when fact is Fiction, & TV is reality (borrowed U2 lyric)

The psychiatric doctors said that w/schizophrenia the mind is like a 1000 TVs going on at once... so in a murmur between nods of my reading regimen IS not going to make fade the noumenon that is the fray of dialogue I tend to answer for--with the pseudo-Norm. Besides, it is active entertainment if you see the silent threshold in between talkingHeads, just as the Corner of the room emits in a wall of vibratory properties, like soothing white noise. I dig bookSpan--watching plain imagery, people just blathering, but w/language as the field of something sensorial, IS very iconoclast & I can maintain I am not dragged into some nowhere Zone. In Buddhist thought the face is a translator, different masks in optimal moments when you're actively listening, give us a sense we are indicated by the experential--whereas the grotesque spectacle of smilingLying faces from the yackBox, means our nature adapts to something a little more aloof. & if we're aloof, maybe we take less seriously flow of consciousness type dialogue--even if it is merely our own perception to see it as such. Creativity is in the eye of the beholder, it is a threshold we've decided the character meets, whether they intended to or not... I just want to attain real objectivity in people's self-expression. Camus says something about actors acting a piece a 1000 times & what it is that is possible to derive from their performance, discussed in Sysiphus!! "the organs of consciousness work w/One & Against itself" as Nietzsche depicts--requires dormancy, says Camus, to run efficiently. & the patternic reality--the call & response of dialogue we have been carried away with, makes the riffs & peaks illumine something other than content--which we can bet would be dull--but something abstract & less linear is the detail of our kaliedoscopic mind. **Moving from a Wide Open perspective to a Corridor of Trees is just the mental faculty it takes to cohere what is perfected in Thought & then Actionable. One would not any longer deliberate on the esteem granted us thru our art if only & forever we came in from the Cold toward encumbency of presence of mind, & stayed there. However Light dark Light dark is the road we take. At A Certain pt. that portal we take into a creative purging of the moment will seem forever behind us. For instance, all this experience which is the sum total of identification w/the Now, is assessable when I look upon the familiarity of my environment. Before it was merely that I knew its foci, but now I tend to justify it. Two days ago, over in the Captain D's parking lot, I began to assess the billboard w/U2 on it, which seemed to be an emoting of penultimate inner-sensei - I felt someone out there, generally had a positive easily self-required message. People would actually be helped by those guys, & well we all need help somehow, so "help" was a good thing to imagine. *** George Harrison's guitar gently weeps, just as Kerouac's broom gently sweeps. Harrison lives in the urban myth w/cosmic implications just as the Eastern Nod of Kerouac has the Here & Now i.e. the cosmic life of Americana objectified under Mt. Hozomeen--when he was out in one of the national parks for a few months as a ranger. The world sleeps, our minds require dormancy, so that we peak in moments of repose & awaken to language which lights the fire simmering under the malaise of nothing having much to do with Us anyway. ** Listening to Magical Mystery Tour--really the only Beatles stuff I grew up with--always laid a layer of philosophical air descended from the eves, upon exigent views beyond immediate walls, while I tried to mirror little jips & caricatures--chipping off pieces of that totality. I thought it was popular asceticism & I wanted to yield to something deeper--just maybe the key would be found in proximity to the distance strung... Somehow I knew looking under the streetLights of the night all-ahead & paved ubiquity, was interesting, & yet the key was in the alley off the beaten track.
To conclude, I have a techni-color thought. I have this image of "a sad man wanting to stand up in my eyes" from Elias Khoury, a Palestinian author contemporary with Amos Oz--the Israeli author/Peace Now activist. The sad man is the sand's collapse like "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" (Kerouac) where something called Mine sought oblivion. One peak moment was in front of the tube sitting down by the fire-place--w/Dostoevskii's character in mind-- Alyosha burying his face, & in his case turning toward something, & in mine--turning away! If you've read very much of Kerouac's stuff--or Buddhist writings otherwise, you may have come across a meditational technique called vipassana. It is something about illustrative thought=imagery consigning the incidental space with more meaning. Well, somewhere between some loss in the sensorial & habit, dross conventions thru the TV kinda left me numb, & there was what I imagined as hooks in the ceiling (a scenario of the reproven Karamazov father) & a lot of fire in a spectral shore making TV the enemy... I threw away the Outward Fact somehow--& Americana went with it via that damned yack box.