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Climbing the mind, gulfs of scattered birds, fiery wing tips spark thoughts, a fury of ideas, whirlwinds we may never touch but inhabit. Such is the glory of being alive in mind, in thought for the raptures of creation where the mind rides its horses of fire as if to kill the rider. We claim our rights to the maelstrom of creative thought, yet we decry its very existence by the necessity of droll banalities rushing the crystal town we created, a tsunami of idiocy. We hold to. Nothing will jar us, tear us off this raging river of sewage.
What time can we have when the time is what the time is in the time we have to be inside the time? It is nothing but what we make of it; what we make of it is illusion. We slide inside a passage that shrinks mercilessly to nothing as the present time, which is no time but a unsubstantial dot called the point at which we go or stay. There is the river, though. It flows through this nothingness jetting into the past, rushing toward a future that we create or not. If not, we are only the past.
Can you see it? Here. There. Everywhere. It tickles as it lives. Can you feel it? Will you feel it? A big question. Some might gather grist to call it a sham, a lie, an illusion of convenience. We can put it on the shelf. We can forget to wind it. We can push it away. Turn off the light, pretend it's not on the wall or desk or arm or mind. Rend rough accoutrements of clocks; dash their gears, grind them into shiny rubble. All gone, you think. Think again, if thinking again is a realistic option you fondle.
Thus the table was flipped. The guests all turned away and took off their medals before the incumbent visitors from another place could see them and pin them to their dartboards. The guests all had their pictures taken, which were transported quickly to the other place where they were affixed to official dartboards. The tables kept flipping. Each grand house was a target. Their individual tables were kept secure as possible, but the tide of events was against their keeping and all were eventually flipped. The children in the other place were all well fed, told to admire the flipping.
Dripping off the radar with a clever burst of conscientious ignorance, such displays of arrogance, that you should become invisible at will. Nothing hampering the devices we call our means of connection that keep us tethered to a base of reality shifting without warning, tying us down to expectations that have no buoyancy, so grim are the faces. They can't see shit for their pride of seeing anything at all. We slip by. No one made contact with anything, and that's a relief. Should the reaper come, we wouldn't have anything to confess. A mute rat is a good rat.
They crawl to feed. They feed on shit. We give them shit. They like that. They look to us for shit. We comply. There ain't nothing better than shoveling shit to pamper the man. He tells us what to do. Doing the game is the hard grit of light and dark, and that's the stuff of gossip. We move between the two goals. It's up to us to meet the needs. The needs are pretty plain. Should you get written up in The New York Post, that's a triumph, a ribbon to be pinned to your pin-cushioned, bleeding heart.
Tried all the days to scarf its skin, plunge my I through the rough to brandish melody of the inner song to become the song, become the rhythm lost at birth in a morass of cacophony. Such as it was, the I drenched itself in forgetfulness, dropped off its place of face to become many faces, all begotten of lies ground into its flesh of light, darkening the days no matter how bright the sun shone. At the time when all was seemingly lost, I found a face that was true. It met mine and all the lies disintegrated instantly.
Can we see it for what it is or is not? Is the thing a matter of opinion or conjecture or the result of clear, concise observation? How does one see a thing for what it is without knowing how it's configured unto itself? Can one see anything as it is without knowing anything about it in terms of labels, definitions or uses? How does anything sit in reality when it has no reality if reality is begotten by its becoming something one can use or define? We live on an ocean of labels. Can we see anything at all?
It ties one down to a dilemma this desire to fly before knowing where you are. Trying to get away is the way we want to go. Flee. Yes, we need to get away. Why? No reason why, just get away, run! It's better to be running, to be working hard at nothing in particular, just working hard to flee. It gives one purpose, a reason to be, working hard on how not to be here. We're a clown show. We divide off our values to be gotten at a bargain in a flea market. We live cheaply, die cheaper.
Does it come? Does it go? How do you configure its path when all paths lead to wrong answers? We're in that place of knowing next to nothing, yet knowing all the questions, or so we say. The truth lies in a deeper place obscured from view. We wish we could go to that place, but the way in isn't clear. It's designed that way. This recondite constituent doesn't allow you to pick and choose as you pick and choose vegetables at the market. It feeds a much deeper hunger that few are willing to admit let along talk about.
