lemon and dirt

when thoughts stopped short

this is a test of the emergency thoughtcasting system

please stand byscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuitbiscuit

cordyceps

I don't know where it is my head goes at these times, or when these times are, or why they are and why it goes

Should I like to find out, maybe, but sometimes I think this would be worse than all the not-knowing wandering

It takes a very long time to get to a place you are avoiding because you do not know where or why it is, and why you should be so much against it (the foible of every redirection charm is the residue it leaves behind, meat for the curious mind and its inevitable unraveling)

It is a very tiring way to travel, but then--have you already forgot again?--you do no really want to get where you are going.

This, which is not at all a pleasurable state, not a direction but the sort of desperate avoidance of a polarized magnet pushed forth between two insistently pinched fingers

Is equally uncomfortable when avoided, or forgotten, when remembered, or returned to, as it must always be (at least for awhile, and that little addendum too is part of the treacherous equation).

It is the condition and fierceness of the return (each return?) that creates a sort of animal condition--not other animal, just human animal

Guilt, a condensing potion and the jutting of jumbled up limbs adding a certain roughness to figure, locomotion, and mind

Wherein presences and non presences become more themselves (or their non selves) as each second continues to selve, continues to selve, continues to selve . . . .

And the collection of these bumps or declivities become so much as to irritate the eyes, ears, or nose, sensing organs which are not used to such insistent tactility

In an effort to expand while contracting, I now contemplate the skill of certain necessary deceptions

Deceptions? Obfuscations. Defense charms; sacrificial illusions.

A truth taken in is a certain sort of lie; or becomes one, when it reaches a certain critical depth. From this point on, the truth remains, but by some contamination of situation or emotion (I am not yet sure what the additive is here), the projection of this truth becomes a lie. This being the process by which certain falsities are allowed and not falsities at all---only processes mistaken for truth, and then deemed false when discovered to be otherwise.

Sometimes I think if I sit still enough and long enough I can figure this out

forgetting that this is not the thing you can or want to figure out

So I sit and think to no end.

Sometimes I get it right when I sleep, but when you sleep, variables are moved or removed until it becomes possible to solve and figure. It doesn't translate.

have you ever feel like there was something in you that wasn't you

Mian.

If I have learned anything from movies and books and things, it is that when you are sitting in the sunlight, you should think of the past, or the future, or let time in general in through your pores.

Also vitamin D is the good for you.

More than anything, I think I have been wanting to find someone that plays the way I play to play with. The older I get, the more unlikely I've begun to feel the actualization of this to be.

I have heard that comfort is overrated. But I don't know, I am very tired sometimes..

Sometimes I think about the colossi. Not what they are or what they become, but what they were for many years...a soft spot for a nesting bird, a shape, a stillness, the sort of love that is marked by a holding of breath for a just a small space of time, just a lingering

Whatever they are when they rise and after when they take their place in the story, they were also, during their lives, sleepy places of affection.

There are times when I think things; occasionally following, some variation of these thoughts will express themselves in the real world of their own accord. I find these moments to be so unlikely, so uncanny, that the following day (when I begin officially to regard them as memories), I consider these memories exaggerated, emphasized by their premeditated thoughts, and allow myself to apply no truth value to them, as I feel I cannot fairly or accurately apply a truth value to something I am already predisposed/desiring to believe in. This is a very important (and frequent) part of my thought process that I have been trying to properly express for awhile now, though it doesn't seem to have anything to do with what precedes and will follow.

I don't know. Sometimes, especially under warm sleepy suns, I pretend I am a swatch of green earth, and if I hold still enough, something soft and warm will come and take a nap by me, and dream dreams over me like a layer of pleasant atmosphere...

95% of the time, the answer is no.

5% of the time, due to external factors and imposing factors, the answer is I don't know.

I assume the more frequent answer during these times, regardless of truth values. Truth value does not change frequency.

For ten minutes two days ago, somewhere around the hours of ten or eleven o'clock, I was aware only of a wire (my brain) that whispered between my skull and my feet. I felt no other body parts. When I woke, it was without interruption; I wandered, also, without interruption. All of the eyes were off. I covered myself with a blanket and listened to sounds that seemed on the verge of interrupting, but did not. I felt as if the part of me that held memories had been dropped off; if I had known to describe it this way at the time, I would have cried, aware of the lacking object. But as I knew not what it was, and did not seek it, I went uninterrupted like this for approximately ten minutes, which, at the time, I kept wanting to call two hours. Everything around me felt like a part of my body, whether I gave it attention or not. I remember thinking of a sort of comfort, so comfortable, that it creates a sort of restless agitation of its own accord to prolong itself and stave off sleep, that biological killjoy. I did not recognize myself because I did not think any thoughts that pertained to myself, my external self and its businesses--I thought of time, but only in terms of abstract collections (hours, minutes), not days of the week, which could very quickly turn into a thought about obligations or schedules. I was not aware of wanting anything, except, later, a sweet potato. I was aware, dimly, that time existed, and that, like a frozen program, it would restart once I woke if I chose to return to sleep.

