Jimmy’s Reviews > Solenoid > Status Update
Jimmy
is on page 421 of 639
I wasn’t from here anymore, from the common dream, but I didn’t enter my interior dream, either. I was in limbo, where you still live in the world, but without the reality-validating mechanism, as though you were walking on ice without hearing that voice that constantly whispers: Yes, keep going, the ice is solid, everything is okay, it will hold, nothing monstrous or illogical can happen...
— May 09, 2023 06:39AM
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Jimmy’s Previous Updates
Jimmy
is on page 411 of 639
...there are both intelligible and unintelligible coherences, just as there are comprehensible and incomprehensible absurdities. You can understand the intelligible, and this is calm; you can understand the unintelligible, and this is power, you can not understand the intelligible, and this is terror; you can not understand the unintelligible, and this is enlightenment.
— May 09, 2023 06:35AM
Jimmy
is on page 341 of 639
I would see the apple trees—in all their avatars, rotating through the seasons: now they were green, green to their core, green in the depths of their stems with wooden networks of vessels gurgling with green sap, green in the ever-changing hues of their leaves, and in the evanescent flesh of their fruits that dislocated with a pop at our bite, whose weight pulled the branches down toward the earth.
— May 04, 2023 01:49PM
Jimmy
is on page 240 of 639
“I have not lived in vain, I tell myself in every moment of my life, because I didn’t become an author, because I am a lowly Romanian teacher, because I don’t have a family, or a fortune [...] It is rather because I have asked a question and not found the answer, because I have asked and was not given, I have knocked and it has not opened, I have searched and have not found. This is the failure that frightens me.”
— Apr 27, 2023 08:57AM
Jimmy
is on page 140 of 639
It was toward dawn, after they had danced all night with the obstinacy and excessive enthusiasm of those who, having reached forty, the apex of the vault, the keystone of our life’s arched back, still refuse to look toward the future. They danced in the dark, they caressed each other like teenagers, not for pleasure but as a sad, dark demonstration: I still desire you, even though I know every centimeter of your ...
— Apr 19, 2023 02:02PM
Jimmy
is on page 117 of 639
I came into a world where reality is rotten, with holes in its fabric big enough for your finger, and I search precisely for these rips and tears in the stories.
— Apr 18, 2023 07:18PM
Jimmy
is on page 98 of 639
The old factory’s production lines, driven by long-immobile motors, had produced—and perhaps, in a quiet isolation beyond humanity, continued to produce—the fear and grief, the unhappiness and agony, the melancholy and suffering of our life on Earth, in sufficient quantities for the surrounding neighborhood.
— Apr 18, 2023 07:06PM
Jimmy
is on page 76 of 639
Dreams are also real, our first memories are real, and fiction is real (so real!), yet we feel foreign to our ashen homeland, we feel hard, prickly, stubborn, unimaginative, meaningless, or unsalvageable, the cell where we were tossed after we sipped the dark waters of Lethe. The real—our legitimate homeland—ought to be a fabulous realm, but it is instead an oppressive prison.
— Apr 18, 2023 07:04PM
Jimmy
is on page 58 of 639
When you are four years old, every new place is like this. You move in the field of hallucination and vision, until the trails of memory are worn into your brain. Any new sight feels like a fable, however banal it might be, because expressions such as “in reality,” “truly,” or “as it is” are meaningless to one who sees reality the way that later we relive our earliest memories or live within our dreams.
— Apr 18, 2023 07:01PM
Jimmy
is on page 25 of 639
And, more than anything, Bucharest was planned as a great open-air museum, a museum of melancholy and the ruin of all things.
— Apr 18, 2023 06:57PM
Jimmy
is on page 25 of 639
Bucharest was not like other cities that developed over time, exchanging its huts and warehouses for condominium towers, replacing horse-drawn trams with electric ones. It had appeared all at once, already ruined, shattered, with its facades fallen and its gargoyles’ noses chipped, with electric wires hung over the streets in melancholic fixtures, with an imaginatively varied industrial architecture.
— Apr 18, 2023 06:57PM
I wasn’t from here anymore, from the common dream, but I didn’t enter my interior dream, either. I was in limbo, where you still live in the world, but without the reality-validating mechanism, as though you were walking on ice without hearing that voice that constantly whispers: Yes, keep going, the ice is solid, everything is okay, it will hold, nothing monstrous or illogical can happen. How could I believe in the fiction of reality without this judgment, without the commission that approves and stamps things, that attests and takes responsibility for every texture of every wall and every tablecloth, for every hue and vibration of the voice, for all the vestibular systems, for ice and heat, for love and hate? In dreams, the reality validation committee rises from their bottomless chairs, they go to eat and have a smoke, leaving us, amazed and unable to believe it, on uncertified ice, where we are overwhelmed by emotion and euphoria and horror and the charm of a world without the psychical bureaucracy of the real.