Staring At The Ceiling Gets Me All Quantum Up On That Thing.
I am lying on my bed, looking up at my ceiling, listening to The Smiths. It is 1985, maybe. Meat is Murder is on repeat on the turntable, and hours go by. My ceiling has polystyrene tiles with random zigs and zags, lines at obtuse angles, a meaningless mélange of shapes. Yet within them, staring deeply for hours at a time, I can see many strange things: animals, narratives, emotions, thoughts scattered and now ordering. I am making sense of myself. It is 1998, I am living in Japan, and still staring at the cracked ceiling, lying on tatami. My … Continue reading Staring At The Ceiling Gets Me All Quantum Up On That Thing.