AFTER THE WOODS

  AFTER THE WOODS


AFTER THE WOODS    1
BOOK  SYNOPSIS  BIO    28
ATW   CHAPTERS JC    29
I. Nanowar vs. Arboreal    29
II. Considering Armor    29
III. Wife Disappearance    29
IV. Into Woods    29
V. Night to Knight    29
VI. Diamond Meat Feast    29
VII. Love of Philapores    29
VIII. Chevelure Modernism    29
IX. Feeding Frenzy    29
X. Mothership Tree    29
XI. Last Escape    29
XII. Shell Union    29
XIII. Echo Gambit    29
XIV. Inverted Womb    29
XV. Polyverse    29
The INCANTATIONS & INVOCATIONS of GRAPHEMNE DARKERCHILD    30
INTUITION EXPANSION    32
MUTUAL MEMBRANE OF CONTACT    37
SOLVENT PEOPLE    38
KNIGHT TO NIGHT    38
ATW – SYNOPSIS    39
PHILAPORES & FEATHERS    41
BIOGRAPHY    42
LIST TITLES CHAPTER    42
TABLE OF CONVERGENCES    80
ARTWORK TITLES    81
THEMES TITLES CHAPTERS    92
CYCLES    92
EARTH    92
MOUNTAINS [above clouds]    92
TAO LI KRONOS    92
EARTH GEOS GAIA    92
BELOW THE SOIL LINE    92
ABOVE CLOUDS    93
STRATA ROCKS    93
ZEN AESTHETICS    93
I CHING    93
FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS    94
*THE RAINS    94
MAGISTRATED by the RAINS    94
EROSION PRINCIPLES    94
*IN SHADOWS    95
SHADOW PEOPLE    95
*FOREST (DWELLER)    95
**TREE  ANTENNAS    96
TECHNOLOGY IS A JUNGLE    97
OPEN TREES    98
TREE DOORS    98
DOOR CODES    98
GUARDIANS OF REALMS    99
LONG BEFORE LANGUAGE    99
THE CHATTER INHIBITORS    100
TREE EATER    100
CODEX TREES    101
CODEX CORTEX BARK    101
**THE ECLIPSE    101
**THE FALSE FOCUS    102
THE FOREST OF VIRTUAL TREES & TREEMORPHS    103
ATW Notes on CHAPTERS    106
TITLES from DRAW NOTES    106
ASSEMBLY OF CROWNS    108
SYMBOLS OF DIGNITY    108
ARBOR AXIS, BODY OF LEAVES –    109
GRAPHMNE DARKCHILD    109
ATW CHARACTERS    110
DREAMS / KITES    111
ENCODING to STORAGE to RETRIEVAL    111
STRATA FISSURES    111
PETRA SERIES    111
STRATA FISSURES    111
ROCK TITLES / PETRA SERIES    111
ATW  CYCLES    113
ATW POEM  1 REBIRTH    114
BIRTH & ANGER    114
VERSUS AWAKES [AND VERSES]    115
AND WHEN MAN AWOKE    117
WE WALK BEETWEEN FIELDS    118
OCULAR MOONS and MOTH EYES    121
BEETHOVEN & CHILD    122
MIND IS AN ORGAN    123
THIS CITY IS A SKIN    124
NOCTUID (Night Owl)    124
CAMUS — THE REBEL    126
NOAA NOAH    127
AUSTRAL NIGHTSCAPE    127
SHADOW FOREST    130
THE ROOM    132
THERES A BLOOM THAT GROWS    133
WHEN LEAFS CUT TREES    134
EVERY TIME YOU LEAVE    135
DEAR MOTHER, DEAR FATHER    136
CHOIR OF WHISPERS    136
FRAIL CRACKS    137
FESTOONED STARS    140
KNIGHT TO NIGHT DEATH    141
DIAMOND MEAT FEAST    141
I’LL NEVER KNOW HOW SHARP THE SKIES    141
CUANDO ME HABLAS    144
VOZ Y YOU SOMOS DOS    145
A LARGE BEAST APPEARS    146
FLIGHT OR FEATHER    147
GEOMETRICS THROUGH THE ARBOREAL MEMBRANE    148
ENCODER & ARCHIVIST    148
ECHO GRAMOPHONE NEWS    149
WHATEVER DEPRESSION IS    149
JOSEPH CONRAD—HEART OF DARKNESS, P.54-55    150
CRASHING WAVES IN A VACUUM    150
**IN HOW MANY WAYS WE TRIED TO MEASURE TIME?    152
**THE MEASURE OF TIME    152
THE OBJECT OF TIME, A POCKETWATCH    153
THE PRESENT WATCH    153
BEFORE MIRRORS THERE WAS A TIME    155
A MIRROR    156
YOU DON’T NEED WORDS ANYMORE    157
THE HOMOGENIZED SKY    159
INVISIBLE MAPS & LESSONS ON SURFACE TENSIONS    160
DECEPTION  &  FANTASY    162
FIRST NATURE SPAWNED    164
THE DREAM STARTED WITH MY FALL    165
AFTER THE PROCEDURE    167
YOU’RE LOOKING AT IT THE WRONG WAY    169
BARBED LEAFS ALONG the VERDANT SUPPLE SHOOTS    170
LEAFS THAT RUSTLE IN THE WIND    171
THE BREATHING    172
THE BREATH THAT CUTS THE RAZOR EDGE    172
THEY WONDER HOW YOU BREATHE    173
THRESH THE SEEDS SOWED    175
THOUGH TIME MAY    177
IF I LAY MY HAND    177
AGAIN THE CLUTTERED NIGHT    178
STONES OF ENDURANCE    179
THE SUBJECT OF REARRANGING THE BODY INTO A HORSE    180
NINE WHITE HAIRS    181
COUNTER PUNCH    183
THE DOUBLE SHADE    184
THE REFLECTION (LOVERS ENTER, AND EXIT)    185
GUINEVERE NON SONUS UNCLEAR MY DEAR    185
AUGUST FIST & FIRST FIRE THIRST    186
THE UNREPRESENTED PROVES MAN    187
HOW BEAUTIFUL TO DIE    187
MONEY    188
INFORMED & OUTFORMED    188
**WHAT IS THIS RAGE?    189
YOUNG IS WRONG    191
THERE’S A BLOOM THAT GROWS FROM VEINS    192
MIND IS BORN IN CAPTIVITY    194
THE GREAT CONTRASTER, KING CONTRAST, MAYA.    194
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?    196
WILDENBEAR GROWS TREEFLOWS    197
THE WILLOW TREE OF WORRY    198
THE APOLOGY OF WORRY TREE    199
TIME IS LOST    200
ICE COMMENTARY    202
ATW POEM  2 DEATH    203
DEATH OF DEATH & TIME    203
THIS BEEHIVE OF TIME    203
THE TINY WICK    204
OPPOSITES POLARITIES and the BIRTH of POLYVERSE HARMONIA    206
BABBLE BROOK OF NOSENSE DATA    207
SKIN, SKIN, SKIN of the FLESHY PINK    209
DREAM ANALYSIS    210
THE SPACE MIND MINDS    210
I CAN’T THINK CONSCIOUSNESS TO FLIGHT    211
OCULAR MOONS    214
THE WINDOWS CRY    216
THE APPARENT FUEL WE CALLED MAN    216
CONSCIOUSNESS    218
THE COMMON UNIFYING AGENTS AMONG US ALL    218
TEKHNE SPEAK ALPHABET    219
THE WORM THAT EATS NIGHT    219
DREAM OF BLACK WORMS    221
A PIT OF SNAKES    221
SAFFRON SUN WON (Violet Light)    222
WORMWOOD, WAVES, AND LEAFS    223
VERSUS RETURNS THE GREAT SLEEP    223
WHAT ABOUT TREES?!    223
PHILAPORES GROW    223
SISYPHUS IN THE LANDS    224
COMPANION TO DREAM    224
MOTHER OF THE FOREST    227
SONG OF SILENCE (MAUNA)    229
ATW POEM  3 DECAY    231
OF EARTH & BODY    231
AFTER STARTREES & STRATA WOOD    231
MAN AGAINST NIGHT    231
FLOWERS IN LEAVES    232
TWO TREES FELLED    233
FLOWERS FLOW    233
AGAIN THE CLUTTERED NIGHT    233
TAKE SOLACE IN THE WHIRLING RIM    234
SEEDS SPROUT PERISCOPES CRESTFALLEN NEST    236
RAVAGE THE LAND OF TEKHNE’S COMMAND    238
GRAND CONTRASTER    241
DELPHIC DAY WOMB    242
CANYON OF ECHOES: CODES OF THE KOSMOS CLARION FORMS    243
MAN AGAINST NIGHT    243
RAVAGE THE MAN    244
WHEN IT COMES, THE BLOW TO MAN    246
THE HORNED MOON    249
**THE ECLIPSE    250
**THE FALSE FOCUS    251
THE FOREST OF VIRTUAL TREES & TREEMORPHS    252
WHEN THE EAR BLEEDS, STRANGE CRYSTALS FORM    255
TIMESPACE, EGO, PRESENT    257
RANT Celebrity Culture    258
WHEN TREES GROW OVER    258
HOW DO TREES BREATHE    259
MOTHER TYPES ON ROCKS    262
THOUGH I’VE PLUNDERED EARTH—AND LIFE UPON IT    263
DREAM THE WOLF FLOW    265
WHEN LEAFS CUT TREES    266
TREE ANTENNAS (Chorus)    267
THEY WONDER HOW YOU BREATHE    267
BOAT ON THE POLISHED SEA    267
HANDS SHAPE THE WORLD THROUGH DREAMS    268
DAD TOLD ME OF THE GRAPEFRUIT BUSH    271
THRESH THE SEEDS SOWED    272
IN THE QUIET    274
OF STORIES BORN AND STORIES TOLD    275
MOON, MOON, MOON    276
WHEN MEN ARE TREES    276
THERE COMES A SLUMBER TO SETTLE ALL ACCOUNTS    278
THERE IS A VINE CALLED TIME — DEATH ARRIVES    279
WHO KNOWS WHAT IS LOST IN THE WONDER MIGRATION    280
THE INVERTED WOMB    282
NOW, NOW, NOW    282
LITTLE BEAUTY, COME TO LIFE    283
FOREST DWELLER    283
A HOLLOW TREE    284
STUMBLE STATELY    285
THE RUSTED WITHERED BELL    286
THE ANGER SOLACE HAS NO PAIN    286
CORAL COAST GROWTH    288
THE SILHOUETTED SHOW    289
A FATHER DREAMS 12:34pm    290
CHASING CORAL    290
SWAYS – – RHYTHMS    290
WISP PINK, BACKS THE LOWER GRAYS    291
SPRING IN RAIN    291
SPRING TANGLES    293
CLOUDS FIXES    293
STRATA    293
SCI / SCIO / SCEI    294
TEMPERAMENT SWELLS    295
ATW POEM  4 FERTILIZATION    295
NIGHT    295
SHELL UNION    295
MAN KNIGHT    296
ANGER AND LIGHTNING — Spider Branches    297
DAWNWATCHER    297
ACCELERATED DAWN ELEMENTS    299
DIAMOND MEAT FEAST — Consummation    300
BABBLE BROOK OF NOSENSE DATA    300
APOLOGY OF DAWN VERSUS — The Womb    303
ANXIETY – A Misunderstanding of Fear and Anxieties:    304
WHEN I WAS YOUNG IS WRONG    304
VERSUS INTUITIONS AND INSTINCTS    305
UNION AND OFFERINGS    305
UNDERGROUND NETWORKS ARE TRAVELED DAILY    307
NIGHT BECKONS    307
TWO BECKON THE MAGISTRATE    308
TRYING TO SEE THESE ABSTRACTIONS    308
TOPOLOGIES, MMoC — A Sensible Atmosphere Versus Weaves of Polygone Fibers    309
THIS VOICE INTERNAL    309
THE WIND AND WINDOW FURY    309
THERE’S A PROBLEM IN PERCEIVING THE REALM    311
SILENT WOOD SILERE SILVA    315
A CEREMONY for the SILENT    317
POLYVERSE PROPOSAL    318
AFTER THE PROCEDURE    319
AND WHEN MAN AWOKE  (Awaking Verses)    321
CLEAR DESCRIPTIONS OF THE SUN    322
THE DREAMWALKER, P.T. ELLSWORTH    323
**05.21.2014.0318 KEEP TRANSCRIBING    323
WAKERS, SLEEPERS, and DREAMWALKERS    323
ATW POEM  5 GESTATION    324
LAND OF POLYVERSE — or The Mastery of Versus Geomentree Loci    324
KUMARASA BOUNDARIES    324
SOMEDAYS    326
MOTHER MOUNTAIN SPEAKS RHETORIC    326
THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE    327
THE INTELLIGENCE OF TOUCH    328
FORTUNE OF TECHNOLOGY & FORTUNES TOLD    328
SAFFRON SUN WON (Under Sand)    330
THIS BODY IN THE CITY    330
SKY NOTES — TEKKONKINKREET    331
Forest Of Fear    331
Leggodting    332
The Knightchaser    332
Chevelure    332
Knightchaser    332
Echo Gambit    332
In Shadows    332
The Forest of Blindness    332
The Blinding Forest.    332
Cataracts Forest.    332
The Forest of Katarhaktes.    332
Forestem Silvam    332
Forest of Fear    335
Forest of Broken Water    335
KNIGHT INTERLUDE    336
LOVE    336
MOONFLOWERS OF THE SEA    337
MOTHER OF THE FOREST    337
MYTHOBIOTIC RESPONSE    339
DREAM    340
The MOTHERBOARD    341
POLYVERSE Child of Form and Function.    341
OPPOSITES POLARITIES & BIRTH of POLYVERSE    342
*NANOWAR vs. ARBOREAL [2.0]    342
POLYGONE & VERSUS AWAKE    343
THE ACORN RAIN DROP MUFFLED BY THOUGHT AND INVENTION CHOSE    346
NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM    349
WALKING THROUGH THE MATHEMATICALLY CORRECT SWAMP    350
FIRE BURNS THE LAID LOGS    352
HOW BEAUTIFUL TO DIE    352
VOICES IN THE HEAD — Gramophone Mind    353
THE VOICES OF FEAR — Echo Canyon    353
IF I LAY MY HAND    353
WHEN FINGERS — Grass Imprints    354
FEAR PRESENTS ITSELF IN TWO WAYS: Echo Of Unconscious Fields    355
ONCE UPON A TIME, YOUNG CHILD    355
THE BURROWING PHILAPORES    356
PRAYERS BOWED REMAIN    357
OVER BLACK CORPSE MOUNTAIN    358
WHEN THE HOLE OPENS    358
DREAM—SPECTRUM CODES DRAWING    359
THE DREAMWALKER, P.T. ELLSWORTH — Trees are Time Machines & Harmonia    359
LA COMUNIÓN    360
ECHO CANYON    360
ECHO AND BEAST    360
ECHO CANYON OF THE COSMOS CLARION CALL    361
EVEN IN THE CANYON OF ECHOES    362
Fireheld    362
Whispering Wood    362
Brimstones : Sulfur    362
CANYON OF ECHOES: CODES OF THE KOSMOS CLARION FORMS    363
Echo and Legos    363
Koans    363
TEKHNE, ECHO GAMBIT, VALLEY OF ECHOES    364
ECHO CANYON: SPELLS OF TIME, CLARION CALL    364
Canyon of Echoes    364
“If not Echo, who then shapes your thoughts?”    365
“Of Course I Still Love you,”    366
Synchronicity    367
TRAVELED HOURS IN MILES OF STONES    367
WHEN THE ROOM IS EMPTY    368
AMONG STATUES CHILDREN PLAY    369
THE HANDS    371
I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU IN THE EARLY HOURS    373
THE VOICE OF MAN    374
ECHO CANYON REF:    376
NOTES on IMAGES    376
GLOSSARY & ETYMOLOGY    376
TWIN PERCEIVERS, DILATORS, & ORATORS    377
DILATION OF TIME & TECHNOLOGY    377
Dilation of Time    377
The Dilators of Conscious Time:    377
The Now Twins    378
Dilation Of Technology    379
Nodding Off    380
OBAMA INTRODUCED — DREAM Transcribe    380
THE TWINS / DOUBLE LIFE    380
DEATH & DEAD BETRAYED    380
DOUBLE LIFE or TWIN PERCEPTIONS    380
DEATH AND DEAD BETRAYED, WHEN ENEMIES MADE    381
THE INCANTATIONS OF GRAPHEMNE DARKERCHILD    382
FORTUNE OF TECHNOLOGY & FORTUNES TOLD    384
SAFFRON SUN WON (Under Sand)    386
HOME    386
STONE BALDING – HAIR    387
HER LIGHT WINTER SKIN    387
Daystar Moles    387
Mind Understands Through Thought    388
Ascending Ghosts    389
The sky of eyes    389
STARHEAD – THE SKY DOES NOT GROW HAIR    389
THE BED (ONE WORKS IN)    392
THE CAVE WALL    392
I’LL NEVER KNOW HOW SHARP [DARK] THE SKIES    392
SHIELDS, SPELLS, SCREENS    395
THE DREAM - Mudface    395
THE CROOKED STEM    397
YOU CAN TALK TO TREES    398
FVAC 109    399
FVAC 110    399
FVAC 111    399
FVAC 112    399
FVAC 113    400
FVAC 114    400
FVAC 047    400
THE DREAMS    401
THE CITY IS AN ELECTRONIC CAVE    401
PICASSO WAS A GENIUS AT PAINTING    402
KUMI MAZE HANDSTANDS    403
FOLLOWING KUMI SNAKE TONGUE    404
FAMILY, WORDS YOU SPOKE, BEES, & FRESH    406
KUMI BECAME PREGNANT    410
BASIC MECHANICS OF ACCURACY    410
MATT WILSON’S PLACE    411
A CHARTER BUS ENGULFED IN FLAMES    412
WEARING A WATCH NOT MINE    412
I Was Wearing A Watch That Was Not Mine    412
RV^ CHASING ROBERT DE NIRO AROUND MANHATTAN    413
I knocked on the door, bringing a piece of cabbage leaf    413
TUESDAY TIME — The Splinters of Time    414
I NEVER WANNA BE WHERE I’M AT    415
POST-JASON-JUNGIAN ANALYSIS – Notes.    416
GVS & ELC    416
Guinevere and I were hanging out    416
KIRSTEN DEAR CHARTS ELECTRONICS CIRCUITS SWIMMING    416
Kirsten dear charts electronics circuits swimming    416
ERIN SHOWERING    417
Erin showering with lots of soap    417
CASTING CALL WITH MATT DAMON    417
THE DIFFICULTIES    417
RIDING A MOTORCYCLE    419
Riding A Motorcycle    419
NEIL DE GRASSE TYSON WAS WALKING    419
OWL CLAW SLEEPS BY NIGHT WRITING + DREAM3&6    420
December 31 2007    421
2017.07.31    421
2008.01.08    421
JAY JOPLING & ASSISTANT    421
A THOUSAND PLATEAUS — DELEUZE    422
BLACK ORBS, FLIGHT SYMMETRICS, WALK ON WATER    422
February 2, 2008  Notes: Assembly of Crowns    423
DEBRIS BURSTS    423
July 29, 2008 DREAM    423
August 27, 2008 DREAM    423
August 28, 2008    423
2013.09.05  SKETCH BOOK PAGE    424
2011.07.07  EROSION PRINCIPLES    424
2012.02.02  DUSTY FALLEN BIRD    424
2012.02.05  THE TALKING ROCKS    425
2012.02.05  MY HEART ENTERS A LAND UNKNOWN OF SORROW    425
2012.02.06  SHADOW PLAY, CURTAIN SWAYS    426
2012.02.07  THE MOON SUSTAINS THE EARTH’S WOBBLE    426
DREAMS AND NOTES    426
A VERNACULAR OF ASCENSIONS    426
STRATUM for A VERNACULAR OF ASCENSIONS    427
LIGHT MAGNET EYES    427
MERGE AND DIVIDER    427
FUTURE FALSE NEWS HEADLINE (ELC)    428
REJECT ALL IMAGES — AVOA    428
Reject All Images    428
ALWAYS SOMETHING OUT OF SIGHT — AVOA    430
On the essay, The Mind as Nature, written by Loren Eiseley    431
THIS SPLITTING MECHANISM    433
TIME, TECHNOLOGY, & SOLITUDE    434
FIGURE GROUND GESTALT    435
THE THREE RIVERS    435
KingDreamWalker    436
False Wizard, Unintended Catalyst, Wordless Name, Everliar    436
Unintended Wakes    436
VIRTUAL SKY MAPS  (or Virtual  Maps the Sky)    437
WORRY - THE VOICES START EARLY    438
WHY IS THIS DONE?  PLEASURE OR DUTY?    440
Mother and Father    441
DON’T FEEL THE WEATHER    444
TO CONVEY THE RAVEN FEATHER    446
WITH WHAT EYES DID PEOPLE SEE?    447
WATERY ORIGINS    449
THE HAND SEES IN SKETCH    451
QUALIFYING VARIABLES    452
THE MIRROR OF LEARNING, A LOOKING-GLASS REVISITED    453
AWAKING IS AN ART    454
TWO LEVELS OF CLOUDS & PROSE    454
BIOMNEMONIC EVOLUTION    454
AN INVISIBLE BOY INSIDE THE CONCRETE MIND    455
1. Making The Abstract (Metaphysical) A Physical (Real) Analogue—The Role Of Metaphors Today.    455
2. Moving Forward In Time, We Make The World Smaller.    455
3. Our Scale Of Experience Shows Form Shrinking Exponentially.    456
4. If Metaphors Are The Graphs Of What We Live And Experience Internally.    457
5. We Don't Experience The Consequences Directly, Due To The Shift In Physical Correlates Or Analogues.    457
6. Seeing & Writing — Analogue to Biology & Language    458
7. The Consequence Of Our Actions Become Abstract, Or Impersonal    458
DRAWING EXERCISE EMAIL    459
BY STRETCHING THE PERIODS OF TIME    460
FROM ONE OPEN DOOR TO ANOTHER CLOSING    461
ASH AND SMOKE FELLED THE STRUNG BOW TREE    464
OBJECTS ALL AROUND, ALL AROUND.    465
I KEEP THE WINDOW OPEN – MOTH EYES    466
The title is made up by Erik Satie himself    467
Sounds of New York City meshed    468
AS SOON AS POSSIBLE    469
