Space travel itself -
momentum unsought and bringing with it retained imagery and innate what?;
not an interim between location and goals, but total continuum
---now it is best I talk as I and we and it, though please recall this is mere designation.
------travel as we :
-----travel as I
---- travel in the body
It is redolent of falsehood, of course, to find one (self) confined as such. Thus the impulse to find the immensity of experiences, though within the (seeming) confines of an (ostensible) single organic form. (IE: form derived from the concatenation of elements and circumstances.) There is a large, shifting and porous array of sensation within and outside the form or body.
(here things about the sensoria of a summer evening or winter morn.)
So pleasurable sensations and pains, but always the pain of confinement. Things being sealed in, if momentairily so. But always the haunted awareness of incomplete.
ever incomplete
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Reprise
Space travel itself - momentum and bring with it retained imagery and innate; not interim between location and goals, but total continuum
---now it is best I talk as I and we and it, thpough please vrecall this is mere designation.
---------
travel as we :
travel as I
travel in the body
It is strange to find oneself confined as such. To find something which is a more general experience within the confines of a single organic form. (That is a form derived from the concatenation of elements and circumstances.) There is a large, shifting and porous array of sensation within and outside the form or body.
(here things about the sensoria of a summer evening or winter morn.)
So pleasurable sensations and pains, but always the pain of confinement. Things being sealed in, if momentarily so. But always the haunted awarenes of incomplete.
-----
Though all these experiences are given to us- are shared with us, as it were, still there is the subliminal desire to communicate their specific moments, to enter them into the larger whole from which it appears they emerged. And this moment to moment with some other. This desire....
---
Ghosts as the residuum- echoes of our adventure outward and sharing.
---now it is best I talk as I and we and it, thpough please vrecall this is mere designation.
---------
travel as we :
travel as I
travel in the body
It is strange to find oneself confined as such. To find something which is a more general experience within the confines of a single organic form. (That is a form derived from the concatenation of elements and circumstances.) There is a large, shifting and porous array of sensation within and outside the form or body.
(here things about the sensoria of a summer evening or winter morn.)
So pleasurable sensations and pains, but always the pain of confinement. Things being sealed in, if momentarily so. But always the haunted awarenes of incomplete.
-----
Though all these experiences are given to us- are shared with us, as it were, still there is the subliminal desire to communicate their specific moments, to enter them into the larger whole from which it appears they emerged. And this moment to moment with some other. This desire....
---
Ghosts as the residuum- echoes of our adventure outward and sharing.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
GLORY OF ABIDING
Silence comes to rest softly in the scented golden air as the thick sweet opium smoke moves from his lungs to his heart. The Prince looks about him without moving his head. Ah yes, there is his brother, and there two male cousins, and an uncle or so, wreathed in smoke, almost passed out on their gilded divans which seem to float like little gilded funeral barges on the polished teak floor. Ah, looking just like this, when the time comes, will they be borne away to other realms.
But he, he does not lie down for he is the ruler. He sits and does not move. A gecko, overwhelmed by the narcotic smoke falls from the ceiling and lands on the floor with a slapping plop. Languidly, a servant moves to pick it up. How gently she moves, bending her knees and the line of golden silk on her skirt's border suddenly taut, a line like the prow of a ship. Ah, she stands and it is gone.
He does not know what his stuporous if beloved relatives see in their dreams. But he knows that in his dream, he sees them. Is it not said that he is the living form of Vishnu, the preserver. And indeed, he must admit it is so. Opium or not opium; spicy food or not food, intrigue or no intrigue, pungent rice wine or not rice wine, soft skinned lovers or no lovers, lackeys or no lackeys, his world is the dream of a god. And while it swirls around him like so much smoke, he does not move. The thought does not occur.
Rarely does he speak. The smallest gestures suffice. For it is his function to look on this world, and by looking on it, convey blessings. It is his function, not to move and to be seen in all his impossibly elaborate splendor not to move. It is enough that he is among them.
Tomorrow he will be carried by 80 warriors on a golden palanquin beneath a huge vermilion parasol. He will be seated on a throne sixty feet high to watch the funeral of his uncle, dead of plague, a lecherous cowardly man who schemed and plotted with many a foreign envoy to sit on this very throne. He will not even blink.
Horns and drums will fill the air amid towers of incense. Tens of thousands, shouting, laughing, weeping will throng every inch of the city. Priests will go into trances or pretend to. Three of the uncles wives will throw themselves into the cremation fire. Then there will be a feast. Lithe dancers in gold will perform sacred dances. These will be the dances revealed to his great ancestor who slept with a goddess and was shown the cycle of the dance which unfolded the seasons and the hours.
