Set fire to the silvering process, Mr. Niepce.

Overwhelmed. Yeah, I guess...I mean, I guess that would be part of it. No. No, not actually overwhelmed--over stimulated. Yes. This is much more fitting. Over stimulated. Not so cliche either.

Over. Stimulated. Over saturated. Over....

You know, pictures. Pictures are such strange things. Gross things. Not gross like that--god, you and your definitions. Gross in like, a perversity. See--no, not like the perversity you know but like the type dealing with a thing's nature--strangeness. Is that, well, is that more universal? Pictures have strangeness. They are strange and...and haunting. And grossly (as in largely) perverse (as in crudely unnatural) stamps of reality passed; thrust constantly into the present moment--stagnant and never changing. Trapped. A moment trapped. A ghost, a stolen ghost of time we conquer and chain to an endless present. Dragging a ball and chain of photographs--or frozen, pale, lifeless images.

And we are cruel. We duplicate them, alter them, strip them of the only truth and integrity they are born with. We cut, we tape, we rip, we post. And we catch ourselves, mostly. Self absorbed, self indulged and entranced by our own ghostly, pixilated snippets of time.

Look at your picture. Look at it and stop looking at yourself. Look at the moment. At the drained and imprisoned wormhole of ever flowing reality. You've created multiple dimensions. Memories--a singular moment from the past on repeat in the present, eagerly and gluttonously feeding on the future. For what is 'memory'? Reality: caught in a wormhole, created by illusions on repeat.

But then, what are illusions anyhow? Everything definable, such as "illusions", must have a foundation in something truthful. Yes, because, if we comprehend a given definition--then, there is truth within it that we ourselves can recognize. What then, is real and what is illusion when all can be explained in adequate and comprehensible definition? How do we categorize 'illusion'....more importantly--why?

So. A picture, in my own definition--is an illusion. Because it is something false. A falsified reality. And people believe it. People trust this impossible snippet of a reality dead. And yet, it is definable--so, it is as honest and true and real an illusion as anything else in the universe.

Reality and illusion are one in the same, sans our own cowardly categorizations. And shame on me, as I am typically, almost always...okay always...quite cowardly by my own standard.

This is the picture that started this whole rant. I was staring at it. It is me. It is a blunt and raw lamination of all my insecurities and most of my flaws. If you look at the moment, not the person, you'd see it. Se my...her....its...thoughts. Its before and Its after and since then, its everything in between. Its weight, its smell, Its illusions. Real or illusion. Important to know?

Both are equally truthful.

But. What does it matter. All this crap about real and not. At the end of the day, I am afraid of both conclusions. At least....at least I still have enough in me to care enough to be afraid. More frightening still is the absence of fear. And thus the loss of fight, and loss of drive, and loss of danger--willing us to survive. I still care about photographs.

--Apple.

"I Want The One Grey One With The Silver Saddle And Mint Green Mane"

It's deafening. Would you shut up for a moment. Your thoughts, your silence--deafening. I can't hear myself think. The whole world on a carousel.

The carousel. Man's childish and fantastical manifestation of war, tremendously decadent in appearance and elegantly complex in detail. The

carousel is Reality's magic trick; a spinning, musical mockery of man's inhumanity. Beautiful, and relatively blood-free--disguising imperfection with gold-leafed paint and muscled stallions--perfectly tamed to ride in peaceful and consistent motion.

The whole world on a carousel, and me, at the fair too. I went to the fair. Went to the fair; was silent. Silent because I could not hear myself think and could not form my thoughts. I could not hear myself think because They would not shut up. They're thoughts, They're silence--deafening. Mute conversation, no, screams--bouncing into the universe like . Words, precious words, falling out of Their mouths like tiny, rubber

bouncing balls. Bouncing off the ground, off the walls, into the atmosphere, clouding the sky in primary colors; bright, rubber words bouncing everywhere.

Loudly. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Rapid. Vulgar.

I look to the carousel. It spins and there is a shield. No bouncing, rubber ball thoughts. An accordion. And silence. And the sound of motion, slowing. The unwinding of time, weighted in tradition and fantasy and fiction. Realities fictional experience. Spinning, and the people on the carousel are trapped in this bubble--this fake, protected illusion. Spin, spin, on. Never stop, fear of losing. Keep with the clock, keep with the illusion--fight time with beauty and chase away yellowed memory with blurring reality. Drown the sounds of pounding words, Thump. Thud. Thump. Drowned Them out with haunting notes and perfectly circled melodies. Trance like motion, subtle and consistent. Spin and sway away. The whole world, a carousel.

