last night the computer was an ass

2003-02-07, 10:53 a.m.

im sitting in the stuffy second floor storage room, staring at the criss-cross spiderwebs glued to the starch whit walls. you can feel the air, full of dust and humidity, slipping down your throat; so you breath harder. looking out the window, oak trees loom over the impossibly green hills, and if you look right, its as though the room were rolling down the hillside.

vacantly, ive become accustomed to that incredible silence, where the ebb and flow of dust mites in the air passes for sound, i dont even hear the record player skipping the old vinyl record. clay pigeon thoughts, all of them, with nobody to shoot them into smoke and red snowflakes.

this is hilarious, how ive become my own experiment, and all i can say is i wish i had electrodes. to get the accurate information, i go to the breaking point just to measure desire, but ive returned to a state which is increasingly foreign. whether thats what i want or not, i have no clue, but im so drawn to the utter uniqueness of the experiment at hand. from it all, i wonder if an orange robe and a begging bowl may be the only posessions i have in 30 years.

light and collective memory may be the only posessions of my consciousness in 30 years, it never known until we experience it. that doesnt mean the world lacks prophets, because even by reading 100 year old books, anyone could see the patterns. we live on a quilt which we claim to be knitted anew every moment, and yet there is a pattern to each square thats just like the last. if i was sad about that, then i would forget about it, but the smiles continually form on my face; i bet i could find an equation for it, a pattern.