PACKING

Today is my last day living where I have been living; but as far as I know I will continue to live after I leave this location; I am in good health, and in need of getting back into exercising. 7 roommates (including myself), guinea pigs, a dog, a cat; in a suburban neighborhood in Colorado. It is a beautiful, not a cloud in the sky, sunny day. Tomorrow I will teach a creative writing class then host an event called Symposium, (a poetry-music event), at a warehouse space; the event has been well promoted, and so, some kind of turn-out is expected. Symposium, like all great discussions requires a break-down in the concept of the telling-listening paradigm of speech, so that, all are on the same-footing of, and for, sharing – all are participants in the flow and exchange of information – information-flow becoming the basis for having a new experience; and a new experience implies a new awakening. But first, before all the details which contribute to the Symposium become illuminated and rise to the surface within the content of the body-cogitator, we must first (resemble) resume packing, until the utility of it no longer serves the image it portrays, we are the same thing only by the reality of how different this, isn’t, the same is as packing is packing not a simile of packing maybe until it is finished and again this newsflash-epsiode is in the past. There are intended breakdowns and there are unintended breakdowns. The intended breakdowns most always account for the impact, which they will have, an impact which cannot contain intended outcomes and affects/effects attached to the perception of the power of the outcome, otherwise the intended breakdown becomes too reasonable and falls into ideological thresholds of hallucinating-violence. We need the unknown, at minimal to undermine thresholds of attachment to provide a context for genuinely offering whatever is birthed.

Moving can bring the undead to the surface, the haunt: Adam&Eve’s unfinished ghosts, consumption has deteriorated the heart of humankind–however today I feel joyful. I look forward, I feel finished here. When I learn the lessons I need in the location I learned them in, the physical location also appears to dissolve with it; this, for me has become a constant that I feel empowered by. The present is un-deteriorated – and stories are exactly that, stories. Here is something which just now fell from my dissolving bookcase:

“nothing in graphic expression really corresponds to the uninterrupted linearity which is so typical of speech”: (because, perhaps talking is in regard of a form of its own ‘linearity.’) Word spaces, line endings, and pages are normal graphic conventions, which it is usually impractical to disregard. (But for the format of these documentations, I have a practical need to disregard these imposed conventions born from the simplicity of this format; (I’m sure there’s a way to have the spacings I need and want but I haven’t figured it out yet). The spiral of characters on the two sides of the Phaistos disc illustrates a continuously linear form. This terracotta tablet, about 16 cm in diameter, was found in Crete in 1908. Several characters are recognizable as parts of the body, animals, and tools), and interpretations of some sequences have been proposed, but the disc as a whole has not been deciphered.” When I first moved in here, to this room in this house, and when I originally was placing my books on this bookshelf, I was expecting a dear friend of mine to arrive that evening, (which she did), and I was full of excitement and anticipation. Now, I am also full of excitement and anticipation towards wherever it is that I’m headed, which I’m not too sure exactly where…except to stay in a friend’s basement for a period of time. But if it wasn’t for the time I had while I was here, living in this location, I might not have had the space I needed to have certain experiences that have brought me – here to this exact moment: “a fact or event in the changing perceptible forms as distinguished from the permanent ‘essences’ of things, as contrasted with their true or ideal being–an object of sense perception as distinguished from ultimate reality.”

We’re all trapped by the confines of the heart, whether it is seen, known, or experienced is another matter–until then most rattle against the cage or remain huddled in the corner. But to remain in the center, relaxing, breathing into the helplessness, and then communicate. That’s a lot of space. That’s a lot of air with nothing to defend, protect, need to correct, Seeing as the only utility of perception’s many colors; extending medicine as obviously applicable. Watching the rest, while. I’m listening to Armin van Buuren, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EAgVMzmsVo ; somewhat hokey, regardless, it’s necessary listening during packing, as it is true, the balance of concealment and revelation that blank spaces evoke has a substantial history in the development of the relative-truth of the current geo-global paradigm encompassing the earth. Of course those spaces, will eventually have to be experienced, and retrieved into the human psyche as paramount to the defining forces on how to behave with the planet, each-other, as also extending into the brain of the political-sphere, neurologically providing a context for economic utility–and the synchronicity of physiological maneuvers would resemble less of a machine and more of a function found in nature. But of course, at this moment, this is science fiction, and yet there is direction for the evolution of consciousness. “Riots are the voice of the unheard” – Dr. Martin Luther King jr.

