Curry

Swirling tropical incantations of dowry’s and curry wafting to my linguistic sinus hopefully awakening some spark of recognition in association of my sinister self. Ripped apart mercilessly and sewn haphazardly back together with American parts making it smell no longer of curry and sweat but like rotten processed cheddar drizzled on a piece of fresh but poorly made Naan bread. The brown imitation vinyl leather has a distinctly pukey orange color to it. I don’t mind on account of the marvelous job the vomitesque ersatz leather seems to be doing in supporting my rectal cushioning. I marvel for a moment at my own use of language but as they say; masturbation’s lost its fun so you’re fucking lonely. But not pathetically so, just self-consciously so in the sense that to be otherwise would simply require far too much effort on the part of the organism. So in the interests of energy conservation I remain solo. Solo. Seul. One. Alone. A silence. No question. No answer. No hermeneutic relation save in the objects which call me forth in some Heideggerian “Being in the World.” What the fuck does that mean anyway. Nonsense, sheer nonsense. Or is it? What the fuck does that mean anyway. Stop Repeat. Start again. Repeat. Stop. Over again. Stop. Repeat. Start from the beginning. The tropical beginning. Stop. I need caffeine.

This is it?

This is it, my truth, the story I can now tell. It is going on as follows. In the beginning, there was nothing and the word was nothing. The light imploded through the barriers of the flesh as the screaming came rushing into the world of movement out of the darkness of inertia. The thoughts swirled in a multi directional tango, each mirroring the being of each non thing which was really the explosion of neurons copulating with one another as they were meant to do by some plan that we can never know. It was a long time before the flesh saw itself and said “this is me” but when it happened it was the defeaning roar of the neurons firing off in response to the self which they could not see and the embodiment they could not deny. I felt the limits and in the limits opened up the endless possibility for pain and suffering.
But there was no pain and suffering, only joy. Parents fed children and children went to school to learn better to understand and cope with the suffering which they themselves did not feel. And sometimes the children were not nice and the children were alone and sad and the sadness grew until the fleshbag came to see that it was not only defined itself but had nothing in common with the others.
The idea of being one came through the eyes, always the eyes staring at the thing. The thing could not understand because it loved all as though they were itself and yet they kept looking and speaking, not letting it be. All it ever wanted was to make them all happy but that in itself is inexcusable.
The point where it all came to shift was the Sarah when she came out of nowhere and the neurons copulated in a way they had not before, not understanding still or then why or how or what. Why can we be the way we were and yet not be able to make it sensically. That is point in the sensical nature of the self. We saw it for what it was. Not in the sense of knowing it but in knowing the not-it. We knew only that the tension was there and that it would last, that it would never be resolved, that the neurons would fight and fuck and fight and fuck and it would be beautiful if not horrifically painful in the realm of one’s entire life being spent softly stroking every inch with cold razorblades dripping with lye. That is beautiful. And so we go on, stroking and stroking the razors, watching the blood ooze slowly out and getting drunk on it, smearing it between one another’s lips and genitals. An orgasm of hot red blood revealing the reality of it that we don’t want to share one another’s lives but really one another’s deaths. That is all we can hope for. The end.
The pain had a purpose now. Instead of masturbatory self mutilation we could inflict it on one another and see a point to it. The end. The end would mean everything and more in the beginning if only it were not alone. And so here I am sitting alone in this moment and space hoping that for god’s sake someone will find the truth I am saying here. Look at the fucking end and see it for how goddamn beautiful it is. When it comes I will scream in agony while all the pain is wrenched away from me, the pain of the her and the he/me. The pain of the us. Those brief moments of release are not the point. They are merely the context. The pleasure is that absence of pain which makes us feel the pain all the more intense. And that is what is so fucking wonderful. Those moments of light wherein the brain lets itself flow outwards through the fingers and hating everything that is going on because it is taking away from the pain. The fucking things that the meatbag stuffs into itself to forget the pain that it is trying to cultivate and all the monkeys screeching and preaching to the fucking goodness of it all.
The pain of the family. The other self, same yet wholly different getting some drunk fucker’s finger up his anus. Some fucker thinking that by causing some poor kid pain he’s going to find truth but the fact is that he needs to feel the pain too or he’s only sucking his soul dry. But now he won’t get it, poor fucking kid. Never gave it back. Never gives it back. Needs to give it back. In one grand blinding supernovae of seething rage spewing acidic semen all over the world which was not good enough to cause pain to. I love the kid and could never get it. Now I never will. Too far, the family, the light, the pain, the love, oh the love was nice because it was so painful. It is so painful and will always be so and I will gorge myself on it every moment for godsake. Never again will I ignore or betray it, to try to hide or shield myself from it. Pain is life. And life is pain. And that is what is so great about it. That is the only way that anything can mean anything. The shared pain so that in the end we can know it meant something for once. This time I’ll get it right. This time it’ll matter. I know it’s been many times. Too much is known.
