Mind & Muscles

Daplotri? Dapoltri!


Long time ago, back in the time when some people believed that consciousness has nothing to do with neurotransmitters, people thought that to be an individual meant first to be aware of the thought of individuality, then to, having become conscious of that awareness, turn into an epitome of disinterest in whoever could happen to be on the same planet at the same time. Reaching that level of disconnectedness from whadeva & what not!, that particular individual would float in nothingness for a brief moment, only to, at once, be turned in reverse into something that only having been reconnected with everything else, reclaims an awareness of the consciousness reintegrated into a whole that becomes knowable only by virtue of the fact of reintegration.

Good story, Be(b)ra, my man!

It’s not a story, but history, P(u)rple Hortak!

All stories are history told before it died, having never existed to start with.

Yo, Hi kAtrina, my motherfucking self has a sense of hi/story being whadeva interpretation one can conjure up against one’s good self.

Get away both of you. Or either.

In the era of consciousness being a matter of no substance, but not no substance, to live meant to be in a ceaseless struggle, attempting to prove the claims about disconnectedness wrong. Thus, years were passing in a search for evidence that one is not a free-floating matter, not giving a shit about bloody fellow travelers, but, instead, living a life of a TanAcox-worshipper lathering one’s body in mud-dashed-honey crossed with mustard-based-marinade. While one is doing one’s best to make sure everybody and everything will be assured that disconnectedness is but an instant before the necessary re-connectedness, one almost starts speaking the language of the interregnum that to a sane mind   looks more like a scene from a detective story than a site from a life on a planet. The fact that to some minds it’s not striking is striking to some.

It certainly is, Be(b)ra!

One should not use the word certainty if its subtext is not unshaken, hI Katrina!

Hi Katrin(a) understands the notion of unshaken to be always already the subtext of the implied concept of unshakeability.

Cool, Purpl(e) (h)Ortak. Now, how does it help me understand the situation in which a person finds oneself  to be constantly thrown into the deserts of detective stories in which clues, proofs, evidence, and other shit can best be found in one’s persistent denial of reintegration and, instead, living in an indefatigable act of sabotaging any possibility of transcending the moment before consciousness becomes aware of its being re-stabilized?

Once there lived  people who spent days gazing at their toes. They lived in apartments in which plastic splinters, metal scraps, pebbles, and pieces of aluminum foil covered the floor the way some people nowadays use carpets. They never opened windows. Never wished to let air in. Never didn’t feel bad about the really bad smell saturating the space between the walls and the ceiling. They didn’t breathe, so they didn’t care. One wonders whether it was just a mask they were wearing and, in a way, the answer is yes, but not if one takes into account their slippage into a belief in the masks not being masks. Because they started wearing masks early on in their lives and didn’t know how to look each other in the eyes and not feel bad about not being decorated or whatever…Unlike them, there were some contemporaries who, despite the pervasive culture of decoration, liked to breathe. They knew about the toe-gazers and felt sorry if that oxy-insufficiency did bother the residents. But they chose to just keep breathing.

Like fuck! Like fuck!