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I could save what you want, but what's the point? We're on this raft for good. We're not gonna see land again. The facsimile, yes, but we all know what that's about. It's like having a dream that doesn't go away. You have it all the time. It's become familiar, necessary, your home plate. You can hold onto it; no one else has it. Should I give you a pretense of that dream? Shall I fashion my imagination to fit the groundwork of your desired life? No. This is no man's land, a genuine place of no return. The raft.
All that surrounds me is a mirror that reflects a part of me, even as I reflect it; we reflect each other. Weíre looking for each other. I've felt for a long time a presence in my room or wherever I am that speaks to me in a language thatís not like the language here or in words that we say to each other on the street. Itís always watching me; I will never deny it. Sometimes we feel like weíre alone, but we are not alone; never alone. I find comfort and solace in that.
I can feel this coming up to meet me, but I can't see it. I hear it. A low hum resonates; it rises, a very old ritualistic throb. My head absorbs it. Thoughts long forgot swell; they rear to assume a defense. The attack is subtle, if it is an attack. An experiment seems more likely, but from whom? On a drifting head that's numb from the arcane music throbbing, there's a belief nothing will materialize. Hope of extracting myself is gone. I'm committed to the event. But what am I to do? Am I to fight? Or accept it?
I've fallen into a strange ocean. All that I knew is washing away. It's becoming something else, sucked into a cloud. I am in a room filled with water. Rain. I'm being rained on. The ceiling is an indistinct storm raining on me. I can barely make out the walls, the floor, the easel. I pick up to let go. The creation is calling me to let go, to be dissolved in the ocean. My mind, my skin, my emotions, my identity, all that was is dissolving. I am becoming greater by this ocean, becoming less seen, becoming the painting.
At my feet is a rising well of water. It reflects me. It is not water. It is something else. My eyes see it as water, but it is something greater, deeper. I am flowing more and more into this water. I feel myself vanishing. There is a fear that is close to excitement. I'm changing. The change is necessary. Behind this water is its true nature. In a moment I will know what it is. It has a name, an identity. The moment elongates. Time has stopped for the moment to bleed itself into me and I into it.
So much so soon. It is all changing. A doorway is opening. I can feel it open, yet I cannot see it. I do not know where it is. In time I will find it, this portal. When I find it I must go through it. Then I will know. Nothing stays the same. Change is perpetual. I am not fixated in time or space or even in the idea of me. I am changing. I have always changed. Now I can finally feel it. I have grown enough to know when the time has come for me to go.
I look out, and I see a blur. The horizon has moved. I'm being pulled toward it, even as I'm standing still, even as I'm watching the music unfold. I am transfixed by the music. It is reaching inside me. The bath is calling me, the alchemical bath where everything contrary is reconciled. I'm moving closer to it, regardless how my body moves. I'm letting go of my body, and of all its entrapments. The room is still. I'm seen as the only one inside it, but I'm not alone. The room has many identities. They are all with me.
The ocean is not calm. Its waves are blinking eyes. They flash at me. I am seen by them as I have never been seen on the streets, in the subways, in the many churches of disbelief. I am being seen and transformed as I am seen. The blinking eyes, they are sketching a new me, a new way of being me. When I fall I'll become alive as I die to the old forms. They do not reveal me as I should be revealed. They were written by expectations that defy me, that contradict me, that lied to me.
Breaking free of the mold, winding out of the residues, climbing from the wreckage, finding air that's not split, feeling the void grow wider, coming into a sense of yourself exploding the cage, the matrix of lies that bind, you can stretch your flesh, that vehicle named with a word that means less as you rise. It was invented for a world of cages in the zoo. Does it mean anything to you? This zoo? Is it merely an abstraction meant only to bemuse the sequestered philosophers, or has it value? In time, you'll know the answer. You'll embrace it.
In a calm comes a surprise, the insinuation of the unexpected, as reality is wont to do, to deprive us of familiarity when familiarity is clapped in the house of mind as the status quo; then comes the clang from a depth none have dared to plumb. A jet of light we've not seen rushes from the cracks in the walls of our cells, a wild divisive spray from all directions bellied up from the alchemical well, waters we keep as an Anamnesis Ritual. The time comes when we must remember these waters, that we have never left these waters.
How I go is how you go but differently; each to their path a confluence of similarities with differences spicing the way, lending color to an otherwise bland extraction from here to there, perpetually bound to a journey, for which we have no wherewithal. Acceptance is key. The doors will open. The maze of doors possesses a knowledge that you must earn. Each traveler is bound to their own challenges. Nothing can be given out. Nothing may be revealed. From one to another it's all different. This actually calmed me. When the end came it didn't matter. I was relieved.
