Fire of the Mind
Head to head, linked for a brief instance
Dear friends,
we’re not being technical today, no bigbrain talks. If you’re here for the AI stuff, skip this one. It’s an easy read. Cause it seems everyone’s having a busy week. Or a month. I don’t have time to write, and you don’t have time to read. That’s given. But here we are, head to head, linked for a brief instance anyway.
As you surely know, I love reading. It’s possibly my absolutely most favourite thing about being alive. I tell you why - reading for me feels as if the author gently took my hand and walked me through the garden of their mind. It’s intimate; it’s human. It’s a solace, an escape from one’s own running around, if only for a few paragraphs.
But it’s always just a matter of time until you start spoiling your favourite art form by attempting to participate, right? Guilty as charged, I wrote a few words - a journal entry, a fever report, a fantasy. So please, take off your boots, make yourself cosy and keep me company while the mugwort tea brews.
It’s always rush hour here. The Brownian motion of the afternoon commune is sweeping through the underground tunnels. The heating bills and faded dreams glaze people’s eyes with dull resignation. I’ve been explained once that one of the worst crimes you can commit in the city of London is unsolicited eye contact. Since then, I stubbornly stare at everything and everyone.
I shuffle a new pack of playing cards I carry in an inner pocket of my 12 sizes larger leather jacket. Bought it back in Berlin with a guilty pack of Marlboros, cherry lolli and two bottles of Tyskie - each in one pocket. I think I feel good today. I always wanted to know how to lockpick and some cool card tricks to impress drunks in bars. As a teenager, I built an intricate system to memorise a whole pack of cards lined in front of me. My mum hoped I’d make loads of money playing Black Jack in Las Vegas. She saw those mink furs and sparkling wine. Instead, I got into calculus.
Red - I flip a card - oops, it’s black. I always wanted to have psychic abilities. The shit’s real, I finally moved all my Dawkins books to the very bottom of my library, the dreaded shelf of shame. Black - red - a sexy little precog skill I fancy. Red - red! I rejoice. Maybe it’s not too late.
I stretch my stiff neck. It cracks. Nothing hurts, and I’m so grateful. A pair of cards slips through my fingers. Shabby bum gloves. Jack of Diamonds and Three of Hearts. My unexpected stopping in the main vein of Liverpool Street causes havoc, I quickly pick the cards before the artery ruptures. Someone mumbles. I grin at them and stick out my tongue.
I wonder who the Jack is. I search for him through the crowd. Hurry, hurry. The cards almost slip again. It’s a funny thing. So much attention we put into being heard and seen - our shiny public profiles flashing our insecurities to bored followers. An endless stream of words and opinions flood the in-betweens. A vain attempt to expose a flicker of our light. And yet, when finally someone gives us that moment of unconditional attention, we fret and escape the gaze.
I pull out my headphones, a tangled wire sways at my feet. I almost stomp at it. The default speed of my audiobook is 3x, a smurf jumble. What are you reading? I flick through five titles, all demons and mushrooms. Some Gaiman. I would love to write a book for children. And a comic book. The scramble on the escalator steals my attention, and I think of lucid dreaming, deaf headphones dangling from one ear. I wonder how’s the dream war going without me - I met one of the rebels last night. He was wearing army boots and smelled of leather and gasoline, but he was kind, a poet in waking life. I think of his soft hand gestures and chuckle at my corny unconscious. Maybe I could have a coffee. Would I sleep? Oh boy, I really crave MSG. Ma Po Tofu on my mind.
Notification, already forgot from whom. Ever heard of fire kasina? A meme makes me think of a friend, and I wonder if they felt it. I gather some warmth and send them a loving poke, mentally. I smile. I frown. I think my brain is burning. Am I getting manic again? We should meditate more. I scribble a note to buy floss on my wrist and quickly order a book on Dharma from Amazon. I immediately regret it. Fuck Amazon. I feel like lying face down in a pile of wet leaves for a while.
Reading the first google hit on the Three of Hearts. The webpage’s surely from the 90s - I scroll through a tabular horror maze. Success for a creative endeavour, blinks the headline. Redecorate your house or write a symphony. Symphony? When if not now. I think of my tone deafness and whistle a little. It’s a butchered Fall tune. Fantastic Life! I shuffle once again and stare into the crowd for a bit. I wonder about Norman Mailer and tomorrow, and I pull a card. Above the mass of the most Britishly receding hairlines and felt hats, there’s a magpie, sitting on a broken antenna.
We look at each other.
You really wanna know the future, girl?
Then wait.
A little something, to cherish how multifaceted beings we are. More AI soon, promise - but also, maybe not, who knows? There’s more to life than well-trodden paths.
Be kind,
k
As a Northerner, I also relish in giving Londoners unsolicited stares. I also sometimes smile at them, which is enough to make the Thames boil.
I really enjoyed reading these personal insights 🤘