To lose and not see the losing in a hairs-breath of space between getting and not getting, being the fall guy while climbing the long ladder to the parapet. Being the guy escaping while standing still, being alive but dead to reality. May as well be dead. I could lift myself to see the story unfold, but I've grown weary of the petty struggle. I can see him scrambling on the gerbil wheel, keeping his smile afloat as the city sinks around him, as chaos unfolds like a carefully wrapped birthday gift to someone who's been dead for eons.
Climb the party rungs to the silver saliva bar, put your fat lips on the greasy edge of the owner's pride, come to know how deep your climate changes when you take it full on and the fat lady won't sing. She hasn't got a voice box. She plays with a tiny, silver music box in the closet of the bear's own castle full of ornate mud statues. They want us to come and stare. That's what they want. We're all asked the same thing. The state of going down inside fully will be revealed when the union finally blooms.
Coming down from a height we could never perceive as being where we really are, but an illusion to entrap our wits, being omnipotent, telling us we are mud, we are worms, we are that which should be stamped out but for the graces of this or that coming from the vents of sacred scrolls beating us as they love us, binding us, even as they free us, or so they claim. We are bound dolls in a firestorm of dogma that has no currency but for the chiming of the avatars. We must bow to them. Or kill them.
Let us know how we should proceed. There's a choice at our feet. Go forward. Meet the necessities of doing so. Meet the unknown. Draw light from the heated air on our flesh as we dive on a question. Go backward. Lean upon the calcifications of past glories, past loves, past victories, past breaths of life that are now still but for a crumbling memory. It is such as it is, as we decide our trajectory, there could be joy, agony, life, death; no matter what, the offal of the path is fodder for the following, lest you vanish forever.
They are in our sights. We have had enough. The time has come, as it keeps coming while we wait, while we wonder, while we fret away our worries on the coming of our going that stays as it hovers above intentions played out on the board by those who move, who go, who take that chance. Let us follow. Let hold that trigger close. Know the object of its necessity. Take aim. Be at peace, knowing there's a consequence we can never retract once the trigger is pulled. Know that. Hold that. Be strong. Come what may. Just go.
So it comes. The clouds have parted. We can see the blimps. We know now how it was done. Such a simple dupe. Many thought it was real. Well, it sure as heck looked real, didn't it? Quite a few took the bait, saw the vision as played, and took the step. Hell of a step. Funny. I'm still here. I smell the smoke. Not too bad. See the fading outlines. Reminders of the festivities of the judgment. It was written, you know. The script was written, dammit. Gotta do the script. Really? Thought I'd hide. Not drink the Koolaid.
There will be something we find between the two of us collecting our union in the crush of two points becoming one on the flow. The river is always flowing. One joins the flow or not. One has purpose or not. One has a dream perhaps. How that which bonded the two of us to the past on a kaleidoscope of landscapes photo-flashed for a postcard, is the idiosyncratic die cast for the one. We've made the choice. Into the future we're inexorably taken, as we take the future with us. What we find will never be found again.
In the glow-tipped aura of some old phase of life you almost forgot but for the glittering particle orbiting the core of I, you can feel how the factions of mind have departed for their own sacristy in a domain of being alive for their own unique sake, even though the largess of Beingness goes unrecognized. One accepts being handicapped in the absence of knowing how the trajectory assumes no responsibility for its own device. One can smile and be oblivious, take on the guise of being in firm control, having no control whatsoever, spiraling down the rabbit hole.
You'll find that place. It's there. It's been there forever. Just takes willingness to find it. If you try to find it, you won't. A dilemma. Let it find you. Express the need to find it. No action is required. If you just sit back and allow with a deep recognition of being alive for the finding of it, it'll come to you. You may not recognize it, as such. You may even reject it, but once it makes itself clear to you, all will be well. All will be satisfied. You are placed there to satisfy it.
No one knows the secret. How could they know it? The code keeps changing. The times dictate the change, second by second. When asked, you'll be required to provide it. So, how do you do that? It's in the dismissal of it. Once you realize it's not necessary, it'll be there. You won't have it. It'll have you. Letting go gives you the code, the secret, the grail that exists without a grail. All the ages, so dedicated to finding the secret are betrayed by those who say they found it. They are liars. It's easy to tell comfortable lies.
It's pretty simple though folks seem to want it to be more complicated. Their school children persist in telling them to keep their eyes on the dribbling ball, though time be fitted to a different court each time someone looks away. The visual field adjusts as the bodies rotate round the center of attention, which also keeps moving. Calibrating the eye is a challenge. One enters the room. They see the cake. They blink. It's gone to another part of the room with a technician standing close by. Another blink, and the room transforms into a massive gameboard like Monopoly.
