Have you seen this blog? It’s called unstruck. It’s basically already that. Someone plants a seed and I run with it.
It’s actually really tricky to dip into the standard stream, it seems to disperse as soon as I try and type. Disperse is possibly precisely the wrong word (yet it is also right), coalesce means the opposite, but doesn’t get across the slippery eelness of it. The stream itself becomes something I’m more conscious of, the only words appearing within are the ones I am typing. That’s kinda how I write. Hence, yes, you can share, but you won’t find anything that isn’t heaving with artifice. In fact, all it means is I’ll be slightly less careful about punctuation and paragraphing.
The rest of my mind is sitting behind the typing, mostly distracted by norwegian disco. The whole of my brain is throbbing with the beat and the drums and the synthesiser, anticipating change and action, guessing and knowing and remembering and kinda dancing in and of itself. The brain is like a dance, or a room full of dancers. There’s the leader in the centre, but everything else swirls behind it.
The synth line just dropped downwards and my brain was overtaken by a moaning sound that I’m finding it hard to transliterate. Then the background washed around it and I was left facing the screen again, looking for something to fill.
Once you become conscious of your consciousness it’s hard to believe it is anything but a planned reconstruction. Which is, for these purposes, of no use.
The writing dominates, and so the writing is all I can talk about.
I’m going to try and switch off and keep on typing. I somehow doubt this will work. But let’s see, shall we?
* * *
is my brain really this empty and full of fog all i can hear is music and trains and the sense that i’m tired. Is tired a thought? this is not what we’re looking for this is barely even my thoughts i’m not thinking right am ii even tried taking the music off to free up my brain to roam freely, and it turns out its not even turned on yet. Mess. throbb tear sweat mourn sleep punch slide wither burn old.
Open eyes. This isn’t working.
Either my brain is broken, or the stream of conscious is purely a literally structure, and it is impossible to represent the dances of the mind in black and white.
Basically, for me, the typing actually works to fast for the mind. Words are forming and calculating themselves before thoughts have really become something. My ability to write disallows me from being able to communicate. My brain- usually a multistreamed jumble of sex, song lyrics, panic and nonsense- hones itself into the writing effort completely and without compunction. And without asking whether that is what I actually want.
So I can’t let you into my brain.
It’s for the best.
Illustration by Andy.