And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished.

I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light.

I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation.   And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room.

And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt.   And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it.

I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly;  I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.

Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being?

I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise?

Ten times over I must essay the task,  must lean down over the abyss.

                                                      *proust

BEST VIDEO OF THE YEAR!!!

pulled back the covers

opened the wake

he left it all

a complete dance

as his septum

falls into darkness

james is loving me

laughing as no christ ever could

at our predicament

singing like frank

of windy summers

you can't trust the filtering

work to shut it off

my hemi buddy

and the mechanics

underneath

the older synaesthetic

from my  mother

in dream to the West

cross the atlantic

onward to the pacific

rewinding in the caribbean

two of us

who go to sleep at night

one you can never trust completely

yet  you know not which

you are

a deliberated strategy

in reply to the selling

the weight of the history

and detail in Nature

is helping to crush the ego

inside me to make it

malleable

the penguin  snapped his heels

and said in a song

      sex as conquest or trophy is

            ego  left

                           like a bug

saturday noon-

this curious prohibition

to not encompass the deity

with  language

mary shelley hit the target

a BIG idea

machine man

next up

mind man

behind

mind chemistry

and  the  next question

      if a mind  is  all

      what is mind

and then why

did someone  leave

us  in the playground
perhaps  shouting 
in imaginary verse
look what youre losing

was ned ludd right

how is a mind in the net

different from a program

choosing  spam trails,

a thinking machine

entitled and engineered

to preserve a place

in the market

before substitution

speck  of a  speck

seeing my friends eat  dirt

i'm   sure  I'm   supposed to

my  backyard is pretty clean

probably  full of flavor

perhaps gourmet

exotic choices

just like salmon

i disliked in  ignorance