The world, it spins...and the bounce of the words, the bounce of Their words, a perfectly circled melody. Loud and robust--tiny but tuned. Humming and buzzing in constant harmony. Repetitive motion. Slow the day, new the morning, slow the night. Repeat.

And the crowd is so loud I cannot hear my own thoughts. I look to Them. I cannot say what I mean. Rubber balls, bounce, Thud, from my lips and, Thump, to the ground. My smile, a temporary container. "I cannot explain what I mean. It will come to me." It doesn't. Because my mind is on the carousel.

And the rest of the day, my mind is on that carousel. And what does that look like? What thoughts are with me then...my mind looks like this:

Dance with me, in step with the Universe. Look how lovely, look at the people--how beautiful and alive. Look at the people, alone in Their spheres, missing each other, bouncing their words like a child's game. Ah! What is the reality in which people See each other. In which living is living together and words do not bounce off every showing surface but saturate into every piece of matter--satiating all things of Existance with meaning and connection and texturized understanding. Look at me and understand so I can believe this. Look at me look at the carousel.

No?--how about I smile instead.

Oh, pure meaning and glorious connection. Oh, detested definition and constrained comprehension.

This is a picture of my great grandparents. Being one in a moment. Surrounded by Everything in the Universe, and being Everything in the Universe.

We are one. No?

We are matter. We cannot be destroyed, only recycled back and back and back into the universe.

We are energy. We cannot be destroyed, only recycled back and back and back into the universe.

No, wrong again--"we" indicates there are multiple individuals, gathered or grouped together in action or distinction and "we" is separating. There is no "we" because there is no "I" because all is one because all is recycled and equal in worth and importance. The matter and energy in a leaf is still matter and energy, like the matter humans are made with and like the energy humans burn and recycle. The difference is only in the structure. The physical; reality's facade, oh most decadent and embellished universal design by which definition is the only sense of ground and foundation available for communication, for understanding, for sanity. And definition is excellent at separating and distinguishing...misleading. Because definitions grow and shape and always will to each defined individual based in difference in experience and environment and development.

So where is the foundation of true reality if each predefined individual defines each thing differently because we believe that, by someones else's projected definition filtered through our own established process of translation, all things must be defined. And through these "universal" definitions, we build a "universally acknowledged" reality.

...And, if perhaps your definitions are too uncommon, you are not necessarily a radical reformer of thought and perspective...but you are crazy. Mentally insane. You do not know how to define things like everyone else. You are broken. Your definitions are wrong. Your definitions are misleading. Your definitions are not coherent. Your definitions are undefined. A leaf is not a person. I didn't say it was--I meant that the ener--You are crazy. You are confused.

You are not defined.

...I ("I" for translation's sake) will form my own definitions. Confuse myself. Toss out What Is and leave alone Who Is. "I" will approach a You as if oxygen. As if life giving, beautifully structured and perfectly crafted extension of Soul. And a moment later, "I" shall still attempt to relieve you of definition. And "We" can be. Breath and life together.

An Ideal, They call it. To define it, an Ideal.

Let it go. Let it go. Let it...

Just skip to the bottom. And then go and have a banana milkshake.

I have this thing. I've started, yes, a thing. This thing--I sit. I sit and I breathe. Just sit and just breath. I breathe slowly and thoughtfully and fill padded, warm lungs with a flood of thick waves of air and I hold that air in. I hold it in, selfishly. I let the waves of air splash through my entire body, rapid and cool and quick--savoring the rush of motion because I can feel it race through my lungs, my heart, my hands, my knees, my toes, awakening every little cell with a brisk, salty kiss. And then I exhale--forcefully. I exhale and the air does not violently crash out back into the world but flows, warmly, moist and soft, out of my body. Out of my lungs, my heart...my toes. I just sit and just breathe.

Breathing is my new thing. I had not taken a breath before this. I had not taken a breath and felt the urgency, the necessity, the desperation and importance of such a mechanical, natural act.

