This is wonderful! Color swims before my eyes, a spiraling never-ending swath of change. A groan of tedium escapes me, lost forever in the ether as I giggle and slap on some more paint. Giddy, excited, thrilled that I'm finally going to capture this project I've been thinking about for ages and bring it from an uncertain sketch on gridpaper into a fullfledged magnificent wall-embracing landscape of delight and suffering and loss and gain and past present future, deep, flat, infinite, infinitesimal, concrete mortared with whimsy.

But alas, Blue bailed and left me awash in insufficient-black and rubbish-purple. So it's suspended one more day, and I turn, tail between my legs, to another creative project. Sigh.

Sometimes I think I understand how my snake feels when he's about to peel out of his skin.

Everything wavers and shimmys, dancing jive in the heavy warm atmosphere, this cave, this shelter, this haven. And now replete with totemic jabberings, layers of mistakes folded and folded and folded until it resembles the picture we seek. If I were a cave-dweller, I'd simply run outside and collect some more berries to crush into dyes. Sadly my commerce is confined by convention and dictum, for the benefit of us all.

Enchanting. The room breathes around me, murmuring in time with the music and the cadence of my typewriter--somehow still going while my fingers flit across these electronic and far less satisfying--though immensely more roguish and complex keys.

The last few cherished drops of Glenlivet tremble goldenly in a rocks glass, as I fight to maintain control through the silly vibrations. Absurd, absolutely. Tides crash and recede, blending with the scotch and the music and overall incomprehensibility of everything. A crescendo--my god, I think spellcheck's up and bailed--of inspiration and unsatisfied creativity, I'm positively trembling as if I were cold or excited--I can't tell which. I could explode or shrivel, and it wouldn't make a lick of difference to the universe, which is why I love the thing so much.

My own words here, represented out of the 001010000110101011 randomness, blinking and wondering what's going on, and what all these silly preconceived patterns mean. Maybe the programmers have an idea of what it's all about, the Matrix of life on a molecular (or smaller) level, bewildering, inspiring, frightening, confusing, enlightening--and all so deliciously mundane. Just a hodgepodge, an endless supply of information drenching me at all times, sifted and sorted by the bureaucracy of my being into neat little pigeonholes whose meanings and connections I keep in line.

The wall giggles with its spirals of black and white, swathed over with an ugly purple, and suddenly I long to throw myself at it, to smear and lavish paint upon it with reckless and hopeful abandon. I need blue! Bring me blue!

Purple, I have enough of.

I try not to ascribe to favorites, but I'm rather inclined to agree with myself that Glenlivet is my favorite label. It's a classy heavy-green bottle, a pasted-on label whose script and color make it seem two-hundred years old, and a signature to boot. I bow to the marketing gods who've created this one. It appeals to me in a way that old Johnny Walker never could, no matter the color of his boots. Just so happens the product they're selling is also damned decent. Phew

Rosetta dances at my touch, shining and bright with our mutual red excitement, though she sometimes gets out of hand and skitters across the desk--get back here, sweet thang, let's make words. And the little red Buddha laughs on and on, knowing far more than anyone gives him credit for. Words topple and jostle, pause and linger.

I want something that's my own. Something not borrowed. Temporary as I want it to be, fleeting as it probably is, but in the moment, just as solidly mine, my own, as any dream.

Someone wrote about a dream machine. Plug it in and go for a whirl. Plug in the coordinates, chart the stars. Delight in it, spin in it--but don't bother trying to understand it. When you press its magic, try to conquer its secrets, it's gone. Suddenly, as if it never existed. Did it?
Ask Ray Bradbury.
But damn if anything mapped doesn't lose its mystique, its charm. It joins the mundane, relegates itself to the dusty shelves of what has been.

Is that how I would turn out if I became what I dream to become? Nonsense. Drollery is as part of me as my red blood cells. I could never turn it loose, no matter the weather.

The dimensions of my mind are so hard to capture, so hard to turn concrete, so hard to share. It's immensely frustrating, and though I profess a certain ability with the language, I sometimes find myself so incapable of producing, of expressing what I actually wish to say. Sometimes I wonder if language itself is to blame, if interaction has become too defined, too clearcut, too free of the raw, the purity of connection.
Or maybe I'm just being silly.

I'm entirely dissatisfied with the mechanics of this dancing typewriter! How can I fix it in its place so it stops scattering papers and ideas all willynilly into the abyss? Would fixing it halt its mystique? Would Rosetta stop flourishing if I tied her arms to the bedposts? Bosh!
But it is obnoxious that it won't stay in one spot.

I'm churning through typewriter paper at an alarming rate, an unprecidented rate (on this desk at least), and I can only hope it's the shadow at the entrance to the tunnel (which eventually leads to a Light, even if that's just a freight train coming your way).

Glenlivet's dry now, and nary a trace of relenting in the upsy downsy vibrations of the eve--hedging towards morning now. The verdant bottle saved for just such a moment, any in a multitude of millions, the cascading joy of recognition that this second, this instant is precious. This...this...consciousness, this present is as holy or unholy, as mundane or sacrosanct as every similar and infinite Here and Now.

Ellusive. Ignored. Forgotten in the helterskelter rush of life.

'Stop and smell the roses' doesn't mean pause and place your nose to a flower, though it does mean that, it means take each moment as its own, apart and independent from the rest, though coinciding and flowing in some kind of crazy pattern to which we all ascribe.

Everything's so visceral. So real and unreal, so unceasingly weird.

Grant me a studio. An untouchable sacristy for an outlet, a place where I can really just be and be and be and unfold.

Sometimes perfect phrases suddenly burble out, as if a stack of moments connived to bring it forth. I love this language.

My god, it's going to feel so lonely and new and incomprehensible and unreachable and remote and infinite and impossible and scary. I'm so excited I can scarcely contain myself!
And yet, of course, I must be humble and ever mindful of the delicate processes that brought me to this point. And every subsequent and preceeding point, tipping or otherwise.

Oh glorious! When fatigue overtakes me, i'll simply click Post, without even scrolling up to see what I've done. Incapturable and intransigent, unrepeating and forever lost...

So many tools I yearn to capture for writing. Colors. I long for a better vocabulary of color! Hindered by the power of suggestion of colorblindness (or maybe the verisimilitude) but suspecting that an inordinate amount of color names are merely poetic descriptions of the same, I've not embarked upon a journey to discover just what is meant by mauve or eggshell or offwhite or any other term.

So strange how everything sort of settles back into normalcy, comfortable and cozy. And yet the spirals and paths ignited will continue to burn, until I'm done with them. Just as I've always done.