Throughout the day, spies masquerading as servants, wives, guards, priests, advisors will whisper to him. The priests, the Han schemers, the visitors, the military, traders, inventors, his relatives, Ah yes, always gossip there and he will hear it all. Whatever is developed or grown in his kingdom, whatever is brought into it or taken out of it, whatever kinds of power are coveted: everything will be known. This chatter forms a web of channels covering the entire realm.
He will need to act in some cases. And from his whispered commands and slightly lifted finger blessings will flow down like water from a mountain stream and irrigate the land. For just as he eats, and sleeps, and drinks and makes love, he commands, for he is indeed among them.
But for now, there is no need of anything, and he watches the motes of dust dancing like innumerable islands in the sea of molten light reflected off the polished floor. And as he does not move his gaze or his attention, in each of those glittering specks hovering in the air, he sees the palace of another god, clear and radiant. Some are blue, some silver, some copper colored, some red, more colors than an infinity of rainbows dancing in the light. In each, the god of that color sits unmoving with consorts and attendants all around him. And before him, tiny performers manipulate their puppets for his entertainment. And these puppets are all the beings of all the universes in existence. There are as many such realms, each with its god, palace, retinue and subjects as all the atoms in an ocean of galaxies in all of time.
A smile in his mind. No one but a god who rules can know or contemplate the profound peace of this vision. This is the smile he shares with the infinity of gods.
But he, he does not lie down for he is the ruler. He sits and does not move. A gecko, overwhelmed by the narcotic smoke falls from the ceiling and lands on the floor with a slapping plop. Languidly, a servant moves to pick it up. How gently she moves, bending her knees and the line of golden silk on her skirt's border suddenly taut, a line like the prow of a ship. Ah, she stands and it is gone.
He does not know what his stuporous if beloved relatives see in their dreams. But he knows that in his dream, he sees them. Is it not said that he is the living form of Vishnu, the preserver. And indeed, he must admit it is so. Opium or not opium; spicy food or not food, intrigue or no intrigue, pungent rice wine or not rice wine, soft skinned lovers or no lovers, lackeys or no lackeys, his world is the dream of a god. And while it swirls around him like so much smoke, he does not move. The thought does not occur.
Rarely does he speak. The smallest gestures suffice. For it is his function to look on this world, and by looking on it, convey blessings. It is his function, not to move and to be seen in all his impossibly elaborate splendor not to move. It is enough that he is among them.
Tomorrow he will be carried by 80 warriors on a golden palanquin beneath a huge vermilion parasol. He will be seated on a throne sixty feet high to watch the funeral of his uncle, dead of plague, a lecherous cowardly man who schemed and plotted with many a foreign envoy to sit on this very throne. He will not even blink.
Horns and drums will fill the air amid towers of incense. Tens of thousands, shouting, laughing, weeping will throng every inch of the city. Priests will go into trances or pretend to. Three of the uncles wives will throw themselves into the cremation fire. Then there will be a feast. Lithe dancers in gold will perform sacred dances. These will be the dances revealed to his great ancestor who slept with a goddess and was shown the cycle of the dance which unfolded the seasons and the hours.
Throughout the day, spies masquerading as servants, wives, guards, priests, advisors will whisper to him. The priests, the Han schemers, the visitors, the military, traders, inventors, his relatives, Ah yes, always gossip there and he will hear it all. Whatever is developed or grown in his kingdom, whatever is brought into it or taken out of it, whatever kinds of power are coveted: everything will be known. This chatter forms a web of channels covering the entire realm.
He will need to act in some cases. And from his whispered commands and slightly lifted finger blessings will flow down like water from a mountain stream and irrigate the land. For just as he eats, and sleeps, and drinks and makes love, he commands, for he is indeed among them.
But for now, there is no need of anything, and he watches the motes of dust dancing like innumerable islands in the sea of molten light reflected off the polished floor. And as he does not move his gaze or his attention, in each of those glittering specks hovering in the air, he sees the palace of another god, clear and radiant. Some are blue, some silver, some copper colored, some red, more colors than an infinity of rainbows dancing in the light. In each, the god of that color sits unmoving with consorts and attendants all around him. And before him, tiny performers manipulate their puppets for his entertainment. And these puppets are all the beings of all the universes in existence. There are as many such realms, each with its god, palace, retinue and subjects as all the atoms in an ocean of galaxies in all of time.
