“Living the life of a writer in the studio; one that is always under the knife, a sharp one, that is like the professional finder of the source of creation.
Its strange to have one’s work watched by the others but its even stranger to see myself from the outside looking in.
It’s what I’m used to honestly, this introspection of symmetry, this balanced vision of looking into the way that I get my writing out of the study, and into the gallery.
It seems like magic to those that have never seen a creative mind analyze itself, it is not normal, it is not that weird, and if you see the value of this work being made into something it is not, well…I guess I’ve lost my train of thought.
That happens to stoners, and it is not that I don’t know what I sound like, it’s just that sometimes, I’m out of my element.
Fill this vessel up with something other than water, give me that etherical lyrical foundation and maybe we can work something out about how to get things done.
I think I need a typewriter or something with all this work that I do, I can’t make a mistake cause you can’t take back a typo, when the typeface is permanent, and you can’t make a mistake and if you do it won’t be a bird, and it won’t hurt, but man it sure could if this was taken seriously. Its just the meaning of life, the living of the way I write, the studious vision of the empirical evidence of how writing is nothing if not meaningful to the ones I find inspirational.
Now give me something new to talk about, give me something relative to space travel to consider, give me something that I haven’t completely deciphered, give me something revolutionary, something visionary, something artistic and i’ll describe it so you can see it with your minds eye, and you can digest it, and you can find the best parts of it that you wish to see, and that way, I won’t be feeding you anything that you haven’t seen. I can bring you the food of the gods, I can bring you this platter made of silver and you can see this creation as something that is well configured.
Just an idea.
Just a piece of work.
Just food for thought.
Just words in cyber space.
Just useless unless you cannot find it with a search engine.
Just nothing special,
just me, here and now, doing nothing but writing whatever comes to mind.
Can you figure out what I’m doing?
I’m not reprogramming the computer to look for something other than intelligent life, I’m not looking for an appeasement to my ego, i’m not vain, I’m just an analytical creator that is looking for something new all over the world. I am trying to manifest something new, but I’ve done everything over and over and I’ve found nothing to be true, and i’m out of steam, out of gas, out of sympathy for those that cannot keep up with me.
I’ll keep writing documents that somebody deemed as sacred.
I’ll keep finding divinity in this progression, this free-form of recollection of the future coming back on me so I can find the representation of regarding the cloak of invisibility as a sham that cleans up the back of my mind and tells you that i am just like you….prime.
Now that we have busted the quarantine of virus control, we can move on.
I am aware of the problems of technology being interpreted literally.
I am aware that we need to keep certain things separate.
I wonder, however, if there was a problem deciphering the difference between virtual reality, and augmented reality, mixed reality, and mixed media.
I am aware of a program called black magic, and that program can be used for good or for evil.
But the program is neutral.
It is how one uses the program that shows us who you are.
I had the program in my drive for a long time and I deleted it after I found no use for it.
I did not need to conceal my identity,
I did not need to hide,
I did not need to suppress any emotions,
I did not need to show you how I am separate from this form of enlightenment.
I am just a man.
I am just a writer under the wire,
under the space that makes me no different than you.
Now one thing that makes me crazy is the constant denial of my family.
The constant control they have over this studio.
The constant finding of virus that acts like ransomware upon the system.
I found the Trojan virus, and I put it in the vault.
I wondered if the virus busted itself out.
I wondered if the quarantine was real at all.
I then wondered if my system was relative to a window to the soul,
I then wondered if my soul was being sold to a legion of actors in the system we can control.
This is the variable.
Me, my mind, making up conjugations to translate this rolling stone into something that is valid for the palace of jewels.
Quit throwing them!
Quit stoning them!
It just reflects negatively on your records,
mine is cleaner than yours,
and I’m sorry if my tainted blood is not presumed cleaner than yours.
I’ve been attacked so many times for lying with men that I cannot find the reason for being any less important than them.
They say that memory is the virus that needs to be controlled.
My recollection of all this information is how we can continue this investigation,
our investments in time to present the reflection of your shiner,
your punch in the face that brought you to the moon,
don’t beam me up I’m not ready for the swoon,
I’m not ready to be swept off my feet,
I’m not ready to fall in love with a martian.
I’m not ready to find the tessellation of the tertiary substance of rock and roll.
I’m not ready to progress,
I’m not ready to change,
I’m not ready to observe the current state of being as evolutionary,
I’m not ready to prepare for the next stage,
I’m not afraid of this.
I’m not quick enough to call the rushing case of running up the walls and talking to them so they fall down.
I’m not climbing over and
I’m not digging under and
I’m not into the tunnel vision of blinders and
I’m not here.
You’re not ready to see me act like a fool,
I’m not ready to tag all these lines as a piece of work that was never finished on time,
I’m not quick enough,
I’m slow and steady,
I’m the turtle that never saw the current flow so quick that Mariana’s trench was too deep for me to set in.
I never cured concrete underwater,
I never welded the machine to the system,
I never found the program to have any flaws,
I never saw there was anything wrong with streaming consciousness,
as it was never heavy enough to float,
and it was never diving deeper than the bar.
So much for that concept,
and how that connection was never ready for the freedom of thought.
Publish my work in 4 dimensions and maybe we can find that the law of time is never to be fondled with,
never to be assumed that it was never sewn into the fabric of space/time,
never to fix the current problem of tearing up contracts at the moment when your singer was caught off guard and your patchwork was found to be putting up a fight just at the right time.”
-A transmission from Space and Time, written live by Patrick Michael