- the "moss vision," tunneling down into something beyond language, a glimpse into a hostile takeover, humans into something green, congealed. consciousness treated this as an occupation. the mind-ghosts kept alive memories of what being a human was like. a.'s grandmother's painting was one of these memories; it turned into a small flame at the end of the tunnel, something treasured, secret, forbidden. one vision, maybe a few seconds long, and the entire plot of a specific future unfurled itself to me. I found myself (don't know what other phrase to use) in some core emotion of the story, attached to a specific character's experience. it was a version of myself living through cosmic horror hard times but also my great-great aunt alice who I also felt-saw on something else. anyway, was like I'd been projected into it. I felt vertigo, physically queasy. from staring down the tunnel of plot but also from a sense of movement. it really was like I'd been thrown. each of my senses was at least partially overtaken by it. I've only had a few moments of panicking. the first was embarrassing but educational, others have been emotional and frustrating, this one was from seeing something frightening that felt "real" but not like an entity appearing but a story appearing in my head like a perfect cube with a small door just my size. ideas usually come to me in trinkets, sometimes jewels. it can feel like trading with a crow, you'll get junk and useful stuff and priceless stuff all mixed in together. the work of curating arranging assembling is yours, which is why it is Yours despite the symbiotic relationship. but this was bigger, complete on arrival. and not a story I want to write; even this is a struggle. so it's kind of like a. being shown a bunch of egyptian shit behind his eyes--ok cool, but...why that? in the moment, I stumbled all around as I tried to put language to this. made weird sounds, hung over the back of the couch to make all the blood rush to my head. when I got back to words, I asked a. a string of insane questions. increasingly urgent versions of "what if we're being turned into slime?" him saying I was scaring him sent me into immediate composure--the last thing I want to do is scare anyone, not with this stuff. so we laughed and I stammered thru emotions the username av*c*doibpruofen (which felt ridiculous, incoherent as the paranoid shit I'd been babbling) because I'd seen them post about being disturbed by all the artists working with moss. a moment of grasping for an Example. it worked all right. "this is some weird stuff," a. said as he scrolled, hit follow.

- is it possible for me to believe some man assuring me that life will be better in the unrecognizable future? gut says no. the drive to write has to come from here, the girl in the garden not buying it. this is katie and lm, me and The Man.

- novel writing as a clinging to ego, the form of the novel as a celebration of the individual, novel writing as the litmus test for the psychonaut, novel writing as an exercise in transcendence, in dissolving boundaries into an other's perspective

- the nonhuman seminar ending with a book on objects, on things--the furthest point k. hayles stretched us to. I was such a dunce in that course, so clueless and struggling. part of the lesson has to be in looking back and seeing how far I've moved (in which direction, unsure).

- the confusion, discomfort of the audience as he wraps it up, ending on that note. how he stands back smiling and takes their photo.