It happened again and again and every time it happened it got more complex. That’s fucking it, it happens and it happens and it gets better because it sees itself more and more, we see ourselves more and more. The Darwin fool was right but he missed the time part, it wasn’t the way it was but it is the way it is. I’m going to get it right and let the pain flow and not hold on, not push off but really let it be, flow with it, taste and and let it fuck me every step of the way. Forget the meatbag, forget the release, let the pain go. Cause it, feel it, don’t stop it for in stopping it you’re only dooming yourself and the rest to repeat, repeat, repeat. Christ got it. And now I’m a Christian. Wow. But that can’t be it, that’s not the end because it goes on. But I have to go now.
And I’m back and the pain is in the center of the thing. Feeling the rust within the neurons making impotence out of their dendrites. Knowint that things such as this should not be done but unable all the same to resist the allure of the other self which lies brooding under the control of the self. That dangerous experiment of returning to some place and time long ago which one chose to put under lock and key but yet…never left. That is the essence of the problem here, where the self comes out of something which it does not in itself want o admit exists but in the end it cannot deny. The problem which we are now facing in this present situation is how to reconcile the ideas which the right self wants to seek and the left self knws it can do and yet the fundamental inability of the apri to achieve in some kind ofltangible real-world fashion. Then there’s the Sarah questiona gain.
The pain came cropping up again as the Sarah question was revived in the possibility that it might come back next term. Oh god what then. The pain would case for the most part and take on that new dimension which we all know is the ecastsy of the razors edge. The world would make sense again and in that sense the psyche would rage against the rusted concertina wire which holds it in check qwith sense experience. So that thing looks back over not only its physical self but temporal self as well. Why are they all so weak? Why are we all so weak? Why does the self onvince itself athat it is somehow beyond the weakness and can rise above it all? How can that be when the meatbagas are all the same in the end. We all need love. I need love.
That is the present problem, so much want for something to caress my back and tell me its all going to be okay. The centering is good but it hasn’t been done often enough given the psychopharm changes going on in the mind right now. How can I get back? How can I find them? Why is it so blooyd hard for me and the others to find one another an dhsare that which we are naturlally meant ot share? I felt it the other day and it was pure ecstasy. My day was illuminated by my endless proclivity to suffer. In my willingness to feel the pain which is my condition I opened up the equal possibility of feeling both greater pleasure and the ability to surmount the pain. The other one which the professional insight said that the emotions are an environmental gauge which must be listened to,. I should have listened to this when she said it. This is the truth I need to come to better realize in order to reach the places I am trying to get. I didn’t see the relationship at first but not it’s all too clear. The mind feel slitslef uncoiling as the words spew out on the the page in a kaleidoscpaic exposition of the spyche. IN all its pauses, mistakes, meanderings, lack of description or abundance thereof the self rediscovers its inner nature.
The other was okay. That’s what they say but in thek end I know the self that exists in me and the way in which ist has so often deined that which ist was feeling. The proclivity to fith off the explosions on the inside of the skin which are set off fby sparks from the sense s. The sense that one can contain it but in the end onlyi lets it build within onself to no avail. So tired, so bloody tired and yet must write on. Absoltuely must write on at all costs.
Relazx and allow oneself to be walking along a eyellow andy beach flecked with beads of vermilion. Forget the fact that you don’t know what color vermilion really. Is. Then let the sand touch your feet, the sinking feeling as the moisture come s into conflict with the grains. The confusion of whether one is on solid ground or merely some soft putty just waiting to give way and let one sink to the bottom of the earth. The waves slowly slppping in and out of the toes, leaving the soft caress of the cold and salt under the toenails. The female figure foff in the distance. Calling you with the angels of her physiology and yet you rmind not letting itself feel the longing out of fear of consequences. And there is the problem. In that image you see all your stupidity. Faced with even an ideal moment which you wyourself construct in mind you still cannot overcome it. Even when you define your own environment you are faced with thed tendencies to fear it. And scene.
Letting the words flow without thought is the key to allowing yourself to see the inside fo the mind. No, not an artist but a mad monkey with a playithing that lets it feel its own mind exntending itself out in to the world. Let it do so. It feared the fconsequences before but now you are ferree. TLet yourself ffly out into th world. Feel, it be part of it. I know it I makes your gag and cuss and cray and scream and it trouble s your sleep and will give you snightkmares because ther are bad things lurking int eh corners of reality . But the those bad things are in your mind. The word around iyou is no more than your physicalr elation. You are a physical being now. You Gave up on the endlsess interlnalizing. Let you rsel fbe that. Be it. lLet the the physical emotional self ocme out.
Calling the Calre and telling it how wonderful it is is great. I need to do that. That is the essence of who I am. I shout out to the world the love I feel for all the baeauty y I feel. In it Not to try to grab a hold of it and pluck it from the tree like some fruit that whill ineivtaibly spoil or else become feces. Rather to sing its praises while admiring i. To reflect it in my own eyes in the way that it would want. To.

