lemon and dirt

when thoughts stopped short

this is a test of the emergency thoughtcasting system

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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.