Monday, August 07, 2006

Trip Mckenzie and the deep cutting razor

I haven't shaved for years. Funny that I should be dreaming of just that.

My face used to be frictionless in its smoothness, it quite possibly still is. My subconscious seemed to be interested in finding out. Which is not an unreasonable thing for it to wonder, not perhaps a particularly sublime or noteworthy wondering, out of the blue but not unreasonable.

Except it all goes wrong. Thank god it is just a dream, at least those scars don't show.

The razor is stuck deep into my skin, however hard I tug at it it won't come out. Blood comes out though, goddamn that ain't a problem. The more I tug the more blood flows out. I must mention that in this dream my blood does not spurt. This is no cheap samurai movie, my subconscious is quite able to keep hold of the concepts of coagulation and surface tension. Maybe it clings to these concepts a little too hard, what with the blood managing to achieve the kind of cohesion only witnessed in Star Trek VI with Christian Slater. But still, no Samurai spurting. Samurai's are pretty cool though. Aren't they? Maybe not Ninja Turtles but not bad nonetheless.

So I have this razor stuck deep into my upper lip, an acceptable thing to bite but not to jam a razor into. The gelatinous blob of blood is growing inexorably (Lovecraft hurrah) and I am growing gradually fainter, verging on unconsciousness. Which is itself a funny thing, since I am already unconscious, what with being in a dream and all. (and it certainly isn't a lucid one or I would have got rid of this bloody razor by now.)

Seems that I have removed the razor now. My subconscious consciousness understands what happened now, somehow I sliced so deep that the plastic casing for the razor blade got lodged under the flap of skin, yet the opening was only the size of the razor blade. So no matter how hard I tugged it was not moving, not without the skin being torn anyways. The answer was found in some complicated ritual of well whatever... its only a dream.

I also dreamt about Carl Kennedy from Neighbours. Go figure.

You know I used to have the most amazing dreams.

Did I ever tell you about Kingsville...

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Trip Mckenzie and the voice that isn't there

"I had a moment today where I felt that it was all coming together. Just me and the ideas, nothing else mattered. I was walking by the river, thinking of people, things nothing spectacular. Then the memories began to melt away, replaced with the ideas. There was noone around, just some woman doing calisthenics by the bench. The sight of her could hardly battle the ideas for my attention of course. It felt for a second that all that I had found and thought of was being sucked into the great vacuum to be fused together at the singularity. It seemed like a good thing but then I found myself unsteady on my feet. I had to tell someone before I was left without ground."

The voice is a silent one.

"God do you know how much these things scare me? Not that I could even tell anyone what the ideas are or what it is that scares me. But the isolation, the desolation that they are wrapped in... Of course I can tell you, I don't feel so insane if I tell you."

I like how the voice does not reply.

"The thing is what use are the ideas if they exclude everything else. It was nice by the river, why did that all have to fade away into the shadows and the void just so that my mind could contemplate the ideas. Don't you think the ideas should be able to exist next to and with the world. Infuse one with the other, no isolation from stuff. Stuff could exist with it. Real and Ireal. Dammit... those are not even the ideas anymore. Help me out here... what were the ideas again. What was in the singularity at the river? Don't you remember?"

The damned voice is not giving me an answer.

"I like these people these places, new experiences old memories, opening new paths and conduits in my mind, eyes focusing differently on things that I have seen before, things that I have not seen before coming to view hidden for so long out of focus. People I know, people I don't know, people I am getting to know, people I will only ever know, passing me by, me passing them by. Godammit, I'm trying to tell you that I like the world, I like reality I like the other. And all I get are these maddening ideas, making more sense than anything else but never clarifying never coming into focus because they reject all and every interference and manipulation. They won't even let me think about them, insisting that I ignore everything else, then and only then will they bless me with their precious insight. Do you think the insight is even worth it? What is it insight into?"

I don't think even the voice wants to hear this.

"This isn't working out how I thought it would. What has happened? I thought that I would tell you something, you would reply. We could share this insanity together, dilute it, spread it out, pick out the truth from the craziness. But it is not working out how I thought at all. This is just one long and pointless monologue isn't it? One loosely described event extrapolated into rambling incoherency. And not the good kind. This was meant to move between moments, modes of communication, different thoughts, different events and places. Each connected by the recurrent focus upon some vague and ephermal ideas that run through my head. But it isn't that at all. Start to finish it is the same thing. There aren't even any ideas, let alone events or messages. No dialogue, not even with myself. What is going on? Why isn't this how I thought it would be?"