there’s no call for that kind of lettering… is there? or, contrariwise, do all the snarfles keep on keeping on just because the paint’s gone dry?
i’m sad somedays and other days the exstatical forms just leap over my head, with deep organic trips.
lately, it feels like all the words are draining away or maybe they’re walled up back there somewhere. plugged up with a corklike stopper.
fathermore, instead of cold calculation, it’s been replaced with a feverish mumbering (and a 1 and 4 and …) that doesn’t sauce in quite the same… or maybe the trick is happenstances which can catch the colder fetching place.
killing the babies, likeso. what’s the world to do with all the past and history that crowds us into the future so fast the present becomes an afterthought? likeso, who wants it anymore? when all that flowersmelling comes and goes, doesn’t that old bus keep trucking?
also, likeso, if all the dashed vital hordes of thought kept inside create the fantasized value-added, etc. whatsit. then what happens when all that currency falls out on the floor, devalued like, de-inflationized. or to put it another way: what’s the value in getting everything you’ve always been wanting to get at? does that desired thing (being pristine/pure in the mind’s head, lurking in some dream/imagined place, sparkling like all the (fool’s?) gold in all the hordes of pyrite movies) upon falling into the cold hard light outside the skull lose all its lustre? or is this a non-dilemma dilemma? one of those tricksy puzzle boxes that only bollix up the mind by some vacant voluntary stumbling?
contrariwise, there’s some small phenomenal axing which chops the heads of chickens or by which i’m meant to say the very thing that i never wanted saying.
Maybe the whats-we-want keep changing to whats-we-aren’t-almost-having; maybe this is only for those of us westerners who are still the way we are because we aren’t otherwise. What good is it to be perfectly content with everything as is? tostrivetoreachandnottoyield. is that the question? Or is that the prime directive?
Sounds like StarTrek but my brain wants me to think it’s that one guy with the poetry. Quoted in that movie that still sources me with the only bits of poetry that’ll stick to my crunkly skullsides.
So trying to steer back clear of those edges – i simply can’t imagine being me and not looking forward to something. We know, I know, I feel I know even if I can’t know, that no one ever hits a thing and says, “oh yep, there it is! I’ve gotten here, I’m done. I’ve won!” Emotions are there, inside the inside, and we paint them onto whatever external things there are to paint them on to as we experience them.
I was angered this morning, arriving at the office at 5am because the moving around was happening after I left yesterday and I just KNEW they wouldn’t have our offices (those of the ones of us in my company sorta subleasing the space temporarily-like) wired up to our network things. I arrived, 5am, I was right! No network connections to any of the jacks.
Anger! Mad! Steamy-ears! Except that .5 seconds after the steamy-ears I thought, “it’s nice, now, I have something to rant about to someone, something to complain about, some cross to strap to my subbrain.” We just have to have the emotions we have, and the world is big enough to accomodate.
My lucerations are sled-riding now into the painful center of a thingy. I accidentally bought kreme-filled krimpies at the market instead of kreme-filled koffee kakes.
Grag.
I try to stay immersed in impossibly complicated projects. Creative overstimulaion is my agar. Then I get too involved and have to pull up to avoid crashing. But if I pull up out of the jelly and into the ether, I go all trance-like and stupid. Flying my mind takes great skill, and I am hardly qualified.