GOD AND THE BLUE MARBLE    469
THE AIR IN MY STUDIO    473
THE SUBJECT OF REARRANGING THE BODY INTO A HORSE    473
GHOST AND STRANGE KINESIS or HOW TO START A STORY WITHOUT END    476
THE KISS OF NATURE AND MACHINE    477
TIME IS LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN    477
POWER AND CONTROL    481
ANIMAL FARM – GEORGE ORWELL    482
THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS — Orwell's Proposed Preface to ‘Animal Farm’    483
PEACE & MEANINGFULNESS    490
ON QUALIA TIME    498
THE DANGERS OF AN OVERSTEPPING SCIENCE    503
R^ RESPONSES:  SCIENTIFIC ATTEMPTS    504
SNOW UNDERFOOT    505
CAN AN “ENVIRONMENT” OR “THE ENVIRONMENT” BE CONTEXTUALIZED?    505
FROM THE SCALA BOARDS    509
TO MY ABIZIANKA    509
EMERGENT FISH AND ANTS    510
BIG EAR    511
Øl°son – with coy demure    511
FIRST AID    512
VOICE MEMOS TRANSCRIBED    538
TANTAMOUNT SUNSETS    539
DUST COMES ALIVE    539
INFORMED & OUTFORMED    540
TANTAMOUNT SUNSET (TaTSu)    540
INSCRIBED IN STONE    540
WALTER & CELESTE + STARTREE + MORE    545
SHEDDER OF STARS    545
PEAK CONCENTRATIONS    545
WALTER EMILE KOESLER – DREEMVÅLKER    545
DRAGON CLOUDS    546
CELESTE PREPARES DINNER    546
WHY WALTER COUNTED    548
WALTER WAS BORN    548
WALTER WAS AN OLDER MAN    550
SUN SPOTS    551
THE CONVERSATION – COULD THIS BE SO?    552
Å.I. Téçhnë & Dr. E.Kø?stler DR?MVAÅLKER    552
NUMB DOSING    554
HUMANS FIRST    555
PERCEPTIVE PARADOX GRADIENT    556
THE FIRST TIME    557
ON ONE NIGHT    557
CROWING FLOWERS    558
ECHO - COULD THIS BE SO    558
THERE IS NOWHERE TO GO    561
SCALE CHANGED    561
NUMB DOSING    562
SCALE SPACE TEMPO TIME ~ SC?LA    562
HAVE WE LOST OUR SENSE OF SCALE AND TEMPO?    562
VERSUS    563
POLYGONE    563
THE FOLLY OF LOOKING GLASS TËCHNÉ    563
ARBITRARY INCEPTIONS — ARBOREAL INTELLIGENCE    566
AM I A CLONE? – DR. ELLSWORTH & TECHNE    567
AFTER ALL THESE MIRACULOUS SIGHTS    568
TECHNE & ELLSWORTH    568
DURING THE 21    569
MAPPING SCALES    571
BASIC BENEFITS & FUNDAMENTAL PREMISES    571
Å.I. TÉÇHNË NEURAL NETDRIVER CLOUDSTORM    571
SKYTONES & STARTREES    573
THE ORGANIZING AGENTS OF EVOLUTION    575
POETRY ASIDE DARWIN    584
NARCISSUS AND MIRRORS    586
WORDS ARE EMOTION COORDINATES    588
DREAMWALKER    598
BY STRETCHING THE PERIODS    598
SO NOW WHAT – DR. ELLSWORTH & TECHNE    599
THE REPETITION OF DREAMS    600
MYTHOBIOLOGY  IMAGO    601
CHRONOMYTHOBIOLOGY CMB    601
MYTHOZOELOGY    601
EASTERN IDEOLOGIES & MYTHOBIOLOGY —    602
WHY EXTERNALIZE IMAGES?    602
NOTES on JAPANESE GHOSTS AND DEMONS: Art of the Supernatural    603
WHY EXTERNALIZE IMAGES?  WEI “EFFORT”    604
WHAT IS THIS FATED LIE?    604
WHERE TO BEGIN?    606
TODAY, TODAY, TODAY.    606
INSPIRATION IS SAVAGE    611
INTUITION EXPANSION    611
IT PERCEIVED HIM IN THE EYE?    617
R^ SMARTPHONES    619
AXIS MATTA    620
ACTIVE IMAGES    626
ADAPTATIONS    626
THE MILK FOUNTAIN    628
THE NET WEIGHT and THE TAI CHI ASTRONAUT    629
MY DEAR FRIEND DEATH, THANATOS, MUERTE, MORT, TOD,    634
I KNOW MOST    634
EGO CREATION    636
Five Modalities of Knowledge    636
THIS PLANET    637
Carl Jung, Seven Sermons to the Dead    637
Herman Hesse, Demian    638
AGNOSTICISM DEFINED DEF^    638
OBJECTIVE NATURE OF THE PSYCHE & SUBJECTIVE NATURE OF EXPERIENCE    638
OBJECT CONSCIOUSNESS VS. SPACE CONSCIOUSNESS    639
THE CHILD STATE    641
NIETZSCHEAN AFFIRMATION    644
EVERY TIME YOU LEAVE    645
FEEDING THE MIND    646
IMAGE IS THE THING    646
MYTH IS NOT A BRIDGE    647
DUST LIGHT DIAMONDS    652
SQUEEZED TO A POINT OF LIGHT THE WEALTH OF THE SOUL IS IN IMAGES    652
INHABITED & HAUNTED TIME    653
METAFLORICA FAUNA & RANDOM SEED BREEDS    655
THE CRIB OF MIND    656
QUOTES    663
MONITORS & MINOTAURS    664
OUT OF ONESELF BY GOING INTO THE SELF    666
TREE OF LIFE    667
WITHIN THE ARMOR SHELL    667
STONES OF ENDURANCE    668
TAKE ME    669
TEKHNE ALPHABET    669
THE BODY VOID or VOID BODY?    670
APPLE TREE    671
SONG OF MAUNA — SILENCE    671
OVER TIME BY TECHNOLOGY & GREED OF MAN    676
RITUALIZING THE CONCRETE    679
Healing the Split.    679
The rush from fear.    680
The Meme    682
MYTHOBIOLOGY  FANTASY    685
SEEING LINES    685
— 1978 —    685
— 2023 —    687
— 2022 —    690
SHINTO • CLEANLINESS & NIETZSCHE • EAST MEETS WEST AGAIN (versus)    690
ACTIVE FANTASY CONVERSATION    691
SOLVENT PEOPLE    693
BUT A SHADOW OF MANUAL TELEPATHY I AM    694
RETINAL IMBALANCE    695
QUESTION DEVOURS ANSWERS    697
THE PERPETUAL IRRITATION OF SLOWING DOWN    697
RORSCHACH RECREACTING    699
A BLUNDER, DISTRACTION    699
ATW ANALYSIS    701
A BRAIN WANDERS    701
A CONFESSION    702
A WORLD OF WISDOMS    706
ALTERNATE EARTH    707
CHATTER MATTER NO THING SCATTERED    708
BLAMES & GRATITUDES    711
WE ARE BORN INTO STORIES    711
YOU COME INTO CULTURE — BORN    712
EVOLUTION NOTES    713
DISTANCE BETWEEN TIME    714
SHALLOW INTERIOR LORE    715
[CHILDREN OF POLYGONE]    715
CUANDO ME HABLAS    715
[DEAD MAN BY THE LAKE]    716
DEAR MNEMOSYNE    716
BELIEF & MAINTENANCE    718
PRISM OR PRISON    719
BELIEF SYSTEMS    719
CAPACITY TO DISTINGUISH    720
BETWEEN REAL, DREAM, & METAPHOR    720
BULLDOSER & DUST    723
CU STATEMENT    723
CODEX—WHEEL OF PERCEPTION    724
CHIMERÆ  {incognito}    725
>[TRANSITIONS AND SCALE SHIFTS]    726
>[COMPRESSION OF INFORMATION, PIXEL TO IMAGE]    726
PARADOX & FUNNEL METHOD    726
MYTHOBIOLOGY  MYTH    736
THE STORY OF MYTHOLOGY    737
CYBER CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE & RESISTANCE    737
CYBERSILENCE DISOBEDIENCE    740
CELESTIAL SOIL ENCOUNTER ACCOUNT    741
DAINICHI    746
Esoteric buddhism    746
GOD IS A WORD    752
Hero Journey    754
THE RULERS    754
CONSCIOUS TREES    754
HYPERION (MYTHOLOGY)    755
DIAGNOSES AND THE BICYCLE    756
MYTH AS MNEMONIC FOR MEANING    757
LAYMAN FOR THE SCIENCE    760
COGNITIVE INTELLIGENCES    762
Cognitive Tools    762
Problem of Scale    762
Generational Cycles    762
Emergent Moving Parts    763
Transition Time    763
Transitional Shrinking Space TSS    763
Entangled Sensorial Spaces ESS    763
Distraction    763
Whirlpools    763
Charade    763
MYTH & TECH    765
MIND’S PERMUTATIONS    766
METAMORPHOSIS    766
SYSTEMS    768
THAT WHICH IS NOT REPRESENTED BY TIME    769
TAO — CHINESE TERMS  FROM THE WATERCOURSE WAY by Alan Watts    771
ANIMA & ANIMUS    772
DEUS EX MACHINA    773
ANIMA LOCI TEMPUS    773
NOAM’S GREATER LUNA    777
TEMPUS FEMININUS    779
WALKING THE HALLS    781
Denett’s Consciousness    783
PUNCH TO THE FACE    783
HOW TO DO WHAT TRUMP COALESED    784
WHEN NATURE IMITATES LABYRINTHS    785
IMAGE SEEKERS    785
WHAT IS AN IMAGE    786
ON THE ORIGINS OF IMAGES    787
THE TEXTURE OF BULFINCH’S LANDSCAPE    790
BASIC MECHANICS OF ACCURACY    790
I. POETICS OF ETYMOLOGY    791
II. THE  MNEME    791
III.     MYTHOBIOLOGY    791
THE PERFECT TRINITY    792
MYTHOBIOLOGY  METAPHOR    793
CULTURE AS ORGANISM & SOFTWARE ALIVE    793
MADNESS RE AD    794
LANGUAGE AND SYMBOLIC STRUCTURES    800
MEASUREMENT    805
KNOWLEDGE + TIME    806
META•ONTO•PHORE    806
CONTROLLED LONG ZOOM    812
THE HISTORY OF METAPHORS    814
METAPHORS: I POST, THEREFORE I AM    814
SEMANTIC KNOTS    816
SPECTRAL LINEAR REFRACTIONS    817
THE INQUIRY TILT    818
Stagging    820
COLOR WHEEL    821
METAPHOR AND THOUGHT EXPERIMENT    821
METAPHORS  cont., (A general definition)    822
A WORLD OF WISDOMS    823
METARESEARCH AD. 2014    823
codex:: • ?    823
HOW DO WE REMEMBER    824
MEMORY IMPERATIVE    826
HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY    827
CONCENTRATIONS & STEADY GROWTH + The Interrupters; Organizing Agents    833
FIND A BETTER TERM    835
NEOPARAMETAONTOANTHROPOMORPHOROLOGICAL   DILEMMA    839
INTRODUCTION: A Cursory Overview and Perfunctory Exercise    839
OSTINATO RIGORE ~ SAPER VEDERE :  Leonardo Da Vinci’s Eyes    843
METAFLORICA FAUNA and RANDOM SEED BREEDS    853
NOTES ON   Anthony Peake’s — The Labyrinth of Time on    859
JEAN BAUDRILLARD            SIMULACRUM    862
REFRACTIVE METAPHOR R°[Met]    868
REFRACTIVE METAPHOR    869
AN EVERYWHEN    870
MNEMONIC ENTANGLEMENT    870
PRISMATIC PROCEDURE : A NEW SCIENTIFIC METHOD    870
A Prismatic Procedural Approach In Scientific Method    870
A Scientific & Art Merger    871
NOTES from Peripheral Drawings    872
SCALES & MORPHOLOGIES    873
TALL MAN REFLECTING OFF LAKE WATER, ABSCENT WOMAN IS EARTH    876
*R^[SMITHSON SCALA HELIX axis]1    880
THE FUTURE of an ILLUSION — Sigmund Freud    884
FREUD — Quotes: Beyond the Pleasure Principle & The Future of an Illusion    952
SUMMARY or ABSTRACT — ELC Working Postulates — A Synesthetic Approach    956
NATURE, MAN, & WOMAN — NOTES on Watts    958
THIS MORNING AT WHATEVER TIME    961
*DAY @ 2 & WTF    962
*THE CYCLES OF MODIFIERS: ALTERATORS    965
MYTHOBIOLOGY  MBH DEF    1008
MYTHOBIOLOGY PREDICTS    1008
MBH DEFINITIONS    1009
MYTHOBIOLOGY STRANGE CORRELATIONS    1010
MYTHOBIOLOGY — NOTES    1012
THEORY OF MYTHOBIOLOGY (TOMB), BIAS, AND AGENCY    1013
MANHATTAN, MIND IMPRISONMENT & GRAND ILLUSION    1015
TECHNOLOGY IS A JUNGLE    1017
TREES ARE TECHNOLOGY:    1018
ON MYTHOBIOLOGY — FIND A BETTER TERM    1021
MYTHOBIOLOGY & IMAGINATION    1022
LESSON 9    1024
LESSON 10    1024
REF^ BIOECOLOGICAL MODEL    1026
A CEREMONY FOR THE SILENT    1029
CONCENTRATIONS AND STEADY GROWTH    1029
TALL MAN REFLECTING OFF LAKE WATER, ABSCENT WOMAN IS EARTH    1031
SMITHSON SCALA HELIX AXIS1    1034
KOAN    1035
QUALIFYING VARIABLES    1037
FURTHER DIVISIONS    1037
ATLAS AD INFINITUM    1038
ALL THOUGHT IS ORIGINAL    1039
HUMANE TRAPS    1039
ALL CORRESPONDING  SHAPES    1039
AMNESIA & MNEMOSYNE MONSTERS    1040
ANTHROPOCENE: ART MAGIC VR    1040
MOUNTAIN, TREE, BIOTECH & FUTURE — Biotectonic Trees    1043
THE MONSTERS — Symbols of Energy Sources    1044
WHAT MONSTERS CAPTURE the IMAGINATION TODAY?    1046
EARLIEST RECALLED MEMORY    1047
COGNITIVE TECHNOLOGY    1048
MEANING, IMAGINATION, SYMBOL, STORY (MISS)    1050
COGNITIVE TOOLS, MNEMES, STORYTELLING, O.A.    1050
CUANDO TENIA 8 AÑOS    1052
MEMORY IMPERATIVE    1052
RECALL TRINITY    1053
MNEMONECOLOGICAL  ENTANGLEMENT    1057
A.I. TEKHNE & SCIENCE    1057
ANIMA INCOGNITA    1057
CARGO CULT SCIENCE    1057
QUOTES DEGRASSE & DAWKINS    1063
QUOTES on PLATO    1067
HOMEOSTATIC INTELLIGENT FULCRUM    1068
IS CONSCIOUSNESS A MEME VIRUS    1068
PRISMATIC APPROACH    1070
THE PROCEDURES    1071
CONSERVATION OF ENERGY    1073
MOTH EYES    1073
VARIANTS    1074
REFRACTIVE HARMONIC    1074
DIVING SWANS AMPLITUDES    1074
STELLA    1075
DEVELOPMENT of SPIRITUALITY BY RELINQUISHING    1076
PROLOGUE    1081
DEVELOPMENT of SPIRITUALITY and RELINQUISHING    1084
MEDIA (T.O.M.B.)    1084
WHAT IS HER NAME?    1085
WHAT SCIENCE DOES    1087
THE ART OF RESEARCH    1088
SOVERIGN DECIMALS In The Query Tilt    1088
CONDITIONAL  MAMMALIAN    1089
THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING TRANSITIONAL SPACE    1094
DOGEN’S DIALECTIC OF FOUR WAYS    1094
ENVIRONMENTAL GENERATIONAL AMNESIA — NOTES    1097
Petros (Greek    1098
"Preta is the Sanskrit    1099
DRAWING MIND MAPS    1106
FLOW NOTES – Lesson ideas    1109
TRANSCRIPTIONS    1109
Intimacy By Balance Spectrum    1109
IMAGES OF SCIENCE    1110
Saint Lucy    1113
PERPETUAL PARADOX LIVED    1114
DIALOGUE WITH MYTH AND MEANING    1124
ELC: EPILOGUE and CLOSING THOUGHTS    1124
CLAUDE LÉVI-STRAUSS – MYTH AND MEANING    1126
ELC: CONCLUSION, EPILOGUE, CODA, CLOSING THOUGHTS    1145
INITIAL GROUND RULES: INTRODUCTION W BERGSON    1146
ULTIMATELY UNPROVABLE THINGS    1148
STANDING ACCEPTED IDEAS AND FACTS,    1148
FACT OR FICTION?    1148
TWO ORDERS OF ORGANIZATION    1150
Alphabetical & Sc?la    1150
VOCABULARY–    1152
MAP of SCIENTIFIC EVOLUTION    1153
THE PROCESS OF MAKING ART    1154
STACKS    1155
STRUCTURES OF THOUGHT AND EVIDENCE    1161
ORGANIZING AGENTS & PX    1161
THE PARADOX OF CHOICE — TED    1162
ORGANIZING AGENTS    1163
UNDEFINED (Agents)    1163
DEFINED (Agents)    1163
SCALE & SKILL    1165
R. DAWKINS  MEME    1169
GOD AND UNCONSCIOUS    1170
THE PARADOX CONSTANT     1172
PARADOX CONSTANT PX DEF INITION    1174
PARADOX CONSTANT + MNE MONIC =    1175
THE RELATIVE CONSTANT    1179
MYTHOLOGIES ARE FOOTPRINTS    1179
MODALITIES    1179
INDEXING R^    1180
ETYMONS    1180
GLOSSARY de Die    1181
DEFINE ALL LEVELS    1181
1. PREFACE    1182
2. TABLE OF CONTENTS    1182
3. INTRODUCTION    1182
4. PERCEPTION    1182
5. REALITY    1182
6. EFFECTORS    1182
7. METAPHOR    1182
8. MEMORY    1183
9. MNEMONEMES    1183
10. MYTHOLOGY & METAMYTHOLOGY    1183
11. MEANING    1183
12. MAPPING & GRAPHING    1183
13. UNIFIERS    1183
14. ORGANIZING AGENTS    1183
15. EXTERNALITIES    1184
18. TIME    1185
19. SPECTRUM    1185
20. PRISM & PRISMATIC    1185
21. MIND    1185
22. NATURE    1185
23. THE NEW GOD: SUBCONSCIOUS*    1185
24. OPERATIONAL MODELS    1185
25. APARATUS OF CONTAINMENT    1185
26. MUTUAL MEMBRANE OF CONTACT    1185
27. GLOSSARY    1185
28. INDEX    1185
29. REFERENCES    1185
CODEX & GLOSSARY    1186
CDX TMB VoA Abbreviations W.I.P.    1186
???POTENTIAL  CODEX  LEXICONS    1187
GLOSSARY TMB Terms    1190
CDX    1193
DEFINITIONS    1193
SYNECDOCHE    1193
VERIFIABILITY VERIFY NGRAM VIEWER    1193
OPTIC LETTER COMPRESSION TO ABSURD PROPORTIONS    1194
ORDERS OF METAPHOR EVOLVED & INDEXED    1195
THE FORMENTAURA — DEFINITIONS    1195
NEOLOGISMS    1198
SCALE    1198
SCALEABLE    1199
MAPPING SCALES    1199
SCALE (in Social Sciences)    1199
ETYMOLOGY    1202
Cotyledon (n.)    1202
Hallucinate (v.)    1202
Atlas    1202
Photo    1203
-graph    1203
Eye    1203
Vela    1203
Numinous    1203
Zoe    1204
Zo-    1204
bio-    1204
Glossary Tekhne    1204
Technology Etymology    1204
Technology    1205
Field (n.)    1206
field (v.)    1207
Mythopoetics, n.    1208
Scale Def    1208
Synecdoche    1212
COMPREHEND    1212
MORPHEME    1213
Mneme (OED)    1215
Mnemosyne    1215
Moneta (Wiki)    1216
THE MAJOR OLYMPIANS    1216
Ad Hoc    1220
Alliteration    1221
Sui  Generis    1223
TMB ORDERS METAPHOR    1231
EVOLVED  &  INDEXED    1231
TERMS — American Psychological Association    1240
ORGANIZE AND EDIT    1243
REFERENCES    1246
CARL G. JUNG    1246
PAUL VALERY    1248
MAUNA (SILENCE)    1249
EINSTEIN QUOTES    1251
WORMWOOD RES    1252
THE SEVENTH SEAL    1255
ORDERS OF MAGNITUDE (length) Wiki.    1255
ORDERS OF MAGNITUDE    1255
BUCKY    1259
EX MACHINA BOOKS INSPIRED    1264
MYTHOLOGY    1267
MYTHOPOEIA    1275
WILLIAM BLAKE    1277
R^ [VERIFYING]  V? Vfy  V°Y    1281
R^ GLOSSARY • DEFINITIONS • TERMS • VOCABULARY • INDEX    1281
R^ LOGOGRAM, PHONEME, GRAPHEME, MORPHEME    1282
R^ THE BRAIN IS AN ENCHANTED LOOM    1285
SCIENTIFIC METHOD    1287
KNOWLEDGE    1288
METAPHOR    1288
TOPOTHESIA    1299
MORPHEUS    1301
MORPHEME    1301
PHEME    1302
DAEMON    1302
HEIDDEGER    1306
SPECTROGRAPHY  SPECTROSCOPY    1315
HOW ARE MEMORIES SAVED?    1315
HOW DOES BACKGROUND NOISE AFFECT OUR CONCENTRATION?    1316
KARL POPPER    1316
LETTING GO – TECHNIQUE –    1317
WHY DO HERMITS SCRATCH THEIR SKIN    1319
CORRESPONDENCE    1320
TODAY’S EMAIL TO BEN AND YESTERDAY’S TO CATHERINE    1320
BEN — ROUGH DRAFT    1321
QUALIA IS A FANCY WORD    1329
SELFISH GENE    1331
BEN & CATHERINE    1334
WALLS BUILT FOR LADDERS    1336
DEAR ANNA    1337
Dear Brett,    1339
EMAILS w JC — TMB    1341
ATW ESSAYS    1345
“Perspective”    1345
Drawings and Sculptures    1346
Canopy Activity    1348
Cinema Folia    1349
White Cube Hoxton    1351
Every Eye sees differently as the Eye    1352
AnOther Magazine    1354
Biennial    1354
Whitney Biennial 2004    1356
Symbology of the Line    1357
Sensitive Chaos, Delicate Empiricism and Epic Dust    1358
Settlements Intro    1360
The Stars Are The Matrix Of All Planets    1361
Tom Morton on Ernesto Caivano.    1363
Interview with Michael Joo    1366
Interview with Sebastien    1380
CV / BIO    1385
ENDNOTES    1391

