Sunday, December 13, 2009

Brain Cake

Get out of bed and face the day. Don't linger. Go out. Be fruitful and multiply how many footsteps between here and the closest cafe times the closest quiet cafe times taking the bus or subway.  
Dreaming man process, it's all process. That's the beauty of Internet; there's infinite space to organize and save text and image. It's perfect for someone who loses things in the clutter and chaos at home. Although, as material piles up on the site, it too could get lost and chaotic.

I'm working on a bunch of stories, some of them finished, some in early phases and will find a way to present bits here and there. It takes time. There's no rush. It comes out of the experience of being in a body that has to eat, sleep and wear clothes. In order to keep expenses down, I live in an economical, basement apartment, with pipes hanging below the ceiling, carpets that should have been replaced years ago and mildew where moisture leaks in during heavy rain or from melting snow. When one has a job, one could afford better lodging. However, the working man or woman has little time to make pictures or texts. It's the classic trade off: live modestly, in cramped, unpleasant quarters, in exchange for free time, or get a job, live comfortably, but have very little free time.

The bedroom is overheated. The furnace comes on at night, as the temperature drops outside and blasts the room with heat, like exhaust fumes from a transit bush. It becomes hot as a heatwave in July. I wake up choking and sweating. During the day, the apartment cools off as the temperature outside rises.

I alternate between three rooms: the tiny kitchen, the bedroom/office and the front room. I sit at the desk, close my eyes and see metal planks, the kind of planks used in machine rooms, ships, boiler rooms and so on. The constant drone of the furnace is like being on a small plane, or on a boat, endless, monotonous, loud drone. I get seasick just listening to it. I'm listening to it right now. I often wear ear plugs.

My brain turns to cake, soft, dough, bloated with carbohydrates and stimulation. Dream whatever you like. Put on red lipstick and dream about peach pie and a happy home, the good old days, before the school of hard knocks beat the illusions out of dreaming men and dreaming women. Illusions were lost. The flat, gray world of the human condition appeared as infinite bleakness. 

There's no escape. One is on the highway leading from birth to death. Nobody will come to the rescue. You're on your own; sink or swim. Free, at last; free from expectations. The palace of imagination appears like a cake in the distance. Go ahead. Help yourself. And when you're done, there's peach pie with cream on top.


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