My body--my body has taken my breaths. My body, kindly, has alway taken care of this "minor" necessity of life. But now, I breathe. My body--she teaches me what to pay attention to. I can make my chest rise and fall and I can see my heartbeat skip in gratification and acknowledgment. I can feel accomplished.

I can feel the other bodies, breathing. Sometimes--I might find another person who is doing the breathing by choice--maybe because, like me, they discovered they love to breathe, or maybe they just know they have to, or even some cases, they just can't seem to make themselves stop. In that case--the breath is heavy, taunting, thick and pounding....I'd prefer the body to breathe for me in that instance.

Breathing. My new thing. Sitting and breathing. And then I begin thinking. And then my thoughts begin to grow and crystalize and complicate themselves, weaving intricately between reality and creation and confusion and realization but then back to breathing and simplicity. The overwhelming feeling of Awe.

I conclude nothing. I cannot tell you the purpose of life or the purpose of trying to define the purpose of life....but I manage to settle my thoughts on dust. Start dust. And imperfections...and definitions...and words, oh beautiful translations and understanding and communication with life. And love...and life....and love...and life...and love...huh.

LOVE: A RESPECT FOR LIFE, OFFERED WITH THE HIGHEST DEGREE OF HUMANITY THAT ONE IS EQUIPPED WITH GIVING.

LIFE: TO LOVE.

Breath. And Waves. And Scar.

I need...Graph Paper.

I'm sorry that this makes no sense and I explain nothing. Interpret it however you'd like. Maybe you can relate to the nonsense.

Strobe-Backs

Pushing it back slow to the notes. Skimming though pictures in sacred boxes stored amongst velcro shoes and tiny mittens. Strobed memories and patchy sound bites scratch back like a Dj releasing on the One--sliding seamlessly into each other and each separate from any other. And those seamless streams were smooth and simple. Ha! Simple. Now it's heavy--all of it is so painted and weighted in, God I don't know, some residue? Is that it? Some sort of residue or mold or bacteria maybe virus. Maybe it contaminates things around us. And strobe lights make me forget and make me remember and make me confused but I prefer the strobe to the lighted entirety because confusion can almost be peaceful. Confusion removes the major ends of the emotional spectrum--can't be fully anything. Can't be fully angry or fully upset or fully happy but can just kind of be. Strobes--and no one can see your fear between flashes.* I prefer that.

*See "I'm Crying and I Should Be. Shouldn't Be" for informal and less than fully committed apology about my dramatics.

Crowd Against the Sexes

Back up into the wall and scrunch my toes to disperse the tension in my chest. Bite my lip and flex my fingers. The crowd is faceless and hoarding the space with their flying elbows or worse--they're overly developed egos. God I'm suffocating. And I'm a woman. And I'm a woman and I'm against this wall and I'm trying to push into the crowd and make my space but the current on the sidewalk is too strong. And this is nature and this is engrained and there are multiples of me pushed against the wall. Thousands, millions of me pushed against this cold, rough wall. We can't scream. Can't make sounds because sound has no space to travel it resounds in our own ears and we go insane.

I'm Crying and I Should Be. Shouldn't Be.

Ghost. You have a ghost and it sits...it sits over you and you want it there and I want it to cross over but there was unfinished business and it sits. She sits over you. And I'm fragile. I'm so..it's so stupid how fragile I am and I don't want to be. Believe me I don't want to feel it I don't want to be touched only to shatter and I'm dramatic. Because I think I'm fragile. And I'm dramatic because I say I'm tough. And I'm dramatic if I do nothing. And I can't escape being stapled with a dramatic sign and a dramatic plot and a dramatic everything because everything to try and counter it is misinterpreted. And that ghost. Leave me alone and I'm dramatic but seriously, man. Leave me alone.

Facing The Key

It's about being free and happy and happy. It' about being there and only there then and not there soon or never but right at that moment. And what! And what the hell are we thinking and are we talking about because we know nothing but when will we ever learn enough? I'm sick of

being afraid. I'm done with not being there. I'm tired of chasing a timeline that is being written

two steps behind me--leaving me stranded and confused. I need graph paper. I need graph paper and I'll shade in every square and every moment I spend shading in another square I'll at least be aware of the time going past. It's tangible and it's a form of a time line. I need--I need graph paper right now to feel time. I need it to show reality.