So what do you think? Is this the place you expected? Did you get what you wanted? Are all the colors to your liking? They want their participants to be happy in their new homes. They want them all to be accepting, complacent, and above all, obedient. Not everyone makes the grade. There are those who insist upon questioning the path, dotting the journey with divisive questions and demands. These people are unwanted. They cause trouble. Unrest, at all costs, is what they want to avoid. It does no good. It drives minds to asking the most dangerous question, why?
What fire now burns unseen, felt like an insinuating dagger on the brain? Shall it burn with impunity? Shall you decide to look away as the skin of your skin burns to ash? Can it become what you feel as the emptiness you fear the most? How shall the mind wrap itself around the diadem of this infection, as a means to assimilate it, understand it, accept it? That which drives home the carnal ferocity keeps us caged, groveling at the lion's feet, our feet, our paws and claws, ready at a touch to violate anything within reach, anything edible.
Let me in, I say, let me become myself as the mirror image I see in my dreams wandering over the glassy sea. Let me bring this image I feel down to merge, as the dreams percolate the reality under dim lids at night, to materialize the fullness of creation. You can feel the approach, tentative, reticent but always moving closer. It is now as it always becomes the germination of an unexpected birth. In the muddy moonlight, one can feel the animation of anticipation, that such a birth is even possible. Scarlet woman, feel my blood, taste its intention!
I step up to you, and the ocean flows. Walls give way. I can see the sun. The sun sets inside me, and I shine with your smile. Inside a secret place where darkness spreads like a caustic mildew I press myself to the idea this will not defeat me. We will overcome the heavy darkness. Stench overpowers. I feel my skin become slippery. In leaves like onion sheaves the cancerous masks fall away. I stand on the compost of my past. What grows shall be fed by the meatiest of rot. Death breeds life. We will rise above it.
Time in. Time out. Time to the side. A wraparound time beside. You can loop your mind accordingly. The rapture is in becoming gratefully lost. Your value increases. You made that happen. When one is lost a target is created. There are those who seek to find that which is lost. That is their passion, their path. They are hunters. Youíve become the hunted. A privilege. In some cultures is the highest honor one can attain. I see myself on a screen. Iím a dot on that screen. That dot has a high value. Come and get me!
Super pulsed down by a strange cross-radiation blast from nowhere. Stumped to the earth, brought down to the mud asking for my blood, I'm in a big question swelling my brain. Filled with wonders. Body seems to be folding up, but neatly in creases I can feel and see. I'm being gift wrapped. I hear how my skin is perplexed. It's a funny sort of sly energy machine sucking my being out. No other feeling. No other sensation suggesting ill. Just this colossal force pressing my name to the defining dirt with the mother blood flowing, inviting me in.
Folded into dreams, a thousand folds till the package vanishes on the one point, one crease, where light pours violently in and out as the gap steadily closes till nothing where light is gobbled by the imagination. Down the rabbit hole you go. No light. All light. A violence of patterns, some recognized, others not. All a jumble of your psyche's voices screaming out their passions like a mad punk rocker. Down to the base of light and dark where only the idea of light and dark exists. What shall you say then? How should you minister to yourself then?
My time is your time. We're wound about each other's time, as it goes where it goes, when, and within the bizarre twists manifested like from a cheery psychotic who only wants to traipse the universes defined when they're defined in the spaces that own them. We are dancing on curved landscapes in perpetual evolution, yet we dance together. We will never be separated. The music we feel is possessed by us as we possess it. There is no separation, though worlds explode all around us. We live inside these explosions. We glean much merriment from this eternal picture show.
Tight winding in an open form flowered by stilled fears turned inward, having dialogued through fits, appendages drawn feverishly by the spectral cartoonist hungover for lack of inspirations, a crude figure, nearly amorphous but for a faint recollection of purpose scrawled on the back of head by a renegade graffiti artist on the lam from Republican aesthetic cops, he made an appearance. One materialization, a ghostly confluence met hastily in dark tunnels of soul for lack of funds. Better that then not. Who could say by what means tears might conjure laughs? Then again, what difference? There ainít any.
Times sans bounds are kept in a fold of shame for the fuel to kill hope of keeping the lie alive that lives in the working sun above through practiced grins.Extreme joy confused with extreme pain tells the face of reality when shadows hold sway in sharp delight, defying fear without a face. No harrow may free the shackled in mind. They do what they do. No choice. No other completion may take beside the furrowed path. This is the journey, though they know not what. It is. It is known in some otherwhere land not seen but felt.