I record this because, in my various experiences with sleep and falling asleep, which I am trying to gain a better understanding and manipulation of, this is the first of such an occurance, and also markedly different from instances of lucid dreaming, continued dreaming, etc. that I have otherwise been working with. It was the longest I have been able to keep time, or (linear) existence, at bay. Physical exhaustion and silence (or at least absence of sounds that may serve as time or experiential markers) seemed to be important variables. I will not call this instance a perfect example, but it is the best I have of something I have edged around at home (where it is generally quieter) and during the summer, when I was able to fall asleep and wake up to music (and was also frequently exhausted).

I am very tired and 95% of my brain misses you 5% of the time. But I do not miss you--or anything--in these moments (these? I've only had one), or if I do, it is a missing without linear time: an abstract, almost vestigial emotion that depends neither on past encounters nor potential future encounters. It is an emotion felt in a void, more a fluctuation of anatomy or biology than an idea, and in this form, almost any emotion is pleasurable, provided it does not interrupt the process that renders it.

I hear if you yell loud enough you go deaf. But my hearing this is only testament to the fact that the world is determined to go no louder than its current incessant, insectish buzzing.

It's been a very long time since I've written; not quite as long since I've drawn anything of substance, but nearly. I have gotten better at returning to sleep multiple times, and what's more, I am more frequently able to not only remember my dreams, but continue the same dream after each interruption. I am getting better at catching the beginning thoughts of sleep--it is kind of like fishing. You can't do it too fast or too often or you stay awake, but every so often, you have to repeat the last thing you thought; sometimes it is just a normal thought, but sometimes you will catch a sleep-thought creeping in. "I have to get that letter to him." Who? Statements that concern the first blushing plots of dream. This, to me, makes more sense than lucid dreaming, which I always make a mess of.

The days are longer; my hair is longer. I have decided to start cutting it myself, but I believe I am making a mess of it. Wernicke has told me that the fright of onlookers isn't worth the penny saved, but I think he's just being nasty. I think he's always being nasty. But then, this has created a standardized, familiar form of his nastiness that I have become so accustomed to that it no longer strikes me as truly nasty; I merely continue to use the word out of habit, since when I first met him, I did indeed believe myself to be encountering a true instance of nastiness.

Time has become a stranger; I am not sure what part my sleeping habits have played in this. When I sleep, the same things are saming; and I wake, the sames are yet saming. Sometimes I think I am somewhere else, and sometimes I wish I were somewhere else, so that I have begun to discern between, at least in this area, a desire and a belief. I pause things less, and more often rewind them when I return instead. This is troublesome, because it encourages the idea that linear events (real life? but what a sorry sounding phrase that is these days) can be treated in a similar fashion, though there are some that decidedly cannot be.

I would like to believe this connected to a certain lack in moral fibre, though I do not believe I could establish this coherently yet--something pertaining to the absence of the past and resulting absence of the past's lessons, or sorts. If I hate or love, it is due to external factors, or else out of boredom; I am occasionally aware of wanting things I do not actually (regularly) want; a craving? But in the form of a combustive interaction. I have a hard time balancing anything, much less my desire for happiness and my desire for...otherness? More often they consume each other in turns and I am left thinking or wanting. These states are far from unbearable; it is the standardization of them that becomes somewhat, however.

Aside from this, there has been the matter of optical growth; not in quality, but quantity, as if the great god's eye of a fly had been shattered against the earth and all the little pieces, here behind a lump of deformed asphalt, there in the crack between the wall and the floor and the other wall, continue to relay live feedback to a trembling skull with an empty socket. There is a way to subvert them, only I have not found it yet. While silence is not the solution, it is perhaps a necessary condition which things regarding the solution must take in order to avoid the eyes which, of all watched things, watch most intently for insurrections. Further, when a piece of bug-eye sits over that of any other eye (human, animal, vegetable, lens), it becomes very difficult to discern the bug from what-was-there-before-the-bug.

sleep.

