2001-11-11

Okay, enough of this blither. Here is the long-anticipated ramblings of a person feeling nothing, written Saturday, November 10, 2001:

ps - no drugs were consumed prior to writing this - this was written completely drug free. That is not to say that my consciousness was not altered.

I just don’t know what it is - but I feel utterly transient, as opaque as a breeze, fluttery and unwhole. I feel like my existence is in not existing. I can’t pinpoint the effect exactly. It’s something like a missing heart or perhaps it’s as though my fingers aren’t moving. But they are. Explain this one to me, will you? How can I exist without existing? How can I feel like I’m dreaming while being awake? It’s as though my mind were on a two track scale and I hear noises but they don’t really register. A nap might be nice - but I thought tea would suffice. I wish this made some sense but I feel like a circle with an empty center. What can I do to bring the mood elsewhere? If I were in Maine, I would sit by the ocean for hours and not move or do anything, just sit and listen to the salt-breeze hum in my ear. I would need sweaters. Probably three of them. And maybe a coat. I can’t imagine the wind being warm today. It’s blustery here even - the windows are a shaking racket and my eyes are floundering in despair. The music has hurtled my mind from space to place, but my nose doesn’t smell anything. Perhaps incense is the answer?

My honesty is a door people walk through to find my soul and they look at it and see something that helps them see themselves, meanwhile I end up burning the room round the fire because my heat gets too warm and my hands get too cold.

Oh, I am one of those few who exists in wind. I slam into buildings and past branches and I carry birds in my breeze-feathers. We lift and fly out towards the night sky and I want to kiss the mountains. I feel like a hollow bulb. I see a circular cabin, a small room with fire in center, around which people sit and gaze at the burning embers, poking it with their curiousity sticks. I am the fire. I am the fire. Burning and burning and burning until someone revives me with kindling and I hear the songs of strong wind-gusts and they come in one ear and out the other. So I have to ask myself, as I always ask myself - love, dear love, what are you doing today? What gift are you giving today? What creation will be sparked - what song will be named - what god will be prostrated before? I am sitting in the room of myself weeping for the passing of ages. Must I count myself among the lovers of life? My fingers: poised and present, my nose: itching and scratching, my eye: greasy as every fried egg, my soul: coming to a standstill.

Circle. Round and round in a circle. This is the clock of re-memories. Turn the clock around and see it from behind and it moves the same direction, only your viewing is different. It is clearly before you, but behind you is the day waiting for you to view it. I am somewhere left of tea-bags. I need to be kissed. I need to be held. I need love.

Outside a world of days or a day of worlds have passed and I still feel empty. This nothingness is pervading my entire being. I feel no excitement, no energy, no giddyness; I feel nothing. I feel no hatred, no desire, no love, no plan; I feel nothing. I feel no greed, no hunger, no song; just an empty circle, an empty pot, an emptied lake, an ocean of passions dried up and smoldering in the sky waiting for rain. Will my soul coagulate? Will it dam up and fill with the passing river, making home for new life, salamanders and fish? I need to have a vast netting cast into the lake of my memory to see if the fish pulled out are healthy or polluted. Is there run-off from the smoldering factory of television? No, perhaps it is more subtle than that - what if there is a ground-swell of poison trickling beneath the grass and tree roots - and what if this poison is coming from me, feeding me but poisoning me. Is the cycle complete and entirely unto its self? The tributaries of my desire are running smoothly into damned pond of my memory, but my memory has no memory of it. It just feels the water renewed and wholified. I want to hear a song that makes my heart dance. I would like to feel something. Again. As pure as a whirling dervish dancing in the alleyways of society. Come. Come inside and swirl, twirl, mingle gently in the circle of post-haste. I should fill my mind with pure distraction. I should watch movies to fill this void. I should eat eggs to fill this void. I should be held and kiss my lover to pass this void. The whole universe is behind my left shoulder, just outside of my peripheral vision, and the spirits are watching me grow fainter and fainter. The words here mimic the words in my head, but they mock my emotions, which are nothing, in that case they are something to nothing. My tea is staring blankly at me. Oh, I can hear the yell-oh’s and the peeches falling past the sun. Perhaps I am walking towards the moon on a silver strand of stardust known as cosmic rays. But then would I not walk into the sun? Would I not then be torched by a prominence? Would not the very fiery furnace of the surface scorch my toes and dissolve my legs? I think it would be worth it for one grande promenade down the sun’s vast boulevard, between spicules and flares. I can see God above me, God behind me. I can hear them whispering in small vibratory waves of present. My heart is silenced, my breath is besieged by meditation, and my mind as still as a pearl in oyster. This is the present. This is the now. This is the eternal flux of non-flux. Hmmmmmm. What road will be traveled and how far long must these legs carry me before I crawl home? God - is that really you behind me? I heard a cymbal crash in my ears earlier - or wait - was it a rustling of files and papers? What was it? Will you remind me again?

[ long pause riffed with zenned out spacious eyeballs ]

The drone of the computer has ceased and a half hour has passed. I heard the ringing moan of nothing in my ear - in response I said nothing - sang nothing - looked at nothing. I have sat in zero, meanwhile the world whirls by in a constant effort at keeping up with itself and its appearances. I will return to nothing and build home, refuge, or monastary.

I want nothing, but the problem is; nothing wants me. Shall we make love? I am not wholly present. I am too present to be present. Many would say she has gone mad and lost her wits. There are those that will say I have no life left in me - but life has been replaced by living. Shall I see a movie? No. Shall I spend money? No. Resist. Resist. Resist. Shall I eat for the first time today? I would like that very much. God - I need your assistance in Aisle Eight.

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