The dyslexic’s brain is actually, physiologically a different brain than the non-dyslexic. Where we don’t make distinctions is indicative of what we understand, what we don’t understand is indicative of a necessity for distinction, there is a non-distinction providing an awareness for a necessary distinction – but indeed it is stemmed from understanding. There is of course, non-distinctions coming from non-understanding but that is only indicative of what isn’t understood, and therefor, is a distinction of the unconscious, because once it is known where the unconscious distinction was made, it becomes known that there simply was a misunderstanding on the part of the person who was making a distinction by-not-understanding; again then, we return back to no-distinction as understanding, always with the ability, and never abandonment towards, making a distinction for the necessity of context, but without a need to make a distinction between a distinction made for a context and no-distinction ever made for anything; as understanding. We must oscillate between these poles, or our live would be unordinary and therefor resemble the object of a bypass; the cut out of a process and only exposing the insides of a thing – as a replacement for being the thing itself. It’s easy to see the lack of clarity on these subjects, as what is being exposed and what is exposed are already exposures of themselves, so we are already the product of our economics of our environment. Except of course, we can look at the non-existant bathroom mirror inside our own non-exposed cogitator(s).

I must continue packing.

black tea, cell phone on,
star-man in a box, music
soon unplugged, it’s

hot in here, if this
isn’t light, then what was the
stone on the heart of

her misery, drums
kick in, already had lunch–
I’ve been gaining weight,

a train in the back
ground of identity’s room
will continue to

whistle but without
a tree to hear it, it will–

while downstairs they are making music. Guitar, a roommate, and piano and bass, his bandmates. His band, pop-rock, I suppose has a place, but the noises of its congruency cause an agitation, yet of course all sounds have a place, including sounds that have been commercialized to death and have risen from the grave as undead sound perpetuating the discourse of its perpetrator and oppressor; commercialization itself. I am in my room, books stacked in crates, a mess of which, to say the least, is familiar to many people. And the sounds of this undead music are surrounding every movement and the mechanism of breathing; not such a bad complaint considering the infinite available at any given moment, similar to how, at the drop of perception a new one emerges and can commingle with any of the prepositions as it wishes–all we must do is place attention on a doorknob and let the rolls unfold–a smile cuts through the nihilism of the Cartesian enterprise. I smile, but never compromising the awareness I possess. Of course you can imagine, time is ticking, and I need to continue packing.

Here to give you this before I breathe out again: as inseparable extension of our perceptions, and where perceptions are devoted for attending. As the locality of such, would also have to consist of a degree in which perceptions may remain fluid, enough space within a space between society’s current departmentalizations; a place of removal without removed-from, as reflection is a distance as is a power–even if starving. But then to talk about it, to converse on it, that would bring and fill consciousness into that/those spaces (synchronic), and its value use, education to peering into the depth faculties of perception(s), and where they are dwelling, but more importantly to identify the source from which they are helplessly, fluidly, emerging. To rest:
sugar, enriched bleached flour (bleached wheat flour, niacin, iron, thiamine mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid), cocoa (processed with alkali), partially hydrogenated vegetable shortening (contains soybean oil), contains 2% or less of : salt, artificial flavor, corn starch, leavening (baking soda). Contains wheat. University of Utah seismologists have discovered a reservoir of hot, partly molten rock hidden 12-28 miles beneath Yellowstone’s super-volcano. Have you ever been in a kitchen with a roommate who is taking the kitchen as if it were a place to wield a energetic force, so dominatingly, that it’s clearly the suffocation of his or her gravity? It’s very shallow, extremely serious, and indicative of a inner need for space. What the details of that are, are only for speculation until revealed; like her mom being in jail and her 28 year-old-brother dating a 19 year old stripper who has slept with at least 3 people since they became married last August.

