Night Dreaming. Day dreaming in the witching hour. The line between the dead and the living is pinch thin as I watch my grandmother coruscate between the realms. My brain observing is blended in, and a perfume of florid hospital sterility irritates my nostrils. Nothing settles her and me. Even the pathetic clicking of this here entry startles her scant awareness so much as to hiss and twiddle her damaged arms, peering up at me in parched blue eyes. Who am I? Am I the distance between her and my father, twice over? Not even that. The only substantial connection I can grasp there is a faint physical, biological one. She birthed my father, my father begot me, and so on. Not even that to grab on. Our bodies dissolve and palpitate into the atmosphere, what little is there left besides the moment of observation? Our history instead is being made in this hospital room right now, where through familiarity the only chance I have at absorbing her is through narcissistic symbolism. How does this experience relate to me, wheres my narrative, etc etc. In what way can I sympathize with another human being without turning their experience into my own abstract lesson? I feel absolutely disconnected, as delayed opportunity through complete self-absorption. So often this is a parable for me; I feel constantly in search of the definitive explanation of what it is I will do, contribute, and its extrapolation is used as an excuse for personality of which I truly have none. I've become obsessed with the idea of taste as personality, as substance. It is true, but what I fail to understand in that equation is that taste is discovered through learning, experimenting, and playing with things through experience. i.e. as a by-product of living well and not something selected prior to, as in an article of clothing before a night out. Otherwise taste will always appear, at least to the initiated, as superficial, unworn, and callow, primarily because of its obsession with being seen, and not really being enjoyed.