@

///

The enclosed space, or 20m2, it too was a daydream, but a different one. This one connected to a past future self. The sort who dreams in the day of the past self dreaming of futures.

///

Lethargic, the cat did sleep. This nook feeling is sought after: The tiring attainment of hypersuite. Attainment is a near impossible task. And the daydreams surrounding the act become incessant; making matters difficult at times.

I            can be let go like that. Although hard, it was and is done.

///

[string of language = withered]

///

Colourful bedside clinical. I was standing there, watching him sleep once, and saw the faint murmurs of his face perhaps seeing me seeing him. Vitreous blade, yahweh faced and went away.

///

When it is bed time it is bed time. The proximity of the self under the sheets, and the prospect of nothing the next morning is refreshing. It is the nothing itself which is refreshing :: nothing is refreshing.

What it means bedside is the form of relaxation with the prospect of sleep ahead. Perhaps in this case the notion of faint death for a period of time (circa. 6.5 hours/7.5 hours). It is the  gap  between predetermined times which too cause that refreshing feeling. This can be returned to at a later time. (less than 6.5/7.5 hours hopefully).

The prospect of faint death ahead causes one to savour those succulent moments before sleep and the eyes are doubly weary by this point in time. It is now a dialogue between the living and the dead:

‘’He’s sickly, he’ll probably not live long.’ He thought again, with that sober objectivity into which the drunken ecstasy of desire sometimes strangely escapes’[1]

Faint death is luxurious and attractive at this point.

///

The image of the stricken and disordered city, hovering wildly before his mind’s eye, inflamed him with hopes that were beyond comprehension, beyond reason and full of monstrous sweetness. What, compared with such expectations, was that tender happiness of which he had briefly dreamed a few moments ago? What could art and virtue mean to him now, when he might reap the advantages of chaos.[2]

///

Although the city scape is now of a different character, its essence stays the same.

In the clinical mode of existence, this bedside world constantly tastes monstrous sweetness.

Akin, is the image of the being laid to rest deskside, and it is 2am: one of the loneliest times of existence. Reason is an unstable mode here.

///

Aschenbach, bedside: the clinical trial.

///

for knowledge […], has neither dignity nor rigour: it is all insight and understanding and tolerance, uncontrolled and formless; it sympathizes with the abyss.[3]

///

The recline turned clinical – weary head laid to rest, and the daydreams appeared before. The prospect of sleep felt luxurious, as it leads toward the Dionysian abyss. Eros is here, smiling before me at the banquet as Socrates is sat next to me, where my infatuations made him blush indeed.

///

I was led astray to my death of that day, or at least within those few hours[4] wherein the lack of dream-memory effects thus the abyss.

///

My dreams laid bare by the bedside books, as they are touched upon; read differently from any other situation of literature reading. It is here that the prospect of reading literature here, as the book is placed upon an eschewed bedside table, and I think to myself before sleep ‘I shall make attempts at this page in my weary state’, wherein knowledge is faded; and understanding shifts horizontally: displaced upon the notion of other activities. To compartmentalise this idea, and compact it: thus this idea is repeated continuously as the lines are touched upon horizontally. The black marks lose their meaning of meaning, and are then supplemented. This is where language takes itself to the dream state of nocturnal ecstasy; nebulous.

///

Head under the sheets; the refuge from bedroom gloomth, refuge clinical. Dreams in June, dreams in beige. Tofu as the canvas and too as the abstract idea. This situation is hypersuite and claims back the wake, momentarily. The waking moments and the subtle yellow light force the thoughts of the black marks etched into my own knowledge, then suffused by the nebulous nook-like ideas of Dionysian sleep-ecstasy.

///

Then, travelling the miniscule world which appears large. Each scene is loud in the quietest way possible. Inside the refuge from the rain, and watching the environment from the cosy space, hypersuite to a certain extent.

This extent extends slightly, and the relief is the windows that appear as the canopies are raised to stay in their horizontal state. This is what a temporary home must seek to achieve. Mainly that the shelter protects from the rain, and that the rain could have appeared to demonstrate this.

///

This all happens in the clinical flurry, as the night dreams take over the weary eyes and I thought to myself: this is a sweet dream.

There, I peered over the residual recto (however, in the opposite direction) to find a blank page.