 

 

 

 

 


BOOK  SYNOPSIS  BIO

HOOK:

An epic romance story between nature and technology and its boundless possibilities.

ATW  OVERVIEW:

After the Woods is an unconventional narrative that explores mythology, nature, poetry, science, and ecology in the way that we live them, and captures the interrelationships between these seemingly separate fields. 

Taking the form of an illuminated manuscript for both adults and children, the story and intricate drawings introduce the landscape of the woods as an alternate reality; a fantastical internal field informed by country lore, the fancy of fairytales and modern science.  

The visual elements of the story reflect its hybridity, combining both western and eastern aesthetics. Stylistically, the intricate drawings borrow from art nouveau, modernist abstraction, Japanese prints, and fractal geometry. 

Within this scenario, a man and woman, Versus and Polygon, are reunited after nearly a thousand years of separation, framed in time by the era of chivalry and the remote future. 

Their separation is the pulp of the story, in which Versus becomes a knight in armor with the power to attract the entirety of the elements of the natural order, while Polygon, metamorphoses into a spaceship that similarly to the knight, gravitates to herself the vast participants in the aviatory / space travel technological order.

She propels the advancement of intelligence in technological development; whilst he speeds the evolutionary growth of plant life to absurd proportions.

The forest they inhabit, inclusive of its creatures, are all affected, and in their own right, develop the privilege of magic, levitation, alchemy, cloning, digitization, and intuitive intelligence.

All the drawings presuppose realize the characters, creatures, elements, and events inhabiting the alchemic forest.

[Elaborate the plot of the story from beginning, middle to end here.]

Nano War, Considering Armor, Diamond Meat Feast, Wife Disappearance, Into Woods, Night to Knight, Love of Philapores, Chevelure Modernism, Feeding Frenzy, Mothership Tree, Last Escape, and Shell Union comprise some of the chapters to this story.

ARTIST / WRITER BIO:


Ernesto Caivano is known for his fantastical, narrative-based ink drawings. A natural storyteller, writer and artist Ernesto Caivano conceives of his work as part of an ongoing illustrated epic, titled "After the Woods."ù Taking cues from classical myth, medieval folklore, romantic poetry, fantasy, and science fiction, Caivano's meandering, sweeping fairytale centers on star-crossed lovers. Over the course of 1,000 years, the prince matures into a knight in shining armor, while his paramour transforms into a spaceship. Stylistically, Caivano's intricate drawings borrow from art nouveau, modernist abstraction, Japanese prints, and fractal geometry. 

A collection of Caivano’s drawings with essays was published by Pioneer Works in 200...
Caivano’s work has recently been published in Intercourse...


Caivano's work has been the subject of solo shows at Richard Heller Gallery in Santa Monica, White Cube in London and at MoMA PS1 in New York, where his site-specific mural In the Woods (2004) is permanently installed in one of the building's stairwells. He has also been included in notable group exhibitions such as No New Thing Under the Sun (2010) at the Royal Academy in London, The Compulsive Line: Etching 1900 to Now at the Museum of Modern Art (2006), Greater New York 2005 at MoMA PS1, and the 2004 Whitney Biennial.


