Dreaming Shit by Greg Fox, 2003

Was all synchronised with my own personal breathing;
everything, from the direction of running ants to the
movement of the clouds and trees, and when I say trees I
mean each and every leaf's direction and speed.
My own personal breathing, not breathing in general; though
every person, living and dead, followed it, this was my
pattern. In.
In.

Out. The despair inherent in breathing in is perfectly
matched with the relief of letting go of all those poisons I
manufacture like a cottage industry gone modern. The
trouble is, I breathe in so much more than I breathe out.
Eventually the thing they call the world will reveal itself as
just the outer layer of my lungs. All those things in the so-
called outside that aren't just air are probably artefacts
rendered from the poisons I stingily hiccup out, and round;
round and up, up and out, down and round, inside in, outside
very much out. I say "probably", because to be honest (and
only Gods can be honest), my memory of the bad things I
make isn't quite as good as it would be if I made good
things.

In. In. In. In.

Out. There's nothing worse than being unknown. There is.
Being known but unspoken. I know why, but it doesn't help
at all.
If they knew (they the swallows all circling and turning
together, just because of me) consciously that I was here,
watching, laughing that humourless laugh that I can't quite
shake off, they couldn't do it; they'd be much too self-
conscious to go about their so-called daily business. Of
course, daily business is a fairly reasonable label for what
they do, because it's certainly daily. How many things does
anything do that don't seem to follow that other rhythm?
That rhythm of sun around the earth?
Why don't I take a seat? No point standing here next to the
seat of wisdom when I could be flowing into and out of it;
but wood doesn't flow well. I think I'll stay erect.
That other rhythm. It used to puzzle me actually, when I was
not quite so in touch.
I failed to recognise myself, my work, in that repetitive
thing. Not quite repetitive – it can't be, because four o'clock
isn't quite repetitive, and neither is eight o'clock. So if that's
so, what does it mean? If the sun can seem repetitive when it
certainly isn't, what does that say for all those things that
other people do in the time between it not being there and
not being there?
Do they condense their actions when there's less space?
Spread their actions evenly but thicker, faster, hotter? Or do
they do less, and not talk about it?

Out.

Out. It doesn't make me anxious at all. In fact I can see it for
what it is: sometimes I forget. I can't be held responsible (by
who?) for not remembering what other people have thought,
and have done. I'm going to sit down. This bag, even though
it's probably partly at least the product of my exhalation, is
heavy. Maybe I should breathe in now before I sit, then I can
enjoy myself much much more.

Out. I'm here. Why on earth don't these figments
acknowledge that now, of all times?

And look, if the sun's not really repetitive, does that mean
that coming to this place again tomorrow wouldn't be? Do
you think that's the essence of my invisibility? The fact that
I'm always here?
If I stood up again, would that help? In. In. In. In. In. In. In.
I've got to cough.

No-one. Grand gestures need people. But I can't sit back
down now. The karma of that would be ridiculous. Can you
imagine that? The emptiness of that last grand gesture would
follow me (and therefore the whole of this dirty universe)
throughout time, throughout those other pseudo-repetitions
that make it seem like there's no hope. Of course there isn't
any hope anyway, but the hope of hope can seem like other
kinds of hope are inevitable. Does that make sense? If you
call something into being, just by creating it, does that mean
it then exists bona fide? I doubt it. Out.

In.

I'm thinking. Shut up. Out.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. In. In. In. In. In.

Out. There's no need whatsoever to panic. What good does
it do to these other people, these birds that have left me,
these stones. That's not a stone. How can people collude
with the beast like that?

I'm chuckling to myself, even though it's sad, it's
depressing, I'm depressing. Depressing but there's never
enough haste to truly erase the irascible. But I can carry it
with me in this fashion. These boots were made for this.
Funny how it doesn't stink, really. It probably should. Ah, of
course, it probably only stinks to dogs.
That's good. No dog will harass me today, (or any day if I
will it so) which means I can take a hold of this situation and
sit back down again.

Out. I'm waiting. I'm waiting. You see, it proves it. Nothing
at all happens without me willing it so. Not even the basic
fundamentals like breathing.
In.
Breathing.
Out.

