The side streets of manhattan's western outliers hit me this morning with an crisp overflowing morning breath, somewhere between the post office of eighth ave and the puddle of gas-infused urine on 10th, between my identity decomposing and submergence into ennui, and the disquieting patience of constipated starbucks patrons, all jiving for my bathroom spot.
If I could have passed out, taken a break, I would have done so. Instead, I chose to imbibe myself on caffeine prior to a computer-generated training that sucked all liquids from my ensconced half-sheathed epidermal fringe, and displayed them, Light emitted diode style, in front of my post-pubescent eyes, a landscape of grid lines, snap shots, and controlled space, and you'll tell me I'm just joking, although I assure you, I am not, gives some peace to my heretofore slippery being. To say it plainly: I like spreadsheets.
As an aside, it is difficult to recognize negative space without being trained to do so. Difficult as well to train yourself not to seek order, to fall into prefabrication. The trick is not pretending to be somewhere that you are not, so as to wake up with a startling realization of profound confusion--that all thoughts, belief systems, and known entities, were and are fundamentally flawed. It helps, in this effort, to base thoughts, entities, and belief systems, however sheer or flimsy they may be, in firmly known knowns, and stick to them with mathematical precision. To wit: math. Formulas. Assumptions to build oneself a little fortress on, with the more bristly pine cones to lay down first and absorb water, followed by the downy layer upon which to place a fat pale ass after a long week in self-imposed exile.
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