(no subject)

Replying to nightspore's, neverdirectly:

Does apt description remove you from the moment or plunge you into it? Is our Wordsworth estranged from nature or lost in it?

Are getting and having cake mutually exclusive events? Suppose a cake of length unending treadmilling into a room. Suppose a cake that makes and bakes itself as it goes.

At least: Suppose a cake you can't see the end and aren't about to look, because if you see one you lose this. This being the idea of this.

Getting and having: Two sides of one coin? Cut through the middle then weld. Bless you, fire.

Walking through the forest picking up sticks, each stick unique in shape yet each a piece of the house in your mind. Each changing the house into a different unchangeable house.

To expand yourself as far as you can while filling yourself as full as you'll take. To know by memory that you've done this before, even if the before hasn't happened yet.

And why not a name as well? A name is a promise of recurrence, I suppose. Hence also a promise of departure. You make acquaintances when your mother retires, recognizing you'll need them.

We get the gift from memory--or anything that fits in memory receptors. I guess the point is to feel where those receptors are. New contact makes them real again, enough real at once makes us us again. You know they're there you can fill them with anything, mud.

Two high points of sex: The loosing of all then the filling back up at your leisure.

Selfish? Yes. Good thing we're Other-shaped.

She takes off that last garment so slowly she candies a new one.

(no subject)

Not to be unlimited, you're already that, but to find the right limits. Internal ones. Appropriate allocation of the you that is you and the you that ain't.

(no subject)

When you have it it's quite three dimensional, somehow. Objects pass freely through one another in the mind, so it's something like a sculpture, a composition of bodies, and one you're more within than without. Freeing things from overlap, a city that's a womb that's a jigsaw. My mouth has a role in this: My jaw, my tongue against my teeth. Granting the feeling of weight to those mighty nothings.

And it's not the specific bodies that matter, it's the memory that you can do this at all. That this particular angle of involvement floods the maze with light.

It offers control, I suppose, akin to a waking lucid dream. But power isn't the point, power is just the ability to know, which is just the ability to be better, to better be.

Thought is so ashamed of itself. A shame like an inverted gravity, drawing objects away from one another. When that lets up for just a moment, how quickly things converge. How solid the figments become, solider by far than the figments we let pass for solids.