Once upon a tim ether ewas a little boy and he was all alone in the world. He hid inside his shell of muscles and sinew, staring viciously out from under the armour lest anyone or anything thingk they could eviscerate ehis insides. The evisceration is what hew afeared. The thought of one’s intenstines laid out on a cold steel talbe because packed out by the sweing maching. Its okay little boy. You have to live int eh wrodl so you might as well learn to respond to it. You cannot reflect the beauty if you don’t allow yourself to feel the pain. The beauty is that point of intersection between the pleasure and the pain, the lines of contour on the topography of desire and experience. To know what it is to be human you mmust lalow the mountains to pitch you down their faces, bones breaking and body tearing, the self immolated in the fires below. Only to piece onself together and climb the mountain oncea gain. For otherwise you must lose yourself fin eldless subjecitivyt, forever afraid of stepping outside the armaour an dfeeling the world again. The tneder heart must be cultivated in order too really reach that which syou are seeking. The Shambhala man was anot eentirley wrong. The tenderness. Let yourself fbe tender. Relax. Lose the frantic attack on the keys. Rather, let the words flow out in a harmony. Eache word setting up the next, a slowly mounting crescendo which may not be the beauty I itself but in the rhythm you establish.
The two fo them, the tall man with the long hari with his child and his wife with the long red hiar. They are happy. they know the truth of their lives. They are not without pain, they are not without trouble but the child and themselves makes it all okay. Everything will work out beause of that child. Clumsily stepping along the road, not quite sure of itself as of yet, mittens hanging from the sides of her arms. Cultivate tenderness and all will be well.
It is time for the two to come together. The end of division. The selves must be friends. And it is in this common activity of symbols an dieas that we will find our harmony once again. It has been to long since we two have spoken with such a unified voice and it is about time. I love you. I love you. Love each other and there is nothing we cannot accomplish.
Disgust with the human race is so easily cultivated when one expects or tries to obtain some kind of result from the people around one. I try to make it social like friendly cultivate relationships amongst people and yet they are not here and go away. Why are they hating so? I know it is not intentional malice but I sit here alone sad, wanting to cry but feeling numb inside as always. I need help but I have no idea hwere to turn. To God perhaps. That is what I must do is turn my mind upewards or outwards or inwards to whatever. I have lost my subjective authority and so have to sit and cry all alone hopeing that somewhere in the world my salvation will come out. I’ma lone all alone and I feel so sorry for myself. There is nothing to be done. NO hope. No salvation. Just me alone in a room filled with my own mind. Lost in the sea of time without a clue as to how I got here. Or whether I want to be here. I cray and cry and the tears flow onwards. The same tears I have cried my whole life. Hoping to god that something that cannot come will come. But there is no coming. There is only this and so how to I come to understand it. I do not. I sit hit praying to you my thing which I cannot know or see or understand to help me in whatever way it is. I commit myself wholly to your trust. You are my master. I your servant. Give you servant his instructions.

