There are as many states as there are switches, however the states most certainly take precedence. The state is the mind and the setting of the thought that drives the choices of the switches to their ever-changing sequencing pattern. States of butcher, baker, masochist waiter etc… all require different sequences that are specific to the mindsets required to perform those particular duties, just as lover, hater, poser, player would be subsets of those states.
States are pre-selected or chosen randomly based on proximity to the appropriate environments or those occupying the environment. Postnatal photographer, tender of bar, recorder and maker, driver of cars. Stimuli decides the choice of state, but over a longer period of time. The stimuli affecting a phone operator would have profoundly different effects on a mechanic and would thereby lead to a different state. State is determined by sequence which is determined by stimuli which is determined by environment, however the state weights the sequence once it is reached, although weight of the state is determined by the time it took to reach the state.
Or something to that effect.
The lights from the car shown on a tan overcoat lying on the path. There was a silhouette behind the lights; motionless except for the steam rising from its mouth. I reached in my pocket and came to the unpleasant realization that in the struggle I had lost my gun, but they don’t know that, at least not yet. There is a girl screaming in the distance, but the ravine walls make it impossible to tell from which direction. The sentinel behind the car remains motionless; a threat of violence and the unknown.
I pull myself up and stagger drunkenly forward, eventually steadying myself on the hood of the car. Cold steel immediately surrounds my wrist followed by the sound of metal on metal and chain. The silhouette is gone and the car is now moving. A tug on my wrist can only mean I’ve been attached to the bumper. The engine revs and as I look at the ridge above the ravine I see a pale girl struggling against someone or something. She seems to float as she falls. If I could lunge forward I might break her fall, but now the car is backing up.
My feet keep up with the motion for a moment and then I hear the engine and feel my feet leave the ground and in that instant I am no longer attached to the car, but floating towards her. Our eyes meet as I sail to the rock wall and at that moment I reach out for her and know that I cannot because my arm is still attached to the bumper of the car, not to me. The rock is cold against my face, cold gives way to sting and then to pain and now I am falling. Dust is still rising when I open my eyes. She lay not more than four feet away. There is weight on the hand I still have and then three hot sharp impacts into my arm.
The lights are gone. I turn on my back and feel tired. The last thing I remember is the moon and the sound of water.
It was shortly after this that a block formed and Phillip was again relegated to endlessly trolling the internet for points of inspiration which simply did not exist. He equated the phenomena to the numbness one eventually feels after extended drug addiction. There was a village in the back of his mind populated by his memories, however they seemed to be very hard to impossible to draw upon. He envisioned his first girlfriend living in a small cottage with his high school chemistry teacher; they had been married and three times a week she went to the outdoor produce market to buy fresh ingredients for Mr. Fisher’s dinner, dinners she should have, but never cooked for Phillip. She turns and looks at the tree that juts ominously from the hill above town and suddenly hears the warning bell. The crowd around her scatters as a large shadow emerges from a hole in the trunk and moves with terrible speed toward the town square. She bangs on the now barred doors of her neighbors, but none will offer assistance. She trips on a cobblestone and as she lies on the street in the village square she sees it; an owl the size of a pickup truck descending impossibly fast to her position. As her eyes close she hears Mr. Fisher cry out her name, but it’s too late. The last thing she feels in the coolness of the tree’s shadow as she is dropped into its trunk to be recycled into Sasha’s rival; Dominic’s dead fiancée’s sister, cue da-da-daaaa.
Portfolio submitted, letter of intent mildly intimidating, references incomplete and pending, resume passable, maybe yes, maybe no; work will continue regardless. Books to write, things to build, skills to learn, etc… Because these camp counselors aren’t decapitating themselves, the man in the trash chute needs to be addressed before he is compacted and she has to throw herself out a window sometime in the near future, at least before the final assault on the asteroid base, and certainly before Corrine flees to France to escape the murderous Heather who has been instructed by their employer to eliminate her at any cost.
As many do, I have recently been neglecting my blog a bit. It is not because of laziness or disinterest, but due to productivity in things other than writing; namely designing and building a book shelf and getting my portfolio together for grad school application, which includes making a new piece of art and figuring out how it’s going to work. Hopefully what I’m working on will yield acceptance, however the idiosyncranicity of my previous work along with the likely horror with which my past professors are regarding my requests for letters of recommendation may prevent a positive review of the material. The first few large scale projects I attempted were not only ridiculously ambitious, but were also undertaken with so little practical guidance that they were doomed at conception. This is not to say that these projects/presentations/performances were failures; all I’ll say is that in retrospect I fully realize that a good deal of the potential existent in my undergraduate projects was wasted because I didn’t know the right questions to ask.
The photo above is part of my current machine/instrument. It is skeletal at the moment, but once it’s wired to the microcontrollers I’ve built, each switch will trigger a loop of one of my compositions which were constructed to represent human emotions and other abstracts. So remorse, anxiety, etc… My impressions anyway.