Is this all it takes to manufacture peace? Simplifying the
rhythm?
It's an illusion, because every time I'm breathing this, I'm
taking from the immediate environment. This place, the park
where people thankfully do not as yet park, and actually not
even in the fuller sense of the word, this park, I'm emptying
it of everything it needs. Wind. Might be fast but it's just the
accumulation of however many times I've sucked from it
since I've been here today, and yesterday. It still echoes
from the first time, no matter which first time it might be.
Those echoes never disappear; a wound to this body of
invisible truth is permanent. Unlike this dog shite. Even the
wiping motion of my leg is perfectly in time with my
breathing, but in a complex way – it takes primarily from
my immediate present tense lung motions, but it lives in the
outside world full of holes in the invisible truth, so the
rhythm is skewed by the history of every breath. This means
that, via my leg, and its increasing re-cleansing, I can
remember and feel every motion of my sordid past, violating
this body of air until nothing remains but the poison coming
from my mouth and from my boot.
Even the beast that made these trouser-splashes and particles
left on the concrete is merely a function of my lungs. And
what there comes from, returns. I must be a dog, because
this stench is more unbearable than anything I've not been
able to bear before. I'm going to not only stand up in protest,
but I could possibly leave this concrete island. It's a travesty
anyway to be here in amongst the greens of sentiment and
browns of reality (bastard, fucking scum) and to be sitting
and standing, standing and sitting, on the very vestige of
what I'm here to avoid. But of course how can I avoid it?
This is merely an echo of the thought about concrete, and
about shit, and about avoidance. The rest is the illusion, not
this seat of wisdom and control.

I'm coughing now. A romantic would call it consumption.
I'd call it the aftermath of the realisation that the physical
body, albeit illusory, remains even after the combination of
its cells with these cells. These beautiful cells. I know why
they hide this liquid and its bubbles inside these evil metal
cells: we must not ever see it.
Ironic then that I'm freeing it from its prison and it's merely
entering my own.
But I like it. It tenderises me like I tenderised this fucking
turd.

I'm coughing.

In. In. In. Out. Out. In. In. In. I'm coughing again. Nothing
will ever stop the knowledge that smoking saved me from
myself. I haven't time any more to do it; it's as simple as
that. It's not the effort, nor the embarrassment; just the fact
that I haven't got the time to go to those places and make my
excuses any more.
It's more than my stomach can sanction to fetch these tins.
More rhythm, more pseudo-repetition. I'm yet to taste two
the same. But that's probably because of all these particles
of shite that I'm swallowing with every gulp, every illusory
reaching-out to this outside world.

Just look at that tree. Seriously. Every single leaf is moving
left, moving right, moving in a million directions that don't
even have fucking names. Sometimes I think that, out of the
corner of my mind, I can see them moving independently,
but that's the illusion. When I stare directly into the midst of
a tree, I know that everything is synchronised. Ready for
action, ready to take instruction.

In. Out.

I feel good about the fact that everything is so awful; it's a
pact I have with death. Even I must submit to that part of the
rhythm. Breathe in, live, breathe out, die.

Did you know that these other leaves, these leaves of grass,
were once sunrays?
The times when the sun is underneath the level earth, it
shines through the surface of it. (The sun is much stronger
from below because as you know, heat rises.)
By the time they pierce the surface of the ground enough to
be seen, they've acquired mass enough to look like plants.
They're not plants. Unequivocally not. These are the proof
that I exist. Only I even step on these. (I mean yes, it's
possible that only I dare, because my boots are beyond
redemption and can risk what might else lie dormant in this
grass.)
But those other people that have sometimes come here, they
never, ever set foot on the grass. They comfort themselves
with a formalisation of this convention in the form of a sign
written to remind them, but everybody knows it has nothing
to do with anything of the kind; it's respect, pure and simple.
They respect me.

Oh fuck! Hide, quickly! In. In. In.

No, it's OK. I don't need to panic. I need to panic. I don't
need to hide. I'm hiding. I'm not hiding, of course I'm not
hiding. I'm just trying to pick up this crisp packet. It's an
outrage that they let people come in here who have no idea
what's going on in the world; how much of an impact these
things have. I'm disgusted that anybody could possibly drop
such a thing. I'm going to pick it up. And what's more I'm
going to walk over there and put it in the bin. And I'm going
to do it now. There's no need whatsoever for me to be
hiding or panicking. I'm doing my civic duty, and there's no
possible redress for anyone thinking otherwise of me. How
could this person possibly think ill of someone like me,
doing his civic duty, being a good citizen?
I'm a respectable member of this place. Don't they
recognise that? Don't you fucking recognise that? I'm here
to protect, to cleanse, to bring some fucking order to your
world, you cunts, you fucking idiots. How fucking DARE
you look at me like that? This is me, how fucking dare you?
OK, OK, OK. I'm going to stop now. They've gone.
I don't know why they have to mutter to themselves like
that. It's not polite to speak when no-one's listening.
Now it's fucking dark. If I could, I'd chase those cunts and
show them not to darken my fucking space.

