I think I should go outside more often, but it's really hot outside. I'm living in the desert right now. Every time I sit down to write something there's pressure to take one construct of though and alter it into another construct of thought. Can't we just let things be?

I find that if I stare at anything long enough, particularly natural forms, they take on an alien menace that reminds me of nothing so much as the symmetrical patterns on an oriental rug. I start to see the sort of frayed, fractal edges of my particular system of classification as nouns blossom into groundless adjectives with only a relativistic framework holding them aloft.

This is why music with raw, simplistic emotional qualities has always appealed to me, maybe: some part of me wants to be reduced, wants to wipe away these cobwebbed semiotics. These too-intense oriental rugs. Emotion, particularly sexual emotion, is a very safe place in the midst of all this. I sometimes worry that these thought patterns too closely resemble the outline of some psychosis or other, but then I remember that I often go out and talk to people and pay bills and things like that and I realize that I must really be okay, if I'm capable of interfacing at that level; those are complicated tasks.

It might be tempting to associate these spreading networks of gossamer meaning with creativity, but I must insist that in a very real way they are precisely the opposite. They are traps. Because they are composed primarily of anxiety, they immobilize, and immobilization is not a harbinger of creativity, unless one wants to live within the constant cycling of terrified paralysis and manic expulsivity. I've toyed with this cycle before, and it' s exhausting to me and everyone around me.

In a few minutes I'll get up and get to work on my latest project. In these disturbing little gaps, bits of me get left, for someone to find.