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It's begun. The feeling of relief is profound. I don't mind not making sense of it, not understanding. Trying too hard to understand misses the point of its mystery. Don't connect the dots. Feel free to loose the dots, scatter them to the nuclear winds, the winds of fire within and without. The beauty is in the letting go of needing to fit the dots on a placemat at Howard Johnson's. You'll eat no matter what, no matter if you've etched the picture, traced its face. You'll bury that face no matter what. Someday it'll return, and you'll know why.
It comes close to what we want, what we dreamt of, close to what we thought to be the consummation of the beginning and the end as one. This is what we thought. It moves in other directions. The directions are guiding the day into itself. The night takes care of itself. We only need to be there. Finding ourselves in the heart of it may be the closest we'll ever get to being in the mind of God. We'll go in. We'll go out. In the middle we'll find the prize. It won't be what we expected or imagined.
It bounces back and forth, this curious light. It lodged in my heart, once upon a time. barricaded by a drift of frozen irony, behind which it found the means for survival, always on edge, always on the brink of blackout; that such a primal energy could be so calcified, though pliable by means of dark persuasions of a kind most often relegated to the creation of paranormal mysteries. I am this form. I live in a mystery. I am a mystery. I ask, why? In an arrogant mood I sometimes think I'm entitled to an answer, but I'm not.
Never found exactly what. I searched by evading the search, separating out the constituents. Each place, by turn, exceeded the last in giving me nothing. I sought this as a way of building myself down. By reducing myself, I rose higher for the sake of those who needed to see me become small. All my efforts were lauded by the unseen masters of my fate, the ones I enlisted when the ones I was told were found to be phonies. They tumbled down a mountain I kept in my mind. No exterior grave proved its equal. I became the gravedigger.
It flows along unseen beneath the storm of expectations no one has the grit to abolish. There could be dozens of calamities, numerous deaths, broken dreams, legions of failed loaves, flat dough, the extremes of misbegotten recipes. The cooks had gone home. They'd given up. There was no more point. The river flows nonetheless. It flows perpetually. Everyone could gouge their brains out and nothing would change in the main. No matter how bad it gets people aren't willing to let go of their dead hopes rotting in their arms. It's a game to the others. No one else cares.
The pieces are coming together. Slowly, Ineluctable. The puzzle is calling itself home, to be made whole. The individuation of the event must be made complete before all is begun, before all is done. It will happen at a designated place. All the players will be summoned. All players will be present. They must be present. It will not occur without any of them missing. It will take place at a specific time. All eyes will be focused on this place and on the event. Each facet is important. The cogs of the magical machine are being put in place.
Some days all I want to do is sleep. I want to close my eyes, and let the traffic disembark my brain, tromp gas then take the highways to the edge, to vanish. I want to vanish too, vanish into dreams. I am sometimes tired of it all, not as though I wish to die, but to live selectively, to strip away the dog dayed dust, the busy calamities, the rough and insensible nonsense dubbed vital. It's all trash. I want to flush it all away. I'm poised on the edge of sleep now. I'm pulling at dreams. Take me!
Got a light? Had one in a past time. Lost it, somewhere between here and the idea of here, wavering in a nexus we define by our imaginations on an intersection course. The union of which means nothing but a stiff stasis with a pulse nearing base infarction, endgame, collapse, but it's not that. It endures. Got a light? One is needed. One will be found. An ignition of sorts is sought as a palliative, no remedy, nothing permanent, no panacea, a comforting rub, a warm hug, the deep draft of a drug induction where all the organs finally agree.
Some time ago. It crawled back into mind. The face became more resolved as the soup cooled. The invited took their places. It led one to a different conclusion than expected. So what? A volume of ideas was poured into the mix, a valiant attempt to sear the edges of the soft machine in extremis. The onlookers had nothing to say. Their faces sealed off. Senses dug deep the altered state we found ourselves in. Each one took time with the main course. No one said anything. I faltered in synch with the attending minister, but he proceeded without pause.
Hiding out? Okay. That's fine. Is someone assigned to the evening meals? We need to keep to the schedule. It's bound to be undone if there's no replacement. You remember what happened last time? The dog is limping. My favorite aunt isn't coming. The tune came on. A long, long time ago...You know how it goes. It isn't nostalgic anymore. Used to make me smile. Now, it just makes me cringe. I approached the room cautiously. Had no idea who was waiting for me behind the door. Could've been a nice surprise. House went up with a glittering blast.
I move. You seek. You move. I seek. The complexity of searching defies the mind. It blinds the wit in the vestibule of discovery. Under expectation comes the valuable realization, it doesn't matter one way of the other. If you're here, fine; if not, also fine. It goes on. The earth, in its ancient revolutions, bespeaks a wisdom no one understands. Many say they know, but all they know are the fruits of hubris. They move according to their inscrutable grandiosity, while others veer from their path to avoid collision. We are a comical bunch, we humans. Joke's on us.
