Friday, July 02, 2004

Not Golf

Listening to Cobalt Blue by Michael Brook.

At last something to spark off many thoughts. I often write about the idea of a machine that can automatically record brain state. This guy seems to have gone much further in his thoughts about it to the extent experiencing something that must have seemed like madness.

Time seems to be rolling away from under me here. I only have this paragraph and it is probably because, as usual, I have allowed myself to be distracted by websites related to the links above. There is a smell that reminds me of the wine which used to bubble away in the demijohns on the windowsills of our house. We had home-made wine of real quality though us kids were only allowed to drink it at Christmas after our breakfast of Kedgeree (yes really) and before dinner - sorry - lunch. I can't remember what the wine tasted like but the smell that lasted here for a few seconds reminded me of it.

All rambling again. Try to keep down all thoughts. The method must be structured and yes the guy is correct; it must be done with paper as this keyboard needs fixing. What happens when you take longer to write something down than you do to do it. Maybe there should be a bucket that you could kick to indicate that it should not be recorded. Magnetic tape. Small particles on the plastic, all lined up like pointillism on that sunny afternoon walk. Why are the Americans so much more sticklers for punctuation and is that sentence correct? There was a bright light, like a cabbage just before the bomb goes off, a speckled, irregular constellation of black stars, lining the sky like distemper and old rising damp. And then the bright light got brighter and hotter, like that high-pitched sound which told the crew to shut their eyes. When you have a bomb that big, then why bother protecting the men who drop it. You killed so many POWs from Korea and other friends, why not just let the plane get shaken from the sky like jelly or whatever it is called by Enola Gay's son, the captain who worried about what he had done. They tumble out of the belly of their mother, falling to the dry earth to light fires and kill anyone they find. What things are human? When does the question filter through that grey and become an answer. I will write gray from now on. It is a gray poem from a gray poet, lost on the wind that blows up to the sun to melt the wax that held Icarus together. He escaped Crete by hiding in some salty coaster and shooting anyone who came near him. This is a long highway, seems to be built on stilts, just over the water that fills the gaps between the tropical forests. This road has no bends; it does not follow the curve of the earth and starts so high in the distance until it grazes the surface like a gentle kiss and then powers on out into space so everyone running to the country can shoot over the end and into orbit. This road is a tangent, a skyhook to save us the booms and pollution of Cape Canaveral. Space flight and Green politics can never be separated. Twang twang and here comes another. That is not tuned and will break eventually. The strings are too tight. They will strangle you if you are not careful. Fullbrights.

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