existential solitude
dear sweet blog, decade of secret labors, i must confess to you that i am writing somewhere else. twitter has captured my attention, with its glitz and glamour and celebrity. even though none of them will respond (i offered up fried chicken, and not a peep!), there is this feeling that all of 'us' humans, celebrated or not, are arranged in some manner that defies hierarchy. i can send a haiku to an astronaut, flirt with an escort, and with or without a response, i can rest in the knowledge that they have actually seen the words that i wrote on this side of the screen.
it started out innocently enough. i was sleep-deprived, and i read an article about mia that contained a grammatical error in the middle of its closing argument. i have to tell the writer, i thought. i was convinced that i was probably the only one on the planet who had actually read the piece to the end. how could an editor let something like that leave their desk? they must have been phoning it in, and everyone else was just reblogging the edgy deconstruction without actually reading it. i joked with my brother about it, and included a sarcastic hash tag. my very first tweat was a snarky shit show borne of delusions of grandeur and actual hallucinations caused by going 30 or 40-some odd hours without rest.
after that it's just been snowballing, albeit a tiny, plebeian snowball that will likely go unnoticed for the entirety of its existence. i can't stop finding and following sources of music, journalists and satirical accounts. somehow twitter's inhabitants are interpreting this to mean that i'm a musician myself. if singing in the shower and fantasizing about life as a rock star counts, then yes, pop the bubbly and check the rider. i'll be in the tour bus rolling blunts and chatting with the techs.
i've been getting calls from random people in my life that 'had a feeling' something was going on with me. i was immediately reminded of the brother's story about a runner intuiting that he was being stalked by something in the woods, a mountain lion as it turned out, based on the feeling that something was running behind him. anecdotal, and fucking true: science and skepticism would give you a handful of reasons to dismiss the story as hogwash, but people who have experienced anything of the sort know better. the same with anything having to do with the hairs on the back of your head, or even these seemingly synaptic connections between souls across vast spaces. i don't think i or the people who called with a feeling are exceptional. i do think there is a great deal more to human consciousness, to consciousness, than we allow.
so, on to the content: we haven't spoken for a year. the last time he called was also because he had a feeling something was going on. it was the day before my wedding (yeah, coincidence, confirmation bias: eat a dick), and we talked about everything from psychedelics to swordsmanship for an hour or more, in a house where i would ordinarily have been too shy to speak up about my more diverse experiences, so to speak. looking back, he did about as much listening to me as almost anyone else did that whole weekend when i couldn't get the people around me to pay enough attention to give me a haircut. to be clear, i was and continue to be grateful for sharing the experience i had, but it has turned into something very different in hindsight.
it started out innocently enough. i was sleep-deprived, and i read an article about mia that contained a grammatical error in the middle of its closing argument. i have to tell the writer, i thought. i was convinced that i was probably the only one on the planet who had actually read the piece to the end. how could an editor let something like that leave their desk? they must have been phoning it in, and everyone else was just reblogging the edgy deconstruction without actually reading it. i joked with my brother about it, and included a sarcastic hash tag. my very first tweat was a snarky shit show borne of delusions of grandeur and actual hallucinations caused by going 30 or 40-some odd hours without rest.
after that it's just been snowballing, albeit a tiny, plebeian snowball that will likely go unnoticed for the entirety of its existence. i can't stop finding and following sources of music, journalists and satirical accounts. somehow twitter's inhabitants are interpreting this to mean that i'm a musician myself. if singing in the shower and fantasizing about life as a rock star counts, then yes, pop the bubbly and check the rider. i'll be in the tour bus rolling blunts and chatting with the techs.
i've been getting calls from random people in my life that 'had a feeling' something was going on with me. i was immediately reminded of the brother's story about a runner intuiting that he was being stalked by something in the woods, a mountain lion as it turned out, based on the feeling that something was running behind him. anecdotal, and fucking true: science and skepticism would give you a handful of reasons to dismiss the story as hogwash, but people who have experienced anything of the sort know better. the same with anything having to do with the hairs on the back of your head, or even these seemingly synaptic connections between souls across vast spaces. i don't think i or the people who called with a feeling are exceptional. i do think there is a great deal more to human consciousness, to consciousness, than we allow.
so, on to the content: we haven't spoken for a year. the last time he called was also because he had a feeling something was going on. it was the day before my wedding (yeah, coincidence, confirmation bias: eat a dick), and we talked about everything from psychedelics to swordsmanship for an hour or more, in a house where i would ordinarily have been too shy to speak up about my more diverse experiences, so to speak. looking back, he did about as much listening to me as almost anyone else did that whole weekend when i couldn't get the people around me to pay enough attention to give me a haircut. to be clear, i was and continue to be grateful for sharing the experience i had, but it has turned into something very different in hindsight.