The Discarding of Self

The night is absolutely beautiful except for the crowd. Gone are my long, cold nights of suffering winter. She leaves behind her heated breath but the beast is asleep.

God, I must have cried for half the day today! Too much of everything and the silent film stars have started to speak, but nobody likes their thick European accents or oddly pitched voices and so they die. The heroes are dead, and I sense that I will be equally discarded when nature is revealed.

But there will always be memory... those silver scraps of painted lips and glassy shaded eyes-- those dramatic head cocks and thin, think moustaches.

But things are not so bad. I am at least feeling like there is some hope, some room for change, some SOMETHING because the pendulum has made a rather rapid trip to the bottom and it must go back the other way.

Anyway, must go to choir.

She's Come Undone

Okay. I am absolutely going to die. I really, really, really, really, REALLY screwed up this one. VJ and Rick just saw my wrists; Amac found out that I was smoking and told BigSis; I told ChoirMan that he would die or hit me; I told GoldenFinch and B that I am on drugs; I told Contessa that I was abused and smoked a mouthful of cloves in front of her... WHAT AM I DOING???



I feel sick, I feel sick, I feel sick, I feel sick!



I really think that I'm going to vomit right now. Oh God!

If VJ says anything to Amac about my wrist, I'll die. I'll really, really die. I'll do it right away-- without hesitation, so at least they'll all know, but I won't have to face anyone.

Oh my God, I'm seeing Amac on Tuesday and I will have to make SUPER sure to cover it so that she won't see it.

Oh God! What is VJ thinking right now? It's all unraveling! All of it's undone and I can't control this wrenching inside of me. This indescribable punch in my gut. And for how long did I think I'd be able to wear two masks?

Amac said that everyone was worried about me about what happened last year and that is why word was passed around the sorority about the West End on Thursday. But what the hell? Amac was involved in all this sex stuff when she was like, 12, and nobody still holds that against her!

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, It's all coming undone and I feel this charade about to end...

God, help me!

A Fork in the River

Anyway, B came back then, so I stopped.

At Lincoln Center now in a gray breeze rained by Elvis and the fountain. Opera concert was last night and I stained my tounge so black and burned last night that it seems a relief that I'm even breathing today. And my scar will be a week old tomorrow.

I don't know what's wrong lately... I feel like I knew GoldenFinch and now I don't and things run in such different rivers (god, I love that breeze!) That I have realized that this isn't a fork. I haven't ever been of the same source. I cut off all my nails last night. Mommy should be here soon... if she's ever on time... And my throat hurts and I have to go to NJ tomorrow to sing and Dr. B is going to give me so much stress. (They call me Poor Boy!)

Anyway, I have been in either one phase or another of "out of it" since Wednesday and I can see how life like this is so easy and how the days can become annoying and weary passages between the blissful nights. (The air! The air!) I can see the comfort and the color and the inevitability of the pattern once it starts.

Anyway... I have a headache and my throat burns. I hope that Dr. B isn't too pissed. Anyway... I feel too blah to write anymore... Blame it on El Niño! I'll go back and read.

Across the Ribs of Time

Okay... So, here we are again in the sweet born breath of Spring that seems to deliver a freshly eaten compost heap and the staleness of a lover in the closet-- never kissed. And my head pounds and my fingers are stained yellow and taste like honey when I lick them.



And I am sitting here in the shade by Lowe, unable to commit myself to the sun. My memory won't serve me anymore and I haven't seen GoldenFinch since Wednesday. And someone got stabbed at The West End last night. They say he's in Beta. We were all locked in and had to leave systematically, showing our ID's. And I saw the source of my "twin suns," only those scars are already pink and raised and faded and are comfortably smooth as memory, but no longer sting. It was sweet to see him though.


But I can't think with this headache and everyone moves slowly through the filter of avant garde choreography. And the breeze here will leave me to hang and sway from the noose of humidity on the poplar tree.


Anyway, that was abruptly interrupted. I just saw Shazada and Parisa from high school, put on some lotion, moved into the sun and sucked it up. And I see Jaimie and Brandi sitting not too far away and I hate what I allowed to happen in front of them last night. I'm not worried about smoking though because I know it won't even be an issue once the Summer comes.

And B passed a little while ago and said that he would come back, so I will write until I see him.

God! This breeze is beautiful!