Stay inside

Happy times would be nice if there were times of happiness to be previously had in the future. The female with the red top scribbling intently into her little notebook inspires thoughts of applied ideals which never should have seen the light of day. The lack of hydration in the brain stem makes the organism have difficulty sorting out its thoughts. The time is revealing slowly but surely. I should know by now. The fact of the alternating black and white (not blue and brown) tiles upon the floor indicate the eminent rationality behind plato’s theory of the focus. Or maybe I’m just fucking with you. Either way the answer is the same; does detachment provide hope for solution or should one actively pursue the mater. She looks out of the shop, intelligence in her eyes – stupidity in my own. Why is it so difficult to figure out this part of the world. There is something in Halifax which does not like me. I can feel the presence of the nefarious spirit – trying to crush the pleasure out of the place. I need to find a groove and fast. I can’t be idle like this.
Freedom eludes me. I may not be able to articulate what I’m trying to say. The brain flips and flips and flips some more. She is wonderful. I need to stop. Stop stop stop stop stop! I must be free. Freedom comes from detachment. You’ve lost out there, win in here. Nothing to be done. Nothing to be done. Nothing to be done.
I don’t feel as though I “know” myself right now. I don’t know what it is I’m meant to do now so I feel at a loss. My answer to the question is murky at best. I need distance from it but it claws at my calves, demanding response. I once felt as though my words came from within me. Now they come from beyond. Their twisted syntax and lack of true meaning reveal the random permutations of some unknown place accessible only in certain ways. The more I feel it the more trapped I become. Someone will come to liberate me, someone will come to liberate me. Keep praying for the redemption story. It will never come. Existence will drag on. You will always be alone. It is not so terrible as that but it is what it is. You know you recognized this. That is what the summer was about. What I wouldn’t do to go planting right now. Alas not so possible. Just stay inside. Stay inside stay inside.

Mirror monkey

It's funny. Very funny. funny funny funny
its funny because its funny monkeys
funny mirror monkeys
monkeys putting themselves in other
monkeys make more monkeys
more mirrors
The mirrors make monkey demons
of the the mirror monkeys
don't be a mirror monkey demon

I woke up
I woke up
I was a monkey
Stay away from the mirror monkey
Stay inside. STAY!
I woke up a monkey
I woke up a monkey
Mim mim mim mim mim mim mim
Talking monkeys
why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why? why?
thats why - mirror monkeys

Its funny with the monkeys
The monkeys the monkeys mirror monkeys
the mirrors are bad for the monkeys
they are bad for the monkeys
so the monkey mirror makes monkey doodoo
Don't let the monkey demons in
They're bad for the mirror monkeys

Scary trope

Greetings from my present trope.

The trope I'm sitting in for the present moment is scary but very....airy. It makes me angry but makes my intended course ever clearer. Is there anyone out there who wants to do something? I'm sitting in a very political space, very international, a little Chomsky, a little Orwell, a little cyberpunk with some doubts about how amusingly harmless historicism really is. Can we do anything? I sure as hell hope so. I don't even want to go into detail, I can feel it's substance very clearly and it's even scarier than I previously imagined. If anyone is out there, please help! I need an umbrella! Or a new language at the least.

