Thoughts Like Threads

Dapoltri!

Passers by in conversation. One of them talks about his or her romantic gene not being discovered yet. Makes one think.

A thought is a thread. Meandering through the hardly penetrable fog consisting of molecules of strange valences. A thought is a thread. Long thread starting from a sparkle. Shy sparkle. Like an onset of a thought that does not know it can develop into a thought thought. Unfamiliar even to oneself, a germ of what can be thought about the romantic gene puzzles itself.

If a thought were spatial, its trajectory would be the path from a dream one always has on a Sunday via a Thursday night into the daylight of Friday. Such a thought would find its fully-fledged version on Saturday.

Such a Saturday starts in lazy, misty gesticulation by which the face of the dawn announces its unwelcome separation from the eons of dreamy nights. Its eyelids move with the heaviness of a giant after a hearty meal. Or, some such bullshit. 

It looks at the recording of the digitalized image of the pieces of the puzzle being put together. It is smiling ironically at its own silliness:”How incredibly stupid one needs to be to interpret the world as a book talking against its own words.”

Right on, for fuck sake!

A thought born on a Saturday when heavy clouds look more like a perverted image of a white night than a beginning of a new day. Hesitant, such a thought is moody-paced. Uncertain walker. Not doubting the grayness, though. Even if it looks like a drunkard’s smile at the memory of the language of childhood games. There is a safety mask of solemnity protecting whatever it is underneath that steely sky.

I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.

Crawling like a larva’s paw from beneath the reflection of the midnight sun--a blink. And another. Sluggishly mirroring its own movements. Or, some such bullshit. Rather, diving into the response to the fucking eye-opener:”How breathtakingly futile one’s reasoning needs to be to perceive the book as the mirror image of the world which is its own best foe.”

Right the fuck on!

A thought born tired. Tired of its own torturing trickery. Tired of all the words that would describe the accumulated clouds as an enormous quantity of vapor. A thought tired at the beginning of the day that wants to be mistaken for the nostalgia lingering over the smile of a drunkard in an encounter with the blurry memory of childhood when food equaled ice cream.

(Warming the shadows of nonexistent words one would use to talk about the memories of things.)

How unbelievably ridiculous one needs to be to confusedly equate surface aloofness with the engine run out of fuel. How distastefully unimaginative one needs to be to think softness and anchorage as incommensurable. And yet, how irrefutable the fact is that nostalgia is indissoluble until it evaporates from the intoxicated dream. Until all the haze is dissolved in its own oversaturation. Until the thought reemerges in the clarity of the thread that makes it what it is: freedom from everything, but not for anything.

I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.

The remix is the language one learns. Strangely, as one learns, one not only acquires it, but recognizes it as if it were a communication system previously available, stored, and kept forgotten in its hibernation until a new word, a new phrase, syntagm, sentence…stories…vocabularies, and what not, revitalize and reanimate that communication treasure falsely perceived as absent. When it reemerges from its oneiric empire, it is of the approximately following content:

When I was a wee lassie, I used to know a wee laddie. We were friends. We met every day in a nearby park. Our respective houses were across the street from it. We would meet during the long afternoons when most of the kids were either at school, or, doing homework, or, playing with other kids. We would finish our duties and were free to immerse ourselves in what we then did not know was called idleness. Or, some such bullshit.

I would tell him about the game I played during the long mornings when he was at school, or, doing his homework, or, some such bullshit. I liked to play the game in which I would dream of a child who thought he was a middle aged gentleman working as a sales manager in a multinational corporation. He would have a strong, clear sense of universal values: he thought of them as nearly nonexistent. For that reason, he would wake up every day with an overwhelming sense of the universe’s indifference to such a state of affairs. Overwhelming was the impression that the fact of his transition from sleeping to being awake, followed by a commute to the company’s premises, a day at work, journey home, and an evening spent this or that way--at home or in a pub with a bunch of fe/males who excel in lifting the pint and carrying it to meet the mouth so the elixir could saturate the thirsty cells in the way that proved the flexibility and stamina of their biceps, thereby reconfirming their fe/mascu/minilinity. He would think such an evening or an alternative—a TV treat or some such extravaganza—was his ticket to a recuperating, reintegrating sleep.

My friend told me about the game he would play while I was at school, or, doing my homework, or, some such bullshit. He liked to play the game in which he would dream of a child who thought that she was middle-aged lady working as a renowned professor of library archives. She held an unreserved conviction that the universe would find the plethora of information available in countless databases laughable were the comparison possible, or, at least, not offensive to a sense of good taste. Or, some such ethico-aesthetic bullshit. That aethic sense she believed to have been based on the fact that library archives were an integral part of the universal, nearly nonexistent values. Needless to say, it severely overshadowed carefreeness of her morning commute to work, daily journey through the archives, dozing off on the train on the way back home, and an evening of the biceps-pint nexus routine.

But, that’s the same game!

Shit! That’s the same dream!

Same beer! Likefuckshitfuckwhadafuck!

Same work! Likefuckshitfuckwhadafuck!

Lke fuck! Like fuck!

Same books, stories, syntagms, phrases, vocabularies…

To fuck : YES. To fuck : NO.

(Cooling the existent ones crammed in the lonely thoughts preserving things, preventing them from getting lost and dislocated.)

Partly philosophized, partly politicized is countersomnabulist, anti-carpe diem hic & nunc poetics.

I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.