A smile in his mind. No one but a god who rules can know or contemplate the profound peace of this vision. This is the smile he shares with the infinity of gods.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Inseparable
We hear you quivering, now in the intimacy of our attention.
As in the convulsions of a sun storm, white light fills the whole of space. There is no perception, but we/you are alive within its/our own radiance: dazzling, pervasive, completely penetrating. Flooded with intensity.
We/It shimmers slightly. We/It vibrates. And out of the intensity: an iridescence of total bliss simultaneous with totally sharp pain. Absorbed in this iridescence, its promise, its possibility, and the shimmer begins to slow into a pulse. We emerge from this great florescence.
The appearance of color and with further slowing, the appearance of solid forms draws us to rest.
Our existence is communal in nature. Through our actions and interactions, we produce all that lives for you. We create the organs of perception and cognition, as well as a their objects. Thus we are the authors of the knowable, and the heart of your experience.
Out of our communal exigencies, our journeys and travels unfold, flowing out of our unending experience, out of our being. Our journeys and travels unfold, and are our being.
We are called by you, summoned by you from the state or poise of our expanse by your offerings and by your speech. And within that, it is the experience of concreteness that has an appeal.
As in the convulsions of a sun storm, white light fills the whole of space. There is no perception, but we/you are alive within its/our own radiance: dazzling, pervasive, completely penetrating. Flooded with intensity.
We/It shimmers slightly. We/It vibrates. And out of the intensity: an iridescence of total bliss simultaneous with totally sharp pain. Absorbed in this iridescence, its promise, its possibility, and the shimmer begins to slow into a pulse. We emerge from this great florescence.
The appearance of color and with further slowing, the appearance of solid forms draws us to rest.
Our existence is communal in nature. Through our actions and interactions, we produce all that lives for you. We create the organs of perception and cognition, as well as a their objects. Thus we are the authors of the knowable, and the heart of your experience.
Out of our communal exigencies, our journeys and travels unfold, flowing out of our unending experience, out of our being. Our journeys and travels unfold, and are our being.
We are called by you, summoned by you from the state or poise of our expanse by your offerings and by your speech. And within that, it is the experience of concreteness that has an appeal.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
THE SORROW OF A DEPARTURE
They had come at him in the morning while he was looking out the window at people on the street hurrying to work. It was a lovely day in late spring. The leaves in the trees below were still pale and fresh. There was a delicate scent of flowers in the air, as well as the usual exhaust fumes from the busses and the smell of coffee from the hot dog stand across the street. And so he was thinking about coffee, remembering suddenly that he had thrown the maid out, yelled at her just an hour ago.
They had gotten a key somehow and they moved in on him quickly. They had done this many times before. He fought as hard as he could, hitting and kicking, and screaming curses the whole time. But there were four of them, and his body though tall and imposing no longer had enough strength. In the end, they wore him down, lying on top of him on the dusty floor. One of them jabbed the needle silvery and cold into his arm, and that was the end of it. They abducted him from this world.
*
The next thing he knew, he was tied to a chrome metal bed, his hands roped to the sides with bright blue ropes, his feet to the end. He bucked and struggled, but the restraints held. Someone came from behind a curtain. A hissing sound, another shot, and he was gone.
*
Then a blond young man and an older one in a white lab coat were standing next to him. The older man was speaking to him. He could not understand the words, wondered if he was hallucinating, but suddenly he was exhausted. He stopped struggling against his restraints and he began to weep. He was alone.
*
When he woke, he was groggy. The curtain had been pulled back and he could see another bed. A gaunt old man lay in it gasping and staring at him wordlessly. A woman, nicely dressed sat in a chair beside him. She looked over and smiled pleasantly in his direction, then turned back to watch a television screen mounted to the wall. The old man did not move.
On the television young people and their parents were shouting angrily at each other, egged on by a leering man with a microphone while an audience of ordinary middle class people cheered and booed. In spite of the din, he found he could not understand them at all. It meant nothing to him.
Beyond the couple, there was a window through which he could see nothing but a cloudy gray sky. As he stared at it, he felt overcome with an sheer emptiness, and he fell asleep. For some reason, the taste of sour pickles filled his mouth.
*
Now it was dark, and the room was lit only by a glowing globe as the bedside of the man next to him. The man was alone and silent, staring at the ceiling now. Outside the room, there was the clatter of crockery. A slender energetic black man with a beard and wearing a three piece suit ducked into the room, looked at him, nodded, smiled as if they shared some kind of secret, and left. He could not tell if he was dreaming.
