Wander

I forget everything I do. I don't know if this is normal. Everything happens so much and I do so much and . I write and forget I have written it. I have completely externalised some function of my memory, some part of my brain, which has become entirely prosthetic. I would like to externalise my whole self, into everything. I would like to be hands of the world - telekinesis is the fantasy of this. I want to replace all my parts, rip myself up and start over from anything. I become everything I see, the operations of the trees in wind, fire, my body which looks as if puppeted small fleshy hanging-man, marionette. I become water and take a piece into me - it becomes function, a brain. The water brain, image of thought which processes experience, transforms it - the infinite alchemy of thought. I take the operations of water and put them to use. I don't start from anything.

I love the sensation of straining against language, pushing it. Omnipotence. I often wish words would have less syllables than they did - I wish I could densify them to a straight beam of information blasted into the forehead. Total schizocommunication, mind control - mindmeld. I want words to vibrate in ways that they don't - half-measures of irreducible quantities. Slow speeds - massive.

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Lord knows if this will work - hopefully you come away with some image, sensation for thought. The language is not working for me - certain things would take more space to become expressible. Wordless scream sky of infinity sunset red stretching to molten - the train-thought. Cool memories.

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Every experience is pure art - people sound like muffled radios. Falling between the gap.

I am trying to communicate what it's like to be me - I am trying to give you a new brain to work with, to put on. A brain is a thinking machine.

Sober nervousness, cold dead uncertainty, quiet hysteria. Everything can be put to producing thought. Everything serves as a figure, a thinking machine. Everything can be described in terms of every other thing. Sober. Short, declarative sentences. Almost a monotone. Steady.

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I am a network of machines-prosthetics. I am a hangwork-assemblage of realities - a machine. A composite of water, a tarot card, history, 2001, a laptop, synchrotron, centrifuge, colour blue, the third eye, the space program, a trumpet. "I lost myself in that city over 20 years ago."

hallucinogenic and vivid - it's almost a matter of dragging your eyes across pages and seeing what sticks.

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"Try to imagine a being who is not a mere colourless conglomerate soul composed of an indefinite number of ill-assorted and antagonistic individual souls, but consists also of houses, street-processions, churches, the Liffey, several brothels, and a crumpled note on its way to the sea – and yet possesses a perceiving and registering consciousness!"

"Kodachrome. Captain Kirby, MI5, studies the prints. They showed: (1) a thick-set man in an Air Force jacket, unshaven face half-hidden by the dented hat-peak; (2) a transverse section through the spinal level T-12; (3) a crayon self-portrait by David Feary, 7-year old schizophrenic at the Belmont Asylum, Sutton; (4) radio-spectra from the quasar CTA 102; (5) an antero-posterior radiograph of a skull, estimated capacity 1500 cc.; (6) spectro-heliogram of the sun taken with the K line of calcium; (7) left and right handprints showing massive scarring between the second and third metacarpal bones. To Dr. Nathan he said: 'And all these make up one picture?"

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The light touch, the faint impression. Melancholy of snow falling. Loss.

The mystery - dumb perceiving consciousness . only in hints, speaking oneiric

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"Like every true prophet, the artist is the unwitting mouth-piece of the psychic secrets of his time, and is often as unconscious as a sleep walker."

So what do I do now I know this?

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Always beside the point