Sorry for not having written to you ages ago. I was absolutely embroiled in a painstaking baking pan of studies, social scheming, and Netflix. Charred, in fact. But no I'm feeling good, feeling great, feeling great, feeling good.
Well, to be honest I was feeling like a limp, moldy sausage just two hours ago. Last night I left my house heater on. My actions were warranted. It was cold outside. Thirty degrees warmer today though, so I woke up sweating and I felt each cigarette I smoked last night as a fatty rock fragment. My lungs worked together as a rock tumbler. Oh, how I rattled! I mounted my bike and the seat pressed up against my tailbone and bowels...Should not have made all that French toast at 5:00 am before I went to bed. Pulling into work I suddenly realized my need to vomit. I ran straight back to the restrooms and threw up. How embarrassing. Immediately afterwards I then went outside with Josh and smoked a fag. Christ, why? I became so heavy in my limbo of queazy exteriority/interiority binary. I forgot to perform. I forgot my lines, so I sat down against a brick wall with my head bent forward. My head. The naming of the body parts creates a fiction and constructs the features themselves, fragmenting what was really once whole. Language, repeated over time, produces reality-effects that are eventually misperceived as facts.
In physics, so much is defined by what is lacking, or what might have been there one second but now has moved on in its course. The brick wall behind my back is none of the following: a summer breeze, a thick and fuzzy quilt, a point of reference to plot on a Poincare map. A brick wall is defined by time and space, that's why, and as much as I love Dali, this brick wall is quite rigid. It will never slump forward as I do on the ground. Only memory slumps forward. Ah! I hope that was not merely a false epiphany. False epiphanies. now that's a thought that's towering over me lately, especially since I have been smoking so much green. Do you like the color of this stationery? Personally, I'd rather it be more minty.
I have just returned from break. Smoked another fag (I feel so subversive when I use the word "fag" as a vice to suck and take a buzz from with my mouth). There is a nail salon adjacent to our building. A poster of feet painted, soaking in a bowl of water is taped onto the salon's window. A lotus rests on top on the woman's feet. A lotus steeping so the essence of non-attachment can be extracted and made ready to use by manufactured Bhagavad Gitas. What is with this obsession with being untouched, unstained? There is a constant fear of alien invasion. How do humans feel about symbiosis, really? Why go on perpetuating these pretended brick walls? Is it really that a clean room makes for a clean mind? How is a brick wall going to help us flow above the muddy water of attachment and desire, anyway?
I am in a room with thirty-seven computers. All large and black. Only four of them are in use right now. The rest look sad and obsolete. Their heads stretch far back, their screens, glass faces, bulb out with projections of lists, matrices, and prosaic colors. The fluorescent lights above refract at violent intensities. It's been four hours with this head set on my ears. Constant buzzing. Did you know that nature abhors a silence? So the earth makes music. In fact, music might be the first natural inclination.
There are no selves or entities. There are no brick walls, really. At its most rigid, the earth contains organelles such as the endoplasmic reticulum, chloroplasts, and mitochondria that breathe out our atmosphere. So nice to know that the earth is breathing for us. So, Dali was right, it turns out, and we're just paint melting under the sun. So what makes us so uncomfortable?
Love,
Marshall
ps: careful with all the malt liquor
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