28 April 2006

Palpebral Artichokes Lunching on Sporks

Im coming up only
to hold you under
Im coming up only
to show you wrong

So this is my solitude, the prison i built myself into, more than four walls, unlocked doors. Oddly. Oddly. There is no safety, no comfort. This is necessity, a control of environment, a chosen environment. All organisms need specificities to grow and branch and continue on. This lack of sunlight, protecting my eyes, the lack of human sound other than my own, no ego pressing in on the seed of mine. This prison is the only formula for reasoned and rational freedom within a stoicism such as society. This poingantly obvious reversal of definition where a tin shed may be a haven, a cell an oasis, so that perhaps i am so mentally obscure as to think that all i need is this continuous exposure to my own thought bubbling out in a rivule, ticking in the covert guise of fizz from the juice in the glass. At anyrate this is the campus that would seem to hold posture for all the works that are an individual, all the frantic and frivolous energy amassed in schizophrenic fashion, the juxtaposed victorian castles playing shadows on the postmodernistic waves of titanium sheeting. Everything here, and here is not limited to any coordinate i mean, as here seems flexible as thought makes time, at any rate, here, everything is, was, will be by all contemporary theory, a function of, mean or median reflection of, all the manic chatter and conscripting forces that compose the mind's eye. This is why travel seems so extraneous and frustrating, trying to invent the initiative and conception of movement far and across, when all the while the only thing moving, if indeed thing be the proper term, is, in fact, our perception from one mode of collation to another. Of course all modes are interrelated because the machinery is identical, so it is entirely possible that there can only be a finite number of these modes, these altered pretences that shift around us. Then we have an accountance for all things, if they are things, being identical. You only differ by one lens. One lens making you a passive solution to whatever ails me. How cancerous are i, myself, and me?

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