Actual composition instead of an hour-long improv indulgence, 'sbeen a while. I wanted to call it The Dandy Whoremonger, but settled on a neutral title:
Baker Street Rag
20 Feb 2016
2 Feb 2016
3 + 4 = 7 = The Logos = unity in us all, and/or narrowly defined humanness. But we can all agree on the first part, right? Arithmetic among other maths can be expressed in beautiful visuals for right hemispheres.
Failure to be impressed in an objectively impressive world. Failure to muster enthusiasm for review, of anything, pro or con. Failure to be a photographer. Bookmark backlog three thousand links deep for unwatched documentaries. Writing like this. To not have to use the word I as much, to further remove self by artifice, refer to it as an other, needlessly obfuscate prose.
Obsession with self being the shameful root of shyness - no pitiable pain, only intolerance to light outside the vanity blinder. Yearning for the paranormal but failing to find what weird I find compelling. Wanting to be like idols of the fringe, go stone crazy with magic tech but from a rational starting point. Then be so overpowered by the miraculous that the hard-chiseled abs of material reductivism are useless. And yet... nothing comes along to overcome what is not even middling core strength on my part, see, me? No rigor. Seems like I could be shattered so easily, won't you please shake my faith in nothing, mister, please?
So maybe God comes to the irrational as a burning bush, the only symbol that will take for that particular schizophrenic, and to the rational, as a genderless pronoun in an operational definition that will act as metaphorical arbiter over the morality of what he's gonna do anyway. If you're Thomas the Doubter, you get to put your finger through Jesus' hand holes, cause that's what passes for a scientific experiment in these times, pretty clever on the sliding scale that is a snail's straight razor descalator. If you're me, you get a vague sense, but maybe enough to guide a guy through a funpark minecart railtrip in the fog, that it's good to try and be decent and nice and think about others and consider the implications of external nerve endings. It's what passes for sunlight in these times.
The carney's hawking aromatherapy, suddenly I've got a good feeling about it but I can't smell anything, this dude I just met says kinesiology is the answer, that's gotta be worth a listen cause it's a coincidence that could power a 10 watt bulb on the improbability-fueled starship, since I was just listening to a podcast on electric eels and muscle stimulation, the restaurant manager counsels me for free to take initiative and carve out an economic niche as recipient of government money for an as-yet-un-diagnosed band of The Spectrum, my audio tour guide asks me, how can I really have any choice when I'm so lazy, like it's my lot in life, to laze, and graze on rays of light, the closer the deadline, the more active the screen romance, til I can't sit or keep lids open, and regress even flatter, hoping for unearned sleep. I'm tired, I say, not lazy, when everything's so crazy, but even crazier how normal that feels, weird, for sure, in a labelly way, fascinating, you'd think, a miracle in a certain logic lacking feeling... Wanting the miracle despite fear of the curse, that child fear, post-santa, pre-hormonal maturation, the dread that anything could happen, I could be cursed. Wanting the miracle even though it implies demons because it also implies angels, and I need them. For sobriety and use to society, and a dignified life on the side.
But always back to self obsession, whether pro or con, still uselessly self-absorbed, burning energy, experience, exercise, potential that could be spent contributing to collective good and getting out of sick self. I'm not a rugged individualist, nor libertarian chic, just decadent. If I could turn pleasure-seeking into a trump tower, I probably would, gild pride, cause people could live in it, live in my dreams and nightmares. Something to be said about wealth, and even more, popularity.