Oriental Studies library. Basement level. I'm listening to a glittering scaffold by a producer called Akasha System.

Earlier, I meditated on the third floor of a building called the Contemplative Commons. The third floor overlooks a lightly troubled pond; grey, partially blue. Occasionally you see a smudge of fish. The wind was blowing outside and every few minutes the metal struts of the building plinked like piano keys. Imagine a piano into which tea towels have been dropped, to muffle the hammers. That's the sound of the wind as it navigates buildings like this.

Every time I charge my laptop I have to plug the charger into an adaptor and then balance the adaptor, half in the wall, half out. A light lights up when it's working. Sometimes there's a click and a visible spark.

What would an invisible spark look like? Not a figurative spark - an actual, physical spark that was simply invisible.

The fan on my laptop gets louder each year. I warrant dust is clogging the processors, another layer each year. Everything is warming up, even the air, which allows for more water, and great storms.

The air in the basement of the library could not be less stormy. Quiet and gentle down here; soft as an old, closed book. I am working on bibliographies. I pause my work to write this, because a few minutes ago I was not working. I was looking up at the nearest shelf of books, tall as the ceiling. The books on the shelf are in Mandarin, but some of them have English translations on the spine. At the bottom right of the shelf is a Tibetan / Chinese dictionary and next to that a Tibetan / English dictionary. I look for another book with Tibetan characters but can see none. I am still listening to the glittering scaffold in my head and, because I can not read the Chinese characters on the shelves beside and above me, I look at them as if they are part of the music. I think of them being physically drawn, with calligraphy brushes, or ink pens, or I think of them digitally printed, and I don't worry about their meaning. I worry about akashic systems, the idea of a plane beyond this physical plane in which all things have happened, are happening, and will happen. People claim to have accessed this plane before.

Do clairvoyants ever think of themselves as hole-punches; the office stationary used to punch through paper so that the paper can be ring-bound? The paper is what we see before us. The hole-punch is whatever the clairvoyant does to reach the other side. I think of Borges. It's impossible not to think of Borges when you are sitting in the basement of a library, thinking of all the things these shelves contain, these unreadable shelves, and thinking of all the things that could ever happen, here and elsewhere. The characters before me are part of the music. They are part of the music and the music is here already.