Kristof

His hand dropping counterclockwise behind her back

And just like that, the stretching, twisting

The sounds we have invented to mean skin pulling along the line of a pin

Bunching somewhere behind the eyes, between two steps, left right, here/there

Doors, windows, floors, dogs: all the anatomical alignments (or movements, or expressions, for when they are still we are blind) of this thing that, if only it could be transversed in one swift, sloping movement

A body meant to be crossed by an invitation already accepted

But the invitation not more empty than the space once possessed by two

No loss of meaning; just a few invented, sightless sounds to pull the skin along the line

Creatures of the above variety yet to be considered.

Blut

There is no echo, no brain here;no sight of brain

We talked like we were friends too tired to admit we hadn't been and too tired to remember why we shouldn't be. "It's like this, 'cept its not, ya see?" Logical traction slipping between all ten of my fingers. "Shut up, babe," she mumbled, her head against the window against the road

This is how it went: shit happens and you happened back. But now, when you are the happening and all that has happened keeps happening through you...how do you settle a dust cloud that rides your breath? Things without meaning tend to gather significance all the more fiercely. Sometimes I cannot turn potential to action because I feel, somewhere in the transformative formula, there must be something that allows the reconciling of the new idea, new action, with very absurd but persistent old ones.
Sometimes I don't know how to produce comfortable small talk because I don't know how to stop your screaming, which is normal, annoying, and terrifying at the same time. These ideas/actions have nothing to do with one another, and do not even share chronological proximity; but somehow, the jam up of one affects the other.

Because I have only the experience of reading of what happened to you to connect to what happened to you, it is difficult for me to actualize the fact of the event; in my mind, it is only as if you have gone to sleep until I can figure out what to do (as if something must be done) with the idea of you.

I have found the pictures you left for me. I have found the pictures I took from you. I have found your pictures found my pictures of you found you found me

now what?

pic pic pic pic

It's just as ugly as it sounds

I want to cover your memory with soft, sweet things

Dream thick, like we used to

Getting nowhere because our heads were so full of honey and

I miss you

and I'm terrified of you
I'm having trouble remembering what it is like to touch things besides eyeballs

Trust things that have mouths

See pornography and teapots as separate entities

small dark swells and spirals

Constell

screaming/ red/ freeway/ finances/ research/ gatekeeping/ underdevelopment/ dtm/ blood/ two quarters/ three years/ dtm/ two weeks/ passport/ down payment/ fuck/ sleep/ sorry/ sleep/ forgiveness/ blood/ genetics/ criteria/ leave/ senyaichiya/ abandon/ cold/ snot/ want/ sleep/ wake up/ sorry/ vacate/ read/ sleep/ leave/ headache/ strangers/ headache/ loyalty/ pizza/ sick/ spit/ speech/ sick/ waste/ sleep/ creep/ want/ sleep/ sound/ sick/ circuit/ fuck/ waste/ abandon/

Cosm

I would like to say something of the saying of things, but I can think of nothing to say that would stay a saying of the saying instead of shedding into merely another saying of things in a pool where each are determined to eat the other and perhaps live a little longer.

What does the creature who watches from an inconceivable dimension conceive of my conceptions? What strange thoughts might be thought together--and yet, it could communicate only strangely, perhaps through the buzz of off-hook telephones or the flicker-twitch of hazel eyes. I cannot but assume that its foreignness would be so utterly untranslatable that its attempts at communication would not only be extremely difficult to decipher, but also be marked by great disruptions in my world-- the origin of "miracles" and "curses" to be found in the tracing of its lips, and of those anomalies without moral value, the protruding shape of your tongue.

If even linguistic translation is possible, there is the problem of cultural context (and when I speak of cultures, I speak of dimensions), which renders your words (let us call them that for convenience) to symbols that I will make more my own than anything else through any attempt to discern (invent) meaning. A conversation with another dimensional being will be the most intimate of misunderstandings; more than anything, an exploration of desires.

There is a thought I have never been able to develop further regarding the movement of dandelion seeds and actions of characters like Tsukasa and Haseo.

What were you praying for brother? Your hands sweating; I wanted to cut them apart because blood is cool and veneration is honey and you'll die if you keep up that way and I'll want you to if you keep up that way. I want to move where your eyes can't see but you won't open them to play with me and if I wait any longer I'm afraid my hands will begin to press and sweat and sticky like honey...

Your crime was not so great. I wish you would bite the sand until your gums bleed and go home.

