The kettle howls, a gale force wind sound, announcing it's looming heat. Outside, the light rain. The wind-roar subsides, reduced to a low gurgle. A quiet boil. Not brewing up a storm after all. Peppermint green tea. William Gibson. The Akira soundtrack. I feel as though I've shifted laterally into another domain of nerdhood. The only evidence I'm still regular old me is the bundle of blankets and pillows I've cornered up for myself. That familiar nesting instinct.
The chants and percussions swirl about my head, inside an invisible sphere of headphonic influence, syncopating smoothly with the flow of Gibson's story. Lovely, unimportant synchronicity, it generates an underflow in my thoughts, just below the reading mind. Holistic ideas, interconnectedness of mankind, the immutability of self. Vague, comforting notions. Try something new, behave like someone else. If it's any good, it will be subsumed, and for any changes, you will remain you.
For years I maintained that it was, while good, fairly overrated. Now I would really like to watch Akira again. But in this day and age, how am I to make use of my 5 dollar VHS copy?
The book is Pattern Recognition. It's very good, striking me in ways I cannot verbalize.
The last Akira track is winding down. Chapter 36 has ended. I feel the need to get all this down. I close the book, and turn to the screen at what appears to be exactly midnight.
Pleasant, meaningless coincidence. I relax into my apophenia like a warm bath.