From that chaste revolt, to a clever melancholy

Vvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrt-iiiiicaaaaaaal. Vertical vertigo.

It is that feeling you get when you have momentarily fallen into sleep and images begin to assemble in your brain into a coherent dream narrative (coherent in a very loose sense), except just as that washes up onto the shore you snap out of it, shudder back into the open aperture of wakeful consciousness. What is this? Where am I? And there is now no going back into whatever that was. You don’t have a grasp. Falling without any possibility of knowing where or when you might land.

Zzzzzzzzzzipppppppppttttttttttt-cclllllllikkk.

As compared to being full-on immersed in a dream and coming out of it because your brain is sick of kicking and jonesing for the real but through will or desire or whatever it might be termed you go back and re-enter the dream, maybe not where it left off, but it’s still there, you’ve back into its frames and logics and sensations, maybe even within dream-recognition to know (in the loose sense) that you’ve gone and done it, shunned whatever splintered shift your brain had in mind and become integrated into IT. Which seems remarkable and is, in a tight, locked-down-with-a-sealed-click, comprehensively wondrous sense.

So much depends on a red wheelbarrow v. Let be be the finale of seem. Open ended play v. chomping on the bit technical rigor. I want what I can’t have until I get what I wanted to have and then what I wanted is what I’m violently ejected out of and can’t get away from fast enough. Like this. There. Finally.