The Inner Beast

The Inner Peace. Quite the same thing. It's like misheard lyrics of the heart. Or the mind. Like some quietened down roaring which is like wheels lurching to a stop. Maybe it's such a shame when words are to be typed when there's quiet and it's not the noise that is being put down on paper. Laziness. Smarts. Who knows. When one is assaulted with loud noise for unbearable amounts of time, it is still hard to realise on one's own how much that affects the functioning of a mind, but the mind noises are always there. Sometimes rushing through, colliding thoughts and haphazard movements. Probably stimuli driven. The ugliness and wrongness that goes around creates a strange dissonance which probably just goes away when one's in a space that is largely self-created and acceptable and welcome. Welcoming and welcome. Being with people one welcomes and is welcomed by. However that looks, it feels like a welcome.

Soft light, familiar sounds, dogbarks from far away, road traffic but so much lesser than daynoise, keyboard tiptaps, router blinkings, familiar curtains, famliar other cloths, familiar shawls, even new familiar shawls, outofreach blankets, a waiting phone, a waited phone, slightly long don'tneedtocutthemyet nails, background noise music, elbows on thighs, cracking knuckles, blowable hairstrand, bitable lip, scratchable back, needless fireworks, senseless celebration, why.

Familiar shawls, long shawls. "This is my Papa's shawl. He got it from when he was chief guest somewhere." "Why do you have it?" "Because I am.. his chief guest?"

Reading Freud's Dream and Delusion in Jenson's Gradiva. Pompeii. I happened to attend a talk on it at the JLF. Accidentally, largely. It felt too much to travel to another venue after beer and pasta. And there was Mary Beard, talk of normal sized bedpan thingies and spaces being markets/bars/temples. But no one said a word about a woman with an attractive gait, Bertgang. I like it though, also the idea of Wilhelm Jenson being respected, but not one of the best of any sort. Also, ruminating on JLF, quite a few things stick. Such as who are you writing for. It was said: one wants, through words, to not stroke but poke.

But even when one pokes, one had to know who it is one is packing a powerful poke for. Sometimes one doesn't know anything, and there is nothing to know. One doesn't care to care, because one is one.

Does the bricklayer imagine for the future inside a small room or a giant hall? That one built. Does the bricklayer appreciate the vastness of the sky or is that only for those who are strangers to it. After all one doesn't wonder about the paintveins on one's ceiling, was the painter thinking about.. something. Or nothing.