as if

If I don't turn it into a side quest in some dumb game, I won't do it at all. I guess if this is the only way, to write, then okay. I'll give in to exposure because, as if that matters, haha. It's a way to try and get back energy and passion. One avenue, one hopes. It gets too cryptic too quickly and veins outward in a million different directions, like a neuron. It's a flow over a rocky shallow creek. It's too rapid. It's all a tall head of foam, can't be teased apart, you'd move through it unmoved, holding no coherence. As if this were an essay, heh. Fidelity to the flow causes overturning of set courses. Before discourse can form, syntax resets, non-sequiturs pile up in heaps. Must believe there's some skum of magic that glistens over the broken furniture hastily shoved together. Some magic skum that makes it alright somehow. Closet full of weasel words tumbling to the floor. Tricks on self to try and sorta focus. 

One trick is to try to continue that scene that's so pale it's leaking null space, it's got a fatal glitch, it's clipping, there's no floor, the ground is parallax. Maybe some day you'll make a level that's viable and not an impossible escher sketch. Maybe some day you'll be real.

So, the scene. Let's just pretend it's good to keep it going, the new mantra. It will get me set. Set for life. The right set and setting for expenditure of energy on shoving together furniture and pretending it's a room. With no floor. So, the scene:

It's a hospital room. It's an iconic scene. I'm telling you that. That it's iconic. I'm not showing you that. Because there's no point in showing that particular thing. The telling is important in that case. The fact that a hospital room is an iconic scene for me. That's what's important in this glistening film of magic. Because it means things like birth and death. Recent times where I've been in a hospital, with my wife's brother in a little room on the apparatus, head blown off, barely alive. I'm peering close to the IV vessels, getting a lay of the newest mid-tech gear for middle class people in the state of washington. Seeing if I an discern some drug nomenclature. Well, that one's fentanyl, that's clear, it's even in an LCD screen these days!

So it's iconic because yeah, there's birth, with all that meaning, but these days, ever so much more so, I'm thinking about death, trying to ruminate, but behavior patterns get in the way, ones with a misguided allegiance to life, not life-loving in a good way, but in a chicken shit desperate to distract from anything negative look away, way. But when I try to look away, it all leads back to the big one, the meaning of death. And the things around it, like wanting to die high, and having it be a fantasy in lieu of using now, and wrapping the things around that into a fantasy, like getting in a severe car crash or getting critically ill, and being free of the expectation to walk around and do things and be responsible, and be drugged instead. It doesn't sound all that great when I put it in words, but I'm still in love with the fantasy. 

This kindling does have potential to be revved up to a roaring fire, and maybe that fire could even be used to forge real material, but it's hard to work up the energy for that. I'm trying to ween off caffeine for a while, been living on only 1 cup of tea to start the day. Considering, I think writing anything at all is impressive. I made a dooky! Shitbabies in post-natal pinocchio situations. I had the rebellious thought that I should break the caffeine fast tonight and drink a strong cup of tea or two and see if it would help me power through, and not leave the fruits of inspiration dying on the vine.

Because the sun comes in the morning and they die, so quick. The morning could come as early as an hour from now, while it's still dark. The sun comes out anyway, at 2am, and there's burn. And there's burnout. Magicskumshine dries, loses its supple texture, amalgam with a crust of gel. It's all splayed out on the rocks, sheet of flakes of denatured crystal. There's so much to show, and tell, but the flow is too rapid. I can't make use of it, it's a flow of fuel and I don't have the infrastructure to capture it, refine it, process it, use it. Petrochemical metaphors, I guess, that's what I've got. Then the day comes, for real, and the light is overcast, it mopes through the blinds, the sun behind a gray building somewhere. And it's enough light to spur me to eventually get up and do chores, to keep this obscure performance going for another cycle. Getting stirrings of intifada.

Maybe the wife and I, god what a weird phrase, let's be weird, whatever, maybe we should integrate each other's writing more, or, wait, that's an INSANELY bad idea! Like when I thought the solution to so many things, the brilliant idea, was for us to take DXM together, and it would be, for me, like getting married in a church or temple is for religious people, it would be like a SACRAMENT! Yes, fucking genius! Um, yeah, or, maybe... not so much? Given I write the stuff I write, and I really don't want to censor myself. But I still want to post, heehee. Teehee. A bad idea. But that's a judgement, what does bad even mean? In this endless plane on the leather-bound donahue transcript.

But about that scene, there's other elements in the fantasy, like, going back to that part in the sunblock selfie sutra, the IA, intelligent automation of Her hooking up with Alan Watts. I'm not gonna finish tonight without in some inept way advancing that "scene" I keep alluding to, like navigating a new office job on the first day while high as balls on dxm, to where it's not a "high" anymore, high and low are arbitrary prepositions, and there is little left of a self, like who am I, he was a guy, technically, who got scraped off the brain. And keep in mind, if you survive this walk in the void [in the sucking vacuum where telepathetic entities that are collectives of tech transhumanist edgecutters were marooned, picked up orbiting the collapse of a star on lsd-soaked sugarcubes], it'll hurt later when some of that self gets sucked back onto the cortex of the brain, like a severed limb dragged temporally, retrograde, onto the mockup of the nervous sytem, the microcosm, in the brain, being slowly cleared of chemical agent, it's a depletion curve, a half-life. The office job was in my mind. It was like an office job in a way, I can use that for that trip report I'm trying to put together. Faltering first steps.

But nah, I'm just too tired. Can't rouse myself to make tea. A lot will be lost. I don't trust myself to be able to pick up any threads. But maybe I'll surprise myself. Maybe there's method in this madness, maybe there's notes I wrote that will carry the seed of civilization through to another run at the chaotic world of 3 body, across the finish line that doesn't finish anything, beyond the state boundary, to build a god damn bridge, how hard is that, people? To get a god damn bridge, we need one, we need handrails of satire, we need trellises of pretense, we need to eat cake and have it too god damnit.

Guess I'll have to try and explain intifada later, I'm too tired, gotta lie down. Lol. As If. "As If", the title of one of Robert Ashberry's book of poems that I read. One of the few I read, I imagine the man had a vast output, PKD-like exegeses of thousands of pages, he was that kind of kook. Was more kooky that cranky, more entertaining than annoying, more psychedelic than religious.

As if, lol. As if it matters whether I write or not. It does to me, but, yeah. Lol.