Finally all the major stuff is in the garage. I got some stuff with me that I find valuable up until the moment I move, a meditation cushion, my bed, the clothes I’m wearing, a box of books that I want with me, (I always love having at least one box of books with me). I don’t know if I’ll ever really get rid of everything, strip down to a backpack and completely submerge into the wandering lifestyle that requires only the day-to-day interactions with the characteristics of momemnt-to-moment contents constituting all necessary things I would need; it’s possible my life will not unfold in that direction, but who knows. Friend says: “my mom needs new things, like deep down that’s who she is, but when she settles for a relationship…she’s a great person in so many ways, and maybe it would work if she would communicate more, or if, she were open to communication more, but she’s settling for him on his stubbornness, for just, like living, so…oh I don’t know.” Soon I’ll get into the hot-tub, (we have a hot-tub here), it will be the last time I’ll be in the hot-tub here as a resident, so I want to enjoy that, and afterwards, once my hair dries, (I have a lot of hair), I will shave my head. Shaving my head helps me demarcate what was, and what is now, and I’m looking forward to the future, and again, being with the process of my hair growing back. “I don’t really need to continue to talk about it anymore,” she says.

i am not afraid
of dialing a call for
hearing the space an
answer provides the
sky doesn’t lean on its side
the ruthless-ness of
clouds, not fooling our
selves as we don’t stop
because we can’t till
our hearts actually do, and
yet, look and see how
to relate answers
as a breadth of weather, the
names of air exhale
anyway inhale, I’m
not a smoker

but they are, and she was rattling on about her mother, and I was rattling on about their music and how it doesn’t make music but it makes an expectation of sensation I am ‘suppose’ to feel, and in that way, my sensations are riding the corresponding ridges and valleys of their music, as if my experience were the fulfillment of their musical discourse, none of which is peripatetic, only a resemblance, a simulation of the peripatetic, we all have the nervous system to experience the genuine and authentic realities of the peripatetic in ourselves, or as provided by the world; but the whole point of a simulation is to simulate what is real, so that, it uses the same neurology that is familiar to the genuine and authentic reality, but this time, it’s a simulation and not the real thing. The social-need of simulation acts as a reflection of a world that is in dire need to be met there, and there are those places in which people do need the world to meet itself there, and it is a reflection of our times–so a machine can impose upon a feeling as a function for what its intention was made for, to cause a self-fulfilling prophecy of its own discourse; machines are reliable they become what we are. We: already its product. It takes a willing-participant, a tired, and night-life-driven participant to fulfill the function of the workability of the machine. It’s okay. It is a reflection of the weakened-standards of our time–light shines through for the ones who are dialed into that moment when, as part of the encasing of what music has to offer. I have to say I am feeling quite relieved I won’t have to hear this music within the immediacy of my coming environment; if I were a pin and they were a balloon, I would pop it, but I am respectful of course, of course, very respectful–but music feels as dead as death is when it’s all dead and done and there’s nothing worth talking about but the good old days–dead. The sounds used in today’s music a simulation of a potential authentic experience. But it’s okay, I’m moving out of here tomorrow, and I can appreciate my roommate’s music from a distance, instead of from my room.

In general I enjoyed living here. 7 roommates, 2 guinea pigs, a cat, and a dog, somehow it was all very cordial, except of course the intense stress that would emanate from the kitchen, during which, I would often feel I was about to be shouted at, or, to at least begin preparing being strangled to death by the intensity of its thick-suffocating silence. Have you ever felt tension like that before or from another person in the environment? Shucks. For the most part, all has been good here.

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