I have thirty minutes left to sit here, dazed as though under the influence of some drug. Technically, I guess, I am under the influence of what is called 1,3,7-trimethylxanthine. I picked this name of the various tags for caffeine because of the numbers. 1, 3, 7. And to my surprise, 1,3,7 stand, grouped, laughing, colored differently, sometimes male, sometimes female.
I have thirty minutes until Borders Cafe closes and I have to pack up my books, leave, drive home.
In a haze, as a few more people sit, conversing. When I drink latte after latte, the voices become fuzzier, tickle things, grow as if under heat-lamps, little pipe-cleaner legs and carbonate my brain. I feel less lonely wrapped in the voices which I usually cannot distinguish in a crowed, but at least are not my own subjective creation–when I go home, it is simply the cats, a drip of the faucet and my own world of laughter or knot-bodied voices, buzzed in through the door of silence. Sometimes I love them, but sometimes I simply want the no-self to enter. The silence so rare that perhaps only antelope or mountain goats know it intimately, standing off a jagged cliff-side, whipped by God into white-noise.
I’ve read bits of things. Only bits. Not much to claim for the hours. An essay on the Year Million, what might remain. One scientist claims that only laughter and numbers will remain and I, looking around, see a herd of laughter in this one room alone, pre-teens with coffee, sweaters, cell-phones, laughing. Numbers, too. Cris-cross tiles, the corners of books, telling secrets, bumping page numbers and word-counts. In fact, if I stood in the middle of the cafe, waved my hands around, shushed and wiped the floor, all that would stand in my memory of each moment here would be corners of things, indistinguishable laughing.
Among the words I’ve managed to store, a few quotes stick to my shoulder blades.
“Within each of us a cosmos of consciousness unfolds temporarily, a subjective universe develops.” –Thomas Metzinger
Dangerously, stumbling over mismatched mushroom-moments, tangled in our own created-rooms. Just a bit ago, I was reading essays on the Year Million, and a friend of mine popped up in an Instant Message. He wanted to tell me of his travels to Paris. I, of course, grew jealous immediately of his jet-lagged future, luggage-heavy walking, possibly, toward Champ-Elise, imagined myself in his place, gazing up at the Rose Window, twirling myself into Mass, wrapped in a language unfamiliar enough to dazzle and disorient.
No, no. He was going to Paris in his MIND. How? Why?
Friend: To follow up on a lead from 200 years ago”
Friend: Have to see an old friend.
last time we met was during the revolution.
Me: Ah, I see
To discuss strategies?
Friend: No. To discuss what happened in 1917 after we met and before I went to Ardenne
and died a few weeks later.
It’s been at least 90 years since we last had coffee…lol
Meanwhile, I am trying to wrap my head around Reimann hypothesis and how, perhaps, it relates to Chaos Theory because, out of a garden grow weeds, and though the wind tossed the weeds this way and that, perhaps a pattern emerges, maybe just in their root systems and yet to be known by consciousness of man as we stand above-ground on all things and at most times, save brief moments of mystical or otherwise unquestionable otherness.
(Once, I tumbled off my horse as we ran across a caleche pit, down and through the clumps, her hooves had way with God’s skirt. But then the earth opened up a bit, pulled one of her hocks into the gut and she tripped. As I tumbled, things once upside leaned their heads so far back, the blood-of-the-world got drunk and started singing to me: Shannon! Shannon! Shannon! And in the Shhhh’s, my temples landed, black-and-gold-stringed-sky spilled. When I came to, my horse idly breathing, bridle broken, I thought I saw numbers tied together in the sky, linked in a way that made sense. And for a moment, the world could have ended and I would have been laughing, happy to know the thread-of-things.)
“Within each of us a cosmos of consciousness” and, in a single mind, an untraveled escape for anyone standing at the doorway of another’s experience.
