things got weird
3:20pm, July 5th, 2017
I'm deranged again.
The lines in everything, in the walls, the floors, the arms that reach out from me, all of the lines undulate in alternating directions.
The world waves in a sea-like manner, only the vertigo is pleasing. The vertigo is gentle. I watch it all shifting and it's like a shore somewhere, a place with no people and the world is very real.
This is me deranged. Again. Atop a couch and staring at the empty room and gazing like incense.
I opened the window just now and machine sounds are boring into my right ear. A steady, synth drilling. Almost a bag-pipe sound as conveyed by a laser. The sound piercing and steady, nothing like what my eyes are contending with, the world-sway there.
That's two whole senses not cooperating with one another. Things got weird.
Through the window, the scent of Florida reaches me, the scent of corpulent, sweating vegetation. It's not an unpleasant smell, it's just mildly obscene. It's not in conflict with the other senses and therefore not contributing to whatever this is...the reality breakage.
It's 3:32 now. The above took 12 minutes to write.
I took the teenager to lunch and she gave me a long list of cool words that I'm never allowed to say because I'm too old and it would sound weird. She wasn't being critical, her goal was to help me avoid future faux pas relating to the topic of cool words and who could use them. She's like, "Know your lane."
She socially mentors me, the teenager. I can lose track of how the world works and she's there to explicate. It's like having a 13 year old life coach.
3:40. That took 8 minutes to write. The drill just turned off. Bird sounds fill up the aether.
A fray of spider web, floss-like, clings to the windowsill. A dead flea dangles at the very end of it, upside down, occasionally spinning from the breeze, like a coin on a string.
That's a very sad way to leave one's corpse behind. Your husk snagged, upside down, spinning: that's undignified. Even in death, you're embarrassing.
it's 3:47. That took seven minutes to write.
The lines are calming out. A metallic pulsing in the far distance...a science fiction sound.
I'm breathing into quiet...bird sounds an echoing silence.
3:49
I'm deranged again.
The lines in everything, in the walls, the floors, the arms that reach out from me, all of the lines undulate in alternating directions.
The world waves in a sea-like manner, only the vertigo is pleasing. The vertigo is gentle. I watch it all shifting and it's like a shore somewhere, a place with no people and the world is very real.
This is me deranged. Again. Atop a couch and staring at the empty room and gazing like incense.
I opened the window just now and machine sounds are boring into my right ear. A steady, synth drilling. Almost a bag-pipe sound as conveyed by a laser. The sound piercing and steady, nothing like what my eyes are contending with, the world-sway there.
That's two whole senses not cooperating with one another. Things got weird.
Through the window, the scent of Florida reaches me, the scent of corpulent, sweating vegetation. It's not an unpleasant smell, it's just mildly obscene. It's not in conflict with the other senses and therefore not contributing to whatever this is...the reality breakage.
It's 3:32 now. The above took 12 minutes to write.
I took the teenager to lunch and she gave me a long list of cool words that I'm never allowed to say because I'm too old and it would sound weird. She wasn't being critical, her goal was to help me avoid future faux pas relating to the topic of cool words and who could use them. She's like, "Know your lane."
She socially mentors me, the teenager. I can lose track of how the world works and she's there to explicate. It's like having a 13 year old life coach.
3:40. That took 8 minutes to write. The drill just turned off. Bird sounds fill up the aether.
A fray of spider web, floss-like, clings to the windowsill. A dead flea dangles at the very end of it, upside down, occasionally spinning from the breeze, like a coin on a string.
That's a very sad way to leave one's corpse behind. Your husk snagged, upside down, spinning: that's undignified. Even in death, you're embarrassing.
it's 3:47. That took seven minutes to write.
The lines are calming out. A metallic pulsing in the far distance...a science fiction sound.
I'm breathing into quiet...bird sounds an echoing silence.
3:49
posted by m at
12:50 PM
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