September 26, 2018

Stream of Semi-Consciousness

Thought I’d try a new thing on the blog, a stream-of-thought(lessness) vibe induced by sensory pleasures like running or music or massage. Call it anti-politics.

This morning I dissociated with perfect insouciance from the lush landings of Parini poetry to a double-play of Hotel California (a song so Hell-scary one could use it as a sermon). Later I swum-run the ovals in the gym; I had a choice of taking dogs on a scrum or soloing around the track and oh the release of it, the lock-point unjammed. The ship sailed from the gated community. Athena from beyond her trapeze’d bars, rings the rung-bells and I dreamt from dazed eyes of the torched light.

I ran regales of Gaul, provinces of distant pleasures, azures of blue sand and white skies of tremulous clouds breaking in and out of consciousness along the horizon line of raised hairs and hares beyond cares. Work fatigue and a general world-weariness led me into the zone of Disney animation, into a doze of days, into that lush garden of fruitopia.  Work fled.  I wandered to and fro, near and far. Memories inched to the surface without quite reaching the surface.  I didn't think about the "noise".

My eyes fell into spheres quoi-distant, I ran into childhood memories.  I slowed down latitudinally under the influence of longitudinal touch.  My mind bloomed with the agate of sleep;  I pictured a luminescent blue sea that became caramelized as stone that I could carry in my pocket.  I drifted off, drifted in, my body and all its manifold flaws handled by this tactile witchcraft.  All oils and smooth sailings with terabytes of tactile data, I experience ESP: extreme sensory perception. I perceive every nuance of motion and I cauldron up places half-remembered like when I was a kid at night in bed a memory of being on the edge of sleep the comfort of voices downstairs. It's like Ps 133: "It is like precious oil upon the head, coming down upon the beard."  Like what E.E. Cummings wrote:
“Now comes the good rain farmers pray for(and no sharp shrill shower bouncing off burned earth but a blind blissfully seething gift wandering deeply through godthanking ground)”
Alley alley umcomefree!  Or words like that. Is that even English? The guppies we caught at kids in creeks.

I thought about how interesting it was that of a body made up of nearly countless muscles, we tend to hide our tension in a tiny subset of them, and how an algae bloom of relaxation can occur when released.  The whole body and mind and soul feel it, feel the release of that single muscle tendon.  An image of the Body of Christ and how the tension found in its smallest member affects the whole.  An image of the 99th sheep restored, or the the mustard seed and how we slough it off at our own peril.  The catering to the "insignificant to the point of invisible" muscles as sign of St. Therese's "Little Way".  It made me want to do my job better.

Ah gliddy gloop goopy ah la la lee low... to borrow from Good Morning, Starshine. The Sierra Nevada alps of my shoulder blades. Straightenin' the curves. Ah, ah, triple awe-ah. That little green space alien from childhood cartoons fixed in my semi-consciousness. I dreamt of outer places in my inner space, I dreamed of inner spaces in outer space.  Wandering the dream beam.  Mustn't lose balance!  Epidermis epiphanies. Ectoplasmic ecstasies, the neck that holds the unlock. Into it I bowered, accepting of fleeting emotions till I was wrung and loosed, stamped, franked and freighted to Frankfurt.  I wandered lonely as a cloud or, alternatively, I wandered lowly as a cloud.  Low cloud alert!

Dizzily, tingly, past Rembrandt’s of the past revisited in mind eye like watercolored tourniquets around veins running sideline passes.  All around the watchtower I felt the booze-soothe of the manifold, uncovering layers upon layers, lost in beckoning horizons under induction and fellow-feeling.

I was back running laps in the basketball overlook at the old YMCA gym, the banked curves...I was on the shore-beach of Calypso. The bass treble of the trombone back. The high trills of the neck groove.  The trellising along the instep and the inscape. To berry fields and bonny days, to the windswept windows of the great ship Norwegian.  My blades slumped then reversed guard, en garde! no more. More sleepy than sleep...

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