Immersion into Music

Twisted Records - Demented
Dreamweaver - Lord of Illusions.

I don't want to go to bed, I want to just sit here and watch the music take interesting paths in my brain. Being tired and using headphones creates some sort of tear in the time-space continuum where you become totally immersed in the music and you appreciate its purity and logic. It's like pure enjoyment and a grater understanding is injected into your brain.

This is your brain:
This is your brain on music:

Indeed.
Good, Wonderful Stuff.

The bed beckoned, and I followed.

Too bad I cant wear headphones to bed.

I could muse on and create page after page of this nonsense if I was in this state all day. Hell, music is the new psychadelic revolution. And not just in some posterboy for the rave generation way either, but I'd like to say that the proper music can expand my mind to never before imagines proportions. It's like how you increased the ram you could use with quickmem or EMM386.exe or whatever that application was called in the DOS days.

Like if I'm hacking in the middle of the night, and I have good tunes on, like maybe some happy hardcore, or some inspirational goa, then my fingers litterarly fly over the keys, forming my toughts, and inserting a living piece of my mind into the code I write.

So in essence, when I write, I throw off little reflections of my self that ricochet into the future...
No, wait, that's lyrics from a song by The Shamen.

I found some old school photo books from my high-school years. Found a friend of mine who becasem a father unwittinly one day. He gets back, and is told that he has a son that is two weeks old or somesuch. The kid is probably like 4 by now.

Life happens in the strangest way to even the best of people. I remember him and I going home from watching a movie at a friends house, and as we're about to get into our cars, we start talking, and we end up standing there in the freezing winter with our car doors open, in nothing but pants and t-shirts, freezing our asses off for like one hour, and he tells me that he's recently been made a father.

It's one of those moments that has been forever imprinted on my retinas and into my mind.

Kind of how I like to leave little impressions of my mind in the code that I write, in the people I meet, and all things that I create and that I do.

Work, even tho it has very little, has some piece of me in it, that I leave behind for future people to find. And when they do, they'll get a small piece of me, and thus, the collective mind expands, and the world is made a better place.

You take and you give impressions from and to other people all the time. Even if neither you nor them are aware of it. Life, I suppose, is all about those little pieces that we pick up from other peoples life. We define ourselves by the people around us. Our very existence is validated through our interaction with other elements of this world, be they animal, vitamin or mineral.

What this also shows, and by this I mean this rambling saga of nonsense, is that as soon as you start writing, and get into a good groove, you can just keep banging on the keys, and it'll eventually make sense. All the text that you generate will be pointers into that saved state inside your mind. Much like a console emulator that allows us to save our progress, where there otherwise would be no save point.

I'm almost affraid to remove my headphones, for I fear that the world that I will find outside the confines of the music and this edit box will be cold and gray and unfocused and filled with things like floss, toothbruses and turning my behemoth of an information collector off. Telling the troll under the bridge that it can sleep now. No more kids will be passing today. Maybe tomorrow. No rest for the wicked. Buy the ticket. Ride the ride. (Take the trip, whichever fits).

I'm reminded of a scene towards the end of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" where Raoul Duke wakes up in the hotel room. Tape deck around his neck, microphone taped to his face, fishermans boots (or whatever), and a giant lizards tail stuck to his ass.
It's the ultimate relevation. Things can never quite go back to the way they were before.

"Can all these uneaten french fries accound for the presence of junkies?".
Indeed. Like I (he) said, no rest for the wicked.

"I only hope, kind sage, that my heartfelt thanks will keep you warm, as you spend the next 10 years incased in CARBONITE!"

I think I might have botched a couple of the quotes here today, but anyone who's seen the stuff I've seen, movie wise, will hopefully get the point.

At this point, I'd like to extend a challenge to my presumed readership.
The challenge is this. Well, it's more of a request, or an idea really.

Ramble on as mindlessly as I have just done, and then leave me a comment about what made you do it. You will not that answers like "the neighbors dog" will usually not suffice, unless your name is Sam.

I hope I will hear from someone.

Mindfucks, five dollars. Have some lemonade...

Markus out (and about, lost in the sea of mushroom)