But I still haven't spoken to GoldenFinch since Wednesday night and there are still a lot of things that we have to sort out about that.

I want this time to stretch on forever, across the ribs of time so that I will never have to be anything else ever again.

Oh god! I'm smearing this page with my greased sun-smeared hands. Tonight I have the Opera Ensemble concert and Mommy is coming and so is KW.

What a good week to have straightened my hair! We've had dry weather non-stop. But wait-- don't slop away from the the pain in your stomach! Don't let it be as easy as telling about your hair!!!

What I Create

Things are scaring me again. I totally fucked myself up last night and now I don't know how I'm going to hide my wrist at the Opera Ensemble concert or in front of Mommy on Saturday and Sunday. God, I'm such a moron!

And I didn't want to do it, but there was nobody home until it was too late, and then-- thank God-- I spoke to Eunie. But it is out of control because everyone sees. But in some strange way, it makes me feel better-- seeing it there... It's like the completion or the fulfillment of myself.

Anyway, I have so much stuff going on this week with rehearsals, etc. and I am super stressed about the weekend (is there anybody out there?) with everything that I have to do.

I am stuck in CD II of The Wall.

Out at Symposium until 1:30 AM (it is 2:24 AM now) and I have my CC midterm tomorrow and did shit.

God, I'm tired though and worn and hate myself for what I create.

Save me! I don't want to be this, but I can't get out because I'm not even sure that I want to get out either.

Anyway, I am super tired, so... Good night.

-H-

The Death Knell

Whispering winter. She soothes like a violin placed slightly too high, bleeding by Picasso into a woman's waistline. And the king calls for another Adagio.


On the LIRR I travel across the plains of my home and Russian snow is laced with sugar and smells and tastes like the tears which drop from the soul of this violin. Dissolved with the rapidity of cotton into my removed consciousness and slight discomfort.

Someone was killed at Columbia on Friday night and all I can see is him pressing back her head, holding it in his hands, the soft pulse on her neck and then sudden beat and blinding waves of color and the smell of blood reminds me of stew and of chewing the insides of my lips and tearing at my tightened gums. I smell it. And suddenly it is on my hands; drying under my nails, staining the snow from black crimson to fuchsia.


And my hand goes to my neck and it is I who bleeds and it seems like red paint stroked against the pasty, clammy white of my throat. My cheeks drain and I imagine Mimi sputtering up her soul in her bed and suddenly, the vision is gone and I am on the train through my sweet, blissful snow.


And I resist the urge to admit that some dark part of me longs for the drama to resume, for the vision to return. Part of me longs to see everything in red and white-- longs to see the clouds tear and bleed before me-- to see God himself wave a ghostly arm to wash away his own oozing red tears-- to see heaven weep, lying in the lap of a valiant tenor who, frantic and disbelieving, denies her death as she passes into sleep, softly trilling her end.


I want to see him rise with the murdered heavens in his arms and lament the curse of his life, of his love, of his tragic flaw. I want to see him crash to his knees and to wipe away my own soft tears in a wave of applause and orgasmic completion as the curtain wraps herself around the world and I rise into the void of end.


But we are approaching Penn Station now and fantasy must hold her breath for a while longer.

Mahler: Symphony No. Three

Well, I wasn't...

Anyway, twenty four hours later, caught inside a grain of sand-- carved and ancient but with the plastic American wrapper. And what was just wildly romantic now seems sweepingly "Disney."

Mahler-- Symphony No. 3. Bitten by a flock of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. My head hurts of absence and my wrist moves faintly with fatigue. The size of the sound pounds inside of me but does nothing more that stretch the film over my eyes wider and tighter and I feel my heart tremble as if it were Palm Sunday in Jerusalem.

The horns are too clear. The sound of thunder is the definition of all things abstract yet most tangible-- like time or measurement (Duchamps-- Three Standard Stoppages).

And the taste of my painkiller sticks to my tongue through a whole page of my life-- taunting me with the possibility of what is only a pocket away. And Monday-- no coke, no food, NOTHING.

The bird that flies into my hand doesn't realize where it goes-- I will squeeze the life out of it until that throbbing mass lies limp and I let it roll to the ground-- the tiny carcass that I can't help but weep for.

Inside my head on the outside of me! Can anyone understand the weight of that? Probably not...

