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Tanglembed
Jan. 6th, 2013 09:45 pmI! 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." "
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." "
