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27 March 2002 (Wednesday): stream of consciousness
I tried doing this once. I opened a word processing document on my computer and just started typing, without stopping, wondering what my brain would come up with as it scrambled to stay ahead of my steadily tapping fingers. It was kind of disappointing, really -- I always thought my neurons fired a lot faster than that, and with more intriguing interconnects between random subjects, but apparently the act of typing was so thought-consuming that I really had nothing to say. Like right now, I suppose. Ugh. How terribly unoriginal.
Though I did notice a trend when I kept it up long enough -- my thoughts always turned toward the morbid. I always ended up typing the words "darkness" and "death" and "pain." Interesting, slightly. (Does backspacing count? So long as I keep up this constant rhythm, a mostly-unswerving tempo of output or reverse-output -- which is not quite the same as input -- it still feels legitimate to me. Streams of consciousness should perhaps be spell-checked.)
So, on to death then. What happens? Okay, that's a stupid question, and at the same time the only question anyone can ask. (This is also one of the more interesting aspects of the don't-stop-typing exercise: a peculiar brand of censorship, in which I type dumb things and then stall by typing a sentence about how dumb that was.) Anyhow...
Conversations with Emmett, in particular, have always veered toward the macabre and perverse, especially as we start warming up to one another and tossing supposedly controversial queries in the other's direction. Enough so that we've got a running joke about how our talks always alight on three subjects: cannibalism, incest, and death. The incest bit is the most unnerving to the people I tell this to, apparently. I guess one isn't supposed to discuss incest frankly with one's sibling. Not that we ever came close to committing incest, mind you. But we'd ponder at length why it's such a taboo thing, and why despite that taboo -- or because of it? -- a small segment of the population feels drawn to it just the same. And we'd also mull over scenarios of what our relationship to one another would be if we weren't related. Best friends, still? Probably not. Friends? Likely? Would we find each other attractive? No, not really...and that's the strange thing, because really when it comes down to it, I think we're both seeking a "mate" with whom we can have the same comfort level as we do with one another.
I'm starting to cheat. Starting to pause and correct things further up the paragraph. It's too tempting.
All right. One last paragraph, with no cheating. I hereby exempt myself from any obligation to explain what the hell I'm talking about.
I'm running and I can't feel my feet just like I'm in the water and I can't breathe or is it that I can't speak? I can't hear, I can't feel...never could feel, maybe that was it? Maybe I never felt anything at all? What's dreaming except an illusion of feeling, of experiencing, regardless of what reality might be? What's life but a leap of faith that reality is what we say it is? Suppose I jumped off this cliff into a teeming waterfall below, tropical trees dancing a tribal ritual as I fell...suppose I was running...suppose I was...running...
posted by enjelani @ 09:58 PM PST
Replies: 1 comment
posted by loan quicken @ 03 11 2004 12:52 AM PST