Heavy heart inside a rib cage, skull feels vivid during a migraine, apartment walls mirror skeletal walls of this body. Plaster of the apartment walls is like flesh and skin over muscles attached to skeleton. Apartment is similar to bodily smell. Walking in the door, a hole in the concrete side of the building, is like being swallowed, or swallowing a gob of mucous. I get swallowed, a sack of viscera, into the gut of the apartment.
My body is a container moving in and out of various containers: the container of this apartment, the container of a café, store or library. The walls appear to fall away when outside, under the sky. The walls of space can’t be felt. I’m not aware of a center or edge to the sky. I don’t know where earth ends and sky begins.
In sympathetic magic, to drink Lohbado’s homemade coffee, prepared in Club Morono Tabernacle, is to swallow fluids containing distilled essence of walls and containers. Microbes and bacteria in coffee are like the toxic dust of the twenty-year old carpets and the noxious vapors released from crumbling insulation between moist dark walls.
Dizzy and light-headed, move about through imaginary membranes of an endless sequence of moments, having no beginning or end; physical sensations punctuate the moments. A play of forces is enacted as physical symptoms, choking sensation, difficulty breathing, burning eyes and chest pain happen in consciousness, a piece of dialectical theater enacted in understanding for nobody’s amusement. It happens because it appears to be happening. Pain is neither good nor bad.
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