Saturday, October 30, 2004

Fantastic Voyuer

Stepping from the left to right temporal lobe is a strange thing indeed. The first thing you notice is that the surface on which you tread is much more sticky, like a thick jam-like surface that hangs from tree-like structures everywhere. The branches extend outward, cranial bound to the skull begging for a simple neuron hit; one vial of electro-neural crack just for a minute... to provide the life; to provide the rush.

But instead, wasted synapses exude the muck of stifled thought, of confined feeling, of cliches and trite sentimentality. "These are the things that bind us" our hero thinks, "to a mere 3 dimensional world".

As he steps inward toward the centers of feeling, the terrain becomes softer, more bog-like; life teems here, our hero can smell it. It smells like humus in the spring, rich with the fertility of the goddess... in this land, the pulses throb with crystalline flakes that hang like a colloidal
suspension in the air. Our hero, swipes his hand slowly leaving multicolor trails of where his hand as been, scooping up the flakes into his hand. The flakes lay flat and make a noise like coins as he rattles them about. These are the ossified feelings of moral stricture, the constraints long ago inculcated into the species but has over time become written into the genetic code.

Moving further into the dark cavernous land where Ego and Id reside,
devouring the images that pour in from the optic impulses; twisting the images in various shapes, pouring shadows and light over them until they are barely recognizable except in dreams; where volcanoes of passion spew forth the lava of the mix, the primordial ejaculant with which color comes to us in the "real world" , is at once both hot and cold. It frightens and entrances our hero, caught in the gleaming ooze, texture, sound and taste which all converge here to provide orgasmic fodder for the spirits that inhabit this realm.

And there are spirits here.. time is one such spirit that inhabits this realm.

It moves in and out of the spaces that pain creates in little pot holes of the soul; it propels dreams forward and in reverse; it imprisons our hero with barless prisons that limit his movements. Movement of feeling, movement of soul, movement of music and art, of passion: these things are the golden fleece our hero seeks in each and every moment, in each and every lover, in each and every image that passes through consciousness into the subconscious layer where man originated and to where he must always return. Hell, it is believed, comes from this place -- as does heaven; manifestations of the same place where pain and pleasure lose their distinctions, so man creates the boxes in a vain attempt to control them.

Our hero grows weary, battling the wind tunnel of time and racial memory that goes back to singular atoms forming molecules eons ago. There is spirit there as well. He moves into the soft greens of compassion and selflessness and feels the depth of encompassing warmth -- it slows him down, but he doesn't mind much. His mind fills with the verdant hue and he can almost taste the green as it forces itself down his own gullet. He can sense it in his joints and can smell it and it reminds him of the tragedy that is life. He is both comforted and at once afraid of this knowledge. He is alone and feels the weight of loneliness pressing down on his chest, there is no language that can describe it; he does what he can to ape a sound, any sound, and let someone know the pain, the loneliness -- but it pins him in green to the branches of other neurons. He wants to close his eyes and let it end; he is not suicidal but he so desperately needs to die.

Hee wants the sound to stop and to fill his head with deafness -- but the loneliness fucking crucifies him to the branches... the shock of the hurt at first surprises him, but then he feels nothing and the fading continuum of this existence, he realizes, is not at all different from what he expected.

There is death in him now, as he struggles to give up. It is a passive struggle, no doubt, but a struggle nonetheless.

Like looking into a mirror of a mirror, he sees himself a million times getting smaller and smaller, in the reflection of this inner space, the green all around him, he slides down to the part of the pysche where he is surrounded by fingers of cotton-like fog, his arms and legs now no longer nailed to any color, he floats and feels no resistance. He is pulled along and acceptance becomes his partner. He breathes it in and feels it trickle down like blood to his toes; it is warm and feels distant to his own sense of self.

Finally, he loses memory of who he is; images of moose and squirrel; of a long haired girl in a field; of tantric sex with wormholes; of spiders crawling up his back and lots of laughter. these spirits now fill him and he chooses, to hold them inside until believes he will burst with joy; and expel the blurry, milky life he has grown to accept and map, and become friends with.

It is sunset that pulls him in and sunset that twists his memory and soul.

It is the hard bright glare of a laughing full moon that shines on the spot where his existence used to be... a tombstone to a past unmarked by its absence, unfettered by sentiment now, unknowing and as yet, unknown to an indifferent place that has forgotten how to feel, how to trust, how to be at ease with the crevasses of the mind and heart that make up a land only dreamed of. But our hero marks the spot with trails of blood from his open
wounds, syrup of pain that goes on with no stitches -- never healing -- never expiring.
Prometheus promoted to having his skin removed instead of his liver -- the source of love -- exposed and yet all alone.


MB 2003

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