Ah, to the edge we go. It's a fine view, this grand vista. I can see myself on the other end. I'm not laughing. Others pass, take a look, shrug their wits and move along. I seem to be the only one who sees what I see. I call to those I call friends. They stop and listen, but they don't look. They say, cool, and vanish. In a moment of clarity, I see they were never there. In my mind I see a lot. I see a party of smiling, laughing faces who greet me with grace and obliviousness.
Do we know where we are, why we are, in the space occupied by questions? Is the realm of our dreams complete in its values of right and wrong? Are the elements of ethos, with whom we dance to meet our perspective alliances, polished for the appropriate poise while grifting the neighbors of their wealth? We do an unseemly dance. We keep to ourselves the sum of our disallowances, and grant the least of us the greatest freedom with our lives. We know not how we dance. We get the steps from TV shows, and our ethos plays the music.
So he smiles, as he takes from the pockets of his plastic friends. He keeps silent in the robberies. He needn't say a thing. He is slick as they are in the worst of actions. He is the sum of deviance, while playing the tune of conviviality. There is friendship in his smile, but his actions sketch him the Dante figure fumbling the inferno for his deviant pleasures. There is much to be learned from this man. He is the very emblem of criminality. The man, who's feeble of mind, keeps him close, saying, "He's my friend, whom I'm helping."
The gratitude I show is tempered by the acrimony pulsing through the house. I keep to myself to fend the darkness off. It's thick, with the muscle of evil keeping it resilient, able to wend its way through the hardest of times. It knows not the kinks it forces on the fabric of those it uses. This is no concern. The value is in how much it can squeeze, sorting the money drawn, as a laundering venture, pumping through an old form that's blinded, willing and weak to the core. It shapes the house. It keeps it crammed of darkness.
Thoughts scrambled on a heavy plain of mind, dashing the scape like maddened dingoes; no plan of assemblage, diving for escape, finding none. Dust. An exhalation of rust. A search for clarity. Voyager. Journey to the stars in handful of scabs. A prayer. Shooting star. A rarity. Almost in the mouth, then gone, a lost memory in a junkyard of lost memories. How is this supposed to go? I can't recall. If I was told, I forgot. There's something missing. It probably ran away with the rest. If I just stayed put, maybe it'll come to me. Maybe then. Hope.
What is it that doesn't settle? Is it the idea of being normal in a world where normality is a bygone fantasy of itself, and lunacy is the key note norm? What's new? I fondle the notion I'm hovering in a nexus between belief and disbelief, where the image of happiness is a vision of hell; that happiness is a mask to offset the hard fact I can't tell anyone anything about my truth, for I'm an illusion unto myself. I'm in a box where truth is the Schrodinger cat. Up is down, and bets are on the dead horse.
My head is caving. In despite of issues prevaricating to the contrary, an excavation is being done. I feel the brunt of shovels. What vast ocean of consciousness swirls and surges through the caverns, I'm blinded on a raft without a guide. That's good, very much to my liking. I don't like guides. They cost too much. I fondle mystery as it chews on me. Fabric of mind glitters. It attracts the curious. They have no eyes, no mouths from which to speak. Yet they eat. They feed on me. My substance sates their private appetites, and I am satisfied.
So it goes on, as always. I'm subject to its rhythm. Keeping the beat drives me into what no man can evaluate, though the band smiles. They keep finding new valuable graves on the roads by the beat in my head. I broadcast daily. You can get my call number, but only if you do one thing. That thing determines who we are to each other. I can only point to it, never say it. There's no pronunciation of it. It's a secret. Without it I'm unable to connect. The machine moves on regardless. The rails sing. I happily listen.
Ive affirmed myself again, gestating backwards from my intent to pontificate, beaming inside the light intended as an outward gesture. I made the cake with the help of infinity. An electrical back-swing was the mark of my satisfaction. I like the feel of electricity. It has a billion fingers to muss my hair. I leave traces of my love for this on pages strewn with distortions way too esoteric for the diner crowd, but I want them well fed. I keep the cat ready. The dog too. I'm pleasing myself with the knowledge I'm about to implode, exhaling time.
This is the mark. It goes deep. It can be felt in a billion hearts with lips that might sing but don't. In deference to the end of another beginning, I feel it's only courteous to allow the danger to exist. Nothing anyone can do about it anyway. I can taste the consequence. Like seeing the mushroom cloud over New Mexico. It plays like a dream loop with no one to turn it off. No one wants to turn it off. It was made for us as a reminder of our innate lunacy. We do so like our snuff films.
