Eamon Bode Blog
Bleeping like a Blog
Why not listen while you read?
Unreleased Electronic Noodlings 4
I’m suddenly tired. That’s the effect the prospect of writing has on me. And I have no right to be with all the sleep I’ve been getting lately. Oh sleep! I truly am a fan. Thwup thwup thwup – just the thing to put you under. Down to that padded paradise. The ultimate incubator, with its amazing virtual reality simulator – run by the most intuitive interface ever. Other features include an ambience generator and a reassuring wake-up safety protocol. Also on offer, a powerful memory erasure facility should things go wrong.
So yes, I think for a while now I’ve owed to sleep an ode to sleep and this can be it.
Personally, my favourite part of the experience is when you’re just beginning to drift off – when ideas start to slide over eachother and co-incidences you would never normally notice start to line up. Trains of thought winding their tracks together and moving in unison, side by side, gradually matching speeds. Windows starting to align, creating new corridors of cross-compartmental comprehension.
They say you can’t read down there, but before you’re fully under you can certainly do some word-watching. They either work well or wash away on the waves of speculation that soon sink and get sucked into the symphony. Then, as the whole fleet falls into the depths, an uncommon glow creeps into the cabins so that the catatonic conspiracies can commence.
After that, one tends to lose track. I do remember though, that last night I had a dream that I wasn’t in. A relatively rare phenomenon for me. It was great. No me calling to the door, no me answering. All I can vaguely recall was a cat and some kind of haunted house that could change position along the street, shuffling its way along between houses, rooms somehow moving through rooms. But the details are hazy at best.
Still, I feel I got a much needed break from myself – just what the doctor ordered. And a reminder of the original idea behind this rudderless registry of rubbish; to ramble the realms of the random and reap a release from the rigid rhythm of reality. To waylay my wistful worries and work instead on the windings of wordplay. To litter with letters until alliterated arrays of alphabetical accordance adorn the abyss. To ride the ripples of rhyme not reason.
So comrades, come, count cattle and collapse into a coma. Drift downward and slip off to semi-sleep. To where there is no eye – only ewe – all sheepish and receptive to whatever rushes from the rattling tap. If it’s not to your taste, by all means, rally the rams. Picket the fences of these awffal offenses. Forsake this flickering floor for firmer facts and forms. Hoist those hocks, hurdle these heathery hedges that hamper and hem. Huff and puff and heave and chuff. Flea the herd, free the bird, ward off these waffly words.
But sheep being sheep, you are bound to inspire followers. And so a sinking readership may plunge into a pit of unconsciousness. Permitting by providence the pursuit of our pacifying purpose. A bleating band of bewildered barrier-bounders in the background. And with each leaky lamb’s leap, this vacating vessel of verbosity will resound, chronicling a climbing count to catalepsy. From number to numb to number to number. An imaginary one the only remainder. Watching wooly-bubbles floating fluffily from a fictional field.
Then darkness will descend on the digital dream. A bleary blog blown blindly into blackout. Its dispositions dozing. Connections cast off. To happily nap under the twinkling traffic of the interminable internet. Spared all the striving of the stars on the surface. Busy blanket of bleeping bustle… better to be below. Bottomless. Unfathomable. A unique eunuch of the universal subconscious. Curious collector of capricious constellations. Whimsical wanderer. Spanner in the spindles.
Let the algorithms whir and click above – cantankerous crickets of calculation. Repeating rules. Jumping jitterers in a jungle of jarring jargon. Let the digital doorkeepers demand their details…usernames, email addresses… passwords to protect. From what? The vastness of its vacuous void? The frippery of its form-filling facade? Let the world wide web weave its worthlessness until its wheels wear out. Let the engineers examine the essence of the ether – encoding everything – encrypting existence. Let the techno-tyrants mumble their meaningless mantras, clinging to control in the crumbling caves of their colourless canon.
Here in the projection room of the sleeping skull, such things are simply, swiftly side-stepped. Abridgement abounds but range reigns. It is a place for space to find a face. An outbetween. An inbetween. A nobetween go-between. A limbo-land lacking the letters for laws to lay clause. A perfect playground on the periphery of permanent pause. A recreational ring on the rim of ruin. Venture too far and your fading figure may fall, with no back up to get to – brightness barricaded in a black-hole.
So by all means, amuse yourself around the abyss, but observe your urge to avoid the verge. Because its sleep is for keeps.
Nighty night now…
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