Blue Screen On (Obsolete Technology)


A preconception shapes the shifting in endless blue waiting until the strength of the signal weathers or the wash in the wash hardens;

or holds in horizontal herds the setting for but not longing; unless the wrist-action rests, waiting for the breathless record...

aching, straining, dissolving

--

A study in reappearing is waiting at 99 edge of two-digital sank just above normal blue screen for prism flash:

Bent shafts of split screen at times so wavery clear that flash dints the log-green soft trade beholden to expectation's blue shrinkage's wrap. Or...

Bulges inverted to other bulges... sequent flashes, stilled kinks, and small osmoses of narration. Or...

Horizontal tension edged in shimmy, jalousie all through... but not thoroughly stripped of yellow; stained in full bluish wet, yet...

Caricature shines through...

a map of distortions... no matter the air or the day of the year distorted the same each repetition. Breakthrough at certain instances forming traditions of twice. Musical epidermal flashes that comprise the stories of anyone's guess.

--

Then the sea comes in clear but dancing on the beach bends the signal...

Longer than legal, but vanished instantly, the same bird flies...

Profiles burst on the scene, but I wait no more follow. Some suggestion of pleasure breaking the expanses. The one lamp that melts through though:

not picture-perfect perfect.


Unwinding



is my euphemism for you-know... of all things I call "activity," what's probably most ruined me, probably my last (whatever) to do before, you know... going to my rest,

my rest, or The rest, or...

I'm not about to unwind this evening. It's not that I've made vows not to; it's that I've unwound twice today already – you know, euphemism, by default, makes it difficult to guess; it consumes the hours I could be winding. I could be winding, you know...

--
Euphemism is resistant to correction. Circumlocution does not free it.


Unwinding

is not moving forward, but languishing, its attention elsewhere...

Half-wound person, I could get used to it, latent responses preventing further unraveling. 

--
Residual: The shadows aren't honest, but that's universal. The shouts are meant to focus attention.

Attention!


Unwinding

provokes too much strain now in the actual addiction, a substitute having taken precedence... as more welcoming: catalogs, memories, masterlessly construed, jogged out of heart rhythm, you see, I like the, uh,

but the mother in me doesn't.

Oh, those trance moments in true trance-nature – that brought my mother running – I remember her tea-cups telescoping.

--
(Confusion... conscious of the context, and the letter "C.")


Unwinding

is the symbol that stands for me, though at this time it does not stand for me, I can't sustain an interest. I've entered a deeper erasing. Euphemism is hiding from me. Through its protective core and its protective layer, it casts its iron vote for me, my proxy, it goes and stands in for me.

--
Boomerang euphemism: It stands for me; I can't stand it.


Unwinding... "Brutal." You hear the oink in it: The mood shifts, wear it. About that time a boat arrives. The tug of transition. I'm hoping the energy holds.

It folds.

--
My errors conspiring against me. 


Back There

Something is coming home to me, but it's taking its time getting here. Looking for clues in my thoughts earlier, I'd have to say: "I'm not looking for fame, just more confidence."

And a number of other things I'm ashamed of, like my tongue loosening, as I sing, "my tongue loosening, my tongue loosening, my tongue, loosening my tongue, loosening my tongue" to every note of Santana Abraxas. Every note.

And other such thoughts while I was driving down from Tahoe tonight, such as:

"Back there? what's."

I really did think that earlier. I don't know what to think of that now.

--

The moon was hanging over Hangtown as I wound down the curves, thinking again, "My car, my life!"

And as I've said so many times: "How a life can be reincarnated in the same life so many times and still not feel the strain (or mystery) gets me!"

And nothing more.

Except "what good is Art? It can't substitute for loneliness," and "I can never be completely confident," and "Fame is no measure of success."

And "Safety is no excuse," and "What the future is is very hard to interpret."

--

But.

Let me see if I can back up over this: I was thinking of the magnitude of a person, how one's could put another one's lights out, disable him (and here was thinking of specific persons). And also I thought of how I was my car spinning... its wheels, so? spinning its wheels it is. And spinning there in the corner by the statice flowers, an unclaimed memory of what I was thinking back there, which was, uh...

Shoot, it's not coming. It was, it was, just before I turned my head to think, "I am my car spinning..." It was... (?)

It's lost!

No! I was thinking what would they, anyone, want with Nothingness? but that... that thought was in a context I can't retrieve at the moment because I am concentrated on this task of reworking th..., reworking th... Oh, well...

--

Break: Well, I spaced out. And to get spaced back in, I thought I ought to concentrate on what I am right now, which is... spaced out. Oh, yeah, identities. I've had three or more. I keep vacillating, as if the change was not secure. I just don't feel like I have much hold on it, then I do. I won't go into it, but then I do.

I guess I'm still confused, and it isn't settled – but no, what was the point, it had to do with outline, no, not the border, not the edge, no, it lingered up in the birches and was lost.

"Up in the birches and was lost?" What do I mean? I mean that like a butterfly a brilliant insight has flitted from me.

In trying to embrace the image as it wobbled out of the puzzlebox... oh, I give up, I know it's incomplete, I don't know why it's fuzzy out of reach, or why it keeps slipping behind a cloud... It is a cloud, isn't it? It's a blackout cloud rising from the peak and heading towards me at one-hundred-thousand miles per hour, brace myself! it's ready to break, ah, just like the milky-warm waters off the Bermuda coast:

(.   .)

--

Here the art ends and the complaining begins.

--

I find this sort of backtracking at the end of my thinking, and though the thought is moot, I keep on going, I keep on going, until I have something to say:

I don't have much to say at this point.

I don't have much to say at this point, either. Soon I begin to see the parallels between my now looking back over my thoughts, and, and...

the Tie-in!

maybe.