I need to write things down again.
At least that's what I hope. It is as vain a hope as I have, really. That the rambling spasms of my mind at its most alien can forge something true.
Whatever it is they form will surely not be real in the sense of having a physical actuality, but will likely be digital - a thought erupted into a virtual space outside both its own original context and the formless unconscious that laid down the potential for it to begin(?) with.
I need to write to make the things wafting amid the tendrils of brain stuff more real.
I can never catch them, normally. They have a yen and weft that doesn't conform to short-form recall, that eludes me the second I notice they are there - were just there.
Often there's a false sense of revelation that comes when I (or the thing which connects dots and draws parallels) realize(s) a web of intercorrelatedness to things; only to have that bolstering mode dissolve in my hands. Usually I am left with that feeling after waking from a dream - a meaningful or impactful or emotionful one - where the first few moments of not yet being awake are a pleasant drift amid the remnants of those feelings as they disintegrate away from consciousness. The feeling catches the wake of something that was just a moment ago corporeal and image-laden, but now only exists as a bookmark denoting something I can no longer access: 404 thought undisclosed; redacted by time, and lassitudes of the vortex of awareness.
I hope that in some way this can be a space for these things to coalesce, or (un)coalesce, in a manner accessible in future. Maybe I'll ramble and rant and fade off somewhere you can't know. Maybe none of this will amount to anything. Maybe nothing does. However, I've always derived a certain joy from shouting into the void. It's not quite something I get from Twitter, though most users there are undoubtedly screaming into a void of infinite reflection. It's not even something I get from physical journaling, pouring out angsty right-goddamn-nowisms into some college-ruled spiral binder I'll never look at again without a twinge of remorse. No, there's something about the anonymous, vacant lot somewhere far off in forgotten cyberspace that feels right for these kinds of nothings. Musings are a slightly digital object to begin with: they arise in a space driven by the physical real, constructed in some subconscious other-realm, and finally played out on a psyche that enacts them quasi-physically/internally.
It all sounds so vague to put it so, but I suppose it's all quite vague to begin with, and writing is an excellent filter to discover if there was ever anything there at all. Or simply the ghost of an impulse.
I think often, in our thoughts, we tend towards the implication of realization over a concrete, definable, point to it and say "there it is" kind of moment. Those are the stuff of authors and philosophers. Thought is more often the domain of magicians (the stage kind and the chaos magick types). Most things that run through my head carry more weight than the logician's "there it is" because there is no "there," only a malaisic cloud of reference to other entities - it's something that exists because other things exist, not because it exists. But it exists in a way beyond all of those constituents.
There's a vain, digital hope that exploring this alien not-terrain will yield something of value. The way the shaman brings back an intelligible remedy from the esoteric rantings and vagueries of psychedelic rapture. This hot, turned-on jumble was never meant to give meaning I don't think, but to provoke. Never was there a proposition of insanity that did not turn out some rational and measured response. Perhaps the insanity was a waste in itself. Or perhaps it was never meant to serve itself, but to explode outward and to birth a reaction so visceral, horrifying, rhizomal that the observing other cannot help but be changed in the face of it.
At least that's what I hope. It is as vain a hope as I have, really. That the rambling spasms of my mind at its most alien can forge something true.
Whatever it is they form will surely not be real in the sense of having a physical actuality, but will likely be digital - a thought erupted into a virtual space outside both its own original context and the formless unconscious that laid down the potential for it to begin(?) with.
Tendrils from way back when.
E-morphing into far reaches of dark space, lively (un)space resulting from an (ur)(un)space more "un" than this resultant.
I hope you don't get scared off by it.
But, then again, it was never really for you.