And my eyes glaze and concentration drifts down the winding halls with girlish, ghostly moans. Writing saves that but they beckon nevertheless. The cross is tasteless and cheap against the backdrop of the rest of this. The candles have drowned themselves in their own loathsome wax, melted by the eclipsical lights of the cameras.

The tympani player breathes deeply.

If I stop writing, I know that I will go under-- to sleep or unconsciousness-- pulled by the weight of this whirlpool of Mahler.

The army fades and Hollywood responds: "Don't go! We'll make you better! Bigger! More the way we want you to be!!"

The army silently contemplates-- dead-- the corpse merges with the screen-- an underage necrophiliac.

"Tomorrow," she says.

"Uh huh," I reply.

And wonder what kind of nonsense pours from my eyes. What color ink I cry. But I can not cry at all now... for the pain of absence is too great-- absence of those puddles-- absence of Patti Smith and Pete Townshend and yesterday's stale breath.

And, oh God! I want to throw up, I want to throw up, I want to throw up, I want to throw up and self consume from the inside out. To stain my coat and spoil the floor and disrupt the world with horror at having seen a fully grown person disappear into a vomit stain on the floor of Riverside Church.

My eyes won't focus now and I am too tired to force them and am scared of myself and what I am doing. I spoon the mist away.

But this only sounds like the score of Beauty and the Beast, Part II, so it all seems hopeless again. (Even though II is a rather beautiful Roman numeral!)

I can't think anymore, so I close.

*******************************

Movement three now.

Suffering speaks: PERISH!
But all joy desires eternity!
Desires deep, deep eternity.

-Nietzsche- (Also Sprach Zarathustra)

Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit!
will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit.

That is the only rub.

But my throat burns now from that minty poison that I should have thrown away long ago. That mint that rejuvenates the spaces in my collar bone but can not clear the mist form my eyes-- only infinitely compound this headache while I long for release-- to be spared the burning lighter on my nail-- to call back the wind just this once so that I can stand inside a glass box and watch General Custer die on the plains alone.

I will throw kisses against the windless fingerprinted surface, watch them spiral to the ground and hope that they have sealed his eyes in satisfaction. As the horns now play a gentle farewell and three young men from West Point shoot against the white sky-- the kind that I hate-- the kind that makes me sleepy (as I am now).

And stained glass depressed when the color is gone. The branches batter my box in a Renaissance dance and coax me out to join them. Letting me close my eyes again the blue and believe, for a minute, that blue is permanence. (All the while that skipping record in my head reminds me that it is not).

And at the end of the night, the street lamps shade my skin with the color of yellow infection and blisters swell and fill on the bottom of my feet and I crush them as I tread along the thick white paint of the crosswalk. I press my stiletto heel into the head of history and lean back with all my weight, sweating and squinting as the blood pours out of my ears and trickles- sticky- down my neck and dries in red streaks. And when I pick up my foot, all of the blisters run and have burst, but there is no dent. Time springs back effortlessly-- like foam.

And I want off the carousel NOW! But Billy just laughs at me and refuses to pull the switch, and so languidly, I sling my arm around the horse's neck and press further and further into myself the prayer to stop and the delusion that it will.

"It will not," the record says.

But in my exhaustion, I do not have the strength to acknowledge it. No strength, no will, no plan-- only the soiled shell of myself kissing the horse's neck, remembering that there is no heat in plastic and praying for someone to switch the god damn switch to OFF!

Drinking Puddles

You are safe from harm on the grid.
-Pete Townshend (Psychoderilect)

I haven't written here for so long. But I suppose that that is because of the death of midterms and now Spring Break.

The Bill Viola exhibit... some of it was like being in my own head but outside of myself. It was all so unreal...

And that other thing-- stale smoke and lace sheets dividing the furrows of my mind, gently settling and clouding and pressing their swirling patterns into a massive headache. And I frighten myself with the weights which I play with... The pillars of my life lost into the intoxication of the neon street puddles. Those very acidic puddles that I long to drink-- the filth and urine and floating cigarette butts... the smell of city and reflection of glowing lamps and blinking bulbs and the underside of every New York boot.

That is how I kill myself with each breath. It is not for James Dean, these headaches, but to press myself into the grid and become one with the pain that remains without a cause. To find a cause, have a cause, be a cause... even if cause follows effect.

