expansionistic intimacy
��������� �����a geomagnetic storm is slated to smack into earth soon.it was a waking life night tonight - since i bought the dvd, i had not yet watched it -
thoughts are snapping out of me like rubberbands. i am becoming overly critical of words, instead of the spillage i usually have; it becomes a sporadic guttering of vengeful philosophy. the collective unconsciousness. the "grid" and the "mind of god" being an enormous Oort Cloud of raw energy which disseminates itself (randomly, predestinated?) through the lines of the grid, which tense like muscle fibres, and explode into us. the way in which we interpret these: religion, love, grief, apathy: perhaps this is when satori exists, the moment it hits, we are suddenly aware, as in, in a lightning flash, the room is suddenly brilliantly illumined, all in harsh bas-relief. the fourth dimension is not time, it is the grid, the collectivity of all humans, and perhaps animals, and being aware of it, the community and subsequent rawness of all of our selves, run by massive amounts of energy & electricity -
which are only particles pushed around by the invisible fingers of god, or their own entropy, or perhaps god made electrons in his image as well and so they have their own electronomorphic sensibilities, and free will of their own even though every revolution around the nucleus is predestined, every winking out of their respective "lives" has already been charted, and when they go out, so do we -
like a serial circuit, life is the electricity which barrels through our (closed) circuit bodies. if one goes out, the rest eventually follow. and so life is one big power outage, slowly, each cell shutting down, and our hearts, our BRAINS are powerplants, generators of electricity to continue the erratic flow?
i've believed in this "grid" theory for some time, now. it's my deistic-schismatic-gnostic sort of idea of things. no demiurge to hold the veil of time before our eyes, that everything is only one instant (or 50 BC, whichever) masked by this malevolent curtain of illusion, to keep us from the realisation that christ is coming - but rather ourselves, holding up that denial, a constant expression of our faith in the abstract unreality, the fact that we cannot, as beings which are powered by the same thing as lightning is, face the fact that we are GOING OUT.
tennessee williams wrote "for nowadays the world is lit by lightning!" i say that we are all lightning, lighting the world in brief spurts, explosive like inspiration - if all i am and all we are amass to the giant brain of god or some other person in another universe, then i, as that particle, am in the process of being. it doesn't matter what form -
everything is energy. i believe we are all interconnected, through our minds, through our spirits - whatever you want to call it. a kinship that we, as humans, cannot fully interpret, and so, we bury it under layers of flesh and tangibility - tongue and sound, sound being another language to interpret energy with, particles & waveform -
( - i think - )
second night - or third, if you're counting final dress - of macbeth. after this happens, there will be eventually a new crushing of time, brought on by romeo & juliet. i'll be very happy to act again. i'm looking forward to getting to do some shakespeare, rather than just call his cues. not to mention i'm plunging into writing this full-length play and toying with my one-act (which lindsey higgins is kind enough to mount as a production in the spring, with two actors - ) to rework it. etcetera. it will be ... an intriguing year.
all this hubbub about the "harmonic convergence" on november eighth. all this occultism recently. the death of autumn, first snow the day or so ago, cold flurries attaching greedily to my warmth and then overtaking, melting themselves. suicidal snowflakes, who rush too heedlessly to a still warm ground - all of this "converging" and ... dissertation on universal themes. late at night on deja vu theories, surfing on the exalted waves of five a.m. ...
empty glass soda bottles & the dauntless night surging against our closed windows. michaela, corey. the disintegrating memory of her giving him a massage, fingers kneading skin and relaxation in his exhalations. i tie it to the sensation of seren's ridiculously tight hugs, as though she's trying to evince sincerity from me like a sponge, wringing it lemony-squinting from my surprised eyes. i'm getting used to it. her candid face, blond short hair and blue eyes. a brusque, laugh-tinted way of talking that's nearly musical, and cheeks which lend themselves to reddening in the cold temperatures. a neck that lends itself to a woolen scarf. quick, hunched strides with an unimpeachable smile on her face.
ink all over the back of my hands and down my arm. a product of artistic boredom in the dim light booth tonight, during a long scene with no cues.
i feel a certain twinge of jealousy surging around the carousel of my brain. recalling the scene with ethan hawke and the french girl in bed. quiet, in the morning hours, comforter wrapped around them as they eagerly discuss philosophy. airs of comfortable familiarity - something i try to gouge out of people i know and always end up hurting them instead, for reasons of sheer anger and frustration.
during the movie, i wrote:
"love is the manifestation of our frustration to express our uniquely human loneliness."