It's time again. Time. That time. You know. It's inside you. Left behind once or twice in a pile of rubble called dreams; it ate itself and was forgotten as a useless commodity, good for horse races and nothing much more. Vestiges of its plenty were qualified as fodder for the kilns in a dilapidated form as the methods of its creation were quantified in a carbon 14 kind of way. You left it behind. It had to go. What was it really? A means to chart wrinkles and decay? Be done. Extract its idea. Make for the timeless place.
The mirror is affixed. Town moves behind it. All the lives exist inside it, but you can't take them out, can you! They live in another chapter of reality you haven't read yet. Hoping the next I might gather its fury from the flatlining landscapes expanding. You sit agog, transfixed to the parade of the dullard I's collected, down the furious glass replicating street, bending up and down your quaintest ideas of your own reflection. Ha. I can feel this perambulating disease, this disquiet rumbling the incoming night that swallows day so greedily you might chastise if the time came.
There was a time when a film about vegetable people from Venus over-running a New Orlean Casino and Hotel could drum up the funds and get made, a time when Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon heated up the beach party bingos till everyone was drunk on giddiness, when Gidget flew to get everyone high on fantasy. We need fantasy. Our reality sucks. Keeps drumming us down. The time is now, babes and brothers. Take that bite of the brownie, slip the tab under your tongue, get that absinthe flowing, turn in, tune out, and go the way of Leary.
In a daunting roar of utter silence, they all move about as if they knew what they were doing, but they don't. Forget about telling anyone. They'd laugh at you. Delusions run with the SpongeBobs who get all the lines but never the girls. They are reserved for the Yellow King. He derives like a monkey wises up the trees for its kingdom no one knows, nor ever could. We have all forgotten those kingdoms, those of us who prey on Twinkies. To us they never existed. What a laugh. There is joy in the observance of this colossal ignorance.
How one devises this construes a mystery, at once, as the divergent field equations compact to contain the loose equations looking for a convergence in the hope of maintaining a rational set of ideas they may never attain, but there is always hope. It's the reason we embarked on this journey. We clutch these equations to our unbounded set of darting eyes in the walls, ever expanding, yet convergent to the one notion of being precisely there at the point of absolute convergence. Such talk seems irresponsible, rash, proclaiming the precarious assertion, "It cannot be true, and it is true."
In between, always in between. The lines say little, often nothing at all, high-brow jibber jabber, if anything, but between them lies the kernels of truth we seek. In between. We peel back the layers. How we go is peeling or not. Most fear the next peel. Most clutch the peeled skins. Dry, bereft of anything useful, they crumble, and we fall. In the fall we may see for a bright moment the folly of our enterprise. Should we clutch that epiphany, we might elevate ourselves, levitate, in fact, above the rotting mass of skins and finally truly see.
Can you hear The Yellow King? I doubt it. He’s hiding behind carefully placed mythologies. What can you hear? He comes and goes with impunity. Some are missed. Most aren't given a thought, not even a statistic. It's characteristic of writing these days to ignore all vestiges of humanity. Why bother? Into the great river it all washes. Faces, once clear as crystal, fade as they dissolve down the existential drains. It's the proper way, the decent way. Mirror is affixed. Do you see now what you used to see? Or has this all been a waste of flesh?
The eyes that live in our bellies see the things we cannot eat for lack of the ability to digest starlight. Grabbing at anything, they clutch and sway for fear. Within this womb nothing may guess at sanity. In their visions they keep our legacies bright, though darkness crawls up our legs, down our backs, into our hands, and we manipulate, so far as we can tell, the extent to which we rise above the carnage in our minds begging us to give up, surrender the game, be at peace with defeat. Why not? Is there any point to resisting?
How dreams splinter slowly into pebbles pulverized underfoot reaching up legs snaking into spines, climbing the rash muscular doubts we parade in our daily fears to feed our hopes, spring the mind off its edifice, pull its wings from the ancient hiding place to fly us up and up, and to the question, are we linear beings, or are we merely hard-wired into accepting linearity as our basic modus? Space is curved. A straight line does not exist in gravitational reality, so what are we? Can we fall off this assumption ladder? To what end? What a crazy scene!
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