The Realisation of Thought

The Realisation of Thought

Posted to the Z-list: 17/7/99

Hmmm... list has been rather inactive of late, so I think it's about time for me to bore you all to tears with some inane pseudo intellectual freeform stream-of-conciousness chatter with an overly pretentious title.

If I could be said to have an aspiration, it would be to create.
Not to propagate my genes, for while they're nice enough, fuck knows the planet's crawling with enough human detritus as it is, and I'd be an awful parent...
"Mummy, mummy, this man at the school gates gave me this heroin, what should I do"
"Well, you take a spoon, some mineral water and a 1 mil syringe..."

No, what I want to propagate, to let loose to spawn upon a not particularly innocent world, are what you could probably call my memes. I want to take the visions which fill my mind, and make them real.
The music which haunts my every waking hour; the otherworldly places which exist between dream and wakefulness; the visions and memories of physical impossibilities that exist every time I close my eyes and allow my mind to wander. And the visions of a more worldly sort; the small paranoias and memories of events which I'd rather not have happened. The little personal ambitions, triumphs, and fears.

Once when I was tripping I closed my eyes and saw inside my mind an infinite number of realities, tumbling like flakes of snow, or pieces of confetti, or blotters of acid, down an endless dark vertical tunnel. Every one of those tiny things glowed from within as they fluttered past each other, each one representing the result of a decision, a thought, an action; not just mine, but of everyone, everything which had ever been or ever would or could be.

I like to think that some of these were the realization of worlds of fantasy and phantasm, where men could fly and dragons filled the seas.
Inside every thought is a whole world, all relative to that thought. If every falling piece of paper in that acid vision was a thought, and each of those the expression of a world, real or imagined...

But I'm digressing, and doing so more than a little incoherently.
I suppose my point is that I want to make real those worlds of dream, to take the essence of a thought half unconscious and express it, and make it part of the consciousness of a multitude.

But how to do so?
In the case of those creative efforts I regard as the pinnacles of my personal achievement to date, the transition from imagining to expression as been something almost unconscious, remembered in brief fragmentary images and memories as of a long distant dream.

I have around me fragments; quickly scrawled notes, hurriedly recorded musical phrases, half written novels, and badly drawn pictures.
And only a handful of these ever allow me to reconstruct them into a reflection or expression of the original thought which must have inspired them.
And this handful send shivers down my spine every time I read or listen or look at them, because in in these I perceive success. The fleeting visions of my mind have made themselves real, and my self has reached out that little bit further, for these creative things are part of me, as much as my hands or my eyes.

I would create a world. A world of reflecting marble hallways and of dingy urban gutters, of the impossible and the mundane side by side, of pain and pleasure and fear and elation and love and suffering and of every thing which might cross my mind for even a fraction of a fraction of a second.
My every thought I would attempt to capture.
But how?
My experiments continue.
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