A Collection of Essays about Life & The Universe
When I dip my legs into the flow of human life I can feel the current of our shared mind passing. 44v1 is my translation of those feelings divided into 44 essays & 25 sub-essays without common subject or planning, all composed under the influence of different scenarios and settings in moment to moment Spots of Time. I don’t know, it’s just when I am out there I can feel so much in here, but what I feel isn’t mine, it’s ours, altogether the man, the people, and our mind’s river quietly interweaving amongst the silent and outspoken.
“Mundi est aedem mente, et ego interpres.“
Table of Contents
Friends Unbeknownst Is Loss a Choice? Brush your Teeth A Clump of Hair So much destruction I shot a Chipmunk We must stop eventually Henry Bleep Bloop And to this I implore: Moments of Clarity Fear what is There A Voice The Loneliest Night GARY WILL YOU RETURN The Child I’m Seventy Six Have you seen To this and More It’s not [even] a key Trying New things Isn’t it obscure? In Darkness I Write The Sleeping Essay Temptation: The Final influence It is this I pray The Beautiful End Some Day, A Distant Day For love My Gift of Self All Maps The Art of Return Sequential Thought
Where is everyone
Late Earliness Yesterday Planning Ahead A Desire For Future The Cloned Life So Will I The Poor Man Who Weeps Mainstream & The Artist Rules of Engagement Insolence Welp The Most The Beckoning November 30th 11:52 PM The Focus of One’s Thought Mono Sell it I sold it A Matter of Predictability The Urge There are strangers I found it in Your Sweetness A Prelude to Love a Focus among the unfocused I believe in the possibility of us, When I say Goodbye Life beyond the game. Ah yes Where are my people? Why you? Awareness of Relativity The limitations of Conviction It’s the King’s Castle Voices
Preview: Essay #1
The friends we share; the man sitting in the shadows of an overhead fluorescent and the men and women laughing beyond. Who knows who? The man sits under the social pressure of knowing nothing but wishing to connect with something more; the fifth stands outside the four connecting with obvious illusion of something more; the four play, two on two, man and man versus woman and woman, two know only two, one knows three, all take in unison to the happy fee of friends unbeknownst, to the drinks hoping and blending them into more; just as the end has met, the lights shut not fade, all six will go, will separate into the individual artificial light pursuing beyond us all. Go here, you will go there; lead the way it will follow. How much noise will the group tolerate and how little will we know: the man who listens, the fifth who blends, and the four who in twos will lead? All wish for the thing we came: to the bleaking light of shared progress is why we came.
The man who suffers in the shadows is separate, the unknown unwritten artist scribed without knowing for literally the time of humanity to contemplate, scribed and sketched by the man with a false moon leading his pen up down and across fro the physical soon to be eternal, to be read infinitely perhaps maybe but possibly not for all the mix of six who know not how conjoined in this moment they will forever be. And how many times can the man write these last words, already again and again, how long is it before he feels satisfied to the sound of his pen glowing false moon. I’m not sure what it means. Neither he nor I: “forever,” forever and forever it seems so right, so at peace it is to say this in the face against so much that you, he, and I now feel. “To be temporal” – “I am temporal and I know forever” – to say this, to believe in a forever—to say it—to feel I know in forever existence and also know in such short fleeting time. How beautiful.
But it leaves. There are themes established in our lives within this work so many more than I will forever know. I will speak always to you; just as I now regrettably and its opposite live forever locked within the print of these words, forever as time will allow; do you see how I will not leave, how I want to leave, but cannot nor can with every sentence again I am brought back or left behind? No amount of dirt nor dust will bury what I’ve written. And I understand these consequences. I am willing to succumb to this one-sided kind of existence, so loud with so many listeners yet voiceless to make new this conversation I have with myself knowing one day it will be, in the end, to you, my comrade, the seventh to my right, the light hitting the top of our heads slightly different, the shine of your hair reflecting so much more than what I want it to reflect, a bleaking light that is only there in backward false memory.
A memory is falsely repeating itself within these words. There is control here and manipulation too, I am it. A creator limited to the life aging before me, do you see? These questions, they are real. I ask you, am asking you, my lone stranger falsely lit, to think about the questions, to answer them in private just the same as I ask.