I had too much to drink yesterday.
By midnight my body was in ruins and refused to ruminate or run right. I had two cups of coffee (I never drink coffee), two cups of hot chocolate (I always drink chocolate but don't usually consume so much), and a couple of diet cokes. I ODed on caffeine. I shook still as standing seemed difficult. Me strung out in the car after the Monaco mini-espresso wasn't even as bad as the effects of the dangerous drug last night coupled with no sleep. The cause was an unsatisfying midterm. Weathering these conditions, skewed and staggering off a steady even keel, I was in no state to cope with new information, and stay afloat. Life mimics not art but GG.
Being blindfolded is like doing a cold read of some script. You play the part of the whole you're trying to figure out on the fly. You allow your steps, gestures, speech to be molded by someone else. An actor, you are moved by an outside force. The plot or the dialogue directs you on. You give your lines and listen to them after they've been spoke trying to evaluate if you understand and sgree with the significance. Sometimes, in an absurd world, you are left alone. Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern the thought comes that we cannot have been brought here, left here for nothing. We have been selected. Someone has sent for us. Even when no one is in sight and a clear fate is blurry, there is the sound of chimes on the wind of a windless day. There is the hope, assuredness of an audience, someone watching even if you cannot see them blinded by spotlights. Most importantly there is the author. You won't worry what to do while expecting a hand to guide you. Yesterday the writer's plot was revealed and I wasn't sure if I liked it, the tone, or the structure. Saturated with caffeine beyond thought, all I could do was melt down and freak out. So naive. What have I gotten myself into? I'm still freaking out on some level, but after recovering from the caffiene into a sounder mind, new sights are not as scary, possibly even sacred. I enjoyed the experience of senses someway that might have pleased Baudelaire enough to write a poem. I've new appreciation for familiar scents, sounds of voices, and the touch of another human mind extending a hand to tentatively, blindly reach towards. Now with second sight, still within seconds of first seeing the whole picture, I think I might paint myself very prettily and occasionaly wittily into the frame.
Being blindfolded is like doing a cold read of some script. You play the part of the whole you're trying to figure out on the fly. You allow your steps, gestures, speech to be molded by someone else. An actor, you are moved by an outside force. The plot or the dialogue directs you on. You give your lines and listen to them after they've been spoke trying to evaluate if you understand and sgree with the significance. Sometimes, in an absurd world, you are left alone. Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern the thought comes that we cannot have been brought here, left here for nothing. We have been selected. Someone has sent for us. Even when no one is in sight and a clear fate is blurry, there is the sound of chimes on the wind of a windless day. There is the hope, assuredness of an audience, someone watching even if you cannot see them blinded by spotlights. Most importantly there is the author. You won't worry what to do while expecting a hand to guide you. Yesterday the writer's plot was revealed and I wasn't sure if I liked it, the tone, or the structure. Saturated with caffeine beyond thought, all I could do was melt down and freak out. So naive. What have I gotten myself into? I'm still freaking out on some level, but after recovering from the caffiene into a sounder mind, new sights are not as scary, possibly even sacred. I enjoyed the experience of senses someway that might have pleased Baudelaire enough to write a poem. I've new appreciation for familiar scents, sounds of voices, and the touch of another human mind extending a hand to tentatively, blindly reach towards. Now with second sight, still within seconds of first seeing the whole picture, I think I might paint myself very prettily and occasionaly wittily into the frame.
