Saturday, October 17, 2015

How to get it

You (you in the general sense, that is) don't know what it means to miss a person anymore, after a long while and a half. You feel the feelingness of the missing, like it were gonna build up into it, but then you kind of forget how to get it. How to remember that thing that you miss.

That's weird, because... it's an empty shell of a memory that I miss now, but then where does the impetus come from? And why do I miss a feeling that I can't even remember? In the doorway of my minds eye?

Eyes don't have doors, in a practical sense. Get a grip, Ash.

Lost inside

You know, you can get lost inside of a song and forget your own identity for a while and become the actual vibrations and the math and the sunken structure. A phenomenon rolling through four dimensions that makes and disappears, makes and disappears as it rolls, like a platen over your atom strings. You know... how you can almost become a song.

Haven't you ever just wanted to be a song? Born at the beginning of it, living your life in the music of it, and dying when it ends? Think of all the different lives of each song. So many lives. Some happy, some sad, some tragic, some violent, some loving and some hateful, but all of them beautiful to somebody.

I've always kind've wanted that, to be a song. That abstract longing to be not an organized collection of atoms making a me-ness, but an organized expanse of vibrations making a sound-ness. Still me, you know? But a music instead of a body.

That's sorta the state of mind I was in about twenty minutes ago, as I was walking and immersed in the sound of music (the hills are alive and have eyes, and all that, you know). I guess I'd forgotten that I have a neck and a head, with orbs of seeing imbedded in it, for just for a second or two because abruptly and without warning, the thing in front of me slid downward, and a new thing fell into place from above (that was my neck pointing my head and my eyes upward, I later deduced... as in a minute or two ago), and suddenly I was walking toward an open expanse of stars instead of a planetary horizon.

That only took like, three quarters of a second to happen, so I wasn't actually back inside of myself yet. I was still just a vibrating feeling with some cognitive powers, and when that starfield hove into view, I thought it was a wormhole, or a warp portal, or a stargate, into my dream memories. For just a second there, that's what it was like...

Like, you know how you can never remember exactly how a dream begins? It's always just sort of a blur that becomes a dream at some indistinct point. That starfield was like the dream gateway that you can never actually remember. The portal into the dream place.

That's why I had to type this up, write it down, punch it in, get it out of my head and onto a substrate that's compatible with the common, awake-type of reality.

Concentrated dream-feeling. A singularity of dream-feeling in that doorway. I think there's an event-horizon there, that you cross over when you die. Oh...

That's what the dream-feeling is? The relativistic effects of warped dream-time, near the dreamularity?

I don't think you're supposed to be awake for that. And that's why it's driving me insane. I keep getting it when I'm awake. Is that it. Why is that.

Friday, October 16, 2015

How to describe it

How to describe what I feel?  I'll start with the simple things. It's just on the plus side of warm tonight - slash - this morning. My left knee hurts on the left side of it, near the back of the patella and slightly underneath, making me limp a little. On a drunken scale of 1 to 10, I'm at a 3.  I've been drinking constantly since I got off work. I feel gyp'd.

I feel like I've, on the whole, faked out the anxiety today. That means I've successfully distracted myself from it for most of the time that I've been conscious today. It's like hide - n - seek. Funny, I just thought of that. Not that there hasn't been anxiety... just not mine, primarily. I'm sorry. It's just today.

Cops have been being where I've been being a lot tonight. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, being tailed by the DPD as I wander aimlessly after work night after night after night, thousands of times. I think they used to hope that they'd catch me felonizing something. Now after so long, I think  they're just bored and checking out what the familiar ghosts are wandering, and doing to.

I wonder what kind of nick name they've given me. The Roving Red Handed Reader.  That's how I'd nick myself if I did. I wonder if the DPD has a nick-name for me. That's something, huh? How many people would realistically have cause to wonder something like that?

If my knees could cry, there would be dirty rivulets running down them. Like right this moment, I feel disappointed and deflated. It's not for any particular reason. It's just a feeling I almost had a few severals of clusters of seconds ago, that didn't pan out You know?

Now, now I am starting to feel terrible, just like I want to force open a rusty valve wheel, like in an old submarine, and scream out all of the years and years of wails and sorries in one loud and obnoxious and ugly HONK, to wake up the neighborhood at five ay em.

Brcause misery loves company. But I didn't, and instead, I'm doing this thing. My brain broke a couple of years ago, as if, things weren't, bad enough, already. It broke, right on the nudge of the crack between the oh wells and what ifs, right above the I'm sorrys, I'm losts, it hurts"s and forgive me's..

I feel my footsteps on the sidewalk like colors. Brown for the heel striking the cement, black for the toes after, and over again and over again, and over. And shades of gray rolling underneath. A rich tapestry of blackish & white-ish sorrow, and I'm on top of the narrow concrete wheel of it, walking it and making it spin, and giving it life. 

Damn. That just then, I think, was probably the most depressing thing I've ever spelt out.

I don't know what hurts more. Being sorry, or being too tired to make up for it. Is that a natural human condition? I don't want 'sorry and afraid and exhausted' to be the words that described my life, but you know...want in one hand, and take a big ole ugly, smelly dump in the other, and see which one gets filled up with the molecular by-products of complex life, and then wonder what the 'f a miracle is, or if the word is just a synonym for a practical joke. Oh, a big one, I mean. A big practical joke. Not just a normal one, like on April Fools. I mean a... a quantum one, or something.

Thursday, October 15, 2015


Greetings, fragnasticators from planet Schmelvelinia. I am EliAsh from planet Denton.

You are not EliAsh from planet Denton. Therefore, you are not from. However, you are not necessarily not to.

Therefore, henceforth you shall now also be to too, but not too to. Forthwith, while to is still you and you are still to, you are not to be TOO to too, while remaining to, and are too to, too... but not TOO to; vis-à-vis R2D2. Ergo, absurdum illegitimi non carborundum.

Hencewith, all collapsinating of local quantumnasticating waveforms shall be collapselapsicated and dictatorated anonymouslessly, and preferably with no observationalistics running amok all over the place.

Forthforth, going forth and so forth, all new non-observationalasticationals of the collapsicationation of any form of waveform shall forthhencely and posthastily be forth forwarded forward for six sixtieths of a sixpence to the Prince of Whence, hence the son of King Wenceslas, who backed his car on the feets of Stephen.