Planting

I arrived at terminal 2 at approximately 9:30 this morning. Sarah drove me. We each had a Paradiso Medium at Second Cup. My favourite. I thought we should have split a large or extra large to save money. Ah well. I ate a slice of Pepperoni pizza at one of those generic airport deli’s. It cost me $2.75. I noticed that there was an interfaith prayer room just outside the security check-in. I had time so I spent 15 minutes meditating. It was good.
At security they gave me the full rundown. I figure either they received word that I had been alone in the “interfaith” (read: muslim) prayer room, or else my size and youth meant that even a small weapon would be a problem. Maybe they thought I was a test. Whatever it was they scanned my shoes, made me lift my legs, take off my belt, patted me down.
The name of the girl at the WestJet check-in was Emily. She thanked me for doing what I was going to do with a sincerity that baffled me. A good omen I suppose. “The tides are with me” I told myself in my characteristically melodramatic tone. “This was a good choice.
I know this because I do not worry about Sarah. I know we will share love (and fluids) again. As well, the tropes are good. I looked over some books in the Relay store. Some new-age book by Deepak Chopra called “The Meaning of Coincidence” or something like that caught my eye. It featured a compass on its cover. I am wearing a compass. The man at the security check remarked upon my compass with a peculiar enthusiasm for my wearing it. I couldn’t see why it fascinated him to such an extent. It’s rather cheap and plain. The back cover of the book spoke of synchronicity, or future/past symmetry. This symmetry is very real. I took note of the book but instead chose “Tuesdays with Morrie,” which was next to the Chopra book. It was the only book which appealed. I have Montaigne with me but the old-world French was too dense. That’s why I bought Morrie. The first thirty pages brought me to the brink of tears many times. What bowled me over was the following passage in a book I’d hear about but already knew in a strange way. I …. No words.
Here’s the passage:

“ I am younger than most of the students, having left high school a year early. To compensate for my youth on campus, I wear old gray sweatshirts and box in a local gym and walk with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, even though I do not smoke… I seek my identity in toughness – but it is Morrie’s softness that draws me, and because he does not look at me like a kid trying to be something more than I am, I relax.”

We are about to take off. I think to the Tarantino movie, Haraway, Latour, Forbes, Nick Reilly, my parents, Sarah…. “The less one makes declarative statements, the less one has the opportunity to look stupid in retrospect.”
As I am pushed into my seat for takeoff I think fuck it: something good and right is happening. I am becoming. The compass, dogtags and book tell me so. Liftoff J

The time is 2 pm EST. I have just finished Tuesdays with morrie. Didn’t realize it was true. Wow. I was brought to tears too many times to count. I am flying over the Manitoba/Saskatchewan border. I have nothing to say. I will either watch TV o r sleep now.
13:48

I have arrived in Vancouver. BEAUTIFUL! Checked my coat. It’s almost 6 hours till my flight. I figure there’s no harm in a quick stop in to the city for a beer. It’s hotter’n hell and I feel like some kind of alien in my own country. Two surfers at the baggage check couldn’t stop laughing. Kind of annoying but I’d laugh all the time too if I surfed for a living.
I LOVE this place. I only wish I were staying just a wee bit longer. Ah well. Maybe on the way home?
I shoulda brushed my teeth. Blecch!
The air here tastes good, a taste that only a few extra thousand feet could give me. Everyone is happy. I am too. The only cloud that hangs over me is the fact that my stay will be a short one.

14:20

Note 15 minutes

424 – 98 B-Line Berrard

98 B-L Vancouver

Get on Bus at Seymour

You are heading North on Robson

Rush hour is at 4/4:30

14:57

Holy SHIT

I don’t want to leave this place. Ever.
The sun shines in a way that it never does in Toronto or even Hali. The air is clean. There are flowers and trees everywhere. I’ve found a place to love in this Godforsaken country. Everyone looks good and happy. The city’s made for people, not cars.
I’m completely at a loss for words. While I can’t stay long, I wish I could, it’s worth the trip. My god was it worth it. Street vendors set up and sell things.

It’s all good. This is where I belong.

15:34

Wow. The air here is even better than I ever imagined. I tried chasing a bus for a while because it didn’t seem to stop at every stop. I ran full tilt in my new boots for at least a a couple of hundred meters and I notice two things: 1) My breaths need be only shallow and short to be effective. 2) I had to need to catch breath, no soreness, nothing.

Now, 1) may be my dimished condition but 2) is clearly good air. In fact, I need only very small amounts to satisfy my lungs. It is AMAZING.

I (heart) Vancouver.

It’s too bad I’m leaving so soon but I know I will be back soon.