The lines of memory and thus-- reality-- can always be blurred if one wills it hard enough. But regardless-- the stakes are too high so the game ends here.

Fuck! I never should have started. I should have never started what I knew I couldn't finish! My ankles are wet but it will not be my knees... (Although I long to drown).

All I know is that my head will split. Only there will be no great birth of Athena, only blood and panic and sobbing and the dreadful discovery of all of my secrets when my splitting head brings me back to the hospital and forces them to the surface. God... NO! That WILL NOT HAPPEN!

I walked today to (26th) (66th) street and let the air revive the flesh on my face and neck and breast. I let the streaks of red and yellow against the blackened dusty sky absorb into the wet, quivering skin of my lungs. I walked and walked-- part of the grid, yes. But, for a moment, without a need for infinity.

"Mixed company," the man by the bathroom said...

I have to wake up early tomorrow to go to lunch with GoldenFinch and Jake and then back to the Whitney and then to Chinatown and then to see Mahler's Third Symphony... And it's 3:10 AM. Sometimes I wish...

(No! Don't finish that.)

Oh, all that stuff about love ISN'T love. And WASN'T love. It's (was) NEED. NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED!!!!!!!!!!!!

That is all that drives me EVER.

There is nothing greater or deeper or more complex. Those feelings have faded because my NEEDS have changed as part of my infinite swinging. And if it really had been love, it wouldn't be so.

But, looking on the brighter side, there have been no real thoughts of death, even though Spring is coming (oh God, I am scared!). What will happen to me this Spring?

April is always the worse and in a few weeks, here she comes!

I can't say anything about it though, because they would only think it was more fabricated melodrama. <<Pace mio dio!>>

My fingers smell like this drama and I wonder if anyone else has noticed. Another 20-something down the shoot today.

Anyway, it was a whole year ago that we were in Puerto Rico-- this was the last night-- the night we stayed up all night on the beach. SO MUCH HAS CHANGED. SO MUCH HAS PASSED!

Well, I am getting a little sleepy and my stomach is crowded by smoke that can not warm.

I think I will go...

Bonne nuit

-H-

Bill Viola (and Avery Fisher)

Tuesday really was wonderful... capped by the opera (Figaro) and faded in smoke...

But yesterday... yesterday at the Whitney when I felt drugged right into my own head... the darkness and the whispers and the hypnosis... "BILL VIOLA." But still, my tongue burns from nicotine and I am scared of myself... again... as always... scared of myself.

And now, at Ollies, at 67th street- my finger blackened by its naive attempts to burn and my eyes and lungs blackened by its success... part of my mad wanderings and recession into images and half crazy pull on my lower back by toting the weight of the world on a torn leather strap--

My cheeks are cooled by the wind-- my eyes made orange with cream and my tongue-- my tongue swallowing itself in that wanting.

Anyway, the food is here, so as always-- must go!

******************************

And now later and outside in the soiled swamp of tommyknocker fountain lights, cursed and broken by the smell of night. The yellow pine of the ballet falls like urine on my legs. And I am streaming through the forest of poisoned sticks and cry at the opera and choke on my own self-hatred manifested in my dreams falling inside my bag and so my chest and I blacken myself and burn my nose with water.

And intermission fills Avery Fisher with couples of slender silhouettes staring down at mine-- lumped into the columns and I feel myself sabotaged. They stroll and gag on their overpriced sodas and I feign anxiety-- all a part of the master script-- the greatest studio picture.

And maintenance walks my way and passes. They move through the windows in tiers-- cast against the soft yellow, rolling like cue balls all in silence-- without purpose. And my throat buns now, but I feel like Humphrey Bogart so it's all worth it-- isn't it?

Only when my eyes start to burn am I reminded of the hatred of my youth. And an uninterested man strolls in the night sky-- one of the stars-- no, I take it back... The sky is creamy and blank. And I can't write because my foot has fallen asleep and my hands are cold and numb without pleasure. And I creep without cause... Always without cause.

The Brahmsian silhouette of age strolls not one hundred feet ahead and I wonder if it is death who has come for me.

And I will close to cry for a moment. No. Tears did not come and I will leave here soon... When this spin is spun.

And I wonder why I have to be this way.

And a smooth man from the opera paints himself int eh 1920's. A real Joe Kennedy and it's a wonder I am even still here. I burn from the inside so much without the ability for expression.

