.:.

Lost. Lost in this sea of modernity. My society, my world. Energy put into production, into consumption. For what? Living breathing energy or dead? To enjoy or to end. Cycle of life? Reincarnate? Faith, belief. More stories to tell ourselves. Bring us through the suffering of survival. Is there truth to any of it? Or another product. Build build build. Create, structure, model. Growth and destruction, ensuring we recognize the arrow of time. Our worldline bright.

for three (recorded) years, my brain goes twist around this time. it’s some sort of heralding of colder months, introspective moods, and the production of inspirational fuel for my next winter compilation.

i’m constantly amazed by how our minds have both random, inexplicable, bursts and precise, inexplicable, cycles. wack stuff, it keeps it interesting. a nice combination of grounded regularity and general unknowingness.

Before my window. Breeze coming through, blowing across the stripped bed. Birds are chirpping, a harmonica is played, the gospel church sings, and the clocktower slowly bongs 12pm.

refamiliarizing myself with the self-healing cookbook, i decided to cook up some azuki beans. one half-hour into their simmer they should be cold shocked.

listening to the beans boil against the pot, i was enjoying the rhythm in which they scraped against the metal vessel. as if the bubbles rattling the beans were coming from a bellows. the sound of submerged, scraping beans was padded with the quiet rumble of escaping vapor.

the balance changed over time (as the beans soften, the high-tones degrade). slowly, the highs muted away until finally, the sound of bean scraping metal was gone. then i looked at the time and saw it was the half-hour point. which made me wonder if this was how the half-hour point was chosen.

pick pick
poke poke
what’s that?
oops, it’s bleeding.