Rain. Not really a deluge (is it ever?) but an indecisive London drizzle. When the gods pour scorn on this city the downpour is like the madman who can’t quite make up his mind whether to cross the road or just stagger in the middle of the carriageway to the curses of car drivers. The night is deceptively cool but not cold; infuriatingly warm but not hot. In other words, it’s here but not there (or there but not here, oh I’m confused), much like my mood tonight. Should I step out or curl up sofa-bound? Should I dance on my toes so not to disturb my downstairs neighbour or could I find a bear-soaked dance floor where I can moonwalk rooted to the spot? With nothing tonight as it seems am I mistaking hallucinations for reality? Is my life real or God’s capricious punishment for past misdeeds? But then I don’t believe in pre- or afterlives. Or God. It’s the wine. What else? I feel, at once, trammelled and unbreakable. Red, the wine. It burns the esophagus as it gushes downwards to the gut where, mixed with the salmon still in the oven, it will bring sustenance and nourishment to famished cells. The bouquet is like London drizzle, neither here nor there. Is it plum or chocolate or peppery spice? Cherries or berries? Ho-hum. It’s Hungarian, that much I’m certain, and it’s not bad.
“Having seen how lucidly and logically certain madmen justify their lunatic ideas to themselves and to others, I can never again be sure of the lucidness of my own lucidity.”
– from Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet, translated by Richard Zenith
Most mornings I wake up sure and convinced that I have just returned from the furthest end of the world or have been piloting an enormous jumbo jet whose underbelly, every time, just misses a pointy mountain crest. Some dream nights I lose my courage and am fleeing a gormless cookie monster. Thankfully those briefest of moments post rousing from the deep last bare picoseconds longer than those subatomic particles that have the briefest of lives. I guess the oddest part of waking up from any dream is the surreal and distinct feeling that one was bumped from one dream universe to another rather like electrons jumping between orbital states. Fifty picoseconds into the glorious morning and you’re relieved, “phew”, that WAS only a dream. Thank God! I thought that demon was about to have my heart for lunch! Five minutes later and the mind is completely blank. Astonishing.
PS Tonight, I suppose I go to bed at my own peril.
Fiction is telling the truth
of an alternate universe
An alternate universe is where the stuff
you wished had happened to you
happened to a fictional you
Isn’t that just like daydreaming?
QED Daydreams are portals to alternate universes
Duh! But those are black holes surely
OK. A daydream is a black hole to revisionist reality
… futility, erm … eternity
Isn’t that imagination?