*
He woke in the night. He knew what had happened. When it had begun and what it was now.
Perhaps it was as long as seven years ago. He had been at a dinner party. The food was very good, and the conversation was bright. All the people were younger, good looking, quick and clever. Their conversation was up to date and full of promise. His own remarks were sharp and his aphorisms witty, but there was a moment when he knew that he was a visitor from a different time while those he addressed were in their element. This was their time. It filled them and gave them strength. They could not imagine a world not shaped by their own interests and ambitions. He was still a welcome guest but it was no longer his time.
He had made a mistake then in letting this happen. For a moment he had entertained this thought and dwelt on it. And it took root in him, opening a door through which he was taken from his world and time. Now, they had come and brought him here and taken him from time altogether.
They had gotten a key somehow and they moved in on him quickly. They had done this many times before. He fought as hard as he could, hitting and kicking, and screaming curses the whole time. But there were four of them, and his body though tall and imposing no longer had enough strength. In the end, they wore him down, lying on top of him on the dusty floor. One of them jabbed the needle silvery and cold into his arm, and that was the end of it. They abducted him from this world.
*
The next thing he knew, he was tied to a chrome metal bed, his hands roped to the sides with bright blue ropes, his feet to the end. He bucked and struggled, but the restraints held. Someone came from behind a curtain. A hissing sound, another shot, and he was gone.
*
Then a blond young man and an older one in a white lab coat were standing next to him. The older man was speaking to him. He could not understand the words, wondered if he was hallucinating, but suddenly he was exhausted. He stopped struggling against his restraints and he began to weep. He was alone.
*
When he woke, he was groggy. The curtain had been pulled back and he could see another bed. A gaunt old man lay in it gasping and staring at him wordlessly. A woman, nicely dressed sat in a chair beside him. She looked over and smiled pleasantly in his direction, then turned back to watch a television screen mounted to the wall. The old man did not move.
On the television young people and their parents were shouting angrily at each other, egged on by a leering man with a microphone while an audience of ordinary middle class people cheered and booed. In spite of the din, he found he could not understand them at all. It meant nothing to him.
Beyond the couple, there was a window through which he could see nothing but a cloudy gray sky. As he stared at it, he felt overcome with an sheer emptiness, and he fell asleep. For some reason, the taste of sour pickles filled his mouth.
*
Now it was dark, and the room was lit only by a glowing globe as the bedside of the man next to him. The man was alone and silent, staring at the ceiling now. Outside the room, there was the clatter of crockery. A slender energetic black man with a beard and wearing a three piece suit ducked into the room, looked at him, nodded, smiled as if they shared some kind of secret, and left. He could not tell if he was dreaming.
*
He woke in the night. He knew what had happened. When it had begun and what it was now.
Perhaps it was as long as seven years ago. He had been at a dinner party. The food was very good, and the conversation was bright. All the people were younger, good looking, quick and clever. Their conversation was up to date and full of promise. His own remarks were sharp and his aphorisms witty, but there was a moment when he knew that he was a visitor from a different time while those he addressed were in their element. This was their time. It filled them and gave them strength. They could not imagine a world not shaped by their own interests and ambitions. He was still a welcome guest but it was no longer his time.
He had made a mistake then in letting this happen. For a moment he had entertained this thought and dwelt on it. And it took root in him, opening a door through which he was taken from his world and time. Now, they had come and brought him here and taken him from time altogether.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
We are listening, and not to the clatter of specifics. That is to us inaudible, individuation not being within our register. Audible is yearning. Cellular yearning is for us what sound is for you.
^^^^
Always we are so close to you.
Within your colonies 10 quadrillion specialized animal cells;
Within your colonies 100 quadrillion specialized bacterial cells;
We visit, take up abode, visit and pass through you,
Then returning as all cells do to our own kind.
Traveling through all that is known as space, perceived as space, known as time, and experienced as time;
Traveling beyond the limits of those modes and concepts; pervading them;
Traveling in touch, taste, sound, sight, smell,
Traveling in light, in awareness, in experience, in continuum, in gap;
We who mutate and do not change
Bring you into being.
We sustain you.
We take you back.
Moving in invisible clouds through the infinite expanse of space , flowing through air or water or earth in vast tides,
Our journey knows no end.
As wave upon wave of numberless beings, we seek rest and home. We emerge onto the terrain of perception and are for a moment known. Indifferent, we continue, swirling around your earth in spiral waves whose hunger resembles lust, whose spread resembles hunger, whose violence resembles rage, whose campaigns resemble the mind of a conqueror.