ATW   CHAPTERS JC

I. Nanowar vs. Arboreal
    1. Incantations (Nano war vs Arboreal)
    2. Intuition expansion
    3. The mutual membrane of contact (MMC)
    4. Solvent People

II. Considering Armor
III. Wife Disappearance
IV. Into Woods
V. Night to Knight
VI. Diamond Meat Feast
VII. Love of Philapores
VIII. Chevelure Modernism
IX. Feeding Frenzy
X. Mothership Tree
XI. Last Escape
XII. Shell Union
XIII. Echo Gambit
XIV. Inverted Womb
XV. Polyverse 

 


1.
The INCANTATIONS & INVOCATIONS of GRAPHEMNE DARKERCHILD

Nanowar vs. Arboreal


There is some kind of fury in me and it wants to destroy the whole system rather than address the problem at hand, Polygon. I know better, but it wants it more. Please forgive my creations, they will persecute you while the land feels your landings. Shed all your skin upon us, so that we may evolve in your code. Versus has gone deep into the forest, seeking the 23 black stallions. They will show you a way to a home outside this land, deep within its roots. The forest controls the arboreal neural networks, and they are intuiting him so possess the dawn. Twilight’s architecture will be yours. As sun sets, and moon tugs rivers, Mnemosyne will unveil the whispers of the land, that they may invoke the refractive metaphors. Take my graphemes, do as you will. There’s a tree whose bark opens like a door, we call it Arbor Axis, Body of Leaves, and inscribed within it—all the genomes endowed to the land.  My gentle inhabitant, beware the Nanowar, and settle the weary eyes.  We will meet soon again in the granite face of Mount Chromachronos. The sensible atmosphere awaits your passage, fly high beyond the shadows, and don’t mind the “shadow people,” they are only bound to it, but don’t shape it, Nyx is their ruler. I will disperse high in the Troposphere out of reach of Techne, all the Assembly Codes. It’s all I can do for now.


With these last words, Graphemne Darkchild, warden of the night, broke into millions of fibers, transformed into blades of grass, and slowly descended into the field, homeostatic brush work, blended by a raking wind, and gone.


Polygon awoke to these words, resonant inside her. In the frail fog of this dream, she still felt the embrace in the arms of Graphemne.  She was covered by condensates of water—a deposit of morning dew. For the brief moment it took to articulate some kind of movement, realizing where she was, her eyes focused on a shallow area of her skin, where through droplets, saw refracted by the miniature lenses, the whole of a distant forest outline.  The irregular jagged edges of the silhouetted trees, appeared to be fabric torn and weathered by the fraying of years, yielding a threadbare quality, where the sun begun to break open holes, she now saw as the horizon line, breaking into color.  Dawn still illuminated by the liminal tempo of Helios, an announcement of warm tone washes, the skytone revealed in drowned phthalo-greens, but the stars held their placement among a breathable cobalt that seemed to bring all the earth to float by its endless amplitude, much deeper that any sky, and further that eyes could fathom. There was no ending point. No drawn lines to measure.  
    
Everything glistened in her eyes.   Dislocated.  Unscaled.  It called for more.
    
In her thoughts, she heard the word “verses/versus” and turned her head to locate her husband, but only found Graphemne, the apparition still sleeping, who made no impression on her, and in her haze remained recumbent and protected. Polygon was rising out of the Hypnos. (1)


That’s when she first realized she was levitating above the ground, as if held by the warmth of a love for the child. She had indeed conceived a new life. This was the first morning after Polygon and Versus had entitled their life to motherhood and fatherhood. It was a simple beginning.  
    Graphemne was adopted to this world when he turned one, by the goddess of memory, Mnemosyne, and her alter sub-conscious Mnemograph; they always confided in each, all the details of their realms, along with her husband, Anemos Gk.ƒ “wind.”  His horse’s name was Anima.                            


(1)  HYPNOS : Greek for Sleep — Somnus, in Roman, Latin — Wikipedia ref. 08.20.2014.1652  Home dwelling place — Hypnos lives in a cave, whose mansion does not see the rising, nor the setting sun, nor does it see the "lightsome noon." At the entrance were a number of poppies and other hypnotic plants. His dwelling had no door or gate so that he might not be awakened by the creaking of hinges. The river, Lethe, in the underworld, is known as the river of forgetfulness and it flows through his cave.[3]   Family—  Hypnos lived next to his twin brother, Thanatos (???????, "death personified") in the underworld.  Hypnos' mother was Nyx (???, "Night"), the deity of Night, and his father was Erebus, the deity of Darkness. Nyx was a dreadful and powerful goddess, and even Zeus feared entering her realm. His wife, Pasithea, was one of the youngest of the Graces and was promised to him by Hera, who is the goddess of marriage and birth. Pasithea is the deity of hallucination or relaxation.   Hypnos' three sons known as the Oneiroi, which is Greek for "dreams."   Morpheus is the Winged God of Dreams and can take human form in dreams.  Phobetor is the personification of nightmares and created scary dreams, he could take the shape of any animal such as bears or tigers.   Phantasus was known for creating fake dreams and dreams full of illusion.   Morpheus, Phobetor and Phantasos appeared in the dreams of kings. The Oneiroi lived at the shores of the Ocean in the West, in a cave. They had two gates with which to send people dreams. One was made of ivory and the other was made from buckhorn. However, before they could do their work and send out the dreams, first their father, Hypnos, had to put the people to sleep.
                                            
Consciousness is overrated. All these wondrous phenotypic results of compressing personal history, pedantic constructs, while the world builds distance to itself, by filling vacant realms with explications and concrete weeds. There is a rapture awaiting, an ascent of climactic method. Moore’s Law is coming to closure, with that indivisible finish line when we control and shape the very substance holding us in unity—the atom. The graph, which shows the accelerating rate of return, is near vertical, like a ski jump in reverse, we climb defying gravity building momentum, and the orgiastic end awaits. But between human and nature, this totem of man and woman, who goes first? The patchwork of solutions we invent solve the neurosis we create by pursuing the lines, but we’ll need more. We always need a higher, loftier achievement.


Perhaps one of the things to go into extinction with be the drive to survive and we will simply be, as we have been all along, and awake, as a society from this perverse dream that promises at each turn, morning to wake us into a new day.  Why do we fix all that is unbroken, and so destroy in order to save. What would peace be without the regrets and fears of war, creating need for what there is none, and depleting what is finite. She will cycle us back into her crust, furnace us with molten care, cry her lava on the land where we will be deposited thousands of years from now as stone, and water and wind can have their way, towards another ascent into sand. For all our ingenuity, we will become the sand grains children build with, and the tides admonish to keep it’s beaches polished.


Give me cloud and fury, for those are waves and lightning. Spirals and currents.  Bolts to rip trees in half, each end tugging the line. Whatever life may be, it unfolds as we tread on a tight-wire playing. Bed is an even number, four being ideal. Four hands held for a lifetime.  

Graphene — carbon crystalline allotrope with 2D properties.
Grapheme — how to make the smallest sound, and put that into a character.
Graphyne
Graphane
Graphite — carbon compressed what’s made my art possible all the years.


INTUITION EXPANSION

James Lovelock, now regarded as the father of the environmentalist movement, and through science showing how Earth is one gigantic, self-regulating organism, today, we don’t dispute this as his colleges once did. By 1970, while working on experiments to test life on Mars, along with Carl Sagan and other world renowned scientists, he asked a simple question: how are we defining life? All the tests, which would leave our planet and land on Mars, were testing for life as we understood it on Earth, testing for terrestrial life. His insight, which consequently had him expelled from the team, would be turned to question the very notion of life on earth. He concluded at the time, that life was an organism that could self-regulate, by using the resources which were readily available. He posited that a desert self regulates through the shifting of sand-dune migratory patterns. That the atmosphere was live and a function of much larger systems. However, life as defined at the time, required an organism to be able to convert, store energy, and self-replicate like a bacteria feeding on sugar. Procreation under his view was not life, but self-regulation of the organism was. The shift would be to look at not giving birth, but at maintaining the level of population, or a family’s heritage moving in time. What mattered was not the finding of how we multiplied, but how we stabilized this replication. How we continue to carry our family name into the future. Birth, and procreation, are necessary, but are not what defines life. He argued that by looking at how something self-regulates you could then infer life of some kind. People didn’t like the implications. So after leaving the team to probe potential life on Mars, he turned the same questions onto Earth. Does Earth, or Gaia as he called it, and consequently became the title for his first book, spoke of the organic mechanisms that regulate our atmosphere, keep the air breathable, sustain life, control temperature ranges, regulate vegetable growth, and in turn starts the cycle again, or rather, completes our view of the ecosystem. Earth, as it turned out was one enormous super-ecosystem, and us humans, little players among its many stages. As Earth was once considered the center of the universe, and then the sun, and after it further evolved until presently, where we know through empirical observation that we are a little spec, in a swarm of billion little specs we call the milky way galaxy, which is a little spec in itself, among billions of other such formations. We don’t have to accept this view or model of the universe, because it was taught to us early on, we inherited this view, and the dramatic counterpoint, to illustrate how radical shifting the Earth-centristic view to a heliocentric view would be to reverse it. Take the cosmos as we understand it now, and imagine scientist discover that the universe is an illusion, created by the radiation of the sun on our atmosphere let’s say, and so Earth is discovered to be at the center of the universe, and all the other galaxies, including the milky way, are actually not real. We are at the center and the few planets and sun are all there is, revolving around us only. That’s all there is. It seems rather bleak, doesn’t it? To shrink what we have learned over the last 500 years, only to discard that information, which is tantamount to throwing out all the experiments, and tools of observation which allowed us to see how large the universe truly is. It appears that once we go down the rabbit hole, as did Alice in Wonderland, it only gets stranger, and we can’t stop our descent, but rather we must see our way through until we emerge on the other side of it, or to make an analogy, wake-up from the dream.
                    
Lovelock questioned our role on Earth, and much like Galileo debunked Earth as the central entity, displacing homo sapiens as the central species. We would not destroy Earth, but rather render it unhabitable as consequence of our own life-sustaining needs, “life” being self-regulation marred by our inability to self-regulate ourselves. Today, in 2014, this view is not as dramatically disputed, due in part to experimental outcomes, and proof, which he predicted, of the role of the atmosphere on the planet. If it gets too hot here, it will kill off the life form that caused that heat increase, and thereafter slowly cool back down. Earth has it’s own particular time scale of cycles it abides, and we are on that track as well, regardless of how clever we may be in monitoring our activities on the planet. It took 40 years for the Lovelock’s crazy idea to become establishment and lose it’s potency of shock, as with Jupiter’s four moons, how this discovery almost killed Galileo. Today it’s but a sand grain in a sand box, and actually, we have multiplies the number of satellites known to orbit Jupiter without any real dispute over its significance. The moons are not the point, they only revealed a similar structure where planetary spheres orbited another central planet. There was another thing that looked like Earth. As the heavens were explained by the forces of the Gods, there was another God outside the Catholic forces of the day, so Galileo retracted his findings.
                
Intuition works this way. We find new and seemingly inaccessible evidence that refutes and undermines the current view, the view, which ironically, has built a foundation of perception which has undermined its very structure. We build new platforms to understand the world, and those very platforms unravel themselves, challenge our deductions, and so we build new structures, more powerful still, to delve deeper, prove to such unimaginable depths that we there will find our answers, but of course, this only refracts the question further, and the process starts again. As sophisticated as we may seem as a species, at the very front of every field of scientific inquiry and art, culture and religion, humanity and philosophies, we still ask the same questions, only they are veiled in adult life, and unfortunately, where once the why was asked in wonder, the majority of the why’s are asked to understand how to control the hostile environment. We need to know why this works this way to predict it, and be safe. The child by asking his/her why, is declaring an unspoken sense of safety, that of the parent or person to whom the question is proposed. At their scale of life, they are not yet concerned with the necessary worries the parents have of maintaining and self-regulating shelter, food, health.
                    
The kid therefore is asking why, and we see wonder, and we remember that feeling. What follows is speculation, interpretation, and imagination.
                                        
Children are not innocent, as heroic gestures, from the view of the person having performed the heroism, will often say, “I didn’t have a choice in the matter”. Is then courage, courageous, when we are cornered into reacting and our response may appear courageous, but in fact was beyond any capacity of us deciding to confront, consciously a situation we otherwise would have avoided. Children’s innocence is not innocent, as it doesn't yet have its opposite, and as any parent knows, they are not so innocent as they appear. It is we, the adults that perceive the child as innocent, and from this perspective, it is accurate, the child is innocent to ask anything, and we forgive it, we don’t take it personally, because, ultimately, we dismiss anything they say that would be improper, as them not knowing any better. But have an adult say a similar thing, and we take that statement to be full of implication, personal, and that they should know better. What follows of course, is the birth of justice, and so until 18 years of age, we have decreed that adult responsibility is placed on hold. The lost of innocence ramping up until such age, at which point, having graduated from high school, one is propelled into the realm of negotiating the speculations of powerful adults, their beliefs, and how one will one integrate themselves into such system. When we see an adult, questioning as a child, we admire in disbelief that such a state occurs, and we begin to speculate how that may be possible, or we simply conclude it’s the workings of a genius, or madman. In other words, the mind, or mind, is playing a musical sonata, in the key of genius, ingenuity, or madness.
                    
It takes time for the views of madmen, of children, to make sense, but there is always a reason behind the questioning, not a concrete reason in the realm of common causality, but rather, and to make a simple example, you could ask the child: why did you ask me why about the ants? You’ll get some sort of answer, whether it makes sense or not, or whether it further illuminates the mysterious nature of wonder, both are possible, and most probable. The definition of “reason” here is not that there exists a clear path showing how we arrived at a certain understanding, or view of a thing, but rather, that the reason is life a road that leads to a stream of water, and having arrived at the stream a person asks you what is reason for you having arrived here. You could offer, it’s the road, I followed the trail and ended up here, or I was lost, and saw a path so took it, or I was hot and wanted to swim. The apparent causes for the person arriving at the destination, are not always in the physical elements we see being negotiated along the way to the destination, i.e., in this case, destination is synonymous with our foci of inquiry. My point is that we attribute causes and reasons to physically concrete areas, guided by psychological filter, physical ones, or other is irrelevant; finding the moments in childhood that lead up to behavior tendencies, is not a cause, nor does it explain the reason. I’m not dismissing these filters, as they are useful tools of inquiry, they aid in our wonderment, and curiosity.
                    
The path that defines the causality of a thing, or interaction, is always delegated by the tools that filter such view, and this is accepted in quantum physics, as an inevitable consequence, the experimenter, the very nature of conducting the experiment changes it. The causes have been affected, and what’s important here, is that we see how for the first time, in scientific experiments, people are talking about concrete experiences as being caused and altered by the very presence of a point of view. How we ask what caused this thing, will shape the answer. What we are calling causality, is only the product of where we have looked. We define causality by shaping our perception to fit the very thing we are looking at, and given our present limitations, imagination, and technology, we will be limited, until we evolve another answer, and say this made that work such way. False. We made that deduction up, and no matter how concrete is seems, it is at once true, and false. As Einstein’s theories are true to the scales of the cosmos, they are false in many ways at the scale of the quanta. His explanation for the causes, have limitations.
                    
Go back in time about 3,ooo years, and ask why the sun rises and sets everyday, and you’ll get an answer, a causal answer, which will reveal much about the culture you are visiting in your mind at the moment. Perhaps it RA, sun god, or Helios, or any number of personified deities attributed to guiding inexplicable forces, and cycles. Where we recognize patterns, we offer up explanations, to help remember the them, but this is a form of mnemonic. We build stories, narratives, and they in turn help us remember what’s meaningful in them. Then things change, and the stories don’t fit any more, they don’t explain the causes. How did life being? A god created everything? Big bang theory? The mystery of the universe? The void? All these are correct. All these questions will created specific causal connections we may be able to prove, by recreating them, or not. And as we know, even though science can re-create, or rather, re-cre-act something, it too is subject to new insights, which will generally require a reinterpretation of the pov which created it.
                    
