escritos 5

The game is every time I physically (yes, physically, because these writings were typed on an old typewriter) moved to the next line, I would jump to a new story. Sometimes in the middle of the story, sometimes in the middle of a sentence, a thought.

Half dog, half cat, but really a horse in disguise or was it more like / When I wake up the first thing I do is brush my teeth. I hate the / Everyone gathered to hear him speak. We all thought that he was the / Mornings and afternoons don't really exist, there is only the night. / If I were a carpenter my job would be easy, but I am not. I am a / types of bands. What the differences are I am really not too sure. / told me. Which way is out? I asked. This time he didn't answer me. / She danced like a drunken chicken, if you have ever seen a drunk chicken / been thinking, maybe we should take a break. I mean it has been awfully / his hands were warm and comfortable. My worries disappeared soon there / We were already late and I didn't want to be bothered with picking up / I felt tired and dehydrated. I lain down on the couch to think for / minutes flew by. Soon an hour had passed, then two. My concept of / were we? No one knew and no one wanted to ask. For to ask would be / We were granted entrance only to be met with bigger and larger barriers. / The lights were a little unnerving, but we danced anyway. The club / drinks were coming fast. There was this urgency in every movement that / but no one could get it right was it good to take it with or better if / and if that were true then we shouldn't continue. Really if you think / purposeful action, and action that has value for you and for the people / around you. A feeling of proof. That is what is asked of you, to prove yourself to the world, to you, especially to you.# Can you do this? I thought about the question put before me. I thought a long time, but there was no answer. There were no thoughts that accompanied it. It was if my mind were truly blank. There are always times when you think you mind has gone blank, but have you ever thought of absolutely nothing before? Is this really possible? Can there be absolutely no thought. A stream of consciousness without a thought, without an idea of what there is.There is nothing and nothing is the thought

escritos 4

I found more. All I am doing is trying to erase duplicates of files in order to pack up my life and get out of this tiny tiny town and I found that I had already digitized a good portion of them. Hmmmm. Now I really have to start sifting through the words.

If I were awake and could see all of these things with my eyes, I might have a very different opinion of it all, but in fact I am sleeping and cannot give you a conscious response. I give you a sleepy response, one which I hold in high respect. For I truly believe that the unconscious mind has a better understanding of reality than the conscious one. The conscious mind is too busy creating a dream world for the awake mind to be bothered with reality. The subconscious mind only deals with a dream world when you are sleeping, so it has the entire time while you are awake to focus, and really understand the reality that you live in. the unconscious mid is the observer during the day. So at night in your dreams it can give you it’s fucked up interpretation. So the conscious mind has to make up a dream world for you while you are awake, which is a pretty large chunk of time. So as to keep you entertained for the whole day. Where this conscious dreaming is taking place, but the whole time it is working to think of something to entertain you with, analyzing and preparing.

But she didn’t want to go to sleep, she wanted to stay up forever so as not to miss anything. In the morning when she woke, she realized that she hadn’t moved. She had fallen asleep on the couch. And then everything tumbled in. everything came rushing by but nothing was clear, or even clearer. In fact it was probably messier than when it had begun. But she couldn’t remember when that was anymore. It was all too hard, she felt weighted down. She wanted to move, to get out, to resituate herself, but she wasn’t sure how anymore. All of this had been done for her – all of this had been done before. And now it was going to be hard. Harder than she could have imagined, not that she would have ever imagined the things like this, like the way that they are now. None of it could have, would have ever occurred to her. So it seemed so much easier to her to take what had been given and stay where she was. Who was she to fuck up the natural order of things.
The morning paper read like an obituary, the morning paper was an obituary, with no one around to read it. Small photos of everyone were beside their carefully written explanations. Some had groomed themselves, while others preferred to not change the reality of the events. The events that couldn’t live in a reality, for they were too obscene, to contrived. A reality that was ceasing to exist. A reality that beginning to exist in hallucinations. Hallucinations that were communal, communion. Hallucinations that began to occur to preserve the existence of reality, preserving to become the reality.
Consciousness began to become a bit of a nuisance. A thing that could be done without. Well, was it a nuisance or a luxury. Is there really a difference? If something is considered a nuisance then it must be a luxury to have it in the first place. A nuisance is an excess, and excesses can only exist once limits have been surpassed. Limits dictate need and abundance. Abounding surpluses.

