a cheeky wee monkey (consumption) wrote,
a cheeky wee monkey

As soon as I start writing something that even remotley starts to sound beautiful to me I immediately erase and begin stream of consciousness sorts of rambles the breaks are self-consciousness and the pauses carefully arranged white noise everything that comes from the television in the other room mixes with the music from my speakers and the sound of my fingers hitting keys and television-noise somehow always ends up sounding as if two lukewarm slugs were fucking like maniacs

Broken up by these long pauses I started this entry 11minutes ago

I always seem to end up here if I come home for the night, no matter what I've been doing all day. I can all get lost in however many lives my imagination can handle, the distinction is "validity"

I had a feeling today about meeting someone, a particular feeling about sharing something, even if only for half a second of eye contact. Steering information around a human network. Not by speeches and philosophy or even spoken/written language at all, but by our ridiculously complex set of "unconscious" or "involuntary" movements. Twitch of a finger, thigh, scratching motions, assorted forms of fidgeting, facial expressions. Many people have no real concept of their own facial expressions beyond a sort of "happy, sad, mad" trilogy - elaborations on a single theme. This very specific body language is ridiculously more efficient at spreading information than written/verbal language and the newly emerging visual/symbol languages
it's not consciously processed
which renders it currently useless to skin encapsulated egos

I'd like to think of writing as if it were sculpture. There is noise, and by subtraction you slowly carve away pieces of it in different shapes until it is revealed a pearl of yourself, crapped out like a kidney stone onto the page.

But I had a different feeling today about meeting people for those brief moments of contact. Sometimes they are the blink of an eye and sometimes they stretch out for weeks, months, years. The shorter have their poignancy and the longer have depth. We speak poetry for a few moments and then jump behind the curtain again.
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