Consciousness Is Our Ocean

We prove nothing if we remain unknown, whether below or above nothing, which is soul. We have calories that our planet feeds us, or so my instinct tells me, my era, our peacocks, our frolicking in the snow, that’s it, our leverage, our redemption, our burning art, our colossal mimosas and ice age foundries, our brutal subtleties and Apache rattles, but above all our art, our brave and burning art, our capacity for caprice, our tightrope walking and crazy extravagance, our bizarre intensity and textbook dirt. A lot can hinge on a sack of good fertilizer and an acre or two of idiosyncrasy. We can say things here that might be considered extravagant in another context, but here simply means that the varnish is authentic that sings the light into being, the sheen of which can dispel the weariness caused by swaggering expectations. Therefore, I've decided to embellish the courtroom with a character on the wall of Plato's cave acting as judge. Whatever you do, don’t look at the jury. It’s up to you to decide. Is life a frontier, or an incalculable honor? A brush is the one thing that the squeamish might call a gondola, were it not for the stirrups I employ to ride a cowlick, and the clatter of investigations hooked to my belt.

If you’re thinking feathers, I'm already there. The twilight is my testament and the rebus is my paradigm. This is my photo taken in light rain. And this my photo taken in rough garments. I was a push-up then, a peeled banana raining subtleties of free will. Call it a thin Apollinaire and the rattle it takes for there to be a roar at the beginning of a movie. This is precisely what I mean by swarm. It's an eye underneath a lid of skin, swarming with yellow nails. Someone knocking on a door of muscle, and a range of hills covered in birch. Whatever is above it, it offers it, not as a battle, but a slope. This is not what it was intended to be but what it became in the process of jumping forward into the past, and suggested that I walk away from there, which is what I did, and ended up here, wherever here is. I looked around. I planted a flag. I said a prayer. I grew vegetables. And this is the way my shoulders grew wings, and found some other place to get lost.

With what I did to the window I have illustrated what a touch can do to glass. I reached for the moon and got a fondue. After all it's your party and what if your head fell off would you miss it? You might want to get ahead of it. Depth is a slap to the well-tailored, and if I've got a place to go, I get on my bike and drink the sweet morning air. For I am the we among us. The seminal demand. The sweet response. A chorus on stilts enlivening the calliope. It’s us against the one who is next to you, sipping gin. We're over there, behind that range of skillets, banging our spatulas on a juggernaut. This is what I thought it meant to walk with someone into the beyond. You find a common problem and blow air into it hoping for Switzerland to rise and float above the unintended consequences this will release. Wind comes along, and there it goes with it roots dangling down and canopy of floating alpinists, headed into a palace of pumpernickel. I had a feeling this might happen. We are, after all, what I said was over there, steam hissing out of its perforations, because it's massive and full of heat, and until we find my hat and compass, I must assume is the coastline of Ibiza. So welcome. Welcome to Ibiza. Or Reykjavik. I don’t know. I’m handing the wheel over to you now. Consciousness is our ocean, and that’s the north star.

If it is written, so be it. But if it’s not written, here come the pixels. I’m moving along now on a sort of paragraph, a place of lush surroundings with little resemblance to Monday. Or anything made of letters. We are, of course, emboldened, fragmentary, ultraviolet, since we move as a pair of figure skaters, spinning in a frenzy. And this is what letters do, when they spin their syllables into rodeos. I know what it means to put trust in a stepladder. As it happens, my personal resources are unlikely to be enough. I need a wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater and a warm, contrasting sweater. Maybe some alternatives. Vitamins. Enzymes. Trysts. There's always at least one flirt in the room who causes a sound to be there, a guffaw or a banjo. The bulbs draw attention to the back, where a grassy, ​​cracked redness is visible. That's it, our excuse for being here. It makes a sound like little bells, a rain surrounding a secret desire, orthogonal, compulsive, and improbably mink.