Tanglembed

Jan. 6th, 2013 09:45 pm
I! And the fruit of my labors, concede. None of

will work, doesn't have to, shouldn't even. Here in this small room. Through a door L. sleeps with the small fan on, white noise. Faint rush of the propane heater. I wander absently, with great purpose, towards the screen's promises. My uncomfortable chair fits my uncomfortable

self winningly. The furniture is repurposed, dinner table and chairs enslaved by the appliances. Interior decoration bowed to Appliance, so, they Applied themselves vigorously. You your companionship, business. Rumors of high promotions and even Appliances call the shots in a few edgier operations. Yeah... Ok what is that? I don't specifically remember writing it, though it's obviously mine. Could delete it. But, this is't supposed to be a

heavily edited exercise, this bloggery thing. I know what I was trying to describe and am presented with the images intended in the writing. But the description is personal, because I was writing for myself. I guess that works. Writing only for oneself opens strange doors in the mind. The write

r tries to trick himself, gnaws on subtlety like a badger on a face. Self deception is easy, not a tall task at all. It comes easily to us because we have a lot of practice. It's sort of what we do. Without deception we don't exist. I feel like someone is playing a joke with my(Everyone's?) life, but we haven't gotten to the laughter phase. Pre punchline.

It's a joke that I know I am incapable of ever understanding, a joke I can't laugh at without choking. Every thought is a potential revolution. There are gods, and we are their children, born at their intersections, nursed on their prudence, and injured by their conflicts.

We are fundamentally unable to know them. The unconscious is not filled with ghosts and demons, things that we find often enough outside. It's filled with the vast majority of ourselves. The nub of consciousness hangs as a wriggling appendage from the rest of our dark bulk. "What's going on in there?" "Well. Like I said, I can't get the joke. There's no way to understand. I don't mean it's too difficult or anything like that.

The problem is that for you to understand all that," he gestures to the black rings orbiting them a few thousand kilometers out, "You wouldn't be you anymore. Being intimately conscious of the processes and interactions that create your experience of consciousness... would evaporate you.

" The Questioner stares up at the rings. "They haven't evaporated." "There is no they! You still don't get it.

Listen,
you don't have a map for this. Those things you're looking at aren't even what you think. Rings? Last guy saw dice bouncing around. Someone else saw angels, ok? You don't even have a visual handle on it! Can't see it, not what it actually is. So it dials back for you and substitutes." "I'm going in." "Fine. Assuming you've come prepared?" "Medical team, private hospital wing. Twenty years of life support. Constant physical therapy." "And after twenty years?" "Game over man, but I'll be up before then." "
Tracing the long arc of hatred's orbit about love. Callused fingers, string grooves worn in across tips.




"Can you just stop being self referential for one minute please?"
She started the argument, but, I was there so more or less complicit? It didn't end well. Listen: It never does with me. I don't believe in anything, but, please, when you drop a brick on your own foot often enough you start to ask questions, put the pieces together. The smarter ones eventually realize that they probably shouldn't drop bricks on their feet. The wiser ones stop. The real ones like me? We're baffled, just plum weirded out by everything. Some become fascinated, disgusted, aloof. We know what we should do, reasonably, based on some metric like survival abstracted onto the map of modern desire. Succeeding.
"No."
But succeeding always seems suspect. Because we don't trust, anything, not the ground we walk on. Especially not the ground. Not trust in a personal sense, but in a fundamental one. It wasn't that I distrusted her motives. I wasn't even sure she could have motives, since, like me, she wasn't exactly a person. 
"Ooh, so direct and to the point, so dourly analytical. Yes! Do the I'm pretending to be amused for my benefit thing, yeah. Great. Look, why don't you fuck off?"
I nodded and walked off. She sighed and-
The door shut. 

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