How is it done? We'll soon see. The diametrics are compatible. We gotta be positive, bend and provide. They're waiting. They've been waiting a long time. Patience has become a liability. It's time. No question. I have this sore in the middle of my brain that's growing. A flower appears in a dreams every night. It's blue. The petals are wide. They feel like my fingers. When I move my hand, it starts raining, and the petals shudder. I get nervous; my hands start quivering. According to the weather reports, my eyes will be showering. Lots of head storms ahead.
Odd, I'd say, to have a look that fades as you bring it out of hiding, keeps itself aloof when it's needed for an announcement. How does one keep their lineaments free of distortion when they aren't allowed to appear? Without light there's a small chance of being seen. But sight in the real sense of it needn't have light to bear on the subject needing sight. It's all one in the round, don't you see? It comes down to the knowledge no one can keep for nothing. It comes for having everything. Nothing comes of nothing. Isn't that obvious?
So, it's the way we keep ourselves feeling worthy when we haven't done a thing to deserve recognition. The idea of coming out is a nice one in theory. When we beat down the rushes of our fears and face this thing called being seen for what we are, it's not a good thing. It becomes something ugly, and the more we try to ignore it, the more it digs deep the sorrow we try to avoid feeling. We laugh at things we should lament, but grievously enough, there isn't any way of keeping track of them. They conveniently disappear.
All the same, I dive toward sleep as the face appears. I'm deferring to the extreme. It's my right. My life. I can split several ways as the momentum gathers. A storm was predicted, but the particulars were reserved for the moment. The moment hasn't arrived. I'm begging the day to meet the night, overlap my expectations with reality, and see what I can see. I yearn for sleep. Dreams. Dissolving the hard flesh seems so attractive to me. I'm not that tough. I keep myself aware in my sacristy, my mirrored bubble. In its womb I can rebirth myself.
I cave to old rhythms. A music comes over me, and I switch to the place designated. No one can see or hear; only me. I alone am privy to the show. It's given as I give myself over. I cave. It plays. I dissolve. Another reality functions. Movement feels odd. Adjusting can be difficult, like getting use to death. In a long tube I see my body stretch to fill the confines of a new home. There is nothing I can do after caving. There is nothing I want to do. It takes me up. I am finally real.
Tripping the sound, I could hear it being uttered, feel the flesh move as it exhaled the matter. Into a vast womb of silence the sound expanded, a billion rivulets caroused the scape, rivers of notes to speak of a thing, paint a thing, reveal a thing not known before. What came from the inner core of the unseen, now divides itself onto the seen, the visible earth with sky and loam vying for attention. Upon this stage a new form rose, walked the boards, became the performer of the unperformed, a new vessel of that which seeks to rule.
And now for you a march of days to brush the ancients' wit, pile hot air in the vacuum of their bygone cacophonous silence and be your own in this fervid place of pagan stones, blood and the sacred Cenote's insatiable hungers. Virgin eyes creep from sands. They spy on you. They seek you out. Above the hills one can hear the cries of the offerings' salutations, priests wielding their blades, sanguine flashes of silver off the crisp golden sun. You can feel this in the earth. You can feel the dances. You can taste the steaming soup of tongues.
I feel it being given to me. The four tones. It's a message. Repeating constantly, like a strange SOS. I reach inside this telegram from somewhere. Its music surrounds my gesture. Becomes a dance with four notes at the center, an ancient dance, tribal dance. The fire is my query. Wonders fan the flames. My sky of head carouses with a storm of unusual properties. I could devalue it, but the consequence would shear away my sensibilities, grinding them down to a primitive state. There is something I missed, something I forgot. I will seek this out, this lost note.
Suddenly it's revolving faster. A good time ages quick. Its face wrinkles like an angry Goose honking the beats to a furious singularity. Wonders are the root. They backturn the head. Thoughts play in reverse, a weird dance in the closet with the patted down wrestling shirts. The colors bleed. The maid will be changing her religion. Understanding will come slow. Highways of air are preparing their means of coming and going. It's all a cycle of rejuvenating the eye. You've seen it fade. The scene has withered. It's cracking. A new vista approaches, a vista of wonder and light.
The Goose is proud. The yard is its control room. Hands fall out of its mouth. Dials are turned carefully. The identity is kept secret. The yard is dark. It's guarded carefully. No second passes without a spying eye. Goose is the center of its energy, its core. Children might mistake a legendary fable. The old eyes see the reactor. They feel its penetrating fingers play in the clay of creation. Goose knows the ways of this. The fretted eons have taught it to be cavalier. There's no excuse for caution. Those brochures have been destroyed. The runway is ready.
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