Said All

18 Apr 2026

Pane of Glass, Mother of Pearl

A la luna yo me voy

A circumscribed infinitum - I suppose that's the basic tenant of any calculus - infinitesimalicity, right? A quantum infinitely tiny but yet non-zero,…

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I went to an Algerian restaurant tonight, by myself. There's something quite real when you dissolve yourself amongst an overwhelming amount of stimuli…

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Hi Olivia, it's nice to meet you. Is my voice deep enough? I like your dress, and can't help but notice the perfect symmetry of your face, centered on a jaw that's perfect I think only because of your height. Did I tell you I love your dress, but its gray background reminds me of the feeling I'd get from crying on the carpet as a child - was it the dust? It felt like blood.

There's an odd space to be occupied in this life - how else can you understand the experiential, the experience, existence, in terms other than non-coincidence of the coincident. To be "not what one is" doesn't not only suffice, but misguides. We are precisely what we are. Our existence is suspended, trance-like, not separate from itself but held in a a pocket of distortion where we must necessarily be opposite ourselves, apart from, away from, other than, but the object opposite is not only identical but entirely coincident with itself as is everything. I understand that contradicts cannon dear to my heart, but I don't know that it acts fatally, or is contradictory at all. Perhaps my move is to place non-coincidence behind a veil, an aberration not meant to be seen. But isn't that the feeling - I'm not supposed to be here, to see you, to be with you, but yet your separation is essential to my being. We've ripped open the heart of being, transcended, all without movement - that's the utter incoherence, but it feels... wonderful. To be in communion with yourself non-immediately, is, euphoric.

It reminds me of the linear-non-linear sequential transformations that might give rise to semantic landscaping. To the extent that we are immediate, we collapse, and the entire experience becomes incapable of realization. To the extent that we resist collapse, we do so (or rather it is done) through transformation that manages to propagate the landscape into higher dimensions. Yet the feeling - the feeling - it is so thin, so precipitous, it feels any aberration is ready to steer this into collapse, and yet, to my knowledge, it is incredibly robust - so much so it manages to veil even itself from itself, though this might be a sign of fragility rather. Who is to say.

Non-simultaneity perhaps captures the phenomenon better than non-coincidence, to the extent that anything can be its own referent it feels necessary that a separation between them persist, and a delay - with the present referring to its past - feels permissible. But the caveat is that in this case non-simultaneity must remain contemporaneous, in other words, simultaneous non-simultaneity, which perhaps is itself non-coincidence. We dance in a circle with instances of ourselves, gravity wanting to collapse these instances into inert being, and yet the existentiell persists in its being - is that what existence negates - itself?

Communion not only with ourselves but with the world. A rippling disorientation - when you are in, better, when you are with the world, it's like edging the lip of the cave - the world appears to you as it appears for its inhabitants - you are in communion with the world are in communion with all that the world is are in communion with yourself to the extent that you, the world, its inhabitants, are transcendent upon, constituent to, one another. And then the recess - a tug on the rope round your waist, and like the cat, you're back just at the precipice of belonging. That, in itself, is a feeling profound. I felt it today, a rippling, bouncing, in and out, knowing for just moments what it might feel like to find simultaneity with the world; belonging. There is a purity in this world and it likely exists in community, in communion.

The verge of a fundamental shift if my orientation towards being is coming; drug-induced, entrenched in crisis, I am not what I have become and as this new being erupts alongside it are dying so many maladaptions. I've been here before, but I remain hopeful. After all, I go on.

A circumscribed infinitum - I suppose that's the basic tenant of any calculus - infinitesimalicity, right? A quantum infinitely tiny but yet non-zero, such that it carries a home for predication. Infinitely small but infinite nonetheless, as infinite as any other infinitum.

Experience is infinite and yet the possibility of experience, of this lived experience, feels so small. Our lives are mostly lived by 20-something, and even by then the medium of your life is probably 90% filled with recycled goods. There just isn't much to do in this world, and I wouldn't qualify novelty as the inherent antidote to that... banality. Maybe that's the word - experience becomes banal rather quickly.

I've always been afflicted by boredom. I remember a summer my mother gave me a small mason jar filled with these paper tabs, 4" x 1/2' strips, with suggestions of things to do; make a fort, walk the dog, origami, tic-tac-toe... The lethargy exuded from the cards themselves, you could feel the poor soul - whether it knew it or not is another question - coming up against the limitations of his own infinity.

Our world is small; the range of possibilities is small, and that's before accounting for any facticity beyond our common condition. In whatever sense you can permutate and interact non-discrete experiences, you can never escape the feeling that you, somehow, have been there before. How is it that an infinitum can become so small?

I don't want to go to the moon; even more haunting than the boredom itself is the pathetic endeavor to fend it off. I'd rather rub-up the devil itself than ever in my life go axe-throwing, or 'hit up a brewery.' Perhaps (definitely) that speaks to a personal cynicism I can't extrapolate elsewhere but the cynicism is at least founded on a universalism. But are the people attending colonial Williamsburg or Disneyland aware of what they're seeking in those experiences? How many on this Earth are seeking to escape their tiny infinity without any realization.

Boredom is a particular unkindness - almost a taunt from God, a knock on the walls of the prison cell. What's ironic is that Boredom - not the mood but the existential condition - is so early to us, primitive within and quick to the surface beyond childhood. Any reprieve from boredom - the mood - is merely an ignorance; the condition lurks over your shoulder and as soon as you turn around...!

I've always been afflicted by boredom; it's my oldest friend, and I can feel him when he's in the room with me - my strongest memories are alongside myself and boredom. I've tried to kill him more times than you can count; it's how I know he's not only immortal but the, a, condition of our being.

Don't mind him - Boredom is a clearing through which beauty might arise, where simultaneity with being might even approach ecstasy. But even beauty, appreciation... infinite in possibility but what is beautiful is what is beautiful is what may else be beautiful.

I don't doubt that some aren't as close as Boredom and I are; I'm sure most are only vaguely acquainted, with a preference to keep each other's distance. Perhaps I was born into boredom; my days were always short and warm, happening on the edge of town. Perhaps, like myself, he prefers familiarity, or those without too much preoccupation.

I went to an Algerian restaurant tonight, by myself. There's something quite real when you dissolve yourself amongst an overwhelming amount of stimuli - you dissipate and in that act it all comes to you immediately. Once it would have stirred anxiety in me but now it's beautiful, an immediacy with everything. True presence. It's telling, it flickers in and out like a candle flame, I suspect along with your sense of self.

You're not supposed to mix the couscous in all at once, else it absorbs all the broth. It was mostly squash and peas; I added lamb sausage. The tab was $40. I left her $52.

The owner was hosting a dinner herself; there's something charming about watching a proprietor live as a person rather than act as a businessperson, in all the custom of American hospitality. Hell, she picked up my plate like a mother would - only after she downed her wine and finished laughing amongst her friends at her own table.

I am obsessed with us being ourselves.

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