Friday, April 13, 2012

On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.


One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.


Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/


Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,

It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.


ViolaNut said...

1) You're awesome.
2) Was it Oscar Wilde who said, while dying, that either he or the curtains would have to go?

Cruella Collett said...

1) Well, reading back a few posts (including this one), I believe we can at least ratify the following: I am weird.
2) I have absolutely no idea, but since you are saying it I'm willing to believe it. It pains me that the curtains stayed. (Here too, and soon I will go. But not in that fashion, hopefully. More like, home.)

Mary Aalgaard, Play off the Page said...

Goofy, but funny.

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