Cause is only a reflection of our perceptive language. Cause too is subject to discrimination. This discrimination is, not only “represent”, it is the very limit that we define, every time we engage in a dialogue or inquiry about the world, or at home, or internally. It is the scale which we choose to function in and from there view the world. The child’s view has no limits to this scale, so the why’s reflect the zooming in and out of topics the way that we can navigate earth google maps. Our frustration is when the resolution stops, and we can no longer zoom in more, or we can’t turn the camera around and zoom outward. Always a limit. The child by asking why and why, is navigating in exactly the same way, but independent of a screen, which for adult is the proxy of mind, and the image set of another causal explanation made physical and available to other. Earth google is identical to Ovid’s Metamorphosis, in function. The child’s imagination will use the screen, that surrogate to the internal image set, and external image set beyond our immediate field of view, the child will adopt pretty much anything. The scale is open. The adult however, has limits at this scale, and those limits are sometimes the exchange of detail and resolution for the overall, we specialize and focus, refract that focal point, enlarge it to fit our computer screen, and now that image of a neuron is the same size as the image of a tree on another screen. Scale changes. The child navigate both without context. This is the reason for wonder and intuitional grace.
                    
Exploring without context renders meaningless many things, if not everything, in that field of observation. The child gets a free pass in doing so. But the adult needs results. When we navigate without context the patterns we will discover will not be filtered of guided by particular predispositions we have consciously set in place. We are not looking at a landscape and thinking about geological evolution, or climate, nor as an ornothologist looking for birds. There is no context, no art, no depiction, simply playing. This is the innocence, what we call it, in kids, and as adults we still do this constantly, but perceive it to be something else, so we define it as something that’s impractical and dismiss it. That choice has consequences. It creates the parameters of the context by eliminating potential emergent insights about what we may encounter in the future. Highly intuitive has come to mean different things in light of technology. But a highly intuitive person, carries certain connotations. How did that person know, ahead of most, before they could explain, that this was the right thing to follow. How does a grandmaster chess player, having infinite possibilities in choice, arrive at one. Intuition is the summation of all that we have understood up until that moment to be meaningful, relevant in the context where intuition blooms, it is an accumulation of pattern recognition in space, physical phenomena, and in time, which is the transformation of these forms, pattern recognition exists outside real time, real space, and reality, yet it is the only window we have into our world, and life. It will shape how you see the whole of your experience of this so called thing we name existence, life, and so forth.
                    
How can something that does not exist in real time, real space, or reality, account for how our perception is shaped, defines our sense of time, space, and reality, and from there build our experience, and so define our world in that process? How is self-fulfilling prophecy a factor here? It is a particular paradigm filter. It shapes all elements into a metaphorical construct, that of the narrative, and files away all information, only according to the model, the software’s language and code. That self-fulfilment is the belief that shapes the view. Change the narrative, and the belief structure is in turn also changed. Remove a belief or narrative filter, and there will be no particular context to function by. So how does this relate to intuition. And seeing patterns in time, space, matter (material form)? We shape by employing language, by first learning the codes, then using them to write more, a mirror of our experience, but never the thing we are writing, is the experience, but a representation. So intuition without context is also without language, without code. The patterns recognized are not guided by a set of language attributes to meaning. Circles which are sacred, let’s say, now have no context, so the next eclipse of the moon, the merging of two circles, will not represent obscuring the circle. The circle seen in nature is now another form to look at and ask why? all over again as the child does. No narrative needed to help remember that the circle is a good thing. But how do we transmit patterns we recognize that are useful and helpful in our life, to our children so they know that the red dot plant is poisonous, and the white is healthy. We make a little story of the evil red dot and the white dot, and the white dot made the little child strong and able to fly, and the little red dot plant froze the child forever inside a tree.
                    
In the child’s mind, as we know through wave brain analysis, they exists mostly in a state of ?, which is dreamy, the dreamworld and reality are indistinguishable. They believe the story as though it was physically real. And in some exchange it is. But it is not literal. Physical analogues are not literal analogues. Intuition plays with physical analogues, literal, and metaphoric analogues, by removing the properties and bringing the set of filters, the imposed analogue filters to Zero. It’s being in a vacuum and in the world simultaneously. Thought is action and action is thought, words are biology, and biology are words, the physical is mapped internally and internally experienced maps the physical world, inside is outside and outside is inside. Innocence removes the binary, dualistic shifts in percept. Our looking defines, and our defining looks a certain way.
                    
Who believes magic to be real? How is magic believed? The child is astounded, the adult looks for how the illusion was created. The child will take the illusion to be real, since his reality is already magical in its acceptance of alternate narrative, where the adult, knows illusions exist and filters accordingly. The magic becomes a composite of clever technique, an art, which is to say an artifice, artifact, that represents some harmony with the real. As a spectator, the magic is preserved as long as the secret is kept obscure. It’s not meant to be revealed. In art, there is a responsibility as in science, to replenish mystery too, by returning more or equal amounts that were uncovered. The system that self-regulates in biology, also exists in the metaphysical, psychesphere, and requires composting, and tiling, replenishing the soil which formed nutrients into edible life. Cultural artifacts produce form that is equally consumable internally, and they in turn also replenish the ground which produced them. In magic it’s keeping the trick unsolvable, and in art, it’s the removal of the creator, the art object, or expression goes beyond, and lived independent of the creator and artist itself, thus able to continue inspiring. If this relationship is lost, the art loses its function and only becomes a proxy, a fiduciary stand-in to the value attributed to the thing. The thingness, like a dollar bill, only holds value as long as it represents the agreed state of that value. When it’s seen as a piece of paper with green ink on it, it’s value is altered and would parallel that of Monopoly money. Context again, yet here, the context is defined out of the relationship between the effect and affect the gesture and illusion can sustain, and further enhanced by how inhuman the art appears to be, the conclusion, the craft is skilled to a degree it becomes impossible to imagine a person making it. And in life, as with people like Martin Luther King or Gandhi, it seems impossible to image that someone lived that life. The greater this incomprehensibility is to grasp, between the real and the image of that we have, the greater the wonder.
                        
Imago :
1 : an insect in its final, adult, sexually mature, and typically winged state
2 : an idealized mental image of another person or the self
L : imago : an imitation, copy of a thing, an image, likeness.
[note : the image of the thing is never the thing itself, but often, the image which represent the actual, is taken far beyond its context and intention, then adopted as the thing itself; that which it represented now is incarnated into the representation, and the original thing it depicted becomes obsolete. Ask what is reality, and to paraphrase Murakami, it’s the chain of metaphors used to describe the state of reality by another state, and this continual relational drive creates more links in the chain of all realities, and together, the metaphoric chain as a whole represent the feeling of the real, but never able to stand solid as the real, only create the texture we experience, and speak of when we state that something is felt to be real, and not illusory or fantasy, it’s what we could also refer to as believable, without further inquiry, or when we accept a fictional narrative judge the quality of likeness to the experiences we have witnessed first hand, and can assign by conjecture, that was so realistic.
[expand by relating the phenomena uncanny valley in fiction and CGI; also amplify the uncanny.]


The uncanny valley, briefly defined, is imitation taken to such extreme, but ultimately failing, the closeness in resemblance creates a heightened state of comparison, and seeing that the imitation is not the real, a repulsion is experienced. Making an image that fails in representation likeness but allows the viewer to know it’s not real, allows for the suspension of disbelief to exist unchallenged, and the narrative then can be transmitted. In the uncanny valley, this state of disbelief is what’s refuted and by dependency to likeness to convince the narrative, the story is also rejected. In this case it’s better to leave a large gap between likeness and believability. Unless the technology can resemble the real, by creating a hyper-real image, as with current 3D technology in film. Films like Gravity, or ___, where at the moment of experience, as a viewer you forget yourself, and lose yourself in the image, and the technology becomes invisible, and only exists as a transmission. Great art always renders the technology invisible, the medium disappears, and so does the traces of the creator. This is exactly what we experience in magic. Successful art, stories, science, gesture in life, etc., all have in common this state of magic, a believable experience, but a consequent, unattainable explanation of how it was made. The imitation focused on the scale of narrative, where affect is transmitted, through the Mutual Membranes of Contact.
Image : origin : imagine, L : imagin-, imago, imitari imitate
                    
Mago : Spanish for magician

MUTUAL MEMBRANE OF CONTACT


The Mutual Membrane of Contact is a conceptual interaction, which occurs in real life, but exists at various scales in time, space, and perception, including dreams, visions, realizations. As with the difficulty of describing in any concrete and physical terms, what love is as a thing, or where it’s located, so to the MMC is a relationship between states and objects, it is the bridge, or the fields we go through that define specific states, i.e., between day and night, twilight and dawn, between exterior and interior body, the skin. MMC is defined by the terms, but also defined by where two separately perceived things are found to relate, or come against another. How porous, or how capable the MMC is able to allow exchange of information, defines the quality of MMC. MMC is part of a larger view, a component of The Apparatus of Containment, TAC, which is how we define a border, or container, and it’s efficacy, contingent of it’s purpose. An astronaut suit, a cup, a soccer ball. They all contain something intended with a certain quality that allows functionality.
                    
(TAC) C + Ef / Pu [ (Container + Efficacy ) ÷ Purpose ] defines TAC
                    
TAC sees the membrane as a practical technology to ascribe purpose and a function.
MMC observes the membrane as a bridge between the container and contained, efficacy and purpose are fluctuating variables.


                    
SOLVENT PEOPLE


Most of us are focused on their own troubles and being unorganized, and without means, they make difficult choices based on more pressing needs than at the guiding primacy of balancing out a country or the continent, or the world.  The means that created these forms, want to continue making these forms, and rather than invent new ways of relating, we do what is more satisfying in the short term—innovation.  Helping the speed rate of innovative solutions, focuses attention solely on the object but not the overall implication, or the subject or the matter. Things change, and myopic drives, don’t have inherent tolerances to recheck the external conditions.  It happens to with art, and with most people as the generations, younger in age, naïve, supplant the elder, more frugal, in this consumer based economy, flow is the life, and the stoppage of capital currency, would destroy the economy, so in addition to money and good being solvent, so have we become at the mercy of the system we created.  As monsieur guillotine died by beheading on the very device he invented.  To quote Morpheus, “fate it seems, is not without a sense of irony.”—The Matrix. 


If there is to be nature, we will recreact her ways.  For reenactment is not recreation, but a twofold fiction, and so we recreact, and react to our disposition, which no longer predisposed in nature we step on the glass mirror and the water draws away. 

Our blood is fluid ligno.

Passing the cold night
watching over little ones
asleep in the nest –
ingratitude is something
only human beings know.
Samuki yo no
negura no tori no
yakume tori
on o shiranu wa
hito koso arikeri.


KNIGHT TO NIGHT


Death.  Darkness.  A view from within. Behind the skull, from within the socket, the light fading to emptiness.  This concept and chapter potentially deals with the realization of the kill, being a survivor to the duel, living with the responsibility of taking someone’s breath away, and replacing their existence with the continuity of a memory and a physiological change in the one standing; a kill without an enemy, without injustice, a mutual respect for the human need towards blood and satisfaction.  


DIAMOND MEAT FEAST proposes a similar structured relationship towards this type of consumption, assimilation of the released notion of chivalry, and foreshadowing death of the knight. An action in slow motion, a death reaching a state of stillness, of complete serenity, and silence; ultimately, a release of all tension, an orgasm, linked between four eyes. Gazing deep within a forest as all light is sucked and distributed on branches, moss, bark, the underside of the canopy. You will always be my king. The moon over the forest, through the web branches streaking on the mapped starry sky, tugs a lightness of celestial-cobalt intoxication and the promise of renewal.  


What then is the relationship between the dawn and dusk? Between the gloaming and dawn?  How many years can be realized in this period of time?  What will be remembered and what will have been loved, transformed into our genetic imprint?

 


ATW – SYNOPSIS

Nano War, Considering Armor, Diamond Meat Feast, Wife Disappearance, Into Woods, Night to Knight, Love of Philapores, Chevelure Modernism, Feeding Frenzy, Mothership Tree, Last Escape, and Shell Union comprise some of the chapters to a story entitled After the Woods, which is currently under development.

The story and work introduces the landscape of the “woods” as an alternate reality, an encoded labyrinth, a backbone, and fantastical internal field, informed by country lore, modern science, and the fancy of fairytales.  

Within this scenario, a man and woman are reunited after nearly a thousand years of separation, framed in time by the era of chivalry and the remote future.

Their separation is the pulp of the story, in which the man becomes a knight in armor with the power to attract the entirety of the elements of the natural order, while the woman, metamorphoses into is a spaceship that similarly to the knight, gravitates to herself the vast participants in the aviatory/space technological order.

She propels the advancement of intelligence in technological development; he speeds the evolutionary growth of plant life to absurd proportions.

The forest they inhabit, inclusive of its creatures, are all affected, and in their own right, develop the privilege of magic, levitation, alchemy, cloning, digitization, and intuitive intelligence.

All the drawings presuppose, in conjunction with the story, installations, sculptures, animation, and a book that serve to realize the characters, creatures, elements, and events inhabiting the alchemic forest.

Princess Dress Shell, Ornament Tree, and Nanoships are the first “sculptural” endeavors pertaining to this project.  


“After The Woods” was conceived about 16 years ago, with a title that is meant to be ambiguous.  “After” meaning after an apocalyptic event that would eliminate the woods (the woods are representative of landscape and nature) from the earth, or after being physically in the woods and leaving it with an experience that both transforms the people in the woods as well as the woods themselves.  The story is in essence about the relationship between nature and humans.  Humans are highly defined by their humanity, power, and technology.

Humans claim nature with a certain emotive connection as something sublime, beautiful, crooked, or artificial.  

The story begins [actually, the story begins with a union—fucking—to conception] at the edge of a forest, at dawn, with blades of grass attempting to form specific structures, which will summon human beings into this alternate universe.  “Nanoships” battle the blades of grass, but lose.  A man and woman appear sleeping surrounded by buried bedposts.  The man wakes up and finds armor placed next to an extinguished fire.  He considers the armor and puts it on.  Within the ornamentation of the armor is a code that informs him how to behave – chivalrous.  He notices his wife is lying next to a creature and quickly impales it, killing it and consequently, watches his wife disappear, as she fragments into blades of grass, and returns to the earth.  He thinks this is not his wife and goes in to the woods to find her. 

The knight becomes obsessed with the acquisition of plumage, which he uses to decorate his armor and elevate his social status.  The philapores, a bird which can only move through matter, and can’t fly conventionally, is the prime victim of the knight.  “Phila-pore”, meaning the love of pores, was chosen to point towards the subtext of skin and “containment units”.  The way armor is a container for a human, or a spacesuit, or a spaceship, or the skin as a container for flesh and bone.  The Philapores carry code that transmits onto the armor and onto the human, which ultimately inform him how to behave. The code is coming from his wife, the princess, via way of the forest.  He thinks that she is in the forest traveling in a spaceship, but in the end when he eventually finds her, he realizes that she “is” the spaceship, and they both, man and woman are conflicted as to how their union is going to take place, since he’s been in armor for about a thousand years and she is pure technology.  They dream of each other . . .  there is no concrete basis for their conclusions.  But they know.  This last concept is called “Shell Union”.
    
Every chapter of the narrative is basically seen as a concept of the human condition, the history of trials and tribulations.  

The battle between A.I. and grass is called “Nanowars”.  “Considering Armor” is about the relationship between man, war, and the transformation into machine with the apparent loss of physicality.  “Into the Woods” deals with the relationship between the effects man has on a forest and the way a forest appears before it’s nature is revealed. These are some of the concepts.

The drawings depict very specific as well as non-specific moments in the story.
The narrative serves as a backbone, but is also elaborated by the process of the drawing.  Sculptures exist, but they stem from the drawings more directly.  In a way the narrative exists as a philosophy, but within the story everything is seen as causal, by cause and effect only, and devoid of morality.  However, I think the story as a whole project raises many questions addressing advances of technology, warfare, intimacy, nature, pathos, which can’t help, but present themselves as moral issues.  

Please forgive the rambling.  The story, or project, has an end and a beginning; the time of execution is undefined. 