Thank you, Bill Viola.

And one more after this.

I know they are seeing Hoffman and I wonder what act. And I know when I get up I'll be stained.

Serenity

The most wonderful day of all days! I am here in the kissing winds of late Winter at the Statue of Liberty. My hair is washed by gold and my eyes blur with crystal and earlier, on the boat, I saw three million lights dancing-- it was the stuff of hallucinations-- or at least that's what I would imagine it to be.

The perfection of the sky touching the water was unreal... And the bright song of the helicopter overhead-- and the breeze promising sweetly in my ear that it will not abandon me... That I will never be alone or unhappy because it is here to forever blush my cheeks.

And things seem perfect. And I want to live in this moment with no future and no past. I am peace. This is peace. This is serenity and all that I could ever want.

And all at once I am in love with the world... with its people, its color, its sounds, (only maybe not its seagulls!). Please, don't ever pass!

In class...

Later (same day).

In class with an hour and fifteen minutes to go. I feel Spring coming and I'm scared of it. I am going over to watch Amadeus with B and Contessa later. It is only just now dark out and I feel weird being here during Spring Break. <<Per la gloria>> is now.

I just bought Jaques Brel and Patti Smith.

I have such a headache! And I know why... it is because of all of last week... I am so glad that my cuticle is finally healing though.

I feel so uneasy.l.. as if this week is over before it has even begun! All I can see is the end and I wonder why I have to be this way! Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy and with a pounding head and slight nausea.

God, tomorrow I start in... like it or not!

I can't wait for the Romanov jewel exhibit to open! Maybe I can go on Saturday.

Argh! My head hurts! MY HEAD HURTS!!! God, I need relief FAST!!

I can't wait to go home and hear Ne me quitte pas. But I am owned by an unspeakable shutter which resides beneath my skin. <<Come raggio di sol>>

I wonder what song likes this book.

At Ollies

Bored and in Ollies at 4:05 PM. I have to go to Blockbuster and then to Juilliard for my class and my soup should be here any minute. I think I'll go to Ellis Island tomorrow and then to the opera with B. "The girl is mine" is on my walkman. (The doggone girl is mine!)

The Down Sink

Oh God, I have a headache... as I sit here and wait in Dr. B's den. What the hell?!? I just looked out the window and it looks like it's snowing! Whatever...

Anyway, I think I was kind of mean to GoldenFinch yesterday about her whole obsession. She really IS obsessed and I feel like I don't know her anymore. Maybe I never knew her... now, wait... it's not like that... I know her, but she is not like me.

And I want to close my eyes into it... my pink and swollen sleep-stung eye. And a pounding head is all that I have been able to find constant... stable... AS things slowly sink back into the monotonous "down sink" that is my life. It doesn't matter... I'm just tired tired tired and WISH I could remember the vitality of what was only two weeks ago.

Oh... thins do not change, only cycle over and over themselves, etching themselves into the hardened frosted soil.

ARGHHH!!!

My head hurts too much right now for me to think. I have to get off the coke and get some control back. I should get back on that other stuff, but even just the thought of it now, makes me want to vomit.

Anyway, I hear other people coming in so I will stop.

Midterm Week

Back in Ollies for a week of hell. I was in the library last night until 4:00 AM. One down; three to go.

I just want it to be over, but at the same time I enjoy the pain of urgency and necessity.

Food here. Must go.

**************************************

Alright. Even later (11:55) and endlessly in Butler, studying for Anthro. I was here last night for "the South" until 4:00 AM. Kind of sick-- right? Titanic and Pocahontas and my eyes can't help but blur... all drugged up!

My plan was to stay here until 4:00 AM again, but I don't know if I can make it... My body is collapsing and I will have to do it tomorrow for "USSR."

I saw Eunie at Sedutto when I was there with GoldenFinch... and that guy "Poly" from Symposium who we always see (he owns it) and I felt like I was in such a "neighborhood." But even though all love has been lost-- you know who I mean-- I still seek him, and then when I see him I don't now why.

I should be studying right now.................................... ............................. (JOIN OR DIE!)

This gum in my mouth tastes really weird (extra bubblegum). Anyway, Amac is mad at me about that dumb trip to England and it's really on my nerves. I'm sort of hungry, but I don't know what for... Anyway, next week I start that again and lay off the coke.

