blood pressure

a couple days pass and I don’t write much during a visit from a friend and I am playing host, playing DVDs, cracking jokes, eating veg. thanksgiving food. my monitor is blotched up but I don’t get up from my chair to clear it. so here I am in early morning hours yawning, typing this, setting aside the book I’m reading [The Trial] to enter a few notes into this registry.

I put in four easy hours at work today. don’t think of much. things are in a haze. these are notes on whatever comes up. I prefer writing like this over talking into a mic for audio entries, but these days I do both.

Kafka is like this: the man approaches and enters a windowless room. he sees his friend over by the window, rushes to talk with him.

I have tremendous respect for Kafka. for years now I have demanded that everything is in the consciousness, the dream. the world exists on an unlimited number of dreams, and some are stuck on the same dream. so many things do not make sense because they are a part of an ever changing dream. one person dreams of God, another that God does not exist. and they are both right. when you let your heavy eyelids fall a new world rushes at you.

consider what I write to be a part of your blood pressure. I can scream this or whisper quietly. I can think to you what I know. you can feel what I know. I keep a close watch over vital signs.

sometimes waking up is crueler. by that I mean, you are injected, reloaded, back into a duller, more bland world. of course it is not always this way, but in comparison to what you dream . . .

the medicine making me groggy
drugged by
the drugs
objects
dropping onto a body
a dead body twitching
bugs creep along
it is morning pitch black dark

. . .

hi, I am writing from a new standpoint. um, hi. nervousness. I don’t know what to say to some people. I mean, strangers. how do you break ice. my head is almost always blank. terrible at starting up conversations. years back, one kid I said hello to tried to start up a fight with me, but in the end acted like he was joking over the whole thing. it, too, was like a dream – hard to figure out. hard to decide what to do. so, hi, I come walking into this room writing sentences and you move around magnets on the refrigerator. I am keeping time on a stop watch just how much of it I have left for myself. but it is early morning, not a lunch break so rushed. hi, I like to walk up to stranger types. I’ve got questions for you about other people. here’s one: what do you think about people who get into ruts? you answer the following: I think it is a sad thing, but of course that is a patented answer. the sound of my voice just may summon a solid answer. big part of it is, when you can’t see beyond something, that’s where you get caught. over time you start settling. that’s what a rut is. so if you’re not happy there, that’s your rut. hi, what do you think? I think you should go to bed! I just came from there. well then, I think people’s ruts, or prisons, are imagined, that if you’re trapped in a room, all you have to do is get up and walk out. true, others are telling you also, that the door is locked, but you don’t have to believe them. I often dream I am back in high school. later in the dream I realize I have already graduated and don’t need to be there. still I am wandering around like a ghost. ah ha! I think this is exactly what a ghost feels like! attachments. maybe you haunt or dream continuously the same parts of your past because you wish to live them again differently.

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