The technical term is “Benign Paroxysmal Vertigo”, which has multiple potential causes, from virally-clogged sinuses to a failure of cetirizine in the face of overwhelming allergens — the result is a world that whirls uncomfortably at unexpected moments
And suddenly I’m practicing the most basic of scientific experiments, assays along the lines of “What happens if I turn my head this way?” “If I manage to keep my head steady while crouching to put the cat food in the bowl, what are my chances of convincing my brain that ‘down’ is the floor and not the door of the stove?” and “When will my brain feel as if it is settled inside my skull, as opposed to hoverring two inches up and to the right?” [Coincidentally, my astigmatism also causes me to believe that the world is two inches or two feet other than it physically exists, resulting in many a bruise on my right shoulder…]
In the midst of this, I am thinking about art and expertise, of experiments with plaster and paper, and trying, trying to make progress on a report I thought had been finished several weeks ago [new criteria were added, and therefore more explication required].
From your perspective, looking at the screen and these letters in some variation on Times Roman, it might seem my net of words is more tangled and dense than usual. Does that mean they will catch any more fish?
Did I want fish?
Maybe I can make them into a metaphor, and then use it to describe something that doesn’t dart away.
In the meantime, visit with real poets: Discussions of poetics, change, impossibility, and wrestling with what best to do