OK I've calmed down now. Out.

I know I over-react sometimes, and have tantrums. How
come the plural of tantrums isn't tantra?

In. I think it's just that this ground is so nice, that's all. I
love this place. If I didn't love it I wouldn't come here,
would I? I mean yeah the ducks are OK, but I wouldn't
spend so much time somewhere I didn't want to be, would
I? I just don't really like it very much when people drop
things around here, and especially when people like that
decide to judge ME about it, as if it was me dropping things.
Not counting the empty tins, which are just the same as my
exhalation, I don't fucking drop anything. Ever. Seriously.
I'm being serious. I don't even use wrappers for food. When
I eat, it's natural. That's why I choose it that way. That's
why I choose this place, this menu, this day. Well, night
really. Oh dear. I don't know. It just seems to me that they
deserved me this darkness. Now I've got to sit it out.
Shit, where's the fucking bench?
In. In.

OK this isn't funny. Where's the fucking bench?

Sometimes I think this is a crisis actually. I mean I
remember not being asleep, and I remember my first thought
on waking, but I don't remember my last thought before
falling asleep. That says to me that I'll probably miss the
moment of my passing, too. Maybe that's our fate as human
beings : to never experience our death. All these lives, and
nobody has ever died, in effect. It's a bit like the religious
mentality, I know, but I want to be completely clear about
this : I'm not romanticising anything; this is just an
observation based on the evidence available.

OK, well obviously after that kind of a night, the day passed
what I suppose an author would call uneventfully; work was
work, play, such as it was, was play, I suppose; more like a
play actually, but not quite as interesting really; devoid of
plot, I suppose, or devoid of actors more like : de void. I
don't know why I'm thinking so much about death…
probably just because if I take a skinful like that again in a
hurry, I'll be finding out just how much of a void the
afterlife actually is… or if not an afterlife, a non-life, a not
life…. ach, who cares? I certainly don't. Here I am sitting on
the toilet like a fucking baby, and trying to shit. Only after
five packets of crisps, who can shit properly? Certainly not
me.
What I can see, however, is that light, even proper, man-
made light, doesn't do what we think it does… it's not
something that changes a fundamental characteristic of the
room at all, even though that's how we talk about it : put the
light on, the room was lit, well-lit, dimly-lit, etc. etc.
That's not it at all – a light, a bulb, a strip like this thing –
dunno what it is – some sort of inert gas? Or just electrified
wires? Hard to tell without opening it up. Well anyway this
thing that's helping me to see the shit on the paper, it's not
changing a fundamental characteristic of the room at all; it's
spilling lights.
Lights, little particles of light, are spilling out of it, falling
everywhere… except they're so small that gravity doesn't
really have enough about it – they call gravity "the weak
force" in some quarters, though no doubt if I jumped out this
two foot by six inch window and managed to miss the
conservatory roof, I'd find out that's not the case at all, or
rather I'm weaker still.
But yeah, gravity doesn't have enough about it at all – it
needs consent. Newton knew that, Einstein knew that – so I
certainly know that. When gravity is supposed to be pulling
you, it's not that at all – it's that the ground beneath your
feet is conspiring with your feet to pull you. Or rather each
little part of your feet is conspiring with all the other parts of
your feet, and with the ground, to have a meeting of weak
force.
So anyway, about this light thing : it's spilling, like a can on
its side, full of something : worms, baked beans, half-baked
export lager, I dunno, guts? What else can you spill? Well
evidently you can spill light if you're one of these strip
things like this one here.
And because the deal isn't there enough between the bits of
light and each other, they can't collectively bargain with
anything else around them (the gravity effect), so they just
spill about the place in all directions. That's why it looks
like the whole room's single characteristic called lightedness
is being somehow changed.
Anyway : this is what I'm thinking, not all that other stuff;
there are other bits : shadows, so-called. That's where
something is in the way, and protects something else from
being spilt-on. And yet is the something grateful the first
something for this racket? Not at all – far from glowing,
those somethings feel left out of the whole shenanigans :
they refuse to glow at all, they just sit there. Like parts of the
wall basically.
But the thing is this : if you go small enough, small enough
for each little bit of light to have space between it that you
can make out, then what happens is this : those darknesses,
even the black ones, are of course full of stray bits of light.
The protection racket, like all insurances, is flawed; bits get
through by funny ways; this is why it's hardly ever actually
black, even in the heart of the shadow.
So then : these little bits of light, the things that don't
cooperate between themselves enough to cooperate with
other groups of things that do : within that group of things
behaving more or less the same, some of them are doing this
instead; going into those areas where the others aren't going.
What is this? Is it isolation? Or is it radicalism? You've
heard, I'm sure, of "free radicals" – maybe that's what it
means – to go to those places, those dark places, such as the
heart of your cells. Yes of course that radicalism causes
cancer. It also causes non-shadow. Or is it isolation? Are
they running from the crowd the way I do sometimes? The
way I feel compelled to not only not negotiate, but to avoid
the whole idea of negotiation, so that it's not even a threat or
a possible thing that I might do if I were otherwise inclined.
Maybe they're hiding their inclination to not negotiate. Or
maybe they're the only ones aware of it, and it's the others,
the brighter sparks, as it were, that are ignorant; they're
averagely unaware that around them are so many others not
negotiating, whereas the loner ones that invade our cells and
kill us are aware of it, and want to escape it, or to escape
thinking about it, and they bring about tragedy through their
isolation.