I should tell you that none of this is real, but it is not the right time for it. The right time is on a bullet train to nowhere, and then I will lean to you, and whisper as the train pants, This is a train to nowhere, and then, then you will know it to be true, because it is the only reason this not-train exists here (not-here), like a field (field: Alph.4), for these sorts of utterances (data:tr) to activate in a way we like to call "harmonious" here (not-here, it is code recognizing code). My hand pushes between your legs and I do not whisper This is not sex because you are no longer in a place where sex is definitionally possible or significant Ter.=7783Nul. You and the hand between your legs still exist in a plane where sex is both possible and significant and you have made forty-three passengers on a bullet train to somewhere (nowhere) very aware of this fact, though you are beginning to see only a definition regarding field alignment, which is both asexual and thereby possible of hypersexuality; but you are aware that you and they will only be aware of it for three hundred ninety-four more seconds at which point field activity will loop with exception given to anomalies, which are excluded and cached for administrative study.

In a library of code

A box containing

an extended hand

two legs

an erect penis

a code barring these elements from unauthorized organized reentry

In the box cached next to it

a reticulated patch of skin

a code organizing authorship

Historical Artifact of the World: these boxes were cached at the same time containing objects from the same field wipe. The mistake was not caching them so near to one another, but caching them separately, where one could act upon the other.

For The Road

Six quarter-crushed beetles

I took the last two, which were outside the peeled up edge of wall-wire, for artifacts

And the third, which was just inside, just barely inside, for my meal

"kiwiwola"

String Quartet in G Minor Op. 27

Edvard Grieg

I

II

III

IV

Vivis. Elios

Fear of infection (to others)

Desire to preemptively liquidate contact areas based on contact alone for fear of infection (of self)

Quickness of movement;inclination to keep moving, desire to stop moving acting in discordant tandem

Will to move resides in the blood; inability lies in the stiffening flesh

Inclination to reach only for what (seeming) solutions are within unaided reach

Desire to aid

Fear of infection and infecting within the aid environment

Degradation of hours; degradation of weeks (these mark two separate processes)

All processes pertaining to maintainence obscured, so that possibility of infection is not questioned (Does the flesh of the zombified form, or the pre-zombified form, scar as it should, heal as it should, at least in the initial phases of-)

Fear of sleep; of loss of accumulated data and misinterpretation of any recorded data unfit fit unfit

Inclination to close eyes

If ever a look back is made, one will say to the other (for the two forms are split so far now as to see one another), if speech is not beyond it then: the beginning cannot be seen because it is obscured by your desire for it to not begin. When you stare at something long and hard, you see all sorts of phantoms. You look for the symptoms and produce them; you believe yourself paranoid and shut your mind from critique entirely. It begins without name, and under threat of name, it excites; it moves in very strange ways as anything must to avoid the eye and the evernamegiving inclination of man.

All textbook cases of anything begin in nameless states of excitement and will; they would not take form as this or that so fast if the threat of name did not give chase and excite them into a fury of growth.

The word diseased is diseased of criteria.

The eye is lidless; once it sees, it cannot keep from the inclination to keep seeing. It must either continue, and focus, until the subject is disturbed and turns back on the sight, or swivel wildly about the socket in an effort to distract and divert the gaze and keep the subject undrawn. But there can be no nonreaction.

There are desperate poles of temperature. Heat to the point of sweat, followed by a dwindling to chill that is characterized by an unforgiving rigidity. As if the process of zombification were still battling over the body with that other process Eyes

Along the wall of the enclosure furthest from our own camp, there is a spot that has been bent out on either side, waist high, so as to make a narrow gap. Found nearby were some papers, impressed in the middle as if they had been used to pry the metal of the walls. The gap is barely large enough for perhaps our smallest scientist to enter, and this being the case, we are hesitant to believe that anything has left the enclosure, though all other signs seem to be indicate an escape. Until more proof can be attained regarding whether or not Quarantine has been evacuated, there will be no action or intervention on the part of the research team. Observation will continue as usual, though it may be there is nothing to observe. The included pages above are transcriptions of those that had been removed from around the gap, and should provide enough material for study in the meantime.

"What should I do, Jerr?"

"You should do what you want because I don't give a damn fuck."

"Shit, don't pull that shit now."

"I ain't pullin' nothin--it's you that's weighin' me down. This the last thing I do for ya, Ben, ya hear? Last thing."

"..."

"Now pull yer arm hard on three. Ready? One, two, umph! Dammit, I said three!"

"This the last I be seein' you, huh?"

"Thas what I said, ain't it? Now on three-"

"Don't you bother. Ain't nothin' left worth savin' under there. Just stay here 'bit longer if you mean on leavin' later."

"You shut your mouth and pull. I didn't get my ass nearly shot off to hear you bitch like this."

"Just a bit longer, Jerr. Let go o' the gears."

"Fuck-"

I don't know why the idea of one year seems so incomprehensible. Almost offensive.

I cannot tell if it's common sense or weakness that keeps me from either of these two things. Perhaps there is some overlap, but that still is no help when it comes to decision making.

