Zombie Seaweed Sewing Kit

There is an energy in the head demanding kingdoms. Begin with that. Put a blot on a piece of paper and the mind will make something of it. The mind craves meaning. And sacks of blood. This is the embryo. Which is a dynamic of feathers and string. Who doesn’t like garlic? Conversation will often reveal the world. The essential thing is to develop a spine and walk. It is not the world but being in the world that pulls ourselves into ourselves. Write a sentence that feels like hypnopompic snow. A cow or donkey can be a sentence happening in a large red barn. Wheels, for instance, or an airplane passing overhead. Or the great slow water of life moving toward inexorable immersion in the ocean. Carve a pumpkin. Words like doing things. Beatles songs sung together at a picnic table. This could be you. For some people, this is a good adjective. But for others it’s just puzzling. It’s a good idea to keep some poetry around. There’s more to life than carbohydrates. Poetry is another dimension. Time may fold back on itself like a West African river. In other words, a dragon eating its own tail. This is where mathematics gets crunchy. It should be obvious to anyone that potato chips are coalitions of wine and informality. There are chemicals are involved in the perception of space. If you need a little quiet at the airport the bar isn’t too crowded. Get your laptop out. If you’re famous this might be more of a problem. You may have to use the rest room. In any case, remember: Bohemia is erratic and puzzling. If you want a good look at Bohemia, peer through this tangle of blackberry vines. Watch for the thorns, the unexpected traumas, the taste of shadows drooling into abstraction. If, at the outset of time and space, you said nothing at all, you would be correct. Thoughts weigh nothing. But be careful. Conjuration is a tricky game. It can lead to camels, zombies, and seaweed. Being is ineffable. Incalculable and incomprehensible. Thinking is the rhythm of being and its fires on the eve of great battles. The artist is not an army but seduces and captures pain with the precision of an insect, which will be used later to put these things within a specific context. The world is granite, the skin is soft, and Philippe Petit walks on a 26-foot-long cable 1,350 feet above the streets of lower Manhattan. I’m not going to say that life is hard. That’s too easy. Life is a heat. Energy and whistles, scabbards and magnetism. Meaning feeds the mind but not the gut. This is why angels are often equipped with sewing kits. My first instinct in all things is to buy a load of dirt at Home Depot. We need to be grounded. We need the sensation of keys. There are thousands of variables, asteroids and scents of incense. The narrative begins boiling. I know this feeling. It’s called Arizona. It attracts thieves and rebels. Spinoza saw God as nature itself. And why not? Glowing photophores on a squid are signals that we aren’t in Kansas anymore. We’re in Portugal. Drinking wine with Fernando Pessoa. Daydreaming doesn't lead to meat. But it will feed the walls of an inner realm. The darkness is alive radiant and lepidopterous it crawls around the eyes and gives them a big upgrade. Later, when we’ve gotten to know one another a little better, I will show you my favorite feeling, which is the weightlessness of nitrous oxide. Mania defines the moment. It gets all over everything. Why not put it in a novel?