Klinikē, or bedside / Tomos Morris

Klinikē, or bedside, clinically. Praxis, non-theoretical garbage. We didn’t do it in the labo[u]ratory this time.

Vital heat exhaled during respiration at the cold room flurry, wherein the coffee cup is gazed at; too exhaling its vital heat toward the roofed heavens: there is not much difference between us. There are souls all around, usually exhaling.

In the hyper room. Little so hyper at the moment.

///

Saw once the abandoned carpark and internally daydreamt to myself: could I be here at one point and film in static.

And this was done when eating tofu:

Klinikē, or bedside. From bedside.

///

The enclosed space, or 20m2, it too was a daydream, but a different one. This one connected to a past future self. The sort who dreams in the day of the past self dreaming of futures.

///

Lethargic, the cat did sleep. This nook feeling is sought after: The tiring attainment of hypersuite. Attainment is a near impossible task. And the daydreams surrounding the act become incessant; making matters difficult at times.

  • I            can be let go like that. Although hard, it was and is done.

///

[string of language = withered]

///

Colourful bedside clinical. I was standing there, watching him sleep once, and saw the faint murmurs of his face perhaps seeing me seeing him. Vitreous blade, yahweh faced and went away.

///

When it is bed time it is bed time. The proximity of the self under the sheets, and the prospect of nothing the next morning is refreshing. It is the nothing itself which is refreshing :: nothing is refreshing.

What it means bedside is the form of relaxation with the prospect of sleep ahead. Perhaps in this case the notion of faint death for a period of time (circa. 6.5 hours/7.5 hours). It is the  gap  between predetermined times which too cause that refreshing feeling. This can be returned to at a later time. (less than 6.5/7.5 hours hopefully).

The prospect of faint death ahead causes one to savour those succulent moments before sleep and the eyes are doubly weary by this point in time. It is now a dialogue between the living and the dead:

‘’He’s sickly, he’ll probably not live long.’ He thought again, with that sober objectivity into which the drunken ecstasy of desire sometimes strangely escapes’[1]

Faint death is luxurious and attractive at this point.

///

The image of the stricken and disordered city, hovering wildly before his mind’s eye, inflamed him with hopes that were beyond comprehension, beyond reason and full of monstrous sweetness. What, compared with such expectations, was that tender happiness of which he had briefly dreamed a few moments ago? What could art and virtue mean to him now, when he might reap the advantages of chaos.[2]

///

Although the city scape is now of a different character, its essence stays the same.

In the clinical mode of existence, this bedside world constantly tastes monstrous sweetness.

Akin, is the image of the being laid to rest deskside, and it is 2am: one of the loneliest times of existence. Reason is an unstable mode here.

///

Aschenbach, bedside: the clinical trial.

///

for knowledge […], has neither dignity nor rigour: it is all insight and understanding and tolerance, uncontrolled and formless; it sympathizes with the abyss.[3]

///

The recline turned clinical – weary head laid to rest, and the daydreams appeared before. The prospect of sleep felt luxurious, as it leads toward the Dionysian abyss. Eros is here, smiling before me at the banquet as Socrates is sat next to me, where my infatuations made him blush indeed.

///

I was led astray to my death of that day, or at least within those few hours[4] wherein the lack of dream-memory effects thus the abyss.

///

My dreams laid bare by the bedside books, as they are touched upon; read differently from any other situation of literature reading. It is here that the prospect of reading literature here, as the book is placed upon an eschewed bedside table, and I think to myself before sleep ‘I shall make attempts at this page in my weary state’, wherein knowledge is faded; and understanding shifts horizontally: displaced upon the notion of other activities. To compartmentalise this idea, and compact it: thus this idea is repeated continuously as the lines are touched upon horizontally. The black marks lose their meaning of meaning, and are then supplemented. This is where language takes itself to the dream state of nocturnal ecstasy; nebulous.

///

Head under the sheets; the refuge from bedroom gloomth, refuge clinical. Dreams in June, dreams in beige. Tofu as the canvas and too as the abstract idea. This situation is hypersuite and claims back the wake, momentarily. The waking moments and the subtle yellow light force the thoughts of the black marks etched into my own knowledge, then suffused by the nebulous nook-like ideas of Dionysian sleep-ecstasy.

///

Then, travelling the miniscule world which appears large. Each scene is loud in the quietest way possible. Inside the refuge from the rain, and watching the environment from the cosy space, hypersuite to a certain extent.

This extent extends slightly, and the relief is the windows that appear as the canopies are raised to stay in their horizontal state. This is what a temporary home must seek to achieve. Mainly that the shelter protects from the rain, and that the rain could have appeared to demonstrate this.

///

This all happens in the clinical flurry, as the night dreams take over the weary eyes and I thought to myself: this is a sweet dream.

There, I peered over the residual recto (however, in the opposite direction) to find a blank page.

This is the bedsheet, and has been for six months. The odour is drunken and familiar, and has faced the morning me, rebirthed.

In the day, I pass by my ghosted sleep-akin self where both are respectively suspended as watched: to each other. As the patient sleeps and the morning variations appear in constant motion. As this happens in flux, it becomes a microcosm to the viewer beyond the three-dimensional room, and the room itself is bedside.

Tomos Morris is a writer and zine-maker based in Cardiff, Wales. He currently interns for The Cardiff Review and is a regular contributor for the New York based Left Bank Magazine. His work sees influence from textual residue, negative space, and primarily the idea of tofu. More work can be found at https://soybeensuite.tumblr.com/

[1] Mann, Death in Venice

[2] ibid.

[3] Ibid.

[4] 1: Ah, I finally see what you mean Alexander. Death does indeed kill us momentarily.

   2:The antithesis is discredited in dialogue.

   1: Let me find someone else

   1:



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