Tuesday, August 17
Over time I took on a primitive understanding of their various dialects and idioms. They allowed me to participate in their conversations of creation and other high things, talking late into the night. They believed in a way of doing things that was unified amongst them. They made every effort to assist each other. They had a focused understanding of right and wrong. I felt foolish for ever thinking them vulnerable.
Through years of study with the masters I developed a keen insight into their way, able to speak fluently with them and conceive their method. I began helping them in their commitment to advance and create and they embraced me and always answered my questions quickly, in every possible way. They would speak as separates, all at once, one at a time and without making a sound.
Rambling #1
I drink a lot more coffee these days. I smoke a lot more cigarettes too. I would prefer to just quit but these are the sort of things that happen many times throughout the day. Like eating. Which I don't seem to get a chance to do as much as I'd like. These are the true killers. The way we do things every day. Rituals. Like brushing our teeth a certain way. Leaving the same spot unbrushed. That's what kills us. Not brushing those spots.
Rambling #2
I'm listening to Miles Davis. I have a lot of his music in my collection but I almost never listen to it. Music requires a certain state of mind in order to work. This is the state of Miles. Dim, warm lights catching gleams in polished woods and smooth, flowing fabrics. Clean air with wisps of trailing smoke swaying melodically. Steady music. The kind you only play when youre a part of many things and left alone to acknowledge them.
Rambling #3
I remember when writing used to involve pencils and papers. Now I make light clicking sounds with my fingers and widen my eyes before a glowing cube. My words, grammar and layout are altered as I click by an autistic genius capable of an infinite collective of tasks. My glowing genius can not reflect on the qualities of my word. Pencils have minds of their own. They press too hard and break. They draw off the lines. They scribble thoughts along the sides of papers. They are not accountable to your words and offer their own freely. A pencil is worth a thousand words.
Yeah so im a super-cool married dude now eh. sweet. I'd post a link to some pics er somethin.. but no.