Random moments break in. I am writing, high on caffeine, about numbers and laughter, trying to read at the same time, while interjected by a friend of mine’s discussion about his mental trip to Paris. And who am I to say this trip will not happen, back in time, for him. Consciousness allows us to create fast-tracks to different cities, landscapes, worlds. He is, I presume, sitting somewhere, in front of a computer, possibly drinking a gin and tonic, or a soda. I am in Borders, enjoying a latte, staring off into space. Two points meet, intercept. Numbers created. 1,3,7.
An opossum walks across my mind’s screen, stops, stares, continues on.
My mental-opossum has a snow white face and black eyes and reminds me of an owl. In fact, if I recall my mental-opossum, the association of a great white owl causes a swoop-entrance of the bird above said opossum, and it to scampers. hurriedly hopping along into a mist.
I’m imagining this all while sitting in Borders, trying to concentrate on the Year Million essay on laughter and numbers. What, exactly, is the Reimann hypothesis?
Could I travel now via consciousness, to Paris? Could I bring along my mental opossum and laugh myself into 1,3,7?
This is my cosmic consciousness. A residue-mess of imaginary being, voices, past pain and pleasantries.
“Things that are over do not end. They come inside us, and seek sanctuary in subjectivity. And there they live on, in the consciousness of individuals and communities.” –Leon Wieseltier.
Traveling doesn’t always mean forward in time, but back in time, back into a swirl of moments. Tumbling off my horse that day, perhaps the string of numbers, the threads, were telling me that true reality of the world is never linear, but a spinning.
While standing on a knife-edged present, moment-to-moment, the past and future pitch spoons and forks at us, assailing us with a consciousness that spins, dizzying us to different worlds and selves, selves we thought we left behind.
Driving home from Borders, still jittery from caffeine, an image of me as a younger-me, riding my horse across the dirt that day, tumbling to the ground, landed itself on my chest.
Younger-me sits in the passenger seat, riding boots muddied.
Present-me doesn’t want to look at her and instead, stares in the backseat where future-me sits, dotted and hazy. Is she where she wants to be? Is she happy? I want to focus on her, not the muddy-boots child.
Nothing is ever “closed” to our consciousness. All things permeate even when we don’t realize. And as many voices as a crowd carries, bundled as a bouquet, inside of us, multitudes of selves fight for our attention.
1,3,7. My cosmic consciousness swells, sucks in its belly, swells again.
One moment, a joy not unlike tulips, pushes through.
The next moment, sadness heaves its heavy body toward the door. No one gets through my consciousness but, somehow, we try to translate the selves that seek us.
Just as traveling consciously to other places doesn’t have to be forward or backwards, our moods and selves can spin down, in no particular order, and bring with it mental-opossums and various other creatures.
Driving home from Borders, still jittery from caffeine, younger-me in the passenger seat and future-me in a haze in the back, I think about the various “states” and “selves” I’ve encountered while sitting in my seat, drinking lattes, listening to laughter and counting corners.
1) at 5:19 PM–
I have two thousand ponies in my ears,
tiny ones; they try to keep
up with my heart, hooves
in rivers of blood and wax
3) at 6:04 PM–
Your kiss, starfish–
all mouth, unafraid–whole
oceans called out and I,
bits of sand, grain,
knew my name again.
7) at 8:45 PM–
How many claws can sadness have?
what can one do when, driving,
the bear breaks through, heavy-
weighted, a chest-pain, bright-sting,
laughing and innocent of the depression he brings?
From the ponies
to the starfish,
and then, the bear breaks through, my consciousness spinning back upon itself.
The Year Million Essay says laughter and numbers may be the only thing that remains.
And, caffeine splitting open anxiousness, I drive into a darkness home, my cosmos traversed by as many selves as seconds, as many voices as mental-opossums and other creatures.
Paris, he says.
And I am jealous, sitting here, counting corners, numbers, high on caffeine and Reimann’s hypothesis.
Tumbling, once, I fell off my horse– the world could have ended and I would have been laughing, happy to know the thread-of-things.