes in a similar way or with parallel standards, but does not quench nearly as thoroughly, not nearly as intimately with what matches believes himself, to be. they confine, they shrink if anything. so, perhaps this is just an issue in which his idealistic worldview (or selfview, depending upon your...view) is clashing with some potential science, some possible truth.
whispered aside: could art be considered instinct?
perhaps.
basically, the point comes to a crux for matches when life expires, when the body decomposes and leaves a poignantly burning question mark behind. if spirit is woven into the body; if it relies upon it for some sort of reference to existence, then what becomes of the spirit after death? what of yourself can survive? this is how it throws the curve; it changes eternity into something spiritually-absent, some falling of a tree without anyone to hear it. m is not about to be shy regarding his spiritual views....this is not the way it works for him. he has more of, how you say, faith. but lofty thoughts run into this sandpaper-abrasive science, and everything is rasped, wraithed...because damn if the science doesn't make a difficult-to-admit degree of sense to the gearings of the mind. there seems to be truth there (m is cautious, and is on the verge of throwing out the word 'truth' alltogether for the rest of his days); it explains situations that have been and will probably come to be. he knows there is at least some truth there. the question is, how much? le sigh.
laptop is tragically absent of the animating force of battery spirit. apologies for halfway starting points and then abandoning them~
for now.
basically the premise seems to be that our emotions, which one could arguably say are the most spirited part of us, exist in conjunction with the body....that nervousness, etc. are basic physiological reactions of the body, and that all of our shadings (which contribute notably to what we feel and who we are) are dependent upon systematic processes within the body. alright, it was a sliver more optimistic than this....it said that the mind and the body work together, in a sound unity, to produce the essence of what we would call 'consciousness'. mattress thinks that this is probably a very basic belief at this stage of our evolution...everybody can agree that their body has some sort of effect upon their state of mind. but the disturbing thought in the book was more along the lines of stark determinism; that our emotions did not really belong to us (proper; dependent upon what you would like to determine 'us' as) but were rather domino effects in mid-fall.
the problem that anitmatter has with this is that emotions are responsible for most of what he considers to be the greatest human achievements. art, music (seeing a particularly spectacular live jazz ensemble last night, m is spun full of good thoughts regarding what it is about music that has such a powerful and sympathetic magnetism. but that shall wait), love; perhaps even the notions of feelings themselves. these things are indefatigable; they push and pull, regardless of our current state - they contort and stretch us into something larger, something nobler than our base instincts. but instinct is rooted in the body...it is mindless, stomping...pushes in a similar way or with parallel standards, but does not quench nearly as thoroughly, not nearly as intimately with what matches believes himself, to be. they confine, they shrink if anything. so, perhaps this is just an issue in which his idealistic worldview (or selfview, depending upon your...view) is clashing with some potential science, some possible truth.
whispered aside: could art be considered instinct?
perhaps.
basically, the point comes to a crux for matches when life expires, when the body decomposes and leaves a poignantly burning question mark behind. if spirit is woven into the body; if it relies upon it for some sort of reference to existence, then what becomes of the spirit after death? what of yourself can survive? this is how it throws the curve; it changes eternity into something spiritually-absent, some falling of a tree without anyone to hear it. m is not about to be shy regarding his spiritual views....this is not the way it works for him. he has more of, how you say, faith. but lofty thoughts run into this sandpaper-abrasive science, and everything is rasped, wraithed...because damn if the science doesn't make a difficult-to-admit degree of sense to the gearings of the mind. there seems to be truth there (m is cautious, and is on the verge of throwing out the word 'truth' alltogether for the rest of his days); it explains situations that have been and will probably come to be. he knows there is at least some truth there. the question is, how much? le sigh.
laptop is tragically absent of the animating force of battery spirit. apologies for halfway starting points and then abandoning them~
for now.
January 10, 2008
rabbit ears
ah, finally an opportunity to write (even if only a little). matches has been bouncing all over the place, what with colorado for the holidaze and moving as soon as he returned. there are a thousand thoughts smashing about in his head; who knows if there have already been too many collisions to salvage them. he wonders if these things, these singular moments in which a thought flickers inside of you for a moment, and the vanishes to who knows what corners of the universe...do these moments change you, if not perceptibly? he would like to think so. do you know those moments when you wake up after having a particularly vivid dream (the sort that completely distort space and time; when you have an entire day of dreaming in the real-time span of an hour or two), and you attempt to hold onto it? the daylight and routine gradually pry their ways, forcibly, into your mind. you end up with a fine dream powder, traces of feelings and sensations here and there, maybe an image fastened, button-like, in your memory. an intense and colorful experience, reduced to the rubble of its former grandeur. even so, do you think that it changes you, perhaps in ways that your cognition may not even be aware of? do you think that it trickles out into your day in some way? can you find that spring in the rock; can you force trepidation, ripping of the barriers? can you coax its delicacy into a cascading river, which will sweep the half-truths of the real world away with its passing?
can you tell matches, truthfully, that you have never hallucinated? set substances aside; displace them from your experience catalogue. close your eyes. wait.
