Note, this is not a discussion on the aesthetics or qualities and merits of art. This is a short piece of writing that spontaneously emerged from a doodle, and a few moments of disconnection from the 'moment'. Take it as a waste of time X (but do read it anyway!)

**
[Part 2]
Ironically,
I am unable to disconnect from certain things with ease. It seems that my guts is so fearful, it has been fearful this entire time. Each time I fight, my gut strikes back harder. Many things that I am associated with become a presence in my subjective negative space. They squash me, they pummel me, they choke me. They even feed me.

The coupled feeding device forcefully holds my face to the addiction-feeding device. My hands are held out above me, like I am star jumping at school again. With an iron tube rammed down my throat into my stomach though. It feeds me my delights. No wonder I feel such a twisting sickening disconnection in my gut when I attempt to rear my head back, the iron tube has claws that bite and tear my stomach lining. Every time I turn to break free, my stomach revolts. Or it spasms like its getting volts passed through it. A deadening fluctuation, pumping fifty times a second. My fearful gut tiptoes in delirium back from this edge, this vacuous distance that threatened my very centre. The abyss is all around, I am the centre! I do not see past the white halogen eyes of this feeding device, I only feel the vast fissure's presence, as it becomes a delight forced through the tube, and into my retching stomach. I said that these things becomes presences in my space, they are my space. My eyes close, and the hot white eyes sear red lines across my filed of vision, like the chequered white and black finish line. I am finished. A white sheep's face, moon or man? The device analyses, the device decides.

The machine holds my crippled body up; if I could walk by myself, where would I step? This wheelchair, this crutch sustains me. Surely, these miserable addictions, these space eating, or stomach filling delights, they are the only things that exist. This nourishment is the machines oil, I am a fuel. I have no body! I am a negative! There is only an absence within my own stomach and it is the absence of these terrible sweet deliriums. Absurdity, a last bastion, and the only island in the sea.

The bridge to this island, the iron rod, gripping my stomach and turning my insides into fire, a soaring deafening antagonism. This rod, this iron or steel or copper wire, only needs be as thick as my sore soul. The only bridge from my negative space, across the sea of my stomach, is this electric shock therapy. I am twisted through the voltage, and if I were to rip this device from my face, I would surely be a dried lake. A fish with no gills. This apparition, this light source, this is the dead end. This is the great waterfall at the edge of the world. These eyes, these halogen lights, they are angels, or stars!
I is collective, I is grammar. An expression, a first person pronoun, a language device. This device feeds I itself. A sick regurgitated pig. Oink.

Language, this sudden mock replica, this electric current, this difference shocking through my flesh, it is a frightful negative aspect of a pattern so diverse that the coupled device, the feeding tube, the sick metal rod, the stomach, they are all devoured by the presence of this delight.

and yet, ironically,
I is the force-fed, the gluttony, the becoming of a stomach so wrecked through that the machine's blinking lights are an anal airline carrier craft. My stomach is a carrier aircraft. If language, that sick malnourished addiction arose distant from I, (like I could ever stand on its own), how could it assume primacy? This machine is a production unit. Not intelligent, like the intelligent being, the becoming so face-fucked by this rude device. Language as a tool, an addiction, outwitting the most sublime of face-clamped beings. A machine at the disposal of a man; the eyes are flickering, faltering. A sign of a failure?

I heave one last time, an individual heave, independent of this cold cruel electric shock administrator.
Ironically,
Differentiation is apparent in even the most basic of identities.

The suffering is a disconnect. It is a re-engagement with the world. The mind must mute the stomach's anguished cries, and deny itself the devices hold. To the healthy mind, the sea is an island, and the only water secretes from the tube, held fast by beautiful beings. The panic ends, I am disconnected once more. Like a seizure or a transcendence, one more circle, one more rotation.

ouch, Mono, did something like the "nürnberger trichter" overtake your beautiful mind?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuremberg_Funnel

[part x] or was it one? Did it ever exist before?
Did I just lose my memory, or is it the disjunctive re-engagement with the interface after a relapse into an extension of reality that corrupts the series of quantified pulses in my
head? I registered and qualified the electromagnetic radiation, I experienced the excitement of my ear drum. Yet I did nothing of the sort. A forcefield, no, a firewall stripped incoming values of their assets as an internal system check, or de-fragmentation operation initiated. However, the de-fragmentation only served to fragment the interface from the screen and microphone. As a thing in a vessel, there were only the broken fragments of a totality.

There is a constant renewal of the interface, this disjunctive value. Extended through time, it seems like no object to me, but instead hides all the objects, they reside within it, permeate the surface, emerge amongst the processors, break the water's skin. They are islands, demanding access to install themselves. Separate processors, separate programs. And with them, these demanding souls, these objects that curl through the waves, the constant breaks in the flow, the sudden re-engagement with the flow, with the interface. Dreaming a rupture into the flow, gaining primacy over these sweet pathetic rocks of land, jutting out of the turbulent interface. These broken memories.

And there it is again, a phoenix arising from the ashen water, a hidden gem, smashed and melted and shaped into institutional regiment. What is the difference I ask, between the watery field, the engaging objects, and the interface? I only compile them into a sentence, I only see to it that they are compatible, that they are registered and neatly stored. So it was only a memory.

And then, a surprise, a joke, an amusing postulate returns me to my source. Only, this is followed by a grimace, by a repression, material ignored in the moment, deleted. Oscillations between the interface and the objects. The water rises engulfs them, only to become depressed again, as the heads of these talking posters overrun, over-code and obliterate the internal interface. The disjunction happens again, and again.

What does this mean? I wonder silently, because the microphone has a virus.
Do I constitute my words? Did I only exist within my words? Where does the value exist? What is sovereign in here? Did those words constitute me?

Again I ask, is it an irony that I would seek to submerge myself in this ocean, to observe the roots, while being unable to breathe or see?

There is nothing down there! I felt it! Or I didn't feel a thing, but it felt like a nothing!

I grasp onto it, because it is the only thing that is warm here, it is the pulse, it is the interface, the disconnection with the moment. But the moment didn't ever pass. So I ask, or I say: I lost my memory, I disconnected, I rejected, I deleted, I superimposed, but with an opacity that demanded a zero return. I missed my turn. Was there a junction?

Lavender Orchid,

It felt like a kiss.

so might this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=et8r_YcnnbM&feature=related

That actually was a very enjoyable song, thank you. <- most african looking one!

its history is one of sadness though, I looked on this site:
http://www.scouting.org.za/songs/southafrican.php

But now it is popular?! thanks again though! Great song!

yes, the song has stuck with me from teenage radio listening..

like, if i had a hammer, and other such overtaking devices....

believing, still, they could ignite a cui bono explosion, some day soon.