Here… exists the Sensory Universe, the world we were born into, vagina we were pushed through, the room, which in comparison was too bright and so cold and overly sterile. So we howled. And to this day we’ve build castles to regulate temperature, to protect us from wind and rain, sprays to add and detract aroma, gloves and boots to keep blood in our appendages, drugs to numb any pain. We detest things offensive to these senses. Yet we trust this, this Sensory Universe, embrace its predictability. This wall that was blue-grey yesterday will be blue-grey today. This blanket is exactly where I left it. And we are intoxicated by the touch of another, by the adorable, by the beat of wings and the march of procreation. Even our cancers we find fascinating, worthy of study, valuable. We have built branches of sciences on the study of trees, movement of the planets, sent tin cans unfathomable distances to toss back data, wrapped the planet in cables and satellites, crunched knowledge to encapsulate this universe, to measure it, to explain it. This universe, this sense of a universe which birthed us, which we hope one day to finally log and compute completely. Even the mystics tell us this, here, now, is all that exists. This sensory experience. This beginning and end timeclock universe.
But I feel hungry, dirty, mean, viscious, vivacious, viscous, alert, dreary, annihilated, underappreciated, overwhelmed, tired, alive, old, inexperienced, green. I feel. I wake each day full of these adjectives, these impulses, and hope to find an object in the sensory universe to blame these actions on. So then I can call them reactions. Welcome to the Feeling Universe. Atypical, atopical, illogical. Today I feel sad for no reason, tomorrow anxious, sometimes (on Tuesdays) like dancing. And I would prefer to claim each of these as a response to a trigger, lest I have to live with the reality that somethings in existence refuse logic as their underpinning. Call it feminine and blame it on hormones. Your derision is another form of security. In the Feeling Universe the cloud of dust coalesces into a planet (and back into dust) on a whim, a scent, an impulse unexplained, and unexplainable. Some days I love you. Some I am so afraid. And the best bet, the way to live in closest concert here is to simply let impulses be impulses. Do not search for a match or kindling just because you have seen a spark. Sometimes I feel happy (I feel happy) with no subject, no cause, no cure. Anger for angersake, joy for joy, tired despite having just come awake. Feeling. Result without meaning.
But I stress these things. I go over them again and again. Why did I say or do that thing. Why did I turn that corner or pack that bag. What was the cause. And what will I do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next time it comes round to this. I live, in a great percentage in this Temporal Universe, a great chasm of mental gymnastics where I try to recall the impulse and pin each potentiality with a cause and effect. I waste away in the 1990s, in the 2030s, in yesterday and tomorrow. Mistelling each story and dismembering myself from myself. It is so drunkmaking, so satisfying to try and find a path backwards through this where I would have ended up at a place way more exciting, enticing, alluring, sexy, a place safer and richer and with six pack abs, and money, and better hair. Maybe I will get there someday, if I make better choices, eat better food, start saving, start playing the game. Tomorrow. I will start tomorrow. Tomorrow (or yesterday) is the best place to be in this temporality.
Yet that universe, the Temporal Universe, the then and when, is not the same as the not-yet, as the land of magic and invention, of the land of art and design. This is the Verse Imagine, where lives both the possible and the im-. This is a world of gadgets and gizmos, of invisible computing and utter contentment, of unfathomable war and an everlasting piece. Let me have something to do with this, this coming, whether it be raising a genius, or doing research. A line, a lyric, a story told for one iteration longer than me. Let this Verse Imagine be the bastion of creativity, the galactic core that spits out stars and stories at unmappable intervals and immeasurable pace. The Not Yet, the never mired in fear but in love, in making. Tinged with anger. Born of frustration. Lift one more thing off the plate of animality, one less concern for where we will eat and sleep. Each time we eliminate a bodily need a leap forward in science, in the arts, in sculpture, in products that lack productivity. Here in the making. Here in the moment. Here in the feeling. Here in every lesson and plan. Our cries. Our howling. Our being wiped off and wrapped up, and laid on our mother’s breasts. Something new, always, in the making.