Do you think that's what I'll do if I go back to the park
tomorrow in the daytime when it's possible? I mean
obviously I can't go now, but maybe when it's light and I
can be enjoying the sunshine with something to do – maybe
a book or a blank canvas, or maybe I might possibly take a
couple of cans of something : nothing too strong, and
certainly not too many, but something would be nice. I mean
obviously I don't have to get like I was yesterday. Obviously
it's not important to feel like that, to be the free radical; but
it would certainly be nice to feel something, possibly feel a
little bit more part of something. That's ironic, because the
whole idea is based on being aware of not being part of
anything, anything at all, not even the things everyone else
is either part of or not; but in a way it's truer to the feeling to
say that it feels much much more like being part of
something.
What book shall I take then? What shall I paint? Obviously I
can't drink again so soon, it would actually be in a way
improper, as though a holiday from this, from this flatness
and lack of insight is only really justified when it's a
problem. But isn't this a problem anyway? It might be better
to drink something than nothing at all. Or maybe I'll just
write something or read something that somebody else has
already written. I'm not sure, like the little bits of light in
this strip thing, that I can cooperate to that extent with
anything in particular, not even myself, so maybe I should
feel good enough again to have a bit of a walk, see the
friendly folks walking their stuffed animals. Play a little
game with myself, think unthinkable, unknowable thoughts.
Like this. I mean why the fuck am I romanticising shit
again? Maybe it's only faeces that can bring out my tender
side.

OK I promise I'm not going to think about it any more.

I just remembered one of my insights from yesterday. I
breathe in more than I breathe out. Maybe it's all that
missing air that makes the light particles fly around so
randomly; maybe if we all stopped breathing, the whole
world would light up evenly – a kind of gentle orange, like
street lights in open spaces, but later, older than that.

If I hold my breath long enough, it's possible that my
example will negotiate with all the other examples and we'll
see just a hint of orange.

In.
In.
In.
Hold.

Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Must try some now. Hold.
Out.

I did see orange. I swear I did start to see orange. And green,
strangely – but that must be the imperfection of the gesture;
sure most people will have been deeply influenced by me,
but some probably weren't; some probably stubbornly
refused to acknowledge what they knew was truth.
But then that's how it is – if every person can in some sense
be considered a spark spilt from the striplight, why would
they cooperate together? Wouldn't that cause a gravitation,
and make them fall to the ground?
That would look like a dark night with a crack in the earth's
crust revealing magma of brightest yellow, just around the
ground, nowhere else.
Like a yellow border to a black square.
Like a sheen, a vinyl floor shining with invisible light in an
otherwise foggy room.

So if not people cooperating with me just then when I was
holding my breath, who?
Or should I ask what? But if a what then why would a what
cooperate?
Maybe after death we start to cooperate; the self-same
tragedy we saw with the particles of light – they cause death
through their experimental meanderings; after death people
probably reclaim the spirit of cooperation that, lacking,
made them shine in the first place. Is it tragic because it's
too late, or is it tragic that they lost even that when they lost
themselves? Perhaps the green was a classical envy, and the
orange the only true purity – that that comes from the dead
cooperating with the dead and only the dead. So to achieve
perfection I would have to stop breathing for a lot longer.

In.
Hold.
Hold….
Hold………
Hold……………….
Hold…………………………..
Hold……………………………………….

