This was 13 years, 6 months, 20 days ago

I go for a bike ride, and then a jog, and then a bike ride, and then I go to work, and after work I go to bhqfu and spit my mind into words, and then I peruse the streets oh-so-briefly with a friend, and then I go home to curry and a communal meal, and I talk and laugh and this all feels quite comfortable, actually, and then I work and work and try to do work more amidst this impromptu party

and then all of a sudden a comment instigates me and I am standing up talking about the exploding galaxy commune and genesis p-orridge where the axiomatic bases of things are pulled out from underneath you, and then porn informing sex and post-pornographic architecture, and external objects as locators of the internal identity (ala lacan's mirror stage where the infant finds a coherence in the image of himself that he sees) and then from this turns to algorithms of aesthetics (catenary curves generated from hanging strings), and here is this banter about unboxed box-wine as louise bourgeoise-like catheter-like party favors, and my mind is a loft and afire and adrift and we are drunk and others are high but we're all still very lucid and sharp, feeling like a dart, converging to a point, and here we are juggling buildings in the air, tossing concepts like dice, here we are chewing on these things, us all, you and me and B, P, B, T, A, G, K, M, S, R, P, A, G, B, and we talk and there is something hanging in the air and we can pull it down and make worlds of it, buildings of it, video games and architecture, projects coming together,

and amidst all of this is this growing excitement, this inner fervor, not only at what-is-to-come but what-is-now, the knowledge that I could build, use my hands, dip my hands into a dirty muck of mud and come out ecstatic and energetic. earlier today I had 40-year old rum, wonderful courtesy of R, and it was amazing, fantastic, smelled like maple syrup. earlier today I also had tea that was so very old, and it had the scent of soap somewhere in the upper-left quadrant of my tongue after it had steeped for twenty minutes, but I tried it anyways, decades-old tea from an estate sale, and so these things will happen, and I am so grateful for that, tongues twisted in history, steeped in what-has-been.

and so I come upstairs to sleep and it starts raining, and I hear a million tiny pinpricks on the roof, pitter-patters of small creatures. I am blessed, I think to myself. and start to sleep.

I think this is called limit-attitude, or liminal-attitude (and yes I am borrowing that phrase of foucault's but it is mine now, only the phrase/signifier) but these moments where the self dissolves away in little rivulets? is, are, precious. yes? yes.