Woke up today after not sleeping much and realized the great pain that it was to get up and go down to there. That place that isn’t so bad but is when you’re up and in the clouds. I again showered, slumped about, then dashed out feeling every part of my body in revolt. It was like this until through the daze of Antics did I manage to become close to the whole and exit my vehicle and into the weather of the day. I was soup in the sun and in the cold of the class rooms I solidified into a substance I can’t begin to talk about. Its uncomfortable and I wish I was in my bed. But I listened to my teacher tell me that I can’t use contractions. That I can’t because it ain’t proper and its not what a man in the this here damn world of academia would [should] use.
I didn’t think experiences like that actually happened. They obviously do. Maybe in the past I was so consumed in not existing that I don’t have much recollection of the subject.
So I decided then to write about a couple of things. Though I ran out of paper because I didn’t want to write on the back. Ascetically I like it; I suppose if I was desperate I would change my tune. And I wish I had some tunes right now and was basking in the warm sun. But alas the world is not always a bendable thing and sometimes I am forced to its rigidity.
I purposed myself in history. But history was rather a stream of consciousness examination which I decided would be the centerpiece for some great writers. Which I actually never decided. It’s just a mark of talent when it becomes fluid, precise, and simple. Joyce is a master and so is Sei Shonagon. Though they differ, both offer a fluid beauty; it is wonderful literature.
The fact that exists as follows. There is stream of consciousness that is a lazy but not in a bad way for form of writing. Its simply writing with no clear aim or goal. Where as if it is practiced and studied it becomes something more. Where a subtle sort of direction exists yet still maintains its form of play and style. It concerns with the direction existing right below a surface; faintly realized by the writer but still oblivious enough for the effect. Like standing on a bridge and it is solid but you feel yourself falling. Or looking up at the sky and not being on the ground anymore. A form of control. I wonder if any of that actually holds any bearing.
Then you can get into the writing that is a form of shaped something; far more a ‘thing’ than a simple existence. And from there it breaks down further and further.
With history taken care of and my pinky finger slowly numbing I succumbed deeper into the wish of falling slowly asleep on a bench in the warm sun. With sunglasses on to block the bright light and to take a form of gradual dis-existence. Dis-existence, the form of being but not because I don’t know it and am caught in something else. Sleep is the best form, though I wouldn’t know for sure; what is coma?
Maybe a better version of sleeping.
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What approaches in the coming days? Well a long ordeal of a climb in the mountains and a show on verges of criminal and the old. Where the wild things are is what comes to mind. Hopefully I don’t get kicked’ eh? And then perhaps I can jam in a place where the jams are good.
Read all of Babylon Revisited yesterday. Fitzgerald is so different from Hemingway; its weird and I mean it in the sense of energy behind things. F. Scott has a more academic feel. Hemingway is more charged and it feels like it’s a gut reaction and form. But I haven’t actually put enough together yet. I’m really tired. Maybe later.
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In the grass we met. I showed her a flower. It was yellow and had some dust from the walk. She smiled and put it in her hair. Then I grabbed her hand and we ran towards the mountains away from the house. In the light we ran and it grew dark. It grew light away and dark in front of us. In front of us was a great shadow. And we retreated towards the shadow. Retreated away from the day.
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we are bright. we are light. we are immortal in this time of day.
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