Interruptus Treblus

3 interruptions (in reverse chronological order):

1. setting a timer by voice my smartphone is less than smart. There's something annoying in the wait while it interprets, those few moments of silence when you've nothing to do but meditate on a static object. Psychic energy draining away.

2. Ad pop-up on the computer, a moment to get rid of it. Another piece of psychic energy gone.

3. Doorbell rings. It's the neighbours - I'd taken a delivery for them. (God the psychic energy drop from 1&2 has put me back into depression, fucking singularity birthing pains)

Hard as it was to get out of bed feeling like a lorry had run over me today (maybe due to depression yesterday), it felt good to help them out. Even if they are a harmless political party. Two chaps a keen young spock with a suit and lapel pin, and an older friendly chap. Many hands make light work, I jest as I pass him one of the last boxes. On the last box he asks me if I have a studio here, yes I say, are you an artist he asks, I realise now what he meant by studio, not officially i say, I just live here.

But he asked a question, and at that moment the possibility of being an artist entered my mind. It is questions that raise possibilities because they acknowledge the "other". Without them we are alone, or extensions of another.

I don't think I can write for another 15 minutes on this, well I could but I'm not in the mood now. 

Christmas is a time for giving. But I find giving a momentously difficult task. Whilst physically I am relatively rich both in time and money, emotionally it is a gargantuan task to do anything for or give anything, unless it's asked for in which case that is easier. Because giving when asked is an exchange - for acknowledgement. Whereas giving without any prompting even, well that requires from me a huge effort because I feel like a mouse amongst the cats or whatever. It just is.

I didn't expect to make that connection back to questions having left the question of questions. It all comes down to the say thing, whatever that is.

Energetic failure cannot complete 30 minutes. Good bye.

30 minutes

29:59 already, there's nothign like a deadline to focus the mind. But this is an arbitrary deadline.
29:27 I can't even keep up. The story of my life Procrastination.
Imagine, if this were all the time I had left to live.

What would I do?

If there were going to be a bomb exploding nmext to me, if I were chained to it, could not remove it, and nothing and noone was going to stop it. What would I do?

Maybe I would have access to this laptop and I could write. What would I write?

Now I can't see how long I've got left, my phone is locked and unlocking it woudl waste precious seconds, as does this sentence.

Ok

time is an illusion. Even as my heart beats, at the illusion of this fantasy death, I cannot escape it, though I know it to be true. Science tells me this, so I believe it. Well I tell myself. I just know, but won't explain. I just semi-panic and get to the end because I can't drop the illusion. It will drop me. I will come to the end, and then there will be no end.

For example. What is after death? Nothing, because there is no "after" when you stop looking at the clock.

But I know I "know" that the alarm will sound the fictional explosion of the bomb, and I will fictionally die. It's mildly scary, how is that? Because this is a microcosm of the real world. Sounds like tosh to me but maybe it isn't. Who knows?

What if I just sit here and do nothing. What it I tell my family how much I love them and that really there is nothing to worry about because God is good.

There are many things I want to do and say but there is not time. And so I end up saying nothing. What does that mean? I am frozen in the fight/flight dilemma and stuck in the freeze, but now out of the corner of my eye I spy an even greater threat, and I must flee from the dilemma. How is that possible? What can I fight? Where can I flee too? What is the threat? Myself x 3 in some weird vortex of entanglement.

Ok that's enough maybe I can just enjoy a little rest. But really my fingers moving on the keyboard if quite nice, they are keeping warm and the tapping sounds is soothing. There is also a tiny release of pressure from the container like a hiss. The anxiety escapes in a tiny proportion to it's total size. What if this really were the end? Surely I would just stop and weep. And for nothing. I would almost certainly pray. I so why not pray now. Can I pray-type?
God give me the strength to act according to your will.

Except that when I become filled with the spirit of God I become God and no longer need to ask for God's help. Belief in God is for the lost souls. But even raising the question means you are lost, and therefor belief brings salvation. You could of course try to forget that you ever asked the question, but truth gets it's foot in the door faster than you can unthink the thought, even if you could unthink a thought.

God forgive me for sweeping some random chick off the floor and screwing her without really caring. I am vermin to your almighty works. But I am almighty when I allow myself to lose myself without condition, to be lost in the moment. Prayer to God is a technique for losing yourself into the moment, and belief in God is, well it just is what it is. It is without definition.

Now I'm getting bored and just waiting till the end. I have lost the moment. I skim it momentarily. I momentariliy enter the monent, but the complexity of trying to type momentarily correctly causes me to lose the moment. It is monumentally difficult to type momentarily in a hurry, especially when any moment a fictitious bomb is going to end it all.

I love my home, but as soon as it is totally finished I will move on. I am not the type to keep stuff, I don't think. But what am I talking about? Have I forgotton this fictitous bomb? Perhaps I shoudl worry about the cyber spys scanning this blog for keywords. This is all compost in the what will grow following the techniologiucal singularity, and when it's ready and a seed is planted it will all grow to amazingly. We little ants won¡t know what's going on, maybe we'll continue to live our happy lives and such monsters as we cannot imagine will squish us without knowing, and maybe we won't even know it. Perhaps like in the hitchhikers guide the house will be knocked down at the same time as the planet is destroyed, a russian doll of destruction.

Ok let me check. It will kill some time.

08:24

hmm

this really has been a lot of spewing. But it's good. The creative process requires a huge amount of spewing, a huge amount of pruning, or rather plucking the morsels of interest and trashing the rest. The rest is handily composted, somehow.

Talking of compost, my first big invention, if I survive this ficticioous bomb (that word is also hard to type in a hurry) will be a type of inorganic compòst. Yes. Menu flips up inspect element. No thnaks.

05:17

Time is such a wierd thing, like water for a fish but not really. We know it's there, but it's not there, we make it up. No, we make it. We make it by not being alive. Time is the story of death, at least the forward march of it. And so to fictitious death I go. Goodbye ficticious ending, and may I never have to type momentarilty or fictitious under pressuire ever again.

god, 3 more minutes. I thought that it would be it by now. Just when I'd like more time, it. It nothing. What after? After the ficti oh bolocks, after that comes the fic future. the future of figs. Figs are in the future like an over-rippened god knows what. See Figure 4.2. the End.

Just kidding

1:17 well it was now it's 1:08, no 1:00

1 minute.

12 seconds lost to correcting a typo.

30 now.

Counting them down.

Ok I love you all. best of luck in this life.

God bles you.

0:00

Greetings from fictious heaven.

It is wonderful, there are no clocks and there is no end. It's just bliss.

No that's bollocks. I'm still alive. hey you can stop now. Go make a cup of tea or somethng.