Postmodern Divination [21 Dec 2009|08:11pm] faeshale I, miniscule, stand: fulcrum, nadir, crossroads, nowhere space. Futurist historian; post-humanist, jaded literati, reading narrative runes, (silly bones) skeptic speck on the back of infinity, riding alternate waves of light and un-light (specifically not darkness) self - less - ness: dissolution, conveniently sufficient to take on divine nomenclature. Anti-thesis, adverse response: too much language, too little to speak; autism born of the Holy, if. If Response, query: Function derived from form, creation without design, except what comes to the reader, writing. I, the stuff of nonsense, fail to stand, fail to know "standing", to stand, knowing no thing: is knowable knowable? Narrative stretch, limbs wound, tight upon themselves. Structure insurmountable, total only within itself whispers doubt: essential? Nothing. Is this, too, knowledge? Narrative, inescapable: forgivable? Toss the bones, fictive, rattling; cast history into winds, scatter the pieces... Read in language, letterbox, sacred forms, made to order. Plethora! Answers abound, numerous as contexts, real as distant stars. 1 Bitch| Bitch here

Can't Sleep, Brain Numb... [14 Dec 2009|12:38am] faeshale Exam, first thing in the morning, stupid early. I can't sleep worth a damn. Galaxies explode in my head, the depth of space tumbles in on me. I travel, in my mind, vacillate between quanta and witness explosions so large the earth doesn't notice them: I live in the realization of a Universe so vast and infinitesimal that mere simultaneity simply does not exist, not incomprehensible, no. Merely beyond the range of something as discrete as visualization or language. Math can put it in a symbol, but that's sortof cheating, isn't it? Nothing is conveyed. I lie down, try not to toss or turn, staring at the infinite depths behind my eyelids. It isn't quite dreaming, but it has that sliding quality; sleep is a frozen river, flowing beneath a frozen shell I can not for the life of me break through. I get up, turn on my laptop. For the sake of my GPA, I write in the hopes that some flow will break the ice, and the current will finally drag me under... Awake, I resist sleep; asleep, I hesitate to wake. I don't want to miss anything, don't want to give up these precious minutes in which I am alive. I suppose when I am awake, I fear death, and while I sleep I don't have to worry about it. Does my subconscious know something I don't? By definition, I suppose it does. The subconscious is trustworthy. It doesn't lie, merely correlates, perhaps receives some comforting message the waking mind is too terrified to receive. Maybe I'm God, when I'm sleeping. Maybe I'm unafraid. Not true - I have night terrors, sometimes. Topher wakes to find me sitting up, shaking, worried without my eyes open. I am grateful he's there, keeping me safe when I'm unable to reassure myself, when all my tricks and blocks and rationality are absent, when all that's left is the raw, unprocessed horror. Those are the zombie nights, the inevitability nights. Those are the nights when I know, with cold precision, the futility of the struggle. Civilization falters, crumbles in the hands of the same multitude from which it sprang, and all history becomes again obscure. The emergent principles of the rational mind dissolve like sugar under absinthe, sensible only to some terrible God who'll swallow it whole, a momentary madness in which to write mad poetry. These are my dreams. They flow. I am dreaming now, as I write them. Thoughts slide, but sleep won't follow yet. Maybe by the time I finish this. The worst part about my fears, the thing that can not be drunk away or thought through or gotten over, is the terrible clarity of them. My fears are fears of the mind; the only cure is madness, willful blindness, not seeing with purpose. Inevitability, frustration, futility. I see it every day, in miniature, in faces full of blindness, in eyes devoid of cognizance. This is no mere idiocy; it's much more profound than that. I recall a word for my condition: Saturnine. To see is to fear, to know is to tremble. If you aren't just a little wild with mad terror, you aren't really seeing it. The Vastness of it all, the beautiful sky, just a little too much to bear, not a weight-bearing structure. It is in the weight of the clouds, their microscopic immensity. To think, all the water in the world rises out of the oceans and the earth, to hover, to fall away over the whole expanse of entire continents. These clouds are titans, they are huge, they weight more than the cities over which they fly and onto which they fall. They are cities in the sky, storms as big as nations, miles above our heads. We barely notice them. They are nothing. They are flecks of spittle, sticking to the walls of our tiny spheroid. There are clouds the size of galaxies, explosions so massive that they render our whole solar system into the tiniest of sparks. There are human beings who've never left the radius of a few city blocks, a handful of square miles in and endless ocean of horizons. Stars live and die over billions of years, and we see, at best, a distant glimmer for a handful of decades. If this doesn't terrify you, just a little, you are happily blind. I feel bad for you, envy you a little, hope you find solace in your God, your certainty, your apathy, your contentment. Ironic, I find solace in the same stars that terrify me. In the stupid, milling chaos of the tiny world, there is some comfort to be taken in those distant stars; the hypnotizing wonderment that comes over me as I look up, pick a star, travel in my mind along the distance from here to there. The silence, total, is breathtaking. The cold is enthralling. That same sense of scale which is the source of my nightmares lends me, in these moments, the cool, soothing, calm of relative perspective. Inasmuch as anything I do matters, it is only in the context of my own, tiny life, and the tiny lives of those who know me. There is nothing earth-shattering in my own rise and fall. My span is the breath of a generation, I am a dendrite, an organelle, in a being that spans a molten iron ball, spinning around a spark, undulating through a momentary whorl in a grand bonfire that spans a totality and burns at the speed of light. From here, I can look back and love, and understand what it must be like to love as a God would love, to feel sad as a God would feel sad; inasmuch as this tiny ball matters at all, it could only be in the context of itself. I smile. I sigh. I feel sleep coming. Space is my lullaby. Everything will be fine. Goodnight. Bitch here

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