Boot evaluation:

Points of irritation (which will need moleskin)

Right foot: Big toe, baby toe, heel (minor irritation)

Left foot: Big toe (minor), baby toe

15:45

The west coast is the future. It feels new, young, vibrant. Trendy stores pop up so fast you can’t take them all in. Despite the intense commercialization, the city feels more natural, more human than any city I have ever visited.
No narrow, self-reflective European alleys, no sterile arteries moving sour-faced yes-men through dirty streets.
The beautiful Asian girl to my right will be my metaphor for the city. She wears what look like Chanel shades with a Reebok tank. Her purse says Baby Phat and she smiles serenely as she listens to the tunes from her Panasonic MP3/CD player.
She is gorgeous.
And young.
And Quietly confident. Every Eastern bone in my body wants to see, know and touch girls like her any day for the week far more than those boring east coast blondes. (*sigh*)

16:01

One thing I was too caught up in the goodness to mention were the addicts. The other side of Vancouvers is an emaciated, wrinkled old bum with white streaks, splotches, sores and rot all over his body. His right arm was a mess of holes and long-atrophied muscle. He was jittering away the jones dance. He was a good man from the look of his eyes. I saw a man that had accepted his new life to the extent that despite his physical decay and the hunger betrayed by his agitation, he was able to stop, look a friend in the eye and wish them a good day. How many wealthy Torontonians can make the same claim?
When I looked him in the eye and said that I was sorry but would give him no change, he did not give a look of resentment as I h ave grown accustomed to in Halifax but a nod of resigned acceptance and understanding. It may sound odd, but it seemed that in his own way he retained a sense of dignity. He was still a man.

April 27 – Prince George

11:42

I woke up at 6:30 to the sound of Jed knocking on Room 12, looking for Peter. It was 6:30 but I was jetlagged so I wasn’t sleeping.
We went out to Tim’s (Jed, Kovacs, Brian and I) for food and coffee. It was far.
We walked 5-7 km to get shovels and bags. It cost $106.
After we had our stuff, Jed, Brian and Paul (not Peter) troke rocks and flipped our shovels. My feet are protesting the new boots but I Purell’d them up.
On the way home to the Cinderblock Palace (the Queensway Motel,) we met a friend; a skinny little cat which reminded me of Abby for obvious reasons. She didn’t like to be carried but followed us for a while.
She eventually left us for a Bear-man with an RV shortly after we decidedl to name her Nicky and feed her. Slut.
It is a beautiful day, so far the guys are great. Jed is a disillusioned Christian with a good sense of thrift. I hope to learn a thing or two. Paul is great; a theology student with a calm demeanor which puts me at ease and makes me like him instantly. I don’t’ know what to make of Brian. I guess we’ll see. I gotta go. Out.

15:16

Tired. I’m in the P.G. Library. I’m increasingly impressed with this place. The library is nice and relatively new, in fact it reminds me of the Reference Library. Since my last entry I had a corn dog, pepperoni stick, taquito, Nestle shake and an apple before going swimming at the community center. We h it the water slide which was a blast. There was this creepy T-1000 lifeguard who seemed incapable of smiling (I tried,) he just stood there, sour-faced as if he were “at ease” in some sad swimming pool-army. I like these guys more and more and am reallyi pumped to get started. Brian is convinced he’s gonna be good which I know is a mistake but that is fine; it reminds me not to do the same. I can tell I’m in good company. I know that at the end of these three months, I will be reborn. I eagerly await my death. Yummy.

On a side note, every girl here seems hungry for our flesh. I don’t know why, but they stare, smile and flirt. Huh.

Where?

I didn’t want them to go. Why did they have to go? The bite of the coffee shows up on my neural radar. The scars dotting my misshapen knuckles glow pink in face of the monitor. Where oh where have they gone? Being trapped in the sensual/perceptual realm is not a pleasant thing. Closing the door to a world which was once so important. Where did they go? It’s not nice to be a ghost in a long-dead city. It’s not lonely. There are other ghosts. It’s insubstantial. Where did they go? I sometimes try to hunt them down in the corridors of my own twisted cerebellum. Pursuing them as though they were mere thieves. “Stop, that’s mine you’re running off with!” I just don’t’ know what happened to them. What happened to me.
Being an automaton is fun but the opportunities are limited. This is what I feel now. Have I sacrificed them for the pleasure of physical automation. It would seem unlikely. I once strolled serpentine streets in Calcutta, warming my sinuses with the pungent scent of cinnamon and shisha. I watched my father gas the innocent in spite of my protests – some faceless boy in the tides of history. Where have they gone? Where have I gone?
Is it possible, or even likely that the external pressures have forced me inside out? But that is perverse, I should not be so inside out. Or perhaps the weathering of the epidermis has reduced my ability to communicate, to feel. Desperation sets in.
Twenty years old. Twenty. In the same old place I tried to run from so many times. What is the meaning of all this. Nothing. Am I moving too fast or too slow? Will I find myself stumbling, crashing to the ground in an uncoordinated dance of despair or will I simply slog safely behind?
It’s insubstantial. Where did it go? What happened to the sense that something tangible could be created from within my own sanatorium? Where are my keys? Do something. Stop thinking. DO dammit!

