——I think what you come to want is a summary, at least a few summaries, maybe even a grand, relaxing, humor-filled summary of life. To match the mood, say, of the late afternoon stretching out. And you realise you can’t have it, because it is obvious there is no place for such a summary, except in the world of thought. But this is not the type of thought that can be located, traced anywhere, it is unaccountable, floating as if not even in your head–but, over there, identical to the late afternoon and the relapsing  twilight, and the calmness just noticed. Of this you would speak; you would make a reference to this mood, while you are in it, while it is out there; but you can’t have this, because it is not produced, certainly, but only an idea that has been caused by sheer accumulation. It is weariness, and it is exhilaration. Moods never strategized, or deliberately visited upon you, but produced out of nowhere, like apparitions that came and replaced the place you are standing. You have been whipped out of here and put back in an identical, but unreal duplicate setting, in the blink of an eye. Standing in your garden, as you bent down to brush the dirt from the bed of tulips, say that, just like that. And the threat is past, before you knew it, but the thought is there; what you have come to want is a summary, at least a few, maybe a grand outtake, on life.  And this is frightening to even consider, and you are not up to it–even though it has been there all the time, the clear desire, the option for a summary of life, a summary even of a day in your life, or some other way of organizing what happens, and how it links to what has happened. And most exhilarating of all, if it can be time for such thoughts!, what will happen.
——One gets into a habit of thought, in which they are engaging memories on the spot, because everything reminds them of something, like it is politely begging to be part of a greater reality; and it is entirely possible and it happens that one works on this reality, where are kept these summaries large and small. So increasingly it is a lure and an enticement, and in fact a newly discovered land, this building reality of thought upon experience and all the depths of experience that one has had before in a life that, really, has been endless. All of which leads to the issue, not squarely addressed, of the location of this type of thought, the location of these built up worlds that link you to your person, your past. There simply is no accounting, by any rational means, for the existence of these complex worlds of interacting experience and memory. They are not in your brain, how ridiculous is that? I will tell you it is more like your brain is within them.  In your case, your case especially!, you have a world of thoughts that are so obscurely tied to untrackable, ethereal, unresolved, fictional, shreds of memory and expectation, it is impossible to house them. To shelter them. And not because of the great number, but because of the type of content. There is a type of thought that is so exposed . . .
—–And you are, in these campfire moods, breaking out in such obscurity, and so much more aware of how inconclusive is the intricate linking of your life to the world. It is not so vast, but only a little hut, a refuge out beyond the horizon, that you have made without even good planning. You are without foundation in all your private thinking.  It has been as if you cannot find a place in your thoughts, where you can hide, and review what has happened. And what it has been like, for it is like something else, tugging at you. You should make provisions, which are summaries, really. And have conversations with the other parties in what seems like a very elementary group; or find some lazy  setting like at the end of the pier out on the beach, where the sun is nicely halted in it’s tracks, for once, or in the backyard by the conference of white wire chairs, or strolling through the streets where all the book vendors have set up, like in history, in London, like that day I recall . . . you can have that day for part of the setting if you wish. It is almost there, if you could turn the corner, but you can’t find the coefficient. The coefficient that is the neighborhood that has no physical twin, and has no location. This is the sequence of thought that is self-generating, and like concurring glimpses of heaven, and once glimpsed, well, heaven is  . . . relentless.
——This is the thought that can create, and I don’t mean just an annex, but material thought that creates the semblance of a physical world, where you are. Thought happens outside the mind and correlates back to it. Your body is an empty husk. This is, also, too much to bear! And it is not what you have achieved, only what you have held on to, and after a while, quietly decided to expand in its very nature. This is the picture of the future, and maybe you will watch it.  And whisper. I do not know, but I tell myself–that now you may expect with this discovery, this explicit labelling, from which there is no return, to promptly suffer a slow exchange,  great thirst and hunger, let’s say, a few dreaded ailments, and background exaltation.  It will be imperative you focus and resist the impression that you are slowly dying.  For nobody dies, if you think about it. You must drag down these angels, bring them to the campfires, and regain your strength.  For surely that will be needed–your strength, I would think. You will note that certain parts of the landscape are missing. And certain parts are lit up, and no camera crew anywhere to be found.

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