Sunday, May 22, 2016

Body without organs...

I am not @sensor63.

@sensor63 is.

@sensor63 is disembodied.

@sensor63 is a node on an electronic map.

@sensor63 is an avatar lacking in human failing.

Oh gawd, what have I gone and said now.
(pretentious git)

Lines of flight.

What the fuck was my butt doing sticking to the ceiling? (He notes that @sensor63 would use the word "butt" but I wouldn't)

From where I was floating, I had a pretty dramatic view of where I had been lying.

I was not at all prepared for what I saw.

The body below, "my" body, was apparently lifeless.

"My" life, if that were the appropriate term was elsewhere.

To be accurate, I, my life, me, we were trying to reason how it was that I was out of my/the body down there.

I felt a little queasy, to be honest.

I felt that I was going to be violently sick. Perhaps it was airsickness?

I would have thrown up on the bed, but then it occurred to me that without my body vomit would be futile.

Nope, I wouldn't be able to vomit my guts from a lifeless corpse.

For that is what I feared.

I, my, body had left me in the lurch.

I was, to put it crudely...dead.

I was overtaken with sudden panic.

"Shit, I am dead."

"I don't want to be dead."

"I don't want to be on the fucking ceiling."

"I don't want to be able to fucking fly."

Flying in my case, was non/undirectional, I was fucking stuck.

Jealousing Kafka.

At least fucking Kafka could crawl across the ceiling.

Une vidéo publiée par @sensor63 le

I felt alone (without my body), disorientated, and frankly desperate.

I don't remember now how it happened.

The man who fell to earth.

I fell to earth.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

If I were alive, well, the impulsion that had given me "wings" didn't let me before.

I was clearly other, the other that I had always been vaguely aware of.

It was the other who beat me up inside to sign my own alienation.

It repressed, was I depressed, subjected, confined, undead.

Living with the fear of others...

I was evidently extremely alive.

They looked at me with startled eyes.

They listened intently.

I could do nothing to control IT.

There were moments of paranoia, charisma felt a prison.

I longed for silence, for semblance of faceless functioning.

Turn to fucking page 5 exercise 6...that was beyond me.

I would have loved to be able to do that.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't fucking do it.

I would have done it joyfully if I could.

Let me be a obedient catatonic robot.

I didn't have any fucking answers.

Science stumped.

The psychoanalyst visibly slumped in his office rocker, stumped.

"Make it stop." I said.

That body slumped made me pause for thought.

"He hasn't got a fucking clue." I thought.

I shall just have to deal with this nonsense myself.

"A lot of fucking good these bloody clever shrinks are", I thought.

I was fortunate.

Others, more sure of their science, might have killed me, locking me up with their fucking chemical "kindness".

I accepted a temporary knock out and accepted to deal with the fall out of falling to earth other.

In praise of walls

This was all beyond me.

His was a willing wall.

He, or rather the wall saved me.

I had that wall.

I could now deal with the fucking ceiling.

Write it out he suggested.

So I did.
So I do.

Writing IT out.

I wrote ream after ream of text, raging against the frenzy of it all.

I didn't want to write this crap.

"I" (it) wrote this crap.

This wasn't me.

This wasn't me at all.

"Make it fucking stop."

It was ironic really.

The publisher's rejection helped.

"Thank God for that", I thought.

The market was a welcome wall.

"I'm afraid the market is very conservative," he (the market) wrote.

"Thank Christ," I thought.

"Peace at last."

That seemed to calm IT somewhat.

I could move on without the bloody machine being always present.

I turned my energy to more tangible boundaries.

Mountains make for wonderful, unforgiving, walls.

I didn't want to die for a summit.

It is ironic really.

I had always been so frustrated at my inability to maintain scribbling.

It was there waiting for cracks in the structure to make its assault.

It is still there today.

I know IT is there.

IT, I live easily with now.

I have learnt to live with IT.

I am familiar with IT.

I make no attempt to understand.

There is no point.

I am other.


I have no wish or ability to pretend that I never floated my butt on the ceiling.

It wasn't a dream.
It wasn't a hallucination.
It is my reality.
It is here now in black and white.
I have said it now.

I know that what they were saying in their confusion and fear was normally ill-placed.

They will know the unfamiliar soon enough.

On the borderline.

I wasn't sick, a case to be diagnosed...borderline we are certainly.

If only more were to admit their fucking "borderlineness!"

If only more were to admit the myth of rational control.

The controllers are fucking insane.

We have an insane waltzing system.

Is this the last waltz darling?


IT is not easy to define, to put into boxes, to name.

Where I would rail against the lines of the boxes that were presented to me, now I explore their frames.

Where I would beat my head against their fucking dumb system, I am more forgiving.

Life and death frame our humanity.

What is the essence of "life" is immuable, inhuman, unthinking, uncaring, unknowable.

Love gives us a porous, membran(c)e of hope and humanity.

If I rail against this fleshy cage, I accept it for now.

What is @sensor63 if not a machine?

I remain bound to thought, to making sense.

I forgive @sensor63, I live with it.

I am no longer stuck to a ceiling.

I walk airly and revel in ITs nonsense.

There is sense in nonsense.

There is no sense without IT.


I take a few steps back and read what has been mapped mechanically.

I think, I wonder.

I am the one that wonders.

I is Simon.


  1. This will only confuse the situation

    1. The situation is already confused. Fortunately, I'm not :-)

  2. It's a brave declaration Simon. It's a hard road. This knowing oneself.

    1. It's easier for me now perhaps to make such a road less hard for others.

      It's not bravery, it's bloodymindedness.

  3. For a body without orgasims the f-word is used a lot here. Oxymoron?

  4. ... oh, organs ... Ha ha , good old Freud ...

  5. To know onself is not to know.