*did you see that?*
*what?*
*that! there!*
oh, that. we usually don't think about that. what is it inside of our minds that needs to fabricate a story? what is that thing that must clothespin images onto our streaming thoughts? must they be swathed thusly, swashbucklingly, pinned and needled into our ideas? may we parry? or are our thoughts a constant tattoo, being laced into what we see? what else could be said? the mind is parched, ravenous, it buries itself into anything that you can throw it; fighting, almost trying to prove something. give it a subtlety, a suggestion, and it will devour, process, recognize, negotiate, pioneer; create a map of it all and entrench your senses anywhere that it finds loose dirt. you think that you have your mind bridled. matches' tends to toy with him; to run him in where's-waldo-esque loops and make him locate the tiny items in the picture that have changed since we last left our hero.
what is the point?
that thought flew off the handle. it will take some of that, in any process of sorting out...and there is currently plenty to sort~ the trick is to tune in, instead of out.
can you tell matches, truthfully, that you have never hallucinated? set substances aside; displace them from your experience catalogue. close your eyes. wait.
*did you see that?*
*what?*
*that! there!*
oh, that. we usually don't think about that. what is it inside of our minds that needs to fabricate a story? what is that thing that must clothespin images onto our streaming thoughts? must they be swathed thusly, swashbucklingly, pinned and needled into our ideas? may we parry? or are our thoughts a constant tattoo, being laced into what we see? what else could be said? the mind is parched, ravenous, it buries itself into anything that you can throw it; fighting, almost trying to prove something. give it a subtlety, a suggestion, and it will devour, process, recognize, negotiate, pioneer; create a map of it all and entrench your senses anywhere that it finds loose dirt. you think that you have your mind bridled. matches' tends to toy with him; to run him in where's-waldo-esque loops and make him locate the tiny items in the picture that have changed since we last left our hero.
what is the point?
that thought flew off the handle. it will take some of that, in any process of sorting out...and there is currently plenty to sort~ the trick is to tune in, instead of out.
January 5, 2008
mirror mirror
ah, just finished (for the most part) moving into the new place. and by new, matches means, across the hall. if you're asking why, it's because there are a few undeniable perks and the rent is slightly cheaper. tallies were made. labor was weighed into the equation. numbers came out in favor. alright, there were no numbers, but certainly there was a system of feelings or colors or something equivalent that emerged after all factors in a positive light. thus, mattress moves. and coincidentally enough, the mattress was the most difficult part. hithertoforeandsuch you are all warned to never purchase a 'california queen' bed. if you peel those words away, they mean 'big in such a way that you might as well buy a king-size, because it at least would be less awkward to move and perhaps you can find some sheets that fit it properly'. ah well.
this is an interesting experience, though. everything is the same (most things); m's mind can map where it is and know the intricacies that usually take time to absorb, and yet everything is reversed (for he is across the almighty divisive line of the hall). so, this apartment is familiar in theory, yet at the same time verymuch not. the little things that are natural expressions have changed, and when you wander around deep in thought or perhaps in absolute thoughtlessness, you end up in different locations. mattress just recently spun the volition to go into his room, and somewhere along the way got tangled in the strangeness of things and found himself in the hallway by the recycling bins. there was a lot of confusion involved; there still is. certainly there will be some brilliant observations over the next few weeks~ he supposes that the point of all this ranting is that the utility of the maps in his mind are vying for attention....in some ways they are still quite useful, but in other ways (which reveal themselves when they are guiding him in the manner which some things do; simultaneously eclipsed by other more pressing thoughts, but still a steady line of sight and premonition in the back of his mind) being rewritten because adjustments must be made, circuits rerouted, in order to function properly.
sleepy. and yet the night is only recently arrived, and must be adventured into accordingly.
this is an interesting experience, though. everything is the same (most things); m's mind can map where it is and know the intricacies that usually take time to absorb, and yet everything is reversed (for he is across the almighty divisive line of the hall). so, this apartment is familiar in theory, yet at the same time verymuch not. the little things that are natural expressions have changed, and when you wander around deep in thought or perhaps in absolute thoughtlessness, you end up in different locations. mattress just recently spun the volition to go into his room, and somewhere along the way got tangled in the strangeness of things and found himself in the hallway by the recycling bins. there was a lot of confusion involved; there still is. certainly there will be some brilliant observations over the next few weeks~ he supposes that the point of all this ranting is that the utility of the maps in his mind are vying for attention....in some ways they are still quite useful, but in other ways (which reveal themselves when they are guiding him in the manner which some things do; simultaneously eclipsed by other more pressing thoughts, but still a steady line of sight and premonition in the back of his mind) being rewritten because adjustments must be made, circuits rerouted, in order to function properly.
sleepy. and yet the night is only recently arrived, and must be adventured into accordingly.
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