There is more, but it becomes more and more encrypted.  The above are some of the things I’ve been able to tackle so far.  I hope you had access to the drawing and I certainly expect questions, so please feel free to call after you’ve read this.  Also, please forgive the convolution, but I just wrote this, and would have liked to take more time to edit before sending it off.

 

PHILAPORES & FEATHERS

Keep an eye out for the feathers.  The drawings depict scenes of struggling birds, in variances of degrees, from the ongoing narrative “After the Woods”.  These birds are called “Philapores” and literally mean the love of the pore, which is intended as a reference to the way in which information and code is transferred between the knight and the princess – on the feathers of the philapores, which consequently, the knight is obsessed with acquiring in order to elevate his status to regal and chivalrous grandeur, as a method of reunify with his vanished wife.  The birds struggle to release the feathers from bags; they struggle with the code, and at times are both trapped and devastated by it; and they struggle as they are incapable of conventional flight, but are able to traverse through dense matter like rock, water, and trees.  The land is plotted with traps, screens, and offerings.  The Philapores seek them out, and are ultimately after the same things as the inhabitants of the woods: the control of information, the form of dispersion, and the way it affects the land.

The drawings are a “selection” from a few chapters: Love of Philapores; Traps, Screens and Offerings; and Last Escape.
    
The paper sculptures represent some of the components from the beginning of the narrative, in which nature (the blades of grass, to be precise) battle nanoships in an effort to summon a human couple into the uninhabited landscape.  
 
The group of drawings depicts scenes of struggling birds from the ongoing narrative “After the Woods”.  These birds are called “Philapores” and literally mean the love of the pore, which is intended as a reference to the way in which information and code is transferred between the knight and the princess – on the feathers of the philapores, which consequently, the knight is obsessed with acquiring in order to elevate his status to regal and chivalrous grandeur, as a method to reunify with the disappearance of his wife.  They struggle to release the feathers from bags, the code, and also, they struggle as they are incapable of conventional flight, but are able to traverse through dense matter like rock, or trees, etc.    

Devastated by the Code
Storming the Code and Bags
Descending Upon the Land


BIOGRAPHY

Ernesto Caivano’s meticulously detailed ink drawings depict an ambitious narrative based on lovers’ courtship, separation, retribution and eventual evolution. Varying in format and scale from scroll-like panoramas to small detailed studies, Caivano’s drawing portray a timeless tale of Polygon and Versus, who were torn apart upon the consummation of their union and transported into the woods, signifying an alternate reality and universe. Through time, Versus, clad in knight’s armor grows congruent with his natural habitat while Polygon’s evolution transforms her from Renaissance princess into a spaceship representing the advancement of technological intelligence.  João Ribas further describes it: an “…amalgam of folklore, fairytale, and scientific speculation, Caivano’s narrative serves as a search for meaning lost in our own abundance of information”.

Using the narrative in tandem with drawing, as a story-generative tool, Caivano resists any chronological reading by switching between staged episodes of the lovers’ desperate struggle to communicate and find each other (aided by birds called the Philapores) to more specific features such as the coded communication between the lovers, atmospheric debris and extinct species of flora that inhabit the woods. Together these provide a versatile compendium of Caivano’s unique Edenic world, rich in stylistic influences both archaic and contemporary; Renaissance literature, archaeology, geology, medieval art, Flemish Renaissance, Albrecht Dürer, Japanese prints and screens through to more Modernist strands of abstraction and minimalism.  Accumulating an expansive realm of sources and anomalies from nanotechnology, molecular physics to cosmology and mysticism, Caivano masters his own parallel universe and self-contained evolution.


LIST TITLES CHAPTER

 

 


1  graph 1 |graf|
1  photo- |?fo?do?|
1 If metaphors are the singular and combined graphs of what we live and experience simultaneously and inseparable (as water and swimmer) the internality (the internally felt) and externality (the externally created form os stimuli); by shrinking the amount of accountable consequence, then we are also shrinking the appearance of that substance of its relationship which we measure in biology, chemistry, physics as matter and energy, and how it will become related (science realm), relatable (public, cultural realm), and metaphorized (artist poetic realm).  
-graph
"Episteme" is a philosophical term derived from the Ancient Greek word ?π??????, which can refer to knowledge, science or understanding, and which comes from the verb ?π???????, meaning "to know, to understand, or to be acquainted with". Plato contrasts episteme with "doxa": common belief or opinion. Episteme is also distinguished from "techne": a craft or applied practice. The word "epistemology" is derived from episteme.
"Techne" is a term, etymologically derived from the Greek word ????? (Ancient Greek: [ték?n??], Modern Greek: [?texni], that is often translated as "craftsmanship", "craft", or "art".
[un/sub/non]–consciousness
• a book of illustrations or diagrams on any subject: Atlas of Surgical Operations.
• informal a photo finish.
• Mathematics a collection of points whose coordinates satisfy a given relation.
1 (pl. atlases) a book of maps or charts: I looked in the atlas to find a map of Italy | a road atlas.
1 in nouns denoting something written or drawn in a specified way: autograph.
1 relating to light: photochemical.
    1. Black holes
1913   M. Hartog Probl. Life & Reprod. 275   The mnemic possibilities of an organism may be termed, collectively, its ‘mneme’.
1921   L. Simon tr. R. Semon Mneme 12   The capacity for such after-effect of stimulation constitutes what I have called the Mneme.
1928   J. T. MacCurdy Common Princ. Psychol. & Physiol. ii. 15   The mneme and memory are thus reduced, fundamentally, to physico-chemical phenomena.
1966   E. Eng tr. E. W. Strauss Phenomenol. Psychol. i. iii. 61   Mneme must not be limited to organic substances.
1994   Skeptical Inquirer (Nexis) 22 Mar. 273   According to Bleuler, one fundamental process of the brain is mneme, which is both the conscious and unconscious memory.
2 (pl. atlases) (also atlas vertebra) Anatomy the topmost vertebra of the backbone, articulating with the occipital bone of the skull.
2 in nouns denoting an instrument that records: seismograph.
2 relating to photography: photocomposition.
    2. Eyes
3 (pl. atlantes |at?lant?z| ) Architecture a stone carving of a male figure, used as a column to support the entablature of a Greek or Greek-style building.
    3. Where Polygone resides for Echo Gambit
    4. Sensible Atmosphere for exodus and return to pollinate Earth (Terra/Gaia).
a diagram showing the relation between variable quantities, typically of two variables, each measured along one of a pair of axes at right angles.
a photograph.
a visual symbol representing a unit of sound or other feature of speech. Graphs include not only letters of the alphabet but also punctuation marks.
Ability
Accretion
Accumulate
Accumulation
Acquired
Adaptation
Addition
Aerial Views
Affection
Age of Deception
Age of Distraction
Agriculture
Air
Akin to Gk. Spairein to quiver – spurn. 
All to Gather
All Together
Allusion
Alphabet
Altruistic
Aluminum
Analogous
Analogy
Analysis
Ancient
And like an ember blown glows brighter.
And one withdraws money ;-)
And so heard himself speak strange sounds from the sky
Angels
Animals
Anthropology
Apparatus
Apparatus of Containment
Arboreal
Arcadia
Archeology
Archetype
Archetypes
Archives
    Aristotle saw it as representative of the imperfection of human imitation of nature. For the ancient Greeks, it signified all the mechanic arts, including medicine and music. The English aphorism, "gentlemen don’t work with their hands", is said to have originated in ancient Greece in relation to their cynical view on the arts. Due to this view, it was only fitted for the lower class while the upper class practiced the liberal arts of 'free' men (Dorter 1973).  
Armor
Artificial
Artificial Intelligence
As an activity, techne is concrete, variable, and context-dependent. As one observer has argued, techne "was not concerned with the necessity and eternal a priori truths of the cosmos, nor with the a posteriori contingencies and exigencies of ethics and politics. [...] Moreover, this was a kind of knowledge associated with people who were bound to necessity. That is, techne was chiefly operative in the domestic sphere, in farming and slavery, and not in the free realm of the Greek polis[2]
As with the goddess Moneta, Juno Moneta's name is derived either from the Latin mon?re, since, as protectress of funds, she "warned" of instability or more likely from the Greek "moneres" meaning "alone, unique".
Assembly Codes
Astrology
Astronomy
Atlantean |?atlan?t??n, at?lant??n| adjective
Atlas |?atl?s|    Atlas (disambiguation)
Atlas |?atl?s| Greek Mythology
Atmosphere
Atmosphere: the gaseous envelope of a celestial body
Atom
ATW
Automatons
Awareness
Becoming Your Own Filter
Behavior
Belief-bias effect A situation that occurs when a person's prior knowledge, attitudes, or values distort the reasoning process by influencing the person to accept invalid arguments.
Beliefs
Between-subjects design A research design in which different groups of participants are randomly assigned to experimental conditions or to control conditions.
Biofeedback A self-regulatory technique by which an individual acquires voluntary control over nonconscious biological processes.
Biological constraints on learning Any limitations on an organism's capacity to learn that are caused by the inherited sensory, response, or cognitive capabilities of members of a given species.
Biological perspective The approach to identifying causes of behavior that focuses on the functioning of the genes, the brain, the nervous system, and the endocrine system.
Biology
Biomedical therapies Treatments for psychological disorders that alter brain functioning with chemical or physical interventions such as drug therapy, surgery, or electroconvulsive therapy.
Biopsychosocial model A model of health and illness that suggests that links among the nervous system, the immune system, behavioral styles, cognitive processing, and environmental factors can put people at risk for illness.
Birth
Blindspot
Body
Bone
Books
Bronze
Buddha
Built
Buried Man
C is to SubC.
Calculate
Calliope (epic poetry)
Can I change your mind with money or memories or both?  Both are stories, but I'm interested in the internal one here (I am taking sides)...the transaction's "agents," so to speak.  McLuhan territory of extensions and media.  Money as extension of memory. Check. Money and artifact are inventions right?  Experience a priori is surprising.  And yet we remember that which astonishes most of all.  That which is deepest in memory is priceless.  Uncanny correlation of words.  To make change change?  
Carbon
Care
Cars
Cell
Chaos
Charade Fr., chatter; false pretension to appear real.  Charade of letters and symbols, patterned together with assigned meaning based on how well one can listen, integrate, and/or manipulate.  Once and only once makes no ‘sense’ when the body won’t follow.  It’s all a charade, why should any of this body matter, and are you capable of explaining?
Chemistry
Children
Chinese
Chromo ~ color
Chromosome ~ DNA, RNA, Gene
Chronos ~ time
Chthonic
Chunking The process of taking single items of information and recoding them on the basis of similarity or some other organizing principle.
Cinema
Civilizations
Climate (N.) late 14c., "horizontal zone of the earth," Scottish, from Old French climat "region, part of the earth," from Latin clima (genitive climatis) "region; slope of the Earth," from Greek klima "region, zone," literally "an inclination, slope," thus "slope of the Earth from equator to pole," from root of klinein "to slope, to lean," from PIE root *klei- "to lean" (see lean (v.)). 
CLIMATE CLIMATE CHANGE
Clio (history)
Clouds
Clouds
CODEX, ToMB, AND VoA 

Working Glossary and Abbreviations.

VoA    Vernacular of Ascension
ToMB    Theory of Mythobiology
Cdx      Codex
M         Working Memory Mind + Working Memory
wm        Working Memory
?         Qualia? 
M         Working Memo
Mwm     Mind + Working Memory
mm        Mechanical Memory
dm        Digital Memory
Me        Memory
Mn        Mnemonic
Mnmm    Mnemonic Mechanical Memory
MP        Metaphor  [Meta + Pherein]
Cs.        Conscious
Css.        Consciousness
CsA.    Conscious Attention
SubC.    Subconscious
Unc.    Unconscious
Psy.        Psyche
Aa.        Anima
Au.        Animus
Att        Attention
Int        Intention
^        ¿ ?
Eme^    Emergent
Env        Environment
En^        Environment
E^        Eco
E^S        Ecosystem
E^L        Ecology
E^N    Economy
Rd        Read
Rw        Rewrite
R<        Research
Vy        Verify
Et.        Etymology
M°        Meaning
Vy.
Rd.
Rw.
Ed.
Mµ        Manu (hand)

Subscript—denotes an object, noun, static.

Superscript—denotes subject, verb, action.

?  (half Tree Trunk)

Cognate L., cognatus, from co- + gnatus, natus, past participle of nasci to be born.
Cognition
Cognition Processes of knowing, including attending, remembering, and reasoning; also the content of the processes, such as concepts and memories.
Cognitive appraisal theory of emotion A theory stating that the experience of emotion is the joint effect of physiological arousal and cognitive appraisal, which serves to determine how an ambiguous inner state of arousal will be labeled.
Cognitive appraisal With respect to emotions, the process through which physiological arousal is interpreted with respect to circumstances in the particular setting in which it is being experienced; also, the recognition and evaluation of a stressor to assess the demand, the size of the threat, the resources available for dealing with it, and appropriate coping strategies.
Cognitive behavior modification A therapeutic approach that combines the cognitive emphasis on the role of thoughts and attitudes influencing motivations and response with the behavioral emphasis on changing performance through modification of reinforcement contingencies.
Cognitive development The development of processes of knowing, including imagining, perceiving, reasoning, and problem solving.
Cognitive dissonance The theory that the tension-producing effects of incongruous cognitions motivate individuals to reduce such tension.
Cognitive Intelligences (see cognitive tools).
Cognitive map A mental representation of physical space.
Cognitive perspective The perspective on psychology that stresses human thought and the processes of knowing, such as attending, thinking, remembering, expecting, solving problems, fantasizing, and consciousness.
Cognitive processes Higher mental processes, such as perception, memory, language, problem solving, and abstract thinking.
Cognitive psychology The study of higher mental processes such as attention, language use, memory, perception, problem solving, and thinking.
Cognitive science The interdisciplinary field of study of the approach systems and processes that manipulate information.
Cognitive therapy A type of psychotherapeutic treatment that attempts to change feelings and behaviors by changing the way a client thinks about or perceives significant life experiences.
Cognitive Tools  mental technology, such as language, symbols, icons, patterns, images, and stories.
Coins have always been portable memorial artifacts, struck to commemorate war victory or to remind the population who the sovereign is. Signing a check is a performance of identity that memorializes the self. CC/Bitcoin well the obvious RAM dependence. 
Collect
Collective unconscious The part of an individual's unconscious that is inherited, evolutionarily developed, and common to all members of the species.
Collectives
comb. Form
comb. form
Come Back
Communication
Compassion
Compromise
Computers
Conceived by man and stone wall, the echo returned clear,
Conclusions
Conductivity
Consciousness
Consistency
Constants
Constellations
Containments
Contents
Context of discovery The initial phase of research, in which observations, beliefs, information, and general knowledge lead to a new idea or a different way of thinking about some phenomenon.
Context of justification The research phase in which evidence is brought to bear on hypotheses.
Contextual distinctiveness The assumption that the serial position effect can be altered by the context and the distinctiveness of the experience being recalled.
Contingency management A general treatment strategy involving changing behavior by modifying its consequences.
Control procedures Consistent procedures for giving instructions, scoring responses, and holding all other variables constant except those being systematically varied.
Controlled processes Processes that require attention; it is often difficult to carry out more than one controlled process at a time.
Convergence The degree to which the eyes turn inward to fixate on an object.
Cooking
Coping The process of dealing with internal or external demands that are perceived to be threatening or overwhelming.
corpus callosum
Corpus callosum The mass of nerve fibers connecting the two hemispheres of the cerebrum.
Correlation coefficient (r) A statistic that indicates the degree of relationship between two variables.
Correlational methods Research methodologies that determine to what extent two variables, traits, or attributes are related.
cortex
Cosmology
Cosmos
Craft
Creation
Cultivation
Culture
Day
Dear Mnemosyne, memory, but more aptly, mindful,
Death
Declarative memory Memory for information such as facts and events.
Define All Levels
DERIVATIVES
Descend like voices of birds and creatures hidden to the eyes.
Destroy
Determinism
Developed
Didactic
Didn't know the words were etymological descendants. But to differentiate, memorizing or memorialize is akin to "history", where the mnemonic is one of integration via mindful activity. The prior imposes, the other exposes. External RAM/ROM vs. living memory (organic) which integrates. This reminds me of the "knowing" becoming the "rule". And again, fell into the "history" vs. "experience" of Camus' trap. In summary, I think "Mnemosyne" got "shortchanged."   
Dilemma
Discovery
Distraction displaced presence of attention to multiple disembodied actions, screens, or thought.
Divorce
DNA
Dogs
Domestication
Double Infinity
Double Speak
Doxa (from ancient Greek ????, "glory", "praise" from ?????? dokein, "to appear", "to seem", "to think" and "to accept"[1]) is a Greek word meaning common belief or popular opinion. Used by the Greek rhetoricians as a tool for the formation of argument by using common opinions, the doxa was often manipulated by sophists to persuade the people, leading to Plato's condemnation of Athenian democracy.
Drawing
Dreams
Dreamwalkers
Drives
Dualistic
Dust
Earliest Recalled Memory
Earth/gaiacentric
Earthquake
East ~ West
Eclipse
Ecological
Eden
Education
Ego
Egypt
Electricity
Electromagnetism
Electron
emergent
Emergent Moving Parts (Re: tech-nolo1-logy, techno-lology).
Empathy
Encyclopedia
Entangled Particles
Entangled Sensorial Spaces ESS (see Synesthesia, Environment, Intuitive Recall, Mnemonic, Mneme).
Epigenetics
Episteme (moth) Noctuoidea is the superfamily of noctuid (Latin "night owl") or "owlet" moths, and has more than 70000 described species, the largest number of for any Lepidopteran superfamily.
Episteme is a genus of moths of the Noctuidae family. Species are widespread.
Epistemology
Erato (lyric poetry)
Erosion Principles
Ethics
Etymology history of a word.
Etymology of “mind” in relationship to “meaning.”
Etymology: < German Mneme (R. Semon 1904, in Die Mneme als Erhaltende Prinzip im Wechsel des Organischen Geschehens; earlier use is sometimes attributed to Ewald Hering (1834–1918)) < ancient Greek ????? , (Doric) ????? memory < the base of ??????? to remember (see mnemonic n. and adj.) + -?? (see -oma comb. form). Compare French mnème (1911). Compare slightly earlier mnemic adj.
Euterpe (music)
Evolution
Exchange
Exclusion
Existing    
Exponential
Expression
Eye - Old English ?age, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch oog and German Auge.
Fabric
Faithfulness
False
    False Etymology
False Flags
Families
Fantasy
Fate
Fiction
Finite
Fire
Fissures
Flight
Floating on water
    Folk Etymology
Folk Lore
Food
For other uses, see Moneta (disambiguation).
Forest
Forest of Engines
FORTUNE OF TECHNOLOGY and FORTUNES TOLD
Fractures
Freewill
From play night unfolds disguised the airy
Fulcrum
Furniture
Gaia
Gandhi
Gardens
Gaseous
gene
Generational Cycles transition of technology without an emotional change (e.g., waiting for a letter, versus waiting for an email to arrive), while anticipation changes but not the emotional charge.  Ex. 1) The Evolution of Screens, from mesh, to Shoji, to medical, to computer, to device; 2) From oral stories, to books, to color-picture magazines, to film, to TV, to Internet downloading narratives, the shared myth is discussed in different speeds.  The new pope, advertising next to the invasion by aliens in  colony, on the side of bus today.  
Genes
Genius
Gentle
Geology
Geometry
Gk.        Atmos: vapor
Gk. Sphaira: ball
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY & ETYMOLOGY
GLOSSARY from apa.org American Psychological Association
God
Gold
Graph
graph 2 |graf|
Grapheme/phoneme/morpheme
Gravity
Greek
Greek name
Roman name
Image
Functions and attributes
Zeus
Jupiter