This is really dumb... I am getting nothing done. I am going to finish reading the book and then leave. I'll be out of here by the time this room closes (I hope). And jealousy passes me... Okay! Back to work!

On Suffering

In church--

Remember to ask GoldenFinch later... she said we often forget about the suffering necessary to get through to the glory... not to fast forward, take extra strength Tylenol, etc...

That is what Lent is to make us remember...

But he didn't say why. WHY should we suffer when it's unnecessary? WHY???

Guilt and GoldenFinch

I'm so sick I'm so sick I'm so sick and I screw everything up ALWAYS and I had so much fun last night but I'm such as ass and why am I always swallowing down my own nausea...

Here back at the Alma Mater waiting for GoldenFinch to poster...

I'm sick I'm sick

SAYMSSIK! SAYMSSIK!

Oh God! What have I done? And I can't love to be that way too much... it is death, Hyde! It is death!

Screw you! You have totally fucked everything up again and again and again and I am so scared and how can I need so much? How can his reaction (or lack thereof) make me so sick, squeamishly frightened and WAITING WAITING WAITING.

But who the hell wants to spend $10 on a rock that says "PATIENCE?"

I can't afford God... At least not for a piece of peace as shitty as that...

Oh God! Come! Come! Come!

He's not going to come. And then GodlenFinch is going to get here and I"m going to have to pretend that everything is okay because I promised that night... a week ago Thursday (today is Friday) that I would sell my soul to the Actor's Guild and only be happy forever more. I bumped into KSing for the second time today...

Where the hell is GoldenFinch? It's 10:19. She was supposed to be here at 10:10.

This sucks and my vomiting heart only makes me more pissed off at my own weakness. The cold is all there is to keep me alive--

"Laye-aye-aye-ai- you take this waltz with a clamp on its jaw." (L. Cohen).

GoldenFinch-- where the fuck are you??

God, I hate this! I hate it I hate it.... And the swellings on Butler are asymmetrical because one light has gone out and it spells DEATH... The queen of the spelling bee! It is all gone when I am alone...

I was back in the church today and painted back into the hollow of his cheek... my saliva-- the redness that dripped from his palms to his feet.

WHERE IS GOLDENFINCH???

I am getting a little cold, but sacrifice and suffering are necessary.

"Take this waltz with its very own breath of brandy and death, dragging its tail in the sea." (L. Cohen)

I see GoldenFinch running here now, so I'll stop...

The Night of the Crush Party

It is actually the 5th (as it was when I wrote this morning) and I am drifting off into the nausea of sleep and an undigested dinner, here at Opera Ensemble rehearsal.

I am soooooo tired and I still have to go to the "Crush Party" after this... tired, tired, tired. They can't get through this stupid "Monteverdi." And my nails burst forth in brilliant violet and hundreds of disco-ed confetti light dancing.

Hayley is writing something on the board about needing an exact schedule with all of our conflicts up to the concert... Don't they realize that these two hours on Thursday nights are the only thing that I have!!

I feel so suck... I ate so much at Pertutti with Amac and GoldenFinch... and I know it's because I had that coke first during CC.

I'm going to go for a walk and see if I can find a piano.

The Electron Experiment

Things have been immeasurably better, if only for the reason that they aren't bad. And I am back in New World Coffee but this time I am eating with Leonard Cohen and am debating over carrot cake and breakfast tea or whether I should take one of those nauseating little black pills.

I went out with Glee Club again last night... to Carmines and then the Heights. And I controlled it this time.

And today is fresher and lavender and rose.

My hair is in a soft ponytail and my jeans are comfortably broken and worn. (Well... I am comfortable. But are they?)

"There's a shoulder where death goes to cry."

I'm looking, now, at the half-built student center. The gap of last year has been filled and Carmen is shaded and blanketed and I wonder what will have happened a year from now.

That kid, E-the-R was talking to me last night... he said that there was a physics experiment done where they send an electron straight at an object and it could either go right or left, but it goes right AND left, and our brains perceive the way in which we see it go (only one) and thus, there are two realities-- the one that we perceive and the one that we don't perceive.

But if that is true for something like just an electron as it happens, EVERY event must be able to split and thus it is possible that there are an infinite number of parallel universes that exist. Think about what they could be! It's so weird...

Anyway, I have to get going to class... "History of the American South."

until later!