Breathe in. breathe out. And understanding a change of perspective. Perceive my perseverance. Breathe in. one deep. Breathe out. Through your mouth. New clean oxygen to the blood cells. Change. Take that out of the pickup. The line. The one liner. The punch line. The butt of the joke and feelings are hurt. Tears streamed down the face. A sniff. A small hand is pulled towards an eye, in a fist. Rub. Lips are licked. There is a salty taste. Sniff. A tissue is found. Sniff. Skinny. Gangly. Two sticks. An icicle. Drip. It melts and falls. Blood.

escritos two

There were never any questions when we hung out, just thoughts, just things that occurred to us. We said them. Sometimes we responded to what another said and sometimes not. Many times there were the long silences when we were all deep in thought. In out own special worlds that we created for ourselves. This is where we lived. Our physical cities were constantly changing, but our real place of residence always stayed the same. There was really no where else to go. The choices that we saw in front of us all resembled one another, and all there was a redundancy in there placement and a redundancy in the actions that we took there. We had done this so many times that it was almost a science for us. We moved and found places to live. We found friends and learned a language. We found lovers and fucked. It was as easy as that. We were filling a well that didn't have a bottom. The bottom had fallen out long ago. It fell during our childhood when all of our needs were met. We grew up without having to be satisfied and now none of us are. We are insatiable and will always be, because we live in our own worlds. The well cannot be filled. If it could be filled our world would be over. We seek, that is what we do. We wander and meander, but not so much in the common sense, not in the classical sense, yet classical we are.

escritos one

I am starting to digitize the writings I did in the midst of a low low depression when I lived in Barcelona the first time (2001-2002). I wrote most of these when I was sick with insomnia in the fall of 2001. Honestly I don't remember the order of the pages. I am currently just typing what I wrote page by page and correcting the typos that I see. Who knows where this will lead...

I heard voices again. They were muffled. I got up and went to bed. And there I was in the middle of it again. Surrounded by it. No way out really, just in. I looked for the door, and do you know what I found? A window. A damn window, so that I can see it, so it can tempt me. I didn't go to the window - way too easy. So I stayed there, in the middle. I was sitting on the floor, indian-style, in the middle. I looked at the window. I looked at the window.. I looked through the window, and do you know what I saw? A door. That's right! A goddamn door! Then I didn't know what the hell to do. I was still in the middle, of course, holding my ground. And they put a damn door just in my sight, through the window, of all places. So what was I supposed to do? Jump through the window to the door? From where I was, I couldn't even see if there was any ground! So, I stayed where I was, sitting, in the middle of it all. Even though I was in the middle of it all, I could see the window and the door ever so clearly through the window. I door knob was shiny brass. It looked brand new, but the door was very old. The door. The kept talking. I wasn't listening. I was only hearing, if even that. I was there. They kept arguing. They kept discussing. I should have been listening. I should have been there, but I wasn't. I was only in the middle of it all. I was staring at the door. I was mesmerized by the door. It was the door that held my attention. In my mind I was already there. I was already at the door. I was opening the door. My hand was grasping the shiny brass handle. I was opening the door. Or so I imagined. In my mind I was away from it all. The middle, I had left and I was outside. Through the window and at the door. I was so preoccupied. I was too distracted. My concentration kept slipping. The conversation kept changing and I was too slow to keep up. My reactions weren't quick enough. I wasn't, I didn't understand what was going on. My head drifted. I found myself floundering. I was trying to keep my head above the water. I was trying to hold my head in place. It floated. I was sinking. The air was thin up there and there wasn't any air to breathe underneath. I tried to find a rock, but they were all taken. The frogs were belching. The frogs were sitting on the rocks that I wanted. On the rocks that I needed. The frogs with their sounds. Those were the only sounds I could hear anymore. And the only things I could see were the rocks, the shiny glistening rocks where the frogs sat. Where they perched themselves to catch the best catch, to feed themselves. To feed their hunger. To eat their lunch. To keep from starving., from starving themselves to death. To keep from letting themselves go. To keep from letting it all slip away. To keep it afloat. To keep from drowning. To keep from dehydrating. To stay alive. To feel alive is what I thought. If I felt alive, then I was, I must be, for otherwise why would I have this feeling? And feeling must always be the way things are, for if they were any other way, then that would be false. That's the heart of the matter, really: the falsification of facts. Facts that are indisputable, undisputed, incontestable, unable to be denied. Facts are facts and that is that, or so you think. And thinking is what got me into this mess in the first place. Because thinking with contest the in contestable and thinking makes fiction into facts fiction., which might not be so bad if you thought about it, but then that brings you right back to where you were to begin with.