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.
