All the uses of this world.

Go to http://www.inbflat.net.

There is something about a song as a work of art that takes it beyond any physical types, such as paintings or sculpture, at least in a sense. When a person sings or plays a previously written song they are able to create new meaning from something already existent. This occurs just as easily whether the song is one's own or was written by another. And even if it is sung by the one who wrote it, who did so with a particular meaning in mind, when it is later performed it can have some entirely separate meaning when it again courses through one's body. And it's doing so from something that already exists and was created with a particular meaning attached to its authorship. The same song's elements can exist in many forms. So I like to find the elements I might draw from that website and its song, if I may call it that. I would certainly recommend giving it a try.

And there is something about the way one person breathes, and how its meaning is affected by the breath of those surrounding. The gestures and their implicit, or explicit, meanings that are given by one person may be received in an entirely separate manner from what is intended. And, if received at all, they may then be imitated. The same gestures, but with a removal of primary meaning, refitted with something else that is completely unsuggested by the origin. This is a recurring idea that I have grazed over, but there are deep, misty workings that take place in what people give to one another, much more than the simple gaze.

Jude / Thaddeus.

In a twistedly esoteric manner, this is related to this. No, really, I mean that.

I was talking anecdotal analogies with someone I know. The philosophical kind, of course, because what else would I do, right? I don't watch What Not To Wear and I don't watch LOST, so other things have to be made up instead.

We were thinking of a person who, since birth, has no self-consciousness; that is, their mind never registers the sensations its physical body receives. The person's mind does think and, presumably, the body senses, but it never connects with the mind's functions. What would such a person and their thoughts be like? Perhaps a very certain blank and unquestioning understanding. It would seem that a person's imagination is only made up of things, or combinations of things, that they have already experienced. And if this is the case, then a (solely) mental image can not exist. One might think, well, but of course you are using your imagination to think of this person--but that is just it. We were cobbling together the negatives of our experience.

What does that tell us but, among other things, that perhaps it is our tendency to think of things outside of our own experiences, and sometimes even to desire them. And only through the edges of experience. Knowing them as impossibility.* With us, yes, but with this person there would be no desirous hopefulness, no expressive language, no ethics, no revolutions.

They were clouds in my coffee.

The thing I love about breakfast foods is everything.

And he whispered fear is logical.

(This is voyeuristic, I know, so I apologize, but) someone I know told another I know that everything they do matters.

This is true. Every single one is helping us find our meaning in everything they do. It should be given well then, I think, since you are so valuable. But there are people shaking hands, or sitting down, or having tea, these things sometimes conducted towards an unknown rhythm that no one dares to sing. Pretending, but pretending not to be.

This is what cities are made of, it seems. But now I'll always sit insistent on finding the nothingness beneath whatever it is that's covering up. That nothingness is real, and its meaning, though quickly pulled into shadows, is always there to be seen. If there are objects, actions, expressions, even if evasive, there is meaning beneath them (and I apologize, you know, the original statement made by someone I know to another I know did not have the same context as this).

The conventions and humdrum routine.

There are some things that have been making me feel uncomfortable.

One of them, photography. Not in general, no, but the kind where a person is deliberately separating themself from the moment with a machine--in order to capture and remember the moment they are separating themselves from. Like a person who holds their camera up during a wonderful concert performance. Or that person who is constantly taking pictures throughout a night spent with friends.

Another of them, extensions. People who wear fake hair. Think about it. Glued on, you have a chunk of hair that is not yours hanging from your head.

Then again, pants are something also bizarre if you look at them a certain way.

What one regards as interruptions.

This has been one of those times.

Transitions, you know, and in all the facets, as is said. Transfiguration of the involuntary sort, where the only reason you feel yourself changing is because the change is not only happening around you, it is happening at you. And you have to change because it has all already happened.

You can not quite call it the edge of something new, as if it were a clean change, because you are still so vested in that past state or that old hope that does not any longer exist. So you wonder, then, in this time, what part of you is it that does. You feel against you these differing atmospheres before you and behind you, and you want to turn to neither but cannot turn away either, and you wonder where you exist. In your outdated mind, or in your new world.

The trouble with time.

A fiction added to the deed.