Into a vast occupancy of waiting no soul anywhere occupies death in neutral masks of a silent parade so enthusiastically, so eloquently. Decrying lies is habitual and creates a lie much grander, opulent by its metastasis eating in and further out than intended, further than hands may touch. An old black man, bent by the heavy, lost years, hunches in a loud prayer calling after Jesus like a passing cab. The cab, having passed, becomes the grunting, laughing demon it was. The old man assaults his day by a vigorous stillness, as I follow that stillness deafened by its howl.
An old building of silent screaming on the Bellevue grounds houses the arrivals for processing as a bizarre passage into the promised land of the unmasked dying land called normal. I'm just tired of all the alleged, well-meaning bullshit passing for art that elects to nourish, accomplishing anything but. To go to a vital source it seems one has to yank a scab, evict the trapped agonies dressed as well, slip within flesh of psychical pus, allow disease and wrestle the present tortured soul to exhaustion for the possibility of new questions. I am turning a feeling into action.
A loud Bruce Lee flick plays to a cracked corner. Scattered men chatter unintelligibly, oblivious to the cacophonous fights on the tiny screen. A long fluorescent bulb buzzes the length of the freshly painted ceiling. A long table situates a few men wrapped around their puzzlement. An intercom bleats a penetrating screech without clear purpose. I imagine minions of the building minioning faster, or it's a lost game show bell looking for a reason, emcee, curtain and all expenses paid vacation to the Bahamas. I can feel this wish and others, like mad horses, charge indiscriminately from the men's eyes.
Time you bend down to rewind the time, but there's no time. It's escaping us, escaping all of the time seekers. There's nothing to be found but a loss of time to find time to have a moment of reflection, but that's a waste of time. Harboring no ill will, one must grab at anything to establish clarity, position in space, that one might establish the time lost so the time could be made up, but how do you make up time lost? Impossible. You have to have sense of humor, or else you'll go mad. I'm done stooping. Rewind.
Fishing for the moment, you'll get sidetracked, no doubt distracted to the point of losing the point of your purpose in the first place, and the fish will get away. The fish is watching you. It's been watching you for as long as you've been fishing. It must find it funny. You gotta laugh. Punctuating the necessity of getting to the point, the point is to find the point, so you can make the point, whatever point it is you're trying to make. Do you get my point? Probably not, because I don't get it either. The point's been lost.
In the down-low you can find a hand to hold. The darkness paints a mask you mustn't see through. Your feelings will guide you. They are the instruments of martial discovery. You must trust them, else you'll lose hold. The ones who guide you, instruct you, love you, control you are not to be disobeyed, trifled with or questioned. Your path is in their hands, as your hand is in theirs. Should you balk, fondle your unworthy will, veer off and take matters into your hand. Beware. You can eat the apple; knowledge will come. The sky will fall.
Okay. You got your room. They gave it to you. Aren't you happy? Everything you need is there. It's your home. You can watch the world go by out of harm's way, and the world can watch you. They'll keep a careful, loving eye on you. Don't worry. They'll treat you well. They know how to treat people well. It's their job, their duty, their calling. Your calling is simply to obey. Look at all the riches that'll come your way! You should feel truly lucky to have such loving, watchful brothers. It's a blessing. Don't you fucking forget it!
Are we to wait and hope? For what? In the Count's eyes, seeing the emptiness of vengeance, he moves on his path toward an exactitude of his soul that aspires toward goodness. The map is unknown. He cannot tell anyone how or why without sounding pretentious, sanctimonious. He must go along in silence. There are those who will watch, take heed and learn. Not many will bother. It is the irony inherent to acquiring wisdom, only those with a patience beyond the typical may know the beginning of wisdom. One must wait and hope and watch, yes, to be vigilant.
We dig and we dig to find the right depth. It seems to be calling us. We can hear it from deep within. Our earth is becoming another kind of earth we hadn't expected. That's its way. Surprise is its primary key stroke; once plucked there's no predicting anything. We go along with it. No choice. Countering it on a whim carries us off on a crash course. Better keep to the path it's laying out. We have to keep digging. The time is out of joint. The earth feels different beneath our feet. It's shifting. No matter. We'll persevere.
Let's take a moment and reflect on the roads we've taken. If that's possible, then we're fortunate. Some others aren't so fortunate. They can't afford reflection. Perhaps they fancy themselves vampires that cast no reflection. They think this is good. "Why bother with pesky reflections? Where will that lead us?" Clearly, self criticism is off the table. Other things are on the table, piling up at their discretion. Should we worry about these piles? Perhaps. Changing the past changes the present and thus, the future. If we look. If we focus with all our might, a new choice might appear.
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