It's that feeling again : I have no idea what happened at the
moment of disappearance. The ideas I have about the
dreams spill out of my memory over a period of minutes
upon waking. Maybe those thoughts and memories behave
like light particles too, or maybe they behave more like the
thoughts of the dead, in cooperation.
Either way, they certainly spilled from me, and I hadn't even
had enough drink to be thinking those thoughts; of course I
hadn't been drinking anything, anything at all.
So maybe it's not that – maybe I don't need to drink to be
this fucking clever. Maybe it's just my nature to be godlike
and master of nature. Oh god it's not even morning. What
was I doing?

I'd better sleep or I'll be late for work. I can't bunk off sick
in the afternoon if I'm not in promptly in the morning. It's
bad form, pure and simple. In fact I can't even think about
bunking off sick at all; what a ridiculous idea – surely if I
have a book to read, a painting to start, I can do that in my
own time, not the company's; but isn't it my time if I
reclaim it myself? If I take action personally to claim it, isn't
it mine?
Then maybe I will, maybe I won't. That's action for you,
personal and unequivocal. Best stop at the shop on the way
to work then, just to be sure.
Best stop at the little shop, because too many people will
start thinking things about me again if I go to the big shop.
The fewer people, the more impersonal. Strange but true –
nobody's going to feel the need to prove they take notice of
you in a small shop. Especially this small shop. What do I
want then? Lagers? I'm so bored of lagers, such a macho
style; I think maybe possibly a wine? Hock are very good…
no, strike that, I need something stronger to be quite
perfectly frankly honest, to be quite perfectly frankly honest
I do possibly frankly honestly need something more
stronger. Strongbow? Of course not, out of the question;
maybe possibly quite definitely frankly Martini, Mr. Bond.
Or possibly I shouldn't be thinking about this right now. I
can't sleep already. What's the point? So what book should I
take? Something small enough to keep me from drinking too
much, or spending too much time pouring over it. Spend my
time pouring already much too much, and thinking.
I'm having an episode. In. In. In. Out.

Again, awakening. Is that what this is? A series of repeats,
forever, only not forever, because suddenly it's all finished
with?
I need a shit.

I can't possibly tell you anything at all about work. I'm
sorry, but it's out of the question. Just take it that I was not
always here.

I can't be trucked to read; it's just not worth it. It's just
simply positively frankly honestly not worth it at all. If I
read, all will happen is that the birdsong, the smell of rained-
on grass, will distract and colour the reading. We're all
environmental, I think. It's not possible to read in isolation
unless you read in isolation.

I'm not going to drink after all; it's just not worth it. It's just
simply positively frankly honestly not worth it at all. If I
have a can, all will happen is that the smell of hops and
over-cooperated yeast will remind me of all those light
particles that I'm emulating, all those little individuals not
doing what the yeast has done to give me the taste of human
death, distilled from like behaviours.

It's not possible to drink in isolation unless you live in
isolation. I mean yes, there's nobody here right now, but
what if that dog comes back? What if I'm not alone here at
all, and never was? Not that I've been here very long,
obviously, there's no point in being here at all. It's just not
worth it. It's just simply positively frankly honestly not
worth it one tiny bit, sitting here banging on about nothing,
sitting here like a fucking drunk, sitting here reading like
some fucking woman with a dog. I should be walking,
exploring. Why here? Why would whoever put this concrete
circle here put this concrete circle here, just for dogs to shit
and men to drink and books to lie unread?

Maybe they knew.

Fucking dogshit on my shoes again. If I do go in tomorrow,
what on earth, what the living fuck will they think about me?

I can't read, I can't drink, I can't even cooperate with myself
enough to get up and walk, not without a dog to keep me
company. It doesn't count, it's an animal.
Maybe that's the spirit of cooperation – nothing in common.
Then it's possible.
Like those little bits of light – nothing in common between
themselves, in the group, at all. Just similar by the fact that
they're all doing the same thing : different things.

I think I might have a bit of a sit down, that's all, and might
possibly, dubiously, tentatively, sip something to help me
think. Or to stop me thinking.
Which is it? Only one way to find out, I suppose,
realistically, logically, frankly, honestly. But what's the
point? None whatsoever. No point at all, never has been.

What I do know though is that I want to sleep, and I don't
want to be here with the dogshit and the knowledge that only
I can bring this unison into creation. Look at those leaves,
those swallows. This doesn't happen all the time. This is me.
This is my doing.