Thought Experiments

They are wonderful.  The down side is they can lock you up with inaction.  They can make you distant and untouchable.  They can make you a perpetual daydreamer.  They are not real.  They can bring you to a place, after running over every possible iteration of futures and their trees and branches, nothing will be able to surprise you.  Not now, not ever.  Everything becomes old faster than you can possibly age without introducing performance enhancing drugs to your body's ability to restore itself.  Nothing will ever surprise you if you go down the road.  Why choose?  Take every fork in mind.   Every fork.  And the forks beyond them and beyond them too.  Die 200 deaths, live 200 lives.  Imagine them all!

The up shot is, 24 iterations out, you may land upon a world that is in perfect tune and natural balance so incredible to be immediately discredited.  Upon review, it revolves, it sits still, it moves only when touched, and it's gravity is its own and its poles its own.  You explore and find an object or idea that defies everything you knew and live in and is contained within itself in eternum.  You stumble upon a number that is a number and not at once.  A quantity unquantifiable.  A thing, brought 24 levels backward in to your three dimensional time locked existence, that will vanish the moment you return home.  An idea that only exists in that space.

So hunt.  Hunt!  Thought experiments are wonderful.  Yes, many things will not surprise you.  Many things in your "now" will lose their luster and zest, but should you come upon that perfectly imbalanced mirror sphere that only spins counterclockwise that turns the universe if you attempt to put your fingertips or tongue on it to make it move clockwise because gravity and space time need not apply at the door you have to exit before entering, they are worth it.  Every second.  Every minute.  Every hour in dreams.




///The Cure - "Burn"

That Instant

you have to remind yourself to protect your eyes because you only get two and one is for fuck ups and the other one is for "oh fuck!" and spending both at once is unacceptable.

That Instant

you know you will have to call on your sixth gear and you do not want to have to.

That Instant

you realize the one of your many incarnations has come home and the rest shout "It's the master!!!" and you say "step in time."

Rest Is A Cocoon

As we rest and breath over past and history and details.  Knowing more.  Growth is a strong word.  More like molting.  Showing that you have not died.  Showing that the fire, though about you and your skin and your nerve and eating through the marrow of your bone, has birthed, not consumed, you.  In love again.  The moon drives past my house real slow.  I howl out of the window, a scarf around my neck.




///Gold Panda - "Fifth Ave"

Origins

What fascinates me the most was his unwillingness to let me in.

At every turn there was a guard and I got tired of trying to break them down.  It became a fools errand.

I am disappointed in him.  A child should never have to reach a point where it is forced to scorch away it's parent.  I still get the chucks even admitting that I have a father.  Thirty one and seven years out to open life and it's boggling.  When I finally grew enough to understand that he couldn't break me, he didn't want to discuss why we got to that place in the first.  I won't say I'll never be able to understand it, but he made it clear, many years my senior and able to make decisions on a much more vast scale, that he would never come to the table to view my entire history objectively.

"Where are you from?"  I will never know.  I can speak on it, but I will never be granted 360 degree vision.

"What were you before you entered citizenship?"  I will never know.  It's all hearsay from my siblings and I believe them because they would not lie to me.

"Where is he now?"  Rotting, I hope.  I'm waiting for him to die.  I won't be any better for it, I certainly won't be any worse.  I will be better.  The questions will have answers then.  The "I" will be dotted, the "T" crossed, and the pain inflicted, the trauma, accounted for.  The books closed.

"Given the opportunity, would you kill him?"  Yes.

"Why will you not have an audience with him?"  When I reached my own voice and understood I was an individual, he would not have an audience with me and it went on for five years and I had to stop taking refusals because it made me want to kill myself.  I will never return to that state.

Everyone talks big about love.  Demons.  Addiction.  Religion.  Shan and shan.  It's not all bullshit.  I tried my best to love and care for him.  I don't know why he heeled me to the curb at near incalculable turns (I've faded some memories because I couldn't deal with them so they are dungeon locked and will remain that I may live).  I don't want pity.  I don't want his love.  I don't want his ire.  I don't want to hear his voice.

I wanted him to let me in.  His resistance and fortress will be a mystery until the day he dies.  I may go to his funeral to hear the eulogizers put his unsung thoughts on wax.  Not for closure; to get a view into what was behind those brown eyes.  Rose tinted?  Of course.  I can parse with terrible efficiency.

He was the first iron giant I ever knew.  Scaled up to city proportions. I learned not to fear him when I realized I became one.  I've chosen to use my bones differently.  When I reach through the atmosphere, waste is not laid to communities and vessels.  Virus does not spread.  The horsemen do not ride at once.  I'm not ashamed to have been born.  I'm not ashamed to have come from a fire and furnace.  I'm baffled as to the why.  That's all.  I've asked for many things through my life, is it too much to ask for straight answers from your point of origin?  In this world, half created, half designed, the answer will always be yes.

Original equipment manufacturer fail.





///Thom Yorke- "The Clock"

That Instant

you realize yourself and your father probably would have been very good friends had you been born by another and met off hand on Staten Island, age difference accounted for.  Enough in common and enough apart to be able to enjoy one another and argue happily til the sun went down and jog and spar and spit at one another and open doors and windows by force and hear voices til the sun came up.

You realize your birth cramped his style as much as his efforts to raise you cramped your own and you understand everything happened too close and too cramped.

And you realize there is still furious anger and distilled righteousness in both veins and arteries to ever get to a place where you can see him without having to move ten feet away to not attempt to tear his esophagus out of his throat with your fingernails.