Consciousness Is A Ghostly Occupation

Every journey happens afterwards, in the mind. Stay focused. Don’t stray too far from the path. Demands have fangs. Mirrors dance the air. I can hear a horde of words fight and howl in a paragraph. On the basis of this occurrence, it is possible to go beyond semantics and exhibit some chutzpah. I’ve never felt so close to earth as I do at this moment, orbiting earth on a Santa Cruz bicycle. I know it in my bones. The most perfect drink is a blue wind on a green day. One sip confirms this. Two sips condense it. Three sips cause a little discussion. Heidegger asks the question what is metaphysics. The answer is fish. Our neurons are stars. Our valleys are mud and chaos. I think that thoughtlessness is a thoughtful idea. To be a mollusk or a hornet is still to be a living entity, a word, a noun, a name, a squeak, a squawk, a squeeze, a squab. Nothingness is identical with Being. An unknown vigorous button is like a beatitude to me, a thing that only happens when the splash forgets the wave that brought it here. A dream of description is salt to my tongue. I look for the best way to get it done. I recommend a stroll. Bring some binoculars. Old men sing differently from young men. There’s a reason for that. But you’re not going to find it until your turn 80. At least. At last. Death on the back of a donkey, tattooed and sparkling.

The word for discretion got lost again. Nobody remembers what it looked like. What color was it? How big was it? Did it appear hard to pronounce? Crossing a new horizon is always makes a splash. Whispers in the nave are not uncommon. They’re quite noticeable. Friends stand around chewing the fat. The revolving display racks in the lobby creak. They serve a purpose. But no one remembers what it is. Somebody suggested peacocks. Someone else insisted that there can be embellishments to the Act of Love. Peacocks, for example. Peacocks can be supplemented with a variety of acolytes. Acolytes, like argyle, can be supplemented with speech. What did they come here for in the first place? What were they seeking? Did anyone look satisfied when they left? This is what life looks like to a burglar: one stolen moment after another. In a room of 100 people, there will be 99 conceptions of God and a shivering bivalve. I wonder, though, how many people feel something inside them that wants to be announced – defined, described, chatted up, promulgated – but there are no words for it. You want to mean something very precisely. As precisely as any language has ever permitted. Meaning that when meaning itself has been stripped bare due to semantic leaching, as say, the word ‘awesome,’ it is magnetized by the nearest iteration of it, which is to say the seminal event when a feeling acquired a sound, and a sound acquired a meaning. Something hot. Something soft. Something key. But something.

Acting parts is vital. I don’t know who I am. An internal investigation has been opened. I should have some results by the end of the month. Until then, let’s party. As I don’t have an identity, I’m free to do what I want. I don’t even know where to begin. Florida, maybe. Predicates come into play, and scenery and mashed potatoes. Life occurs in sizzling coefficients. Music can take you elsewhere. But you have to meet it half way. There’s a bookstore in Key West with a rug and a cockatoo. And shelves and shelves of books. This is why I like mahogany. It looks good almost anywhere. It’s clear the universe has other things on its mind than agates. What we’re dealing with here are words at the edge of reality. Adjectives like a skeleton broken into rain. I surround myself with beautiful blunders. Nobody gets hurt. But there is percussion. Ginger Baker in Nigeria in 1971. This is the logic of skin. Clods of dirt. Horticultural syntax. You know the feeling. The feeling that comes at night. And smashes a piece of wedding cake in your face. That’s it. That’s what I need. A violin concerto in D minor played by a refrigerator. The truth that we put into words does not extend to Las Vegas. Grammar is always so sad. It helps to frame it as laudanum. Consciousness is a ghostly occupation. Nobody really likes Platonic forms. They’re useless in a kitchen. Just give the word and I’ll paint some cherubs on the ceiling. I can see it in your eyes. The entire shit show. And whatever else we might find in the drawer.