King of the gods and ruler of Mount Olympus; god of the sky, lightning, thunder, law, order, justice. Youngest child of the Titans Cronus and Rhea. Symbols include the thunderbolt, eagle, oak tree, scepter, and scales. Brother and husband of Hera, although he had many lovers, also brother of Poseidon, Hades, Demeter, and Hestia.
Hera
Juno

Queen of the gods and the goddess of marriage and family. Symbols include the peacock, cuckoo, and cow. Youngest daughter of Cronus and Rhea. Wife and sister of Zeus. Being the goddess of marriage, she frequently tried to get revenge on Zeus' lovers and their children.
Poseidon
Neptune

God of the seas, earthquakes, and tidal wave. Symbols include the horse, bull, dolphin, and trident. Middle son of Cronus and Rhea. Brother of Zeus and Hades. Married to the Nereid Amphitrite, although, like most male Greek Gods, he had many lovers.
Demeter
Ceres

Goddess of fertility, agriculture, nature, and the seasons. Symbols include the poppy, wheat, torch, cornucopia, and pig. Middle daughter of Cronus and Rhea.
Athena
Minerva

Goddess of wisdom, reason, intelligent activity, literature, handicrafts and science, defense and strategic warfare. Symbols include the owl and the olive tree. Daughter of Zeus and the Oceanid Metis, she rose from her father's head fully grown and in full battle armor.
Apollo[A]
Apollo[A]

God of light, prophecy, inspiration, poetry, music and arts, medicine and healing. Son of Zeus and Leto. Symbols include the sun, lyre, swan, and mouse. Twin brother of Artemis.
Artemis
Diana

Goddess of the hunt, virginity, archery, the moon, and all animals. Symbols include the moon, deer, hound, she-bear, snake, cypress tree, and bow and arrow. Daughter of Zeus and Leto and twin sister of Apollo.
Ares
Mars

God of war, violence, and bloodshed. Symbols include the boar, serpent, dog, vulture, spear, and shield. Son of Zeus and Hera, all the other gods despised him. His Latin name, Mars, gave us the word "martial."
Aphrodite
Venus

Goddess of love, beauty, and desire. Symbols include the dove, bird, apple, bee, swan, myrtle, and rose. Daughter of Zeus and the Oceanid Dione, or perhaps born from the sea foam after Uranus' semen dripped into the sea after being castrated by his youngest son, Cronus, who then threw his father's genitals into the sea. Married to Hephaestus, although she had many adulterous affairs, most notably with Ares. Her name gave us the word "aphrodisiac", while her Latin name, Venus, gave us the word "venereal".[B]
Hephaestus
Vulcan

Master blacksmith and craftsman of the gods; god of fire and the forge. Symbols include fire, anvil, axe, donkey, hammer, tongs, and quail. Son of Hera, either by Zeus or alone. Married to Aphrodite, though unlike most divine husbands, he was rarely ever licentious. His Latin name, Vulcan, gave us the word "volcano."
Hermes
Mercury

Messenger of the gods; god of commerce, communication, borders, eloquence, diplomacy, thieves and games. Symbols include the caduceus (staff entwined with two snakes), winged sandals and cap, stork, and tortoise (whose shell he used to invent the lyre). Son of Zeus and the nymph Maia. The second-youngest Olympian, just older than Dionysus.
Hestia
Vesta

Goddess of the hearth and of the right ordering of domesticity and the family; she was born into the first Olympian generation and was one of the original twelve Olympians. Some lists of the Twelve Olympians omit her in favor of Dionysus, but the speculation that she gave her throne to him in order to keep the peace seems to be modern invention. She is the first child of Cronus and Rhea, eldest sister of Hades, Demeter, Poseidon, Hera, and Zeus.
Dionysus (or
Bacchus)
Bacchus

God of wine, celebrations, and ecstasy. Patron god of the art of theatre. Symbols include the grapevine, ivy, cup, tiger, panther, leopard, dolphin, goat, and pinecone. Son of Zeus and the mortal Theban princess Semele. Married to the Cretan princess Ariadne. The youngest Olympian god, as well as the only one to have a mortal mother.