History wave-functions

So today I’m thinking maybe Hegel or one of those guys had a point here. I’m talking about histories. Thinking of histories as threads, intricate series of vectors between various human and non-human actors, creating chains of apparent causality within the confines of these actors. A history is established when a pattern emerges in these vectors, a kind of quantum causality – a self-propagating determination working within the possibilities offering the path of least resistance for the maintenance of the pattern. A domino falling in a certain multi-dimensional fashion so as to cause other dominoes to fall in a similar pattern varying within narrow ranges. The story becomes real albeit twisted and monstrous. But sooner or later the pattern trips up. The spinning top – each rotation generated and defined by each previous rotation – starts to wobble. If a new pattern is not initiated during the wobble then a crash and cessation of pattern is inevitable. Chaos or stagnation, whichever is worse.
The pattern encourages one ot only look within its range of present possibilities in relating to actors. This does not mean that the actors themselves are restricted to such a narrow range of relations. New relations must be found within the existing set of givens so as to kickstart the possibility for a new historical progression – a new thread linking it all together. This is difficult. Very difficult.
As one tries to consider the actors and their potentialities one’s view is constantly skewed by the changes wrought by the progress of the current pattern, if one stares hard enough at a set of relations for long enough in hopes of seeing an emerging pattern one is likely to find one’s self lost or alienated by the dimensional distortions which alter one’s perception of the object of observation, rendering it unrecognizable. This can only be overcome by an attempt at ahistoricist observation, by seeking to completely ignore the thread, to start within it – so that one’s vantage point is constant so as to better observe the actors.
The point is to tell a plausible story, one that can coexist within the framework of the present thread while offering greater possibilities for historical progression upon the termination or collapse of the present thread. Think of a wave-function collapse. The possibilities are exhausted and a point is on the horizon. Points are bad. If one creates a sub-wave within the dominant wave function, an eddy in the socio-literal progression of space time and consciousness then there is the possibility that this eddy will expand in cooling down of the present thread. This is our goal.
It is collapsing. There is need for a new history. One can perceive the potentialities but they are so tied up within the present thread that they are not likely to survive it’s collapse as they are presently formulated. They are dialectic, negative, founded upon the limits of the present history. A stand-alone positive history is needed in order to ensure the integrity of the social consciousness. A new history is a difficult thing to erect. Its conditions are as follows:

1) Full accordance and acceptance of the conditions at the termination of the present thread – inclusion of all actors: The new history must be compatible with the present physical and cultural environment, it cannot impose new norms for it has no physical reality with which to exert the energy required in order to effect such change. Cities, mating, individual expression, diversity, whatever exists must be supported or at least acknowledge by such a new history. It must start where the old history ends and merely offer ways to develop from the actors as they are found.
2) Complete divergence in socio-literary substance from previous historical thread. The new history must be new. It cannot rest upon the social foundations of the previous history for then it is merely a continuation of the previous historical thread and will offer no hope for future development but merely a continuation of the inevitable historical stagnation.


With the above two considerations in mind, the development of a new historical thread is clearly a challenge, it must both maintain the stability of the previous thread while answering the questions the previous thread did not explore – it must begin from the place the previous thread ended and yet work in a completely new dimension. Historical dimension is the principle here. Just as there are unexplored possibilities and dimensions within physical space which are defined in their relation to objects and observers, so do such dimensions exist within cultural space. We need to move into new cultural dimensions.
The good news is that alternative histories exist on the fringe of the wave-function and merely need tying together. They are loose bits of cultural quantum foam popping into existence and then being annihilated. We must seek out these bits and tie them to other loose bits that are commensurable in the hopes that out of them a coherent fabric can begin to emerge.
The language is fighting the ideas, but hopefully you can meet me at the front.