when it has been years since you felt rain, not that you have gotten caught in the rain, running to the building to the meeting to the house to enclose this shelter of everything, enclose it like a blanket around your skin, so pink as it would have been if these elements caught that long-awaited kiss

just that you have not stood and felt it for awhile, for minutes that are no longer minutes, when those red slashed digital digits are not a mind’s eye away but centuries in seconds and time is time, waiting to be prolonged, not forgotten

i remember ….
i remember being descriptive, holding each moment like a loin cloth over my most private places, my deepest wonderments of life, moisten the edges with tongued fingertips, these words constructed like webs i used to stumble over in the forced forgotten lands of a diseased gandfather’s farm …

where hiding was a given and being inside was a right of passage for the old ones with all the facial composure (i know now this gestural emptiness)

when sensitivity and over-stimulation was cause for unfolding, not regressing, not a quiet awkwardness, where words fail and gestures are lost in ignorance to perception. when words were new not borrowed from used memories, over and over, an adage, a culture, a demogogue used over and through to a blank chalkboard black

lessons are always brightest in stark contrast

like how warhol was so overwhelmed with emptiness and repetition, how beautiful this thought void was, how like a child it must be, without prejudice because words and images no longer mean a thing here, in a saturated, beauty oblivion, how freely its associations could careen across moats and lavas of logic and reason to something deeper than thought or emotion could ever hope to caress

i feel sterilized, you know, ever since i (do you hear this me) left you … ever since i left you with my guilt at the swinging backdoor to my burned book childhood … it is funny how being with you felt so grown-up when i was there inside that child love haze … how much—when i look back across the fuzz of mental distance—how really childish it was … in the most endearing sense of course, memory made it ugly, not you …

how much i left with you i still will not allow the luxury of reminisce … how much i miss you, even as my conscious mind will tag its electric diodes on for added scare tactics, my own mind feeds me propoganda for comfort … when i feel this breeze, when i remember this rain, when i hear the haunting metallic ring of cheap guitar strings and hesitant beginners’ finger scraping, i remember you, brow furled, i remember us at lunch, yes so rebellious we would always sit outside and when it rained we ran to catch the sensation, cartwheeling in the graceless beauty of adolescence, when i watched you close your eyes and raise your head like the shining disavowed modern hero i thought such sentiments meant, let this torrent catch you shivering, face full, mouth open …

i wish i could keep you there before everything else … before flushed red hate and abandoned faith … before meaning and intention ran for cover down that defensive hole we stuck our pinky fingers in, you know, the ones we swore we’d lose if we ever broke a promise … how i see you and my old self in everything, only it is oblong and wavering now, like a great nightmare of a funhouse, every reflection is a distortion, and you run to the ones that show you the best illusion…

how i cringe, quite unnoticeably, when someone will respond to me, “you have pain in your life.” as if this is a special phrase for me, as if it should not apply but somehow hits the apple in two upon my head when i blink to smile, when i grimace to smile, when i look away from my own habits i promised you and myself i would never fall into …

i have fallen and stepped away from that train wreck … yet, for some reason i keep looking back, wondering at the potential of letting it hit me head-on … this self-destruction catching its own tale finally, falling into the mirror, the lake reflections i had lost so much to before, throwing myself into the sea, walking serenely head bowed under water to the river currents, letting myself feel the sensation of loss for once, for once

yet i walk away

under castle buildings and trip down fire escapes still … jumping in afterthought puddles because it should mean something … i just can no longer remember what …

when minds run a race a race an inherent kleidoscope, when there >>> IS NO CONTROL … and you photon light and weaving through like light and i speak riddles in patterns that happen to form words ///some social construct and wouldn’t it be great if this were all one big lie, like one bad joke your neighbor, next door, down the hall, knows you not like i do he knows you not because he sees you /i s ee you more than s/he/it will ever hope to meet beacause i will never see your face

so once again this madness creeps up upon this right brain sentimentality-brutality-fantastical runt of the litter they call it >expression< to disassociate the i from the you and the social organism from this bloody menstrual cycling decay everyone wants to \plug up the hole/ with plastic and dysfunstion and darkness and poetry and i never said this hat shade was anything more than a tool to hide, not a social statement, not provocation .. this is who i am ... not an artistic license to kill, i am already diseased in this >art< death ... AIDS with a lesser cause for social deconstruction ... when you notice the beautiful blue of death as the cold creeps ... more than death itself, more than love, the patterns the colors the beauty the pain the art whore dying living breathing of it all on one

oh, the lows one sinks to when they’re bored with no end to this mountain of near-sighted, short-sighted obligations

when summer and a soft-spoken boy are a dream away …

over the strange sudden professor crush, had the nerve to call up adam again … why is it so hard to talk to him now? i’ve known him since i was 16.

i know the answer to this question(ing).

