Snippets from my free writing practice: 17–04–2016
the FIRST questions to ask before falling asleep — did I workout today? Did I write?
EVERYTHING else is secondary. That’s the body-mind synthesis. The left right brain synergy.
once the creator is fulfilled the star and the mechanic can do their things without it feeling like some kind of a compromise. My creative flow is now open.
* * * *
every now and then, I pause to swing a wrecking ball through my self construct. Lego men go flying everywhere, bricks tumbling from the shattered ramparts of my ego castle.
I can’t believe Ragnar just fucking drowned her. Like THAT casually.
part of me was like: “gangsta!”
the other part went looking for the shadows that lurk around my own expression of the King archetype.
As I write, I can feel its all getting a bit digital in here. The mind WANTS to experience the world as zeroes and ones, maps and models and to IMAGINE that it all breaks down to measurables.
the body has shown me otherwise. Analogue isn’t really the word and organic now just means “not poisonous” but.. I have felt the squelchy goodness from which we are comprised.
its unmeasurably insanely alive, cthulian but perfectly geometric in its chaos.
dripping sap, wet lips, birth pain and orgasmic stickiness.
my left and right hemispheres rap battle with each other.
burst of colour and inspiration swirl forth only to be answered by quantum physicist level complex haiku symbology.
it like being a Siamese twin.
one is a scientist and philosopher on a life long search for answers.
the other is a drunken mystic poet who delights in thwarting the order so craved by his cerebral counterpart.
exasperation is the result.
* * * * *
let’s go captain. We’re gunning for a lazy 1500. Can you take us there?
Aye aye sir.
I have no grasp of military nomenclature and I’m ok with that.
Lets do away with hierarchy and call EVERYONE captain. That would be pretty fun. Confusing, but fun.
sure thing captain.
so many critical little NERDS out there. They’re like tiny crabs with analytic pincers that pinch and snip at things to alleviate the pain they feel from having shut down hearts.
don’t lose the narrative thread here.
There’s a story. Spiralling (always with the spiralling) upwards through the centre, like a corkscrewing spine or the world tree spindling upwards from the underworld, through the middle realm and up into the stars.
There’s a fabric from which this is all woven. That why the same ideas recur. The same MOTIFS (hi courts!) emanate from the underlying morphogenic field.
And maybe this IS a simulation.
A construct within a construct within a construct.
In some moments I can feel the cheapness of the animation — life gets a little pixelated and for a second you’re jogging on the spot.
* * * * *
the mayor cuts the ribbon
Spaceships whizz past and bunch of tentacle beasts from the 12th dimension do their best to “clap”.
now the surgeons can come in and dissect the body. They’ll choose the finest pieces to serve to the king and queen in order that the wisdom and power of the deceased can be recycled back into the population.
On the section of the form marked: “cause of death” they write: “ the inevitable unfolding of all events towards their conclusion”.