22 November 1997

(Light Green Journal Excerpt 1 - "The Scientist")

I feel myself sinking into emotional and mental quicksand and becoming engulfed in my psyche. I can shut things out as if I extricated myself from reality and entered through my skull's door to sit in my brain couch, just watching the blood of time flow in vein clocks along the walls of intertwined grey octopus legs. I notice that the memory or association movie is becoming a lot clearer or the screen. I can walk down the street invisible to the clones walking next to me, walking behind me, and through me. I can't tell if they are ghosts or holograms. There could be an evil scientist at the top of an abandoned building, laughing in a glass labyrinth of tubes and vats each filled with bubbling chemical rainbows. In the center of the room is an enormous generator with metal insect antennae tearing through the ceiling like skin, and on it is a computer screen with physical dimensions of millions of citizens. You can take any view of them by pressing "x" or "y"; you can even zoom in or out. The scientist sits at the computer and drags the cursor across the screen, contorting these electronic images into fat to skinny, tall and short bodies like taffy in the hands of a child, and he is transmitting them onto the streets of New York City. I am not a hologram! That is important to remember. It could be that New York is filled with aliens and they have shaped their physical energy into recognizable forms- namely, the human body. Or, they exist as pure energy and slide through me like blood. Maybe one remains inside and sits inside my skull like I seem to; more likely, we sit together watching life like television.

In either case, I want to ride on their spaceship, even if just for a while. I know there was one in the sky that night, that opaque sky that held a thick orange glow above the horizon- or at least above the building. I could hear it humming through the crystallized snares and cymbals exploding over deep bass in my ears. I want to ride just to get away from this for a while, then I'll be able to find the location of the mad scientist's transmitter beam and liquify it with powerful laser artillery... I carry my own raygun and I will shoot if I need to. Aboard the spaceship, there is one much more powerful than anything I can carry by hand. It is capable of melting the moon into silver drops of lava which would rain on the earth and coat the mountains and trees in a metallic blanket of stone. It would fossilize everyone around, embedding their skeletons into its walls. I haven't had to use this laser yet; it's getting there, though.


I can walk down the moving walkway and stare at the lights above my head, people passing me by with their luggage. There are families with little children screaming, or laughing, or crying; there are couples holding hands, or fighting, or kissing, or fucking; and there are individuals like me who are walking- or being walked- along this conveyorbelt. It's like a fucking airport or train station. I like going into stations and seeing all these people float by, the illuminated names of cities and numbers flashing on enormous billboards. Where is everyone going? I wish I was leaving, too. I have to. I can't stay inside of my head for too long. Sometimes, it rains or snows- especially during winter. It's impossible to put on a coat or a hat, or find an umbrella inside, though I suppose you can try to shove one in....

Sometimes it hurts to be alone. You can grow so accustomed to being alone you forget how to speak. You forget how to think cause you are too busy dreaming, and people become mere images in your imagination. I'll be alone the whole day and- when I finally do go out with someone, or go to a class or a party- I'll forget that it's a situation where people are actually paying attention to me; instead, I'll just watch them, and sit or stand there silently as if I was still dreaming and forget it's real. When you think of people as images (holograms) rather than beings like yourself, they can be reduced to that. This happens with models: when you see a photograph of someone, you remember what you saw, and that's all they are.

Models could not exist as real people and still serve the same function. They don't need brains: a simple computer chip could serve as that purpose. They could be hooked up to a computer and a scientist could type "smile" or "spread your legs" or "look into the camera" and they'd do it, and then you'd photograph their poses. What happens is people internalize everything, refract everything through their own prism of humanity, and wonder "Who are these people I see? Do they have thoughts like me? Do they have friends? Where did they grow up?" They try to understand them as people rather than the images they are, and the purpose is defeated. Pornography- to speak specifically about people as images serving no greater purpose than mental/physical stimulation- is often misunderstood as degrading not only to the models, but women and men in general. Pornography is nothing more than a visceral record of sexual thought: if you can think it, why not see it, too? If you can hear music inside of your head, why not put on headphones and make it a little louder? One might say, "Well, if you have those thoughts, why not leave them inside?" Well, why not? The images are the same, it's just that one is on the canvas of your mind. We are all paint on a huge canvas. The painter has given us consciousness, but we are still only images. We can really only understand ourselves as people because our consciousness is limited to what we can see/touch/hear/smell/taste. We rationalize the fact that everyone, because they have similar shapes, can or should think like we do. We shouldn't do that. A broader consciousness- what is referred to as "unity consciousness" - can be experienced by a unification of two or more people, but that is transient. Also, it could be that you want to believe such a thing can happen, so it does.

I think all this stress has been making me feel shitty about [omitted] again. Damnit, this sucks. I don't know if I am thinking of her and feeling sad (something naturally happening as a result of the suppressed love rising above my emotionally constructed boundaries) or if it is the logical progression of me becoming upset about one thing and then another, and- since I've had so much experience being upset about her- that's where my focus is shifted? I guess we'll see after this semester ends and all these layers of stress and depression are peeled off of me. It's this fucking work! Fuck this bullshit!