This is the bedsheet, and has been for six months. The odour is drunken and familiar, and has faced the morning me, rebirthed.

In the day, I pass by my ghosted sleep-akin self where both are respectively suspended as watched: to each other. As the patient sleeps and the morning variations appear in constant motion. As this happens in flux, it becomes a microcosm to the viewer beyond the three-dimensional room, and the room itself is bedside.

-

Published @ RIC Journal

-

[1] Mann, Death in Venice

[2] ibid.

[3] Ibid.

[4] 1: Ah, I finally see what you mean Alexander. Death does indeed kill us momentarily.

 2:The antithesis is discredited in dialogue.

 1: Let me find someone else

What may appear to indefinitely reference this space (as well as its components) should, as a work; the body of text, never hold within itself any credibility whatsoever. These should be seen for what they are: hollow mimics. For their actuality exists only as far as their penultimate punctuation marks. This would therefore act as a hermetic seal to the body in question, rendering any fragment that could be considered reference entirely obsolete. The character of these hollow mimics are likened to the stuffed animal. These items act to reflect the image of their real selves; representing an essence of such selves as to be held in loving arms whilst also causing only comfort for its beholder. 

Such mimics clearly show only reduced depictions of what they are made to mimic, ergo should not physically be a fully accurate copy of what they are made to be, yet this does not stop the beholder from realizing what they are made to be and look like. What the soybeen works to do is also akin to this state. It will constantly hold the character of the naive copy, no matter the form. As it solely exists as this intended form, the question arises of what this mimic in fact intends to actually mimic. At present, this aporia is the nature of the soybeen.

For example, it may take the form of the moocow, the budding plant, or most notably the tofu. The latter of these forms is the prevalent actuality of soybeen, and is the most deceiving. It is these forms that make up the entire existence of the soybeen, yet its existence then becomes the embodiment of fallacy. Does this therefore mean that the soybeen itself is fallacy? Perhaps so. As a concept, the soybeen is based upon falsified components; a structure of lies. 

It must be noted however that this was never the intended character of this concept. The pursuit of concepts otherwise invisible must have been the cause of this error in truth. Maybe this is what further made the character of this concept appear even more naive, due to its unintended result as a false concept, yet holding onto a droplet of intention. The constant of this droplet, taking the form of morning dew holds within itself 5 sextillion concepts, whether true or false, still in existence. As the droplet of dew stays there, it starts to become apparent that its truth and lack of truth begin to matter less and less. Perpetuating this is the fact that its environment is constantly in dew point, and this droplet will always be there. Yet, as the image will always have an eventual cut off point, so does the dewdrop; and even though it lives in constant dew point, its 5 sextillion concepts must eventually end, so must its existence. This is its weakness, and its proof that it will never be an adequate metaphor, and shows that nothing ever will. 

The piano melodies wafting throughout the room were to greatly affect the goose prince for many years. Until his death of 23, he was known to wander through the countless goose down rooms, warm from the colden days of long winters lasting mostly for 11 months. To those outside this derelict minus two small palace, they would often hear the goose prince bellowing these gracious melodies with a tinge of the colossal. What repulsed many listeners was the despairingly deep voice he used in order to sing these forlorn melodies.

          -          Little do they know how much I provide them with their goose down, he would sing to himself. And it was true because it was from him that 40% of goose down for their thick coats were indeed produced from the underbelly of his thick black plumage, as an offset of his soft down lining his glorious palace. He needn’t mind however. His supposed subjects were indeed grateful for his self-pluckage, and indeed saw it as a metaphor for his servitude which may be greatly esteemed for one in such power, or what may be evident. In part, as gracious thanks for his servitude to them, they would provide him with heaps and heaps of fine foods and sweetmeats. Fine foods and sweetmeats were expected to be eaten by the gracious goose prince, as mother goose sat in her linen room, humming her music to herself, blinded by consanguinity. By this time, the goose prince was quite filled with his food each day and continued his supply of supple down for warm coats, and indeed did the thankful subjects gift him more and more food.

                    o   Fine meats and sweetmeats have adorned not only my estate, but my stomach no doubt, once exclaimed the goose prince, feeling the fine down of his inner feather, and a jaw much too protruded to indeed talk. It was this day he was being painted by his royal prince painter, too blind and told what to paint by dearest mother goose, who too blind, had a less protruded jaw that could enunciate words slightly better than her goosedown prince. She would sing to the blind royal painter what he should paint, and miraculously each year he did paint a portrait, they depicted a healthy growing boy with only a shortened long neck and a jaw easily accessible to the thankful populace. Each year the royal subjects in their goose feather lined coats would praise the portrait of their beautiful long necked prince as they would gaze upon his depiction displayed at the heart of the national gallery, now containing 23 hearts. On this 23rd year, the generous lifespan of the goose prince was to face and extraordinary ordeal, fitting only for a prince.

