——All we have is a few buildings, and the wind whipping around an empty corner lot. Where is everything that happened? Once upon a time . . . Things come into the world and then they disappear, and this is not the world passing, but only those things. The world is a few buildings, and a sunset, and the spaces in the twilight. Peoples faces show up, gleaming, and disappear like the Cheshire cat, my pretty. Between two arbitrary markers, and we call that time? What a patch.
——What a patch! I say, the quantity of data in reality that is physical, say tangible, compared to that which is mental, say untouchable, is minuscule. By far! And if one reverses the reliances, so to speak, one sees that physical is supportable by analogy to but a tiny portion of what exists, or has ever reportedly existed. It is a dusty laboratory, really. But, just take what is known as mental, and look for a physical manifestation of it. Alarmingly, one can see it overlaps only a tiny portion of reality. And, hysterically, does not even need that tiny analogous portion to function, for the most part, within it’s own context. There really is no need to debate physical science in terms of its status as, say, a majority reality; it is poverty stricken, has a paucity of data it can rally for . . . world-building. Yes, I think, and have often said, but not so clearly as I am saying it now, science should be challenged in terms of its claimed status as representing a majority of phenomena. Preponderance, it has not.
——I am considering the years of someone’s life, it is hammering on me. Where is 1956? Not only does the year not exist, but the attachment to the data in the person’s memory of that year, to that year, is not secure. A rearrangement is threatened, a different chronology, and if that took place then the assumed year itself would really not exist, and would be taken away from its assumed existence as a place holder of what happened there. A place holder, like a cardboard coaster holds your drink, that’s what I mean. Where is 1983? Don’t knock over the glass, dearie. Is it as serious as that, my pretty one? I think by and large the world is of a preponderance of invisible material. All we have here, is here. I rest my case. Laugh out loud, and it rings all the way to Saturn, I am sure. All the grooves of the record contain all the sound of the voices and the instruments, that were so real when they were. . . real–in Studio 66, dismantled now and all its fixtures used in some other cameo. And when was that? When was any of it? The past is entirely immaterial. Now they are vibrations, he said, and danced his fingers in the air. I got this thought, the amplification of the thought I was already onto, really, as I was listening to Chris C. say this about vibrations, to Andy. And then he said, “this is like talking the way people talk after smoking pot for two hours”.
——I could see he had a vision, but wasn’t going there now. Not into that troubled land. The hardly defined, but livable, world is in a slow conflagration, consuming itself, called into being by the mind, and returning to an atmosphere stranger still. That headset you wear, that is what I mean by: the mind. Where the preponderance of facts can be found, or lost.
——I came upstairs into the hallway and I noticed that someone had left the record player on, it was just spinning with nothing on, nothing to play, like that end scene in the movie On the Beach. I recall that movie, incredibly, every once in while in support of this exact line of thinking, which I return to more and more, lately. Like I do these lines: Time is a description, the moral of which is: everything happens for a second time, the second time received. Time is the return of the truth the mind.” Nobody even has these old manual record players anymore, with the bulky speakers. Who even sells the needles? They are freaking antiques. People think like if they had lived back then, like when it was happening they might have found like . . . Christianity appealing. For heaven’s sake. That’s a good one, alright. Did the French Revolution actually happen, in any sense I can grasp while placing a penny on the dusty arm of the record player to keep this song I am about to play from skipping? Time was more exciting in the past, no doubt, when people didn’t have great gaps in their consciousness. Once upon a time, when we weren’t burdened by this depressing reliance on facts, things were organized into a fable. It was fabulous. I am going to play the 45 of Come on Down to My Boat, Baby. By the band called “Every Mother’s Son.” Whatever happened to them!
——For you see, the facts are too spaced out, really. They don’t fill outer space, and this gives me nightmares! The material universe is just paltry. Compare it to those ones in mythology. Science is supposed to have the facts on its side, but just using the name of science, when you haven’t even noticed how the world is disappearing, object by object, person by person, doesn’t give you the facts. Jesus! Science can lay no claim to anything that happened; oh no, most of reality is no longer visible, it is gone and therefore has violated . . . the laws of gravity. Do not tell me that memories are findable, in those floating dust mites . . .

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