Meaningful Meaning, Fool

I have yet to organize my thoughts and feelings for the last few weeks. That process will all be in my next post which'll be up in only a couple of days time (the one advance I can give is that I bunkered down, self-obsessed and munched on many many sci-fi books, realizing of myself the paradox of just how terrified I've been of creating a future Me whilst salivating over speculative concepts like transdimensional data-transfer, Dyson Spheres and post-singularity ethical dilemmas.) Instead of expounding on anxious and self-negating logosighs, I'll transcribe some notes I took when I adminstered myself a sizable dose of Ketamin a few years ago:

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Ok. so perhaps I entered into this but a little naive. all I know-know now is pear shaped, as it were. the weekend that of the Friday 24th. Bex spoke of 2 dimensions opening up into a field of relativity. I rolled the lotto ticket, propelled K -------> and ever so suddenly didn't move anywhere. at all. locked in the bathroom glad I wore the shirt I did, it set the sepia tone. Mother came home from eating pies, I'd forgot, mayve peed a flourescent lasso in the direction of here. so, K experiment:
choose your washroom/locus of security well. it is only a folded surface. my exits were blocked and that was the excuse I gave to stay in here.
generally I see myself in a mirror perhaps once or twice a week, but there've been few mirrors I can't approach. like my mum. so approach her I wont. it's fine if she comes to me. though high, it all makes frothy, delerious sense. ninjas, who are existentially anchored by mind and body, they could link in.
though already 2 beers in, the rest is washed away by baking soda. I must now practice the slow.
call me the impulse. words untethered smash through syntax and all reign is ceded to the executioner. physical precision becomes an ever depreciating counter-balance and plays at the sniffled whim of the idealists. many actions have become available for use. LORD? ----> the design of word crawling lines creating aural shadows in the reader's ______. what is delivered is the how. all 'over-sensory' appetite retreats, and in the mirror I see a dwarf. lamenting our cobwebbed differences but heralding them exposed. perhaps I am open to suggestion. got any good ones? can the constant edit the editor? editee. edited.

draw the life... finely tuned strings snap most easily

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ok. so I've seen this look in others before. listening to B12 amazed that someone can podulize/release and compel (am I stuck. I'm tired of always returning to myself. perhaps I've blanked and let my environment converge on me and through me. why all things fell like cheese and I'm slipping. people want this written this way. I would. if I could only create music like this. invite it in, is it you or are you it? all today I knew this was happening. tiny doors. ask more what time do you have? not what is the time? what biological putrescence will I spew? how did we fool ourselves this way? people in a mode. i've seen this look in their eyes...

transmission appears to end. this is likely the point at which my mother asked why I'd been in the bathroom for so long and if I needed a suppository or not. I mayve said no and remember subsequently astounding myself by doing a handstand in front of the toilet for the entire second half of the B12 album. the only sensation I truly remember is feeling like I'd shrunk into a little gnome given to doing a vast amount of gymnastic feats.

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Whilst living on the island, back in the fall of 2004, I'd sometimes lever myself from where I slept (sister's floor, a couch, my rented boat) and try to assemble (resemble) my life down at the local cafe. On the back of brown paper to-go bags, I'd jot down brief descriptions, an exercise in dressed up honesty, trying to evoke laughter in me somewhere, or of chasing that rare consolidation of world-view where all notions and concepts come together to inform each other and impregnate your perspective with fresh modes of evaluating your life... So I found a few while digging through a box of old notebooks. Here's the transcribable of them (most are simply illegible, and others just plain embarassing)

• 3 dog turds looked like coffee beans having a potato sack race. The dark roast was winning.
• Passageways made from eyes' sidelong glances. Invisible threads of sense escorting fresh stimuli. Meaning beads up, breaking tension and falling into place through association... but what of the heart? Stand up all and be counted. Emotions and their garlands of behaviour. The Joker is left least funny of all.
• Crow - a lilting read, topo and graphic. Raw and refined. A contradiction of a first novel: indulgent, but for the reader. (This was the loosest and foremost characterisation of a long story I'd wanted to write, prenatally and immodestly called The Murk and Sky. It was going to be a classic 'underachievers making good again' story, but this time with a floating pirate radio station as the 'magic carpet'. The station was either to be called FMRL or DSMN8. It would've taken place around the Gulf Islands.)
• Death by bacon.
• If I could use my mouse icon to pick my teeth, then technology'll've truly helped me smile.
• Chestnuts dropped the sound of cracked knuckles.
• Her teeth were like chiclets. Chiclets chewed with a mouthful of corn.
• Her chin was an inordinate distance from her hands, which were nervous and clutched at each other for company.
• eyes adjusting to the dark... the moon's influence and the strain to generate colour.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!