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Supposedly a yawn signifies the transition between different stages of arousal; one yawns when a body is sliding between realities. I’ve been here for three weeks and I feel, today in particular, a sort of suspension. The sense one gets just before they realize that gravity is trying to push them earth-ward. The feeling of waking from a dream only to find that all of your spider-webbed assumptions about the nature of truth have been constructed in the space of five and ten minute intervals and need to be brushed away with the back of a hand. I have the urge to tap on the walls, to test the durability of this drunken new wine mirage. I peel skin from the soles of my feet in long strips and deposit them in the trash without ceremony. I am intent upon the details, the dots and lines of the rooms, sidewalks, and television images, and am completely unaware of the paintings, shows, or buildings they constitute. I see the future in the lens of a microscope, and the focus clicks forward, closer, backwards, farther, over and over again, an unsteady intake and expulsion of air. Shake your head to the left. Do you feel your world open in the unexpected minutia of a different perspective? If you don’t, watch someone open and then close their mouths, like angels singing alleluias in a car wash. Then, respond.

7:42 pm • 29 December 2011 • 33 notes