Olaf (tm2jetfire) wrote,

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You are art and art will never change.

One neat thing about my job is watching the sunrise every morning. That has never been a part of my schedule before, save the depths of winter waiting on the school bus. It is about the only time I appreciate the view afforded by the golf course without thinking how much better it would be as untouched woods. An orange, pink lick of beauty is a better start than my old coffee habit, an apology for closing my dreams.

I had a dream a few nights ago which I shall here recall. I am with Caroline in a flower shop/café. There are some weedy bushes on which green, stringy candy grows, and it is some darn good candy. The taste is somewhere between the sweetness of a fruit and a vegetable crispness... perhaps like a birch or sassafras shoot, crossed with licorice. They also have barrels of jelly beans, only they are natural beans and come in black tea or green tea flavors only. That's about all the dream was about, but it was really cool. There was another part in which I am in my kitchen with her and some other guys, and we have balloons filled with alcohol vapor (of course she does not partake, even in dreamland). The balloon only gets me drunk for about two minutes, but it is a rush. My drunken self makes her giggle (unlike real life).

I'm a pretty slow reader, I'll confess.

"Perhaps history this century, thought Eigenvalue, is rippled with gathers in its fabric such that if we are situated, as Stencil seemed to be, at the bottom of a fold, it's impossible to determine warp, woof or pattern anywhere else. By virtue, however, of existing in one gather it is assumed there are others, compartmented off into sinuous cycles each of which come to assume greater importance than the weave itself and destroy any continuity. Thus it is that we are charmed by the funny-looking automobiles of the '30's, the curious fashions of the '20's, the peculiar habits of our grandparents. We produce and attend musical comedies about them and are conned into a false memory, a phony nostalgia about what they were. We are accordingly lost to any sense of a continuous tradition. Perhaps if we lived on a crest, things would be different. We could at least see."

What does this remind me of? Tripping, did you really have to ask. Actually I think about tripping every day and actually I can't wait to live up to my fortune cookie and actually it makes me think of the bit in Huxley's mescaline book where he speaks on the folds in the fabric of his pants. Talk about seeing the world in a grain of sand.
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