I wonder if I will ever again do something in my life that makes me sick with anxious delight. But perhaps I am wrong to derive my aspirations from a pattern of two; that is hardly enough from which to derive a pattern.

At night, whatever holds me back evaporates. I feel I can and must advance these plans, before the day steals back my resolve.

I was walking last night, and thinking, which again, is a bad combination, and I could not think of anything that would be so terrible so long as it was done with just one other thing--comrade, compatriot, whatever. I feel a little strange, sometimes, when I sit a certain way or walk on certain things, because there is nothing to cover the context in which these things are done. There is no fear that seems to be able to manage two servings.

But this thought, also, I must consider a weakness.

Catalogue

• "This is an atmosphere....[where] [t]here is little call for timetabling, or for the precise scheduling of social events, for people are usually available or else willing to make themselves available for group activities at very short notice. Nor is there much need for the creation of formal channels for the circulation of information, since people use the channels that arise through constant, informal contact with each other." (Buzo 8)

• "'Hayi! Yes, indeed. Because it is thus you have passed us on our roads. Now that you have passed us on our roads... far be it from us to speak against it." (Heath, Zuni, 25)

• The subdivisions of the divine madness, as given by Socrates (Plato), are as follows: prophetic, ritual, poetic, and erotic (173)

It is a luxury to believe in one's own wretchedness, one's own madness, whether it exists or not (I cannot say, because in many cases the belief itself is the root, and no less legitimate for this fact). This is one I indulge in frequently, because it tempers my childish aversion to having to do many things now that I do not want to do. It releases me from the obligations of maintainance and allows a love of uniqueness that cannot be destroyed by competition because of its association with [popularly] undesirable icons and ideas--while this association, like a stench, tends to draw great criticism, it also keeps the luxury safe under the shadows of the undesirable, where it is unlikely to be contested or snatched up.

There is a naive bud inside--it is dark and sweet and its color can be sensed, but not known. It grows quickly and violently given any one of several right variables; in its mature form it is blindingly terrible (in the way a bear might be terrible). But it quickly slips back into its original form if the environment is not right.

Thump

thump

thump

I depend on

very much

In an attempt to remove myself from systems of looping, I find I have only internalized the process. I will not call it a bad one--it is that by which we remember. By trying to avoid it, then, am I trying to forget? I don't feel like I'm trying to forget anything--I just feel...disinterested. And things forget themselves on their own, really.

It is accepted, the wanting of xy.

It is acceptable, the wanting of x.

But y1, y3, y7

Even when we deconstruct, there are certain lines along which we do so; there are certain cuts of meat that are preferred.

If you ask for the eyes of an animal, rather than any other cut fit for eating, there will be some slowing of the hands filling the order; perhaps a butcher may even throw down his knife and wave the offending organs at you and yell, "Don't you know? There's nothing to eat here!"

The assumption being that the use is and must be, like its brother parts, for consumption (organic conversion).

It is acceptable to ask for the whole; it is also acceptable to ask for particular parts of the whole, which are considered vital in some sense. It may not be publically accepted to do the latter, and yet it is accepted all the same through popularity. But to ask for the seemingly functionless parts of a process, to ask for the eyes and the ears and the snout--there are two possible responses to such a request:

1) condemn the inquiry, for the request (input) does not match the normative function (output)--that is, conversion to energy, or consumption, in this case.

2) assume the input is intended to produce another output, and then, wonder as to what the fuck this might be.

The butcher must question the question if any headway is to be made.

What is wanted is known; but what is wanted through these seemingly unrelated scraps?

It is true, many roads may lead to one place.

But one must also consider the possibility of alternate places.

The comparison here is not one of houses to houses, but houses to holodecks.

But it must also be considered that this is another attempt to ostracize and befoul a beloved thing.

Why do we laugh and disparage those things we love the most?

Because we want to dissuade others from them; because we want the secret of its sweetness to be ours and ours, wholly, alone.

Some of our trash is just trash; the majority of it must be, to hide the most loved things we cache in them.

furu

Equally senseless, equally lovely
Environmental predispositions aside, there is is this potential of the flesh
and the flesh-brain behind it
And so to environ it
ans so to envision it
and the sight to the brain to the nerves--


we are very lovely veggies, synthesizing sight to lonely bones to flesh to mind to kilojoules of crushing fondness.


kkeushi.

This should by no means be mistaken for optimism, which is what it will certainly look like in hindsight. Rather, it is an imperfect translation of a pleasure that resists codification but desires communication.

ggeumae kkal

Looks like Summer.

I am excite.

I am glad.

I are sleep.

[ajja]