(in the context of the moments when I realized my purpose)
 Ever notice in a hallway how we often blink and smile, a pleasant, comfortable distance away. Maybe mumble salutations, a communication you acknowledge a presence but don’t often care of its absence. And I believe if I continue staring and keep the silence deafening it means more than a mumble.  You’ll remember the awkward and uncomfortable. I desire to convey a piece of this veracity, to form an introspection on their pain-staking details, their poignant emotions.  Maybe I knew it in a dream or in those strange moments that only shimmer as a piece of broken glass.  This flash is so concentrated, the profound reality so raw, I cannot ignore its potential.  I wonder if my harsh convictions are a warning for the bare skin of my consciousness to be cautious with my vulnerability, but I cannot turn away from the glare, step around, obey what this maternal safety blanket tells me: I shouldn’t stare into the sun. Perhaps I could squint at it through a reflection, a forgotten reminiscence, yet I know this is not enough. I can’t ignore and look away even if I wanted to. I must continue to stare at those unknown spaces between distances that seem to catch insecurity and vulnerability as a flash of sunlight. Realize there’s more expression in an empty alleyway and bare skin bleeding than the calculated lines of insecurity. I must lay down defenses and maybe stare a little longer in silence even if I don’t understand right away. Perhaps, it will spark a reaction of a moment in a memory when I disobeyed my mother just once; felt the adrenaline run like children through an alley; decided to wear that old, torn and faded shirt instead of sterile white because it meant something to me—even if it seemed like poverty to some. Have to remember not everyone can appreciate blank spaces and faded lines—the unparalleled meaning beneath.  So they close their eyes and walk past . . . mumbling. . . . I will never be one of those.
When I think of this, my mind is initially blank, then images slowly surface like a reflection forming as ripples settle in a pool of water
I want to alter perception in a way, not necessarily “make a difference or change the world, be unique.”  I believe the existence of an altered perspective, the existence of a mind that questions, is already a change, an evolution of a kind or the concretization of a possibility.  If it exists it has already side-stepped “making and trying” and gone to the product, but change is an inherent element to the product, for human’s perception is forever in limbo.
given this, I feel my art needs to have an aspect of time to it, it seems things that are commonly produced or created have a singular aspect to them, as if we are constantly trying to pick out points in time/reality and present it as a single, crucial event, snapshotting our lives into strobe-like segments, and then expect others to get what we do out of these moments.  Is there a way to show the timeline and give a sense of the impending next moment as it is in reality? — both the single moment in time and the inevitable next that makes it all a universal continuum that is the essence of what time is, showing constant movement into some unknown variable.  How can one side step the seeming default of a beginning and an end without getting the “strobe effect? ”
when I think of passion, it isn’t singular like, “I am passionate about nature, or animals or family or sculpture?”  When I think of this, it is a culmination of diminutive images that I take for granted but they still seem to linger, rising up from my watery consciousness:
waving my hand across wind chimes hanging from a mailbox and hearing the musical resultant of my action, and Wesley, seated next to me in the car, saying, “You rarely find wind chimes that are pitched to perfect harmony like that.”  I realize he is hearing and seeing something I probably never will.
obsessively rearranging things in my room and realizing I’m more concerned about the break-up of space then the things in the room—that I want to build shapes on the ceiling and protruding from the walls to satisfy my need for a certain kind of spatial aesthetic.
the glowing of lights on street corners, how light reflections and patterns are often not noticed because we are so used to seeing them and are visually dependent on light source for everyday activity.  I remember someone telling me that is all we see, light reflections and interactions bouncing off each other, off people and objects.  I remember in physics class, the light graphs we would do, isolating and giving labels to the situations to make it easier.  My teacher would always tell us without isolating the activity of light we’d never be able to understand the concept; it would be too complex of a graph to draw.  And my mind would imagine light rays of all colors interacting and reacting off each other, I thought of the impossibility of this task and the necessity of it.  How sound has this kind of interaction as well.
But because of inherent properties of light, sound, space, time, they are visually almost invisible, sometimes more neglected than anything else.  What materials would have these properties, be able to show the density of activity, but also have that translucent quality, something easily missed?

>>i wrote this when i was seventeen, too. i’m twenty now and things haven’t changed; they’ve just grown deeper, like the roots of the tree, feeding the leaves so that one day at least some part of itself will reach the sunlight above …

http://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/

a: i need that mattress by this weekend. you will bring it for sure?

mother: oh, you don’t need a mattress, i thought you were making a window.

a: i am making a window …

mother: well, if you’re just using the bed as a symbol, get some blankets and pillows and put them in a pile and that will be enough …

a: what?! i can’t do that. that would ruin the entire concept, the whole metaphor, the whole integrity of the piece would be destroyed. will you help me or not?

mother: oh, why do you need a mattress? mother, mother, annika wants a mattress to make an art piece … (mutual laughter in the background)

i promptly hung up on her, split-second furious. it made no sense to me to explain further. i have to have the coils to a mattress and i have to tear apart a real mattress to get those. i have to build the hole; i have to build the structure around the hole. that’s the point. that’s the window, that’s the breach, the metaphor worm hole … without this it is only a mattress … without this it is only a hole in a mattress.

i must be crazy

*sigh* there is a void where context ceases to be admitted …

as i said to adam, “whenever i think of a book lying on my floor, splayed open, pages slipping between fingers, the explosion of language, so latent, so calm and demure on my floor, i say to myself, goddamn books are sexy.”

(these all need editing badly: run-on sentences, repetitive language in places, but the ideas are sharp anyhow)

wow. fuck me in the ass and call me christopher. i just might ACTUALLY be content for once. how or why i’m not sure, i think words from people have most to do with this. i drew diagrams and tickings from matresses all day, yet i haven’t been this serene in MONTHS … hmmm, sex didn’t have anything to do with it either.

i baffle myself sometimes …

no madness poetry as of late … apophenia sleeps … language is secondary …

i am working