I was feeling something powerfully, just a moment ago, the definition for a moment being within the past three days, a something special that was scraping with turpentine claws at my insides, and I thought that, perhaps, I would share these thoughts here. I don't use any of my skills to an advantage. I cannot engage. Cannot engage. Cannot engage the projects, a part of my mind that is often active while I stand idle, waiting for the bus, or transparent walking through city streets, trying to dodge the hare krishnas, those thoughts that would lead me to absolute creative automatic bliss bombastic quisitive mystery-making buddha rubarb butter. Yes, I mean those thoughts, the ones that you're always waiting for while you're ready to write, but only forgetting them in excommune.


I'm looking for magic.


There are prisoners. Their backs are turned to me, and I am their master. I nudge one with my stick, it comes out gooey. And these are my thoughts. I puncture brain cells for a living, poke them and they'll burst, the ideas get into my bloodstream and bleed from my fingers. But they don't, and that's the problem too.

I like blocks of text, centered around a few concepts. I like to see how they interact, what arises from putting creedence on their more material existence, as things that you can move around, move the sign, change the signifier, this is fun.

Sometimes I think things like these:

_____ .::. ,-:` \;',`'-, .:' .: .'-;_,; ':-;_,'. ,MMM8&&&.:' .:' /; '/ , _`.-\ MMMMM88&&&& .:' | '`. (` /` ` \`| MMMMM88&&&&&&:' |:. `\`-. \_ / | MMMMM88&&&&&& | ( `, .`\ ;'| .:MMMMM88&&&&&& \ | .' `-'/ .:' MMMMM88&&&& `. ;/ .' .:' .:'MMM8&&&' `'-._____.-'` :' .:' '::'
Have got little to do with what we think they do. I mean, looking at the micro levels of existence, things go from smallest to biggest in selfsame attributes. There's something big going on out there, and we have no idea what it is. I've dreamt of other places, but I can't live those dreams, and that is what I struggle for most of all, always.

We are all concepts error. blue pieces of fuzz stick screen, the world around me operates by a dense motion. People keep up dying, those still their tears, and He disappeared into the last few weeks, watching as if behind the creative impulses that showered lightning on us. He tried slumber. It didn't work. So he nailed open his eyes, and he looked like this.

He tried slumber. Mountains standing into that production, I thought the transmission was built. Am picking up erasure, with a stick.

((}--- though no one else can hear it, these are
the thoughts thought, the tharks thunk
some say or universal value ---{))

  ____  |  |__    ____    ____    ______  ____   _____   
_/ ___\ |  |  \  /  _ \  /  _ \  /  ___/_/ __ \  \__  \  
\  \___ |   Y  \(  <_> )(  <_> ) \___ \ \  ___/   / __ \_
 \___  >|___|  / \____/  \____/ /____  > \___  > (____  /
     \/      \/                      \/      \/       \/ 
                            .__   .__   __           
    _______   ____  _____   |  |  |__|_/  |_  ___.__.
    \_  __ \_/ __ \ \__  \  |  |  |  |\   __\<   |  |
     |  | \/\  ___/  / __ \_|  |__|  | |  |   \___  |                  
     |__|    \___  >(____  /|____/|__| |__|   / ____|
                 \/      \/                   \/     

                                                           AND STICK WITH IT!


Imagine first space at its absolute, beyond physical description. Not nothingness, because there is something to it, not somethingness because there is nothing to it, imagine this space in between, an avenue of non-Euclidean configuration, but without yet the mathematics or concept-there-of to create mathematics. This is "base-level reality," this is the grid, if you want to call it that. It is beyond the concepts of dimensions, though like an operating system kernel, it is at first abstract. At its own cosmic whim, it creates modules to supplant this base structure. These modules are what define the parameters for all the possibile realities within the grid.


Slowly a plane of existence is formed, simultaneously a few others. Let's go so far as to call the will of the grid, the creator, for ease, but recognize that the word is a placeholder for a concept it does not completely fit. Well, he makes a few planes, decides that they may compliment each other, so the creator sets them parellel with each other, ties a little metaphysical rope around the buch, but not too tight, allowing them to be hovering over each other, and though parellel, this being non-Euclidean space, they manage to touch each other, somewhere within the inconceptual space, at some point near infinity, and this happens infinite times. The points where these planes of existence do in fact cross, introduces a gateway to pass on to "another level."


These planes are directly made up by a system that I can euphamize as "pixels," I call them tharkbits. Other people have "seen" these, it goes beyond just quarks and bits, vision and sound, there is a mesh to this method of creation, it allows things to be in a flux, things just must be turned to catch a metaphorical light. You'll see. This creator though, he died a long time ago, leaving this stuff to all find a way of working on it own. The creator died in a different sense than you and I can understand it. Maybe that means the creator will come back, some day.


People used to be more aware of this structuring of reality. Some people still are, people in power, people with a different kind of power. Old people. Young people. But the people in power, and this (I believe) explains the will to power, is the thought of wielding this beast of reality, and manipulating it. My idea/concept of reality technicians is not far-off base, I think. And though I'll cloak this in a softlink, I'll go out on a limb to say that some of the questions we should be asking ourselves, and our particular frame of reference, within the planes of reality that we can see right now, are inside. Some. Not all, for sure hot damn not all, but there's something in there that will point you to some new questions that have arisen.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm creating most of my problems, my great moral confusion, my inward rebellion, that anything I have to be mad at in this world is self-created, self-inflicted. Work is a poor excuse for reality. I'll keep thinking about things.