Can't sleep, tried commentary from/of a favorite band (Incubus) and a BBC special on a favorite writer (Wallace) and

Basinski, repetition too much. Now Conor Oberst et al background my psycho spinning mental cage space. Flickering electronic candle bound in unmelting wax and a revving out of doors that I can't place that might be a truck but more likely a generator nearby, powering the needless or maybe the essential (this is water, forget-that-not) but I am ultimately still awake and unable to sleep as of yet. My mind is throbbing. I feel no physical headache but scream my mind wants to, moan it does. Yell--I want to. Just did into my sheets, did little. Physical activity, go for a walk maybe, I don't know, something to go and be active but that will keep me awake, but only for a time when I would be awake here as I sit anyways. I want progress but also, as television does, would rather watch than live (Wallace). A--- R-----, roommate, potato. James, photographer, vagrant. Free of "slavery," still a slave? That was my immediate reactionary thinking. Slave to his routines (but we all have routines, avoiding routine still establishes routines of dodging the other ones, variance within a grid, a framework, just another one beside the others). Void void void void void void void void labels barcodes selling selling a pitch black pitch the tar the asphalt warped and removed by wind and water by water by earth by nature by happenstance by artifice's construction on the precipice of what, though tame is untamed. Still lashing, preparation for it, how? What tools can combat that? Not trying so hard to overcome it, perhaps. Accepting it as a regular possibility, and working within those bounds. Limits can be good. Can be helpful, can by easier but not a ompromise of ability and potential, in fact can bring us the chance to reach a different place for which we have the potential to reach. Reaching upward (downward, crossward) pulsing I hear pulsing, a swelling tone not grating but tense it's real, it's the leftovers, the endnotes the epilogue of the music, the truck-generator-sound revs and cycles, the electrotonal tension rotates at a higher frequency (the decibel swell and the soundwave itself) the flickering candle, though random is patterned, its own swells exaggerated to make a more impressively real effect but having candle-candles I know it is overstated, the darkness between flickers like that of a candle somehow remaining lit in a stronger wind, not ranking among the stiff, which are troublemakers not yet unleashed, but steadily, somehow anomalously forceful in a way that only recognition of its persistence can make it itself consciously recognized. Too much too little too much too much worry and fear and stress and the fear of what of death and uncertainty and of not reaching potential and the possibilities that lie before (behind, in a nonexistent potentiality constructed by the mediations that (in/de)form ourselves and the hyperreality in which our lives unfurl and dissolve, asserting themselves and receding into the sea of causal arrows and the scale of meaninglessness and attempts to cope and delude and construct to construct to construct. Typing, not writing, but still my thoughts flow and this I think could be considered art only because it is vague enough and not an argument but only my thoughts, Kerouacian dribble that still makes a statement, can be appropriated as art (what the hell is it and why does it matteR? thank you Yale University Art Gallery thirst) and

interpreted as such. But the flood of the identically insightful and meaningless and blandly bourgeois and not really exploring. Self-deprecation/depreciation in a perverted sense of self-flattery and false modesty, of self-conscious depression (nay, angst) that cries out for attention in the universally solipsistic and impotent (?) grope for connection and appreciation. Phone oh telephone dead, could call and talk about nothing, but those moments shared, to know I am not alone (which I intellectually comprehend to be true but simultaneously the incommunicable nature of my own brand of thought leads me again to be solipsistic nihilism). Verbosity overwhelming the sincerity and seriousness of my (prose). Consume consume consume I object but go along, go along, want to be subsumed though I make so many attempts to rebel, construct signifiers around my-self to shade me from judgment as a consumer as a regular Joe but still I desire to be part of the normalcy that governs and destroys, selfdestruction, Huxleyan self-dosing, soma willingly swallowed/injected. Oberst has returned, the swells gone (though the generator cycles) and his next bedroom lament sounds. The battery meter is red, my juice is now low, only som ouch more I will be able to muster with these keys, then back tot he laborious world of ink and paper, of pulp and liquid. I want high school and easiness and recession into the womb of a world constructed for me, of effortlessness and (self-)congratulation and coddling. Of coddling, television coddles and sells and my ideas are not my own right now but (mal)formed by what that to which I have been listening. Not a Sufjan Stevens opus begins, age of adz (an instrument whose use and definition I only recently discovered, thank you Ken Follett). Performance (art). Costumes, not only on the stage, I wear one. It is curious that we have culturally stopped calling our daily outfits costumes, was there not a time when we did? Or perhaps the upper class did -- but the symbolic nature of clothing was an unobfuscated and unforgotten daily fact, each outfit a costume, recognized as a symbol and representation. But fashion is (in its "highest") meant for exactly that, but day to day we do not do much about it, and that itself makes our choose of garments symbolic as well. Trying or not. I'm boring myself. I'm bored and boring. Meditate or something. That sentence -- ha. Daisies, positivity, galloping, frolicking, the cover of Me su eyrum vi spilum endalaust. Even Lewis Black celebrates the joys of nudity, of bucking the rules and being oneself totally, comfortable with the fact of being, truly as one is. NOt thinning but rambling right now, just rambling, bored and trying (hardly) to overcome that, really I want to converse with someone, of have them tell me a story. That's why a movie is somewhat appealing, it's company without the effort need to reciprocate and make myself emotionally valuable as well. Hollow hollow sleep hollow, still not sleepy, cat is sleeping, envious I am.Nostalgia central, reliving something, even if the overall aura was horrible. Maybe that's why nostalgia is so powerful and terrible, it si the selective curation of the positive happenings and moods and circumstances and details from something definite -- it already happened, and it was in some way enjoyable or fulfilling. Forget the anxieties and doldrums but the moments, much like in a movie, that were important and themselves enjoyable, those are the thing sthat create an aching sense of

want for what is impossible to attain, reexperience. Even reinserted into the same circumstance through some sort of (mental?) space-time-travel, the foreknowledge of its fleetingness and its unreality as an reexperienced past and its ultimately long-term inability to instill lasting fulfillment (a phantasm, that is impossible, it's persistent effort, and all things are bittersweet). Desire to measure things, to be abet o file them and order them and say this is this and that is so. To have things be finite and captured, to restore and to uphold, but still giant voids exist, things change and cannot be held, but only recognized as valuable when they happen(ed) and allowed to be as they are and to leave. Japanese sense of painful nostalgia and the acceptance of transience.