Within a budding grove

 My own personal noosphere carried from new york to nevada to california and then back again finished in my own personal bed slats of which collapsing on the right side toward the wall, standing in the water in malibu, which i cannot remember what it looked like at all and cannot remember seeing anything clearly, visualizing only the sun continuing to set at the ends of my swinging arc of vision, crying, tearing up and kind of stomping around, affecting a dynamic and coiled little walk, waves coming in with great even force higher and higher up 85% of my jeans so that they were stiff and encrusted wetly at the bottom with flagella of gray sand, with Briana, talking about this book, talking about the Br(i/y)ans, talking about all the sensations of our childhood and recollections now being made ubiquitous as touchpoints for all, software and movies and variations on a franchised theme all shooting up and spreading out a vast miasma encircling us, proust's individual set of trees or locational placement of flowers diluted - not diluted, just spread, like a thinned layer of every-cream, nematodal - into memory made less and less specific, less niche, less personally accessible, all of this an 'endless stream', alex turner, sitting in the car to get ingredients for dinner, discussing with Gabriel the democratized mimicry of alex turners dotting the male landscape everywhere, everyone hair shellacked, everyone with affected swaggering posture, alex himself the own frontman recycled and formulated of the substances of other frontmen, the great Previous element, i learned associative thinking on tumblr, or else the internet came at the exact time i was very alone or i was very alone because of it or at least alongside it, both me and the internet developing, it used to be a little lowercase and shaded blue 'e' with yellow saturnine ring which i believed was the only hole to enter the universe, accessed by a fine and comfortable double-click, now it is everywhere, we are all living constant proustian binocular vision, with one side the actual (if it there is an actual) objective past event, and the other side the new formulation, worldview, perception of me, you, everyone now

or else in middle school i crystallized character, sarcasm, desirable but defensive attributes on my own, internalized and micro-terraformed, outspat in stream of reference, constant re-circulation, memetic language, _____, i learned the rhythm of how to be liked which was to cash in and coin all these constant points and interactive median points of reference, circling back, intertextuality 4ever

and amidst this stream washing over me sitting knees tucked in the rocks and silt of the riverbottom i thought and wrote in utter confounding anger and regret or something else, wrote in my journal: None of my friends would even like me if i wasnt funny, which in a couple of years opening journal back up i would write off as embarrassing pre-adolescent sentiment, and now which many years later i think: i remembered a time before the miasma, i remembered a time before i took it on and swallowed it and threw it back up in my hands, my beating and dying shooting star heart, before i took it in and on forever, i knew there was a "without funny" and a "with funny" and that they were sequentially locked, before and after one another, stacked beside one another on the bookshelf, and that putting the volumes back i was killing one self for another, shellacking over it, re-franchising, changing the own malleable featureless and personality-less face and mind of my own self, i knew that without that known and almost immediate and fast and pretty much alchemical change i was un-liked, dim and beneath to others and myself, i was laying on the carpet of my bedroom, carpet which has been torn up now. there was a fine and dense thin line of trees planted before my window, which grew and overgrew until high school when the light was totally choked out and kept from any sort of rest inside. at that time i think it wasn't high enough yet, there was still this golden sideways light at which oblique afternoon angle post-school was the only time i could get any sort of full communion with it, the light, and i would lay with my head right against the armed and pink hello kitty cushion that was on the squat section of wall right under the window, and whole body out, totally passive and breathing, and would think of a time when i would have a bosom friend like diana to anne sullivan, like helen burns to jane eyre, like the butler to artemis fowl, i would think of knowing love, i would have all these books around me on the shelves and lade into stacks on the leftover area of shelf outward jutting past the bookcase, burning outward into the room with whatever pressing powers they held, i would click the power button of the computer and then of the monitor and watch the familiar and friendly text appear as both booted up, i would open the internet, i would enter fine and diverting and all-encompassing little primitive online worlds, my own digital balbec, in my bedroom in virginia, light sliding down past the window now, trees still growing upwards in illegal but organic obfuscation, maybe all of this is untrue, it is a series of sensations which seem true, i am feeling a complicated and spidery emotion in my chest, spacially and thematically i have taken some liberties here, there is a sustained scraping sound as my mother comes in the room to close the curtains, clip them shut with a clothespin, and turn on the lamp.