For an instant, we bring you who are
Lost in the mirage of gross phenomena,
Face to face with reality.
As we bring you back.
^^^^
Always we are so close to you.
Within your colonies 10 quadrillion specialized animal cells;
Within your colonies 100 quadrillion specialized bacterial cells;
We visit, take up abode, visit and pass through you,
Then returning as all cells do to our own kind.
Traveling through all that is known as space, perceived as space, known as time, and experienced as time;
Traveling beyond the limits of those modes and concepts; pervading them;
Traveling in touch, taste, sound, sight, smell,
Traveling in light, in awareness, in experience, in continuum, in gap;
We who mutate and do not change
Bring you into being.
We sustain you.
We take you back.
Moving in invisible clouds through the infinite expanse of space , flowing through air or water or earth in vast tides,
Our journey knows no end.
As wave upon wave of numberless beings, we seek rest and home. We emerge onto the terrain of perception and are for a moment known. Indifferent, we continue, swirling around your earth in spiral waves whose hunger resembles lust, whose spread resembles hunger, whose violence resembles rage, whose campaigns resemble the mind of a conqueror.
For an instant, we bring you who are
Lost in the mirage of gross phenomena,
Face to face with reality.
As we bring you back.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Introduction?
Deep in randomness (for you, some click, perhaps amid discouragement or the hopeful boredom of some solitary night or afternoon), no so-called law has brought you to this disembodied encounter.
Nonetheless we have entered this juncture which exists no-where- except in the fragile alternation of certain electronic charges, oscillating in some version of space we can not see and is so easily disrupted. Momentary and inexistent in this medium, yet we are meeting.
Would you find familiar comfort, would it seem best (so as not to cause alarm) to provide some introduction, some, as you would say, some explanation of what you have now just met?
It is not so easy. We (and even using this pronoun is dubious and used here only as a kind of locational marker) will try not to shock.
So, let's try: (Please do not worry: there is no solicitation of any kind here)
We are not exactly plural, and definitely not singular. Something/somewhere between.
We do not call ourselves a people or race or tribe or clan or family or colony.
We call ourselves, if at all, View.
Our origins are not known nor ascertainable.
For instance : Some of us are individuated and some not. Of the latter, it is both pointless and literally impossible to speak. Of the former, some are incorporate and some are in transit.
As individuated beings, we are reliant on certain modes: space, elements, sound, awareness, and none of these.
As individuated beings, we are constituted from the above either singly or in combination.
More problematically, the overwhelming fact of arriving anywhere as individuated beings (with all the sensoria, speech habits, drives, concept formations, etc.) causes many forms of differentiation and confusion. We recognize ourselves and each other with difficulty and it is a struggle for us to do so.
It may be said that our journey or purpose, if there is one, is to accomplish this. And whether it is our purpose or not, it is certainly what we are doing, and it is, in some sense, why we have come to be among you.
To speak more clearly, we find ourselves as you. (Please read this last sentence particularly carefully)
Nonetheless we have entered this juncture which exists no-where- except in the fragile alternation of certain electronic charges, oscillating in some version of space we can not see and is so easily disrupted. Momentary and inexistent in this medium, yet we are meeting.
Would you find familiar comfort, would it seem best (so as not to cause alarm) to provide some introduction, some, as you would say, some explanation of what you have now just met?
It is not so easy. We (and even using this pronoun is dubious and used here only as a kind of locational marker) will try not to shock.
So, let's try: (Please do not worry: there is no solicitation of any kind here)
We are not exactly plural, and definitely not singular. Something/somewhere between.
We do not call ourselves a people or race or tribe or clan or family or colony.
We call ourselves, if at all, View.
Our origins are not known nor ascertainable.
For instance : Some of us are individuated and some not. Of the latter, it is both pointless and literally impossible to speak. Of the former, some are incorporate and some are in transit.
As individuated beings, we are reliant on certain modes: space, elements, sound, awareness, and none of these.
As individuated beings, we are constituted from the above either singly or in combination.
More problematically, the overwhelming fact of arriving anywhere as individuated beings (with all the sensoria, speech habits, drives, concept formations, etc.) causes many forms of differentiation and confusion. We recognize ourselves and each other with difficulty and it is a struggle for us to do so.
It may be said that our journey or purpose, if there is one, is to accomplish this. And whether it is our purpose or not, it is certainly what we are doing, and it is, in some sense, why we have come to be among you.
To speak more clearly, we find ourselves as you. (Please read this last sentence particularly carefully)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)