                              §  My feeding funnel is far too small at present for these fine foods and sweetmeats, cackled the goose prince, as he ate and ate the fine foods subjects of all walks heartily provided for their down provider. Mother, dearest mother goose, what am I to do, he asked his rather confused mother. She sat in her plain chair, rooms away in linen, and this day was rather more confused than usual. Her quacks were squalls this day, with tears in her blinded eyes as her withered mind lost itself in confusion, unsure how to help her dearest love. The prince’s patience wore thin this day and he did not know what to do. Mother goose was in a pitiful state, and ached severely in her plain chair.

                                        ·         Mother goose, please, he said with grit of the sausage paste funnelling down his thickened throat. The lump in his throat was not known whether to be a thickened glottis before a teary repose, or the density of the food he was expected to eat on a daily basis. Tired this day of funnelling the blended fine foods and sweetmeats down his swollen throat, he made the attempt to comfort his distressed mother goose and acted to push away the fine food funnel: the sign of ultimate servitude. Its mechanical arm retorted, swinging from the high ceiling with such violence as to eagerly revolve into the gate-facing window. Its collision with the window caused such a crash as to alert nearby subjects, to whom, with much respect given, acted quickly to aid their prince in supposed danger. Storming with reverence the repose of the goose prince and his dear mother, the people found their way through the grievous halls of their down provider. During this time, the goose prince, fraught by the tremendous crash of the window, frenzied at the sight of the gavage now with no fowl, saw the royal food stuffs pouring within and without its walls. What remained within puddled the polished floor, causing the prince to slip in its wet body. At his fall, he severely injured his chin, stemming from a frightfully elongated neck, full of sausage fat. It took him little time to choke on what remained there, and his final breath let out a loud sigh.

                                                  o   For the swansong emits within the vicinity, spake the subjects as they swarmed to their prince’s sigh. To them, they found a wrinkled boyish body, sat peacefully on a plain chair, piano side.

                                                            §  For he is here! They exclaimed! They  rushed toward their alleged liege; an acute image that has adorned the walls of their gallery for 23 years. To their amazement, he was to babble forth with a high-pitched voice, and saw foam from the mouth, dribbling into the sloppy puddle of scents including fine treats and sweetmeats which merged with a conjoining room. Rather confused and remarkably frightened, they first ignored the sloppy puddle and assumed their prince was suffering a form of cardiac arrest, so spared no time to undo his lounge wear[1]. To a stupendous surprise, they found no dying heart, but instead a sagging bosom, which began to palpitate in an increasingly violent rate. Naturally fraught at the feeling of being undressed by a lowly mob, mother goose took quite a turn which ironically resulted in cardiac arrest. For now, she was left alone, as during this time, the people understood the situation clearly, which was the fact that this individual was indeed not their beloved goose prince, and instead a member of the royal court bearing a likeness of clarity, implying this was either a twin of their adored prince, or a very close relative; better yet the prince’s dearest mother, as one of the subjects suggested, to the agreement of the others.  Upon this deliberating, they then went forth and followed the stench of the thick puddle toward a glorious goosedown room. At its centre was the awful sight of a fattened goose prince chocked on their own foods, provided for his prosperity. Alarmed and distraught (foremost at the fact he looked nothing akin to his portraits), the people swiftly gathered around the fattened body of their goosedown prince. As his cadaver was still rather fresh, the people took to their usual ceremony of preparing their liege’s large body for the feast, and a fine foie gras it was; one for the gander. One problem persisted from this demise however: the now lack of down for the comforting thick coats to protect from colden winters. They however, learned patience from this experience, and kept faith that another revered goose would arrive to them, as the cycle of nature ordained.

[1] Side Seamless Double Gauze Pajamas, Grey Pattern, XS