(no subject)
I feel ok today, but I'm at home. And Friday felt good too, but maybe that was only because it was the end of the week, and well, I honestly didn't even go to my Friday class. I think I already told you that. It wasn't on purpose though, I fell asleep. I don't know why I was so tired, it's not like I stayed up doing homework or anything, I think it was just the air all around my bed telling me to stop this nonsense of running around a city in ruins. How can a place that used to be so neat all of a sudden be so boring? What happened during all this time I was not born and has now dissappeared I always wonder.
Maybe it's that I'm boring, I know that is the main reason. I'm too afraid to move. I feel like the little mice in that movie by Alain Resnais, "Mon Oncle d'Amerique". After a traumatic situation comes a state of inhibition, movement is suppressed. A gradual breakdown of the senses is followed. In this experience which is the third I believe, the mouse is in his little cage wrapped in wires. A warning sound is produced, the electric bolt is turned on, and its little white body is shaken, nerves shattered in his wire box. It moves towards the sides, but there are no doors to escape. It looks for another of his kind to hit or grab, thus persuading the pain away, but there is no one. It is alone in its cage and there is no escape. After this first experience the mouse does not move. It knows that whatever it tries will be of no use. Inhibition.
I think of the land of the unborn a lot. I am thinking mostly all the time in something that gives meaning to a world that does not care and I have dreams about this energy. They are not illuminations, I do not think, but I did check a few William Blake books out of the library. Only I was discouraged to find that the author in the first experience quotes the famous doors piece ("If the doors of perception were cleansed we would all see the world as it really is infinite" -something like that right?) to later move on to explain his personal experience with hallucinatory drugs. It was a strange combination in my mind, and painful when placed aside the image of Blake. Is that what he would be today? Just another good for nothing drug addict perhaps, filing his edges away in the corners of buildings and shut off houses.
I am apprehensive (I keep thinking of that poem by Francesca Woodman)
Maybe it's that I'm boring, I know that is the main reason. I'm too afraid to move. I feel like the little mice in that movie by Alain Resnais, "Mon Oncle d'Amerique". After a traumatic situation comes a state of inhibition, movement is suppressed. A gradual breakdown of the senses is followed. In this experience which is the third I believe, the mouse is in his little cage wrapped in wires. A warning sound is produced, the electric bolt is turned on, and its little white body is shaken, nerves shattered in his wire box. It moves towards the sides, but there are no doors to escape. It looks for another of his kind to hit or grab, thus persuading the pain away, but there is no one. It is alone in its cage and there is no escape. After this first experience the mouse does not move. It knows that whatever it tries will be of no use. Inhibition.
I think of the land of the unborn a lot. I am thinking mostly all the time in something that gives meaning to a world that does not care and I have dreams about this energy. They are not illuminations, I do not think, but I did check a few William Blake books out of the library. Only I was discouraged to find that the author in the first experience quotes the famous doors piece ("If the doors of perception were cleansed we would all see the world as it really is infinite" -something like that right?) to later move on to explain his personal experience with hallucinatory drugs. It was a strange combination in my mind, and painful when placed aside the image of Blake. Is that what he would be today? Just another good for nothing drug addict perhaps, filing his edges away in the corners of buildings and shut off houses.
I am apprehensive (I keep thinking of that poem by Francesca Woodman)