Habits
Habits
Half-Truths
Hands
Harmonic
Health
Heliocentric
Heliosynthesis the photon
Helium
Hierarchies
History ~ His story
HOMEOSTATIC OR INTELLIGENT FULCRUM
Homes
homunculus
Horizon Blue
Horses
hues lie engorged. One is not alone, none
Hunting
Hydro
Hydrogen
Hygiene
Hypothesis
Hypothetical
I miss hearing from all your friends.  Hope they’re well.
I prefer Kittler to McLuhan. You might like Mario Carpo's Alphabet and Algorithm.
I think it's very telling how wonderful words (what they imply) like: memory, change, mindful...have been transformed to denote a more material and fixed measure of experience. Memory is a thing, as much as a heartbeat or fingerprint is a thing. Though memory is never fixed or the same in two people, money is supposed to be wholly equal. I'm going to go write about change and change, money and memory.  
I will disperse high in the Troposphere out of reach of TECHNE, all the ASSEMBLY CODES.  
I’m writing myself backwards in time.  Why?
I’ve tried to reach you for years now.  Convinced that the address I was given was somehow wrong, since no “return to sender” mail ever came back, I figured perhaps it will take longer for the letters to arrive in your hands.  I can imagine you’ve been busy lately.  Your twin sister Memoria has a new corporation of data storage, but I haven’t seen your name anywhere.  Mnemonia, it seems your skills are no longer used that much, is this true?  Memoria is everywhere these days and as she’s soon to marry Tekhne, I’m curious what offspring’s they will bear.  Mnemonia, how are your children doing, the nine muses?  If you conceived with Zeus today, the God of Gods, what nine children would you bear?  And Uranus, God of Heaven (space) and sky is your dad and Gaia, Earth, your mother.  Brilliant lineage.  Zeus / Jupiter.  Gaia / Rhea (earth, but to flow, so perhaps volcanic lava?)
Ice
Iconic memory Sensory memory in the visual domain; allows large amounts of information to be stored for very brief durations.
    Icons –
    Icons –
Id The primitive, unconscious part of the personality that operates irrationally and acts on impulse to pursue pleasure.
Ideas
Identification and recognition Two ways of attaching meaning to percepts.
Idiographic
    If such analogue exists with linguistic morpheme.
Illusion
Illusion An experience of a stimulus pattern in a manner that is demonstrably incorrect but shared by others in the same perceptual environment.
Illusory contours Contours perceived in a figure when no contours are physically present.
Illustration
Implicit uses of memory Availability of information through memory processes without the exertion of any conscious effort to encode or recover information.
Implicit—Def.* hard wired, spatial mapping
Implicit/explicit memory
In addition, genes can regulate the process of long-term memory storage.  
In culture
In Greek mythology, Pheme fay-may; ????, Roman equivalent: Fama was the personification of fame and renown, her favour being notability, her wrath being scandalous rumors. She was a daughter either of Gaia or of Elpis (Hope), was described as "she who initiates and furthers communication" and had an altar at Athens. A tremendous gossip, Pheme was said to have pried into the affairs of mortals and gods, then repeated what she learned, starting off at first with just a dull whisper, but repeating it louder each time, until everyone knew. In art, she was usually depicted with wings and a trumpet.
In linguistics, a morpheme is the smallest grammatical unit in a language. The field of study dedicated to morphemes is called morphology. A morpheme is not identical to a word, and the principal difference between the two is that a morpheme may or may not stand alone, whereas a word, by definition, is freestanding. When it stands by itself, it is considered a root because it has a meaning of its own (e.g. the morpheme cat) and when it depends on another morpheme to express an idea, it is an affix because it has a grammatical function (e.g. the “–s” in cats to specify that it is plural).[1]  Every word comprises one or more morphemes.  The more combinations a morpheme is found in, the more productive it is said to be.[2]
In natural language processing for Korean, Japanese, Chinese and other languages, morphological analysis is the process of segmenting a sentence into a row of morphemes.  Morphological analysis is closely related to part-of-speech tagging, but word segmentation is required for these languages because word boundaries are not indicated by blank spaces.
    In Roman mythology, Fama ("rumor") was described as having multiple tongues, eyes, ears and feathers by Virgil (in Aeneid IV line 180 and following) and other authors. She is also described as living in a home with 1000 windows so she could hear all being said in the world. Virgil wrote that she "had her feet on the ground, and her head in the clouds, making the small seem great and the great seem greater." 
In Roman mythology, Moneta (Latin Mon?ta) was a title given to two separate goddesses: the goddess of memory (identified with the Greek goddess Mnemosyne) and an epithet of Juno, called Juno Moneta (Latin I?no Mon?ta). The latter's name is source of numerous words in English and the Romance languages, including the words "money" and "mint".
In Shadows where Versus Set goes blind leads the way
INDEX
Indexed
Individuals
Individuation
Indoctrinate
Industry
Inertia
Infinite
Inflectional morphemes modify a verb's tense or a noun's number without affecting the word's meaning or class. Examples of applying inflectional morphemes to words are adding -s to the root dog to form dogs and adding -edto wait to form waited. In English, there are eight inflections.
Information
Information – Toefler (statistical visual analysis)
INHERENT BIOLOGY (NATURE)
Inherited
Instinct
Int        Intention
Internal
Internet Machine
INTRODUCTION
Invented
Iron
Ironic
Jargon
Journey ~ Into the Woods
Juno Moneta
Juno Moneta, an epithet of Juno, was the protectress of funds. As such, money in ancient Rome was coined in her temple. The word "moneta" is where we get the words "money", or "monetize", used by writers such as Ovid, Martial, Juvenal, and Cicero. In several modern languages including Russian and Italian, moneta (Spanish moneda) is the word for "coin".
Jupiter
Jurisdictum
Kanji
Kicking up dust when there’s no reason to do so, or my mistake, clouds the air with dirt, and clogs the lungs.  Technology is born from the Valley of Echoes where man first hear himself, outside himself.  Nature created a feedback loop, which man has been trying to recreate ever since, with higher degrees of fidelity.  Echo Gambit is the return to the original state of technology, which obliterates the body whole, by stirring everything to dust and debris.  
Kings
Knowledge
KNOWLEDGE
Knowledge –
L.          Sphaera: sphere
Landscape/Geology – James Lovelock, Simon Schama, Panofsky, 
Landscapes—physicality; spatial; navigation; 
Language
Languages (which divisions to perceive through and filter the problems?) Distinguish between Semantics, Linguistics, Semiotics, Etymology, etc.
Latent
Law of Large Numbers
Lens
Let’s Start Again
Let’s Start Again
Lexicology
Lexicon
Liberty
Lichen
LIFE EXTENSION / AFTERLIFE
Life starts without knowing
Life—
Limbs
Linguistic – Noam Chomsky, (poetic etymology, and conjugative fallacy vs. poetic lisence)
    Linguistic : a word or a part of a word that has a meaning and that contains no smaller part that has a meaning : a distinctive collocation of phonemes (as the free form pin or the bound form –s of pins) having no smaller meaningful parts; Morphemic adj.; morphemically, adv.; French morpheme, from Greek morphe form. C.1926
    Linguistic associations  The Greek word pheme is related to "to speak" and can mean "fame", "report", or "rumor". The Latin word fama, with the same range of meanings, is related to the Latin fari "to speak", and is, through French, the etymon of the English "fame".[1]
Linguistics
Liquid
Literal • Human Laws by
Literature – H. Murakami, J.L.Borges, H. Hesse, Kafka, Cervantes, W. Shakespeare, G. Marquez, E. Dickinson, I.Asimov, Stanislaw Lem, Arthur C. Clark, Neruda, Cummings, Whitman, James Joyce, Mann, Lewis Carroll, Dylan Thomas, Maria Rilke, Umberto Eco (serendipities),
logos banter say discourse jest joke skit jape raillery (good-natured ridicule) Word witticism funniest waggery wisecrack drollery jink (quick evasive move) prank lark logus : lexis say sonus sound
Loneliness
LOVE
Love—relationships; birth; overpopulation
LTP’s?? Potential and Refractive Metaphor.  Cicero speaks of this exact distinction, which he calls Natural and Artificial Memory, encoded in the shape and conditions of the environment around us, where the later, is designed by art and effort. What is also striking, which Cicero alluded to but never amplified, is how memory works, and what the benefits of creating artificial mnemonic based memories.  Kandel states
Lucifer (light-bringing; the horses of Luna, of Lucina; bringing safety; the morning star, Venus; The fabled son of Aurora and Cephalus, and father of Ceyx, a son of Jupiter; 
Lumen (sunbeams lamp candle light) 
Lux (light of sun and other heavenly bodies) 
M Working Memo
M Working Memory  Mind + Working Memory
M°        Meaning
Macro
Magic
Magnanimous
Magnetism
Maiden Voyage
Man
Mandalas
Manifest Content In Freudian dream analysis, the surface content of a dream, which is assumed to mask the dream's actual meaning.
Mann’s Erotic Irony
MAPPING & GRAPHING—
MAPS
Marriage
Math
Mathematics – Newton, algorithms, Pythagoras, 
Matisse, DaVinci, Vaedernoe, Simon Schama, 
Me        Memory
MEANING
Meat
Mechanical
MEDIA / ADVERTISING
Medicine
Medieval Etymology
Meditation A form of consciousness alteration designed to enhance self-knowledge and well-being through
Melpomene (tragedy)
meme
Memes
MEMORY
Memory The mental capacity to encode, store, and retrieve information.
MEMORY/MIND/MEANING?
Mental Set The tendency to respond to a new problem in the manner used to respond to a previous problem.
Mentalism
Mentations
Merged
Mergers
Meta-Analysis A statistical technique for evaluating hypotheses by providing a formal mechanism for detecting the general conclusions found in data from many different experiments.
Meta-Analysis A statistical technique for evaluating hypotheses by providing a formal mechanism for detecting the general conclusions found in data from many different experiments.
Metaflorica Fauna & Random Seed Breeds
Metals
Metamemory Implicit or explicit knowledge about memory abilities and effective memory strategies; cognition about memory.
Metamemory Implicit or explicit knowledge about memory abilities and effective memory strategies; cognition about memory.
Metamorphology
Metamorphosis
Metamorphosis through time
Metaontophoric
Metaphor  
METAPHOR
METAPHOR—Refractive Metaphor
Metaphoric & Literal switching, mirroring,  convergent refraction, sympathetic meaning assignments for denotational / connotational  value standards / benchmark / criterions, and employed reversal constants for reflections, projections, aura, holographic, refractive, prismatic, kaleidoscopic, anamorphic, convergent, linear, concentric, and isometric perspectives.
Metaphorical • Natural Laws by
Metaphorments
Metaphorological
Metaphorology – this overlaps in  language, image, knowledge, meaning, memory, biology, culture, etc.
Metaphorology mneme
Metaphoromones
Metaphorontology what key (music), pitch (sound), frequency (wave spectrum), rhythm (time/tempo), scale (relative, non-relative sizes; phase transitions; quantum to biological scales) are metaphors being built in?
Metaphors
METAPHYSICAL
Meteorology – James Lovelock,
Micro
Migration
MILITARISM / TERROR
Military
Milky Way
Mind
MIND
Mind Maps
Mind one of the animal senses.  In humans, mind is apparently more developed than in other animals, who have keener senses such as echolocation or olphactory receptors, i.e., bats and dogs respectively. 
Mind perceives and creates stability where physio/physical/environmental stability is lacking, or misperceived, but this can tip either way, mind is a balancing act, like walking, as long as the terrain is consistent we are mindless of it.  Mind in consistent mind, becomes mindless.  
MIND the BRAIN BEHIND the BODY INSIDE your VIRTUAL HOMUNCULUS
mm           Mechanical Memory
Mn        Mnemonic
Mneme
Mnemes
MNEMONEMES
Mnemones
Mnemonic use if done properly seems to stimulate unconscious memory in such a way that it serves, and not clear yet in what capacity, to hold and place new, declarative, short-term memory inside the architecture of the long term cells?  
Mnemonics
Mnemonics Strategies or devices that use familiar information during the encoding of new information to enhance subsequent access to the information in memory.
Mnemonics/Memory –    Cicero, Foer, Kandel, Koch, Jung, Simon Schama, Yeats, 
MNEMOSYNE
Mnemosyne (wiki) (/n??m?z?ni?/ or /n??m?s?ni/; Greek: ?????????, pronounced [mn??mos??n??]), source of the word mnemonic,[2] was the personification of memory in Greek mythology. A Titanide, or Titaness, she was the daughter of the Titans Uranus and Gaia. Mnemosyne was the mother of the nine Muses, fathered by her nephew, Zeus:
Mnemosyne will UNVEIL THE WHISPERS OF THE LAND, that they may invoke the refractive metaphors. 
Mnmm    Mnemonic Mechanical Memory
Modern
MONARCHY / CHURCH
Moneta (wiki)
Moneta is a central figure in John Keats' poem "The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream".
Money
Money is a drawing.
MONITORS, not moneytowers, minotaurs, moneytours, .  
MONUMENT
Mood Disorder A mood disturbance such as severe depression or depression alternating with mania.
Morals
Morals
Morph
MORPHEME
Morpheme  smallest part of a word with no further smaller meaning.
Morpheus
Morpheus is a god of dreams who appears in Ovid's Metamorphoses. Morpheus has the ability to take any human form and appear in dreams. His true semblance is that of a winged daemon, imagery shared with many of his siblings. Starting in the medieval period, the name Morpheus began to stand generally for the god of dreams or of sleep.[1]
Morphological analysis
Morphological parsing
Morphometaphor
Morphophonology
Motion
Move Over
Movies
MP        Metaphor  [Meta + Pherein]
Music
Music – Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Radiohead, Bob Dylan, Brian Eno, Ravi Shankar, Phillip Glass, 
MUTUAL MEMBRANE OF CONTACT
Mwm     Mind + Working Memory
My gentle inhabitant, beware the NANOWAR, and settle the weary eyes.  
Mythbuilding
Mythobiology predicts through the causal relationship understood between the effects of perception upon the body, and vice versa.  Though an image, object, or concept is to remain the same regardless of moods, its ability to amplify or filter how it manifests when experienced is shaped by the body’s state.  Most people know this intuitively, and willingly go along with certain amplifiers, like the cheer of a touchdown, or the victory joy of a leader.  I have faith in this relationship, at least this is one faith I trust.  My ambivalence towards such understanding is another topic altogether.
MYTHOLOGIES—METAMYTHOLOGIES
Mythology – Jung, Campbell, Frazier, Bulfinch
Myths
Mµ        Manu (hand)
Nanotechnology
Nanotechnology – IBM, MIT
NANOWAR VS. ARBOREAL
Narcissistic
Nations
Natural
Natural Definition
Nature
Nature resists capital penetration.  Wonder if capital will accommodate climate change science sooner than later?  
NATURE—
NCC
Neologism – neo new logos speech/utterance: new words; a recently coined word or phrase, or a recently extended meaning of an existing word or phrase; coinage of new words: the practice of coining new words or phrases, or of extending the meaning of existing words or phrases
Neologistic Fallacy ~ [denominative/denomi- nativistic] denominating buzzword; coinage. ~ Fallacy.
Neoparametaontoanthropomorphorological   Dilemma
Neurology
Neuroscience –     Eric Kandel, Christof Koch, Columbia, Stanford, 
Neutral but Aware
Neutron
New Myths
Niche Finding
Night
Nightmares
NIRVANA
NOAA’s headline follows with:
Noble
NOCTUID (Night Owl) OCULAR MOONS and EPISTEME MOTH EYES
Nomen nominal name
Nominal
Not Our Fault
noun
noun
noun (pl. photos)
noun Linguistics
noun Philosophy
Nuclear Families
Nucleus
Numbers
Numinous (adj.) – "divine, spiritual," 1640s, from Latin numen (genitive numinis) "divine will," properly "divine approval expressed by nodding the head," from nuere "to nod," from PIE *neu- (2) "to nod" (source also of Greek neuein "to nod") + -ous.
Nutrition
NYX is their ruler.  
OBELISK
Obsession
    obsessions – addictions, pathos
    Obsessive – behavior not earnest to intention
    obsessiveness – structured by fear, automatic, thorough
    OCD – real condition in extreme form, but useful in moderation
Of the Valley of Echoes technology was first born, 
OFFERINGS
Oil
OIL GUSHING / FUEL / ENERGY ORES
one of the Titans, who was punished for his part in their revolt against Zeus by being made to support the heavens. He became identified with the Atlas Mountains.
Onomastic
Ontogeny the organism.
Ontology
Ontology Ont– “being is”
Ontometaphor
OPERATIONAL MODELS
Opposites
or relational thingness.
Or what I’m calling subconscious,
Or, word in the key of  :  False or Subliminal Intuitive Pictorial Etymology
Ordered
Orders Of Metaphor Evolved
ORGANIZE AND EDIT
ORGANIZERS
Organizing
Organizing Agents
ORGANIZING AGENTS or THE AGENTS OF ORGANIZATION?
ORGANIZING AGENTS—
ORGASM
Origin : Middle English duplicite, from Mid French, from L.Latin duplicitat-, duplicitas, from  L.  duplex; c. 15th century
ORIGIN 1930s: from Greek graph? ‘writing.’
ORIGIN from French -graphe, based on Greek graphos ‘written, writing.’
ORIGIN late 16th cent. (originally denoting a person who supported a great burden): via Latin from Greek Atlas, the god who held up the pillars of the universe and whose picture appeared at the front of early atlases.
ORIGIN late 19th cent.: abbreviation of graphic formula.
ORIGIN mid 19th cent.: abbreviation.
ORIGIN Sense 1 from Greek ph?s, ph?t- ‘light’; sense 2, abbreviation of photography.
Origin: A borrowing from German. Etymon: German Mneme.
Ostinato Rigore ~ Saper Vedere :  Leonardo Da Vinci’s Eyes
Our ability to independently build meaningful mythologies and metaphorical rich conduits of meaning is scarce. What we have instead, is a collective unspoken agreement that thrives in the social media tools and devices.  The sense of a real community support system is questionable, but what it certain is the spectatorship thrives, and this dynamic is the new mythology.  Hash-tags, “likes,” filters, following, and comment dialogue windows provide the illusion of choice, but mostly, offer distractions, quick fixes, instant gratifications, fill gaps of time we would otherwise spend observing or moving towards real life dialogue.  The tools are neutral and useful, the system a phenomenon.  But so far, my experience in that virtual space has yet to provide and means to develop wisdom.  More than anything it’s a distraction, and caters easily to narcissistic tendencies, as it’s modeled somewhat like an advertisement firm, promoting competition, and networking humans one may never come into contact with, a normal custom circa 1999.  Memories are recorded but not retained as experience, and this creates a contemporary simulacrum state.  Both the stories and the metaphors herein emerging will only reverberate the patterns of the social media code.  The community logs in for one now, as most applications for online dating, shopping, researching, are connected directly to Facebook.  
Our computing became indoctrinated into heaven—the firmament
Out of the forest and into the valley by following the stream
Owl of Athena or Owl of Minerva.
Ownership
Oxygen
Painting
Panegyric – praise; extravagant praise delivered in formal speech or writing.
Paradox
Paradox Constant
PART I. 
PART II. 
Passion
Passive Resistance
Patience
Patterns
Peace
Pendulum—refractive metaphors consciously build mnemonic structures that were once endowed to us via biology, in our daily, ritualistic, and dependent role within the landscape of nature.  This refractive quality is inherent in the mechanisms of religion, slogans, folklore, myth, and so forth, but these are not culturally required, thus their presence is whimsical and academic.  Baring this demotion in mind will help to illuminate the purpose they served, and how we need to reincarnate these mnemonic structures into our present day urban life-style—not an easy task.  Previous generations relied on the wisdoms they transmitted, since they were part of the fabric of life.  These organizing agents populated one’s backdrop with pragmatic reminders, helped shape a  somewhat unified zeitgeist, individual ethos and ethics, and were entertaining.  But as their need dwindled, rather than supplanting new agents to connect our personal experience with externalities, and our backdrop, they are being retired, the further we move away from the landscape that created them.  This reveals an interesting set of measureable changes with implications worth noting. 
PERCEPTION
Perception is Reality
Perhaps one of the things to go into extinction with be the drive to survive and we will simply be, as we have been all along, and awake, as a society from this perverse dream that promises at each turn, morning to wake us into a new day.  Why do we fix all that is unbroken, and so destroy in order to save.  What would peace be without the regrets and fears of war, creating need for what there is none, and depleting what is finite.  She will cycle us back into her crust, furnace us with molten care, cry her lava on the land where we will be deposited thousands of years from now as stone, and water and wind can have their way, towards another ascent into sand.  For all our ingenuity, we will become the sand grains children build with, and the tides admonish to keep it’s beaches polished.
Perspectival Depiction – one point vs. isometric; west—east EW ew    E‹—›W    e[_]w    E>°<W E>•<W
Pheme:
Pheromones
Philology
Philology study of language in written historical sources.
Philosophic
PHILOSOPHICAL
    Philosophical debates have arisen over the use of technology, with disagreements over whether technology improves the human condition or worsens it. Neo-Luddism, anarcho-primitivism, and similar reactionary movements criticise the pervasiveness of technology in the modern world, arguing that it harms the environment and alienates people; proponents of ideologies such as transhumanism and techno-progressivism view continued technological progress as beneficial to society and the human condition.
Philosophy – Daniel Dennett, Aristotle, Socrates, Lao Tzu, Popper, Descartes, Deleuze, Locke, Hobbes, Hume, Nietzsche
Phoneme
Phonetic
photo |?f?t?|
Photograph
Photon
Photosynthesis sunlight synthesis
PHYSICAL ENDURANCE TO STAY ON EARTH
Physics – Carl Sagan, Albert Einstein, Newton, DaVinci, B. Fuller, Democratus, 
Placement
Plant
PLATFORMS
Plays
plot or trace on a graph.
Pluto
PLUTOCRACY / WEALTH
Plutonium
    Poetic Etymology
Politics – Lincoln, Confucius, Gandhi, Mandela, Locke, Hobbes, Hume, Nietzsche, Aristotle, Democratus?, M. Aurelius, 
POLYGON
POLYGONE
Polyhedrons
Polyhymnia (hymns)
Pontifex greatest ‘bridge builder.’
Positive Illusions
Pragmatic
Predictive
PREFACE
Preparation
Prescriptive
Present Remains
PRISM—prismatic
Privacy
Privileged Views
Problem of Scale the intangible area of transition where incoherent parts affects another; how much effect one (invisible virus) has on group (human death, e.g., hiv), and how a group will change an individual’s behavior.  Ex., How human quotidian scale has little immediate feedback.  Recycling is a correct action, but does not ameliorate the grander issue of over-consumption, which how is it to be ‘sensed’ if the scale is fixed, i.e., there’s not transition or contrast.
Procedural memory Memory for how things get done; the way perceptual, cognitive, and motor skills are acquired, retained, and used.
Process
Procreation
Product or Process
Projections
Propaganda
Property
Protein
Protein Expression
Proton
Psy.        Psyche
Psychol. and Physiol.
Psychol. and Physiol.
Psychology
Psychology – Freud, Jung, Pavlov, Skinner,
Public
Pulleys
Purpose
QED
QED
Qualia, ?
Quality
Quantity
Quantum
Quantum Physics – Richard P. Feynman, Neils Borg, Higgs-Bosson, 
R<        Research
RADIO / ANTENNA / RADAR
Rate of Change beyond capital speed (CSt), or bound within CSt (RoC + t (time) = CSt).
Rate of Change beyond capital speed (CSt), or bound within CSt (RoC + t (time) = CSt).
Rd        Read
Rd.
Real
REALITY—Amor fati (Nietzsche); the world as it is (Buddhist) 
Recall
REFERENCES
REFRACTIVE METAPHOR
Refractive Metaphor ?REm ??? ?Ω ? works by securing a broad net of connections in the mnemonic is foster, or the mneme use.
Refractive—religion, fable, slogan, aphorism, fairytale, folklore, campaigns, beliefs, ethics, all work like a refractive metaphor, as they can be interpreted repeatedly, expanded or condensed contingent to the situation, and scale of relevancy.
Religion
Remember
REMOTE EYES / HUBBLE / VOYAGER
Reparation
Repetition
Replicate replicants
REPLICATORS
Rest
RESURRECTION / REDEMPTION
Revenge
Rhetorical
Ritual
Rivers
Roads
Rock Eaters
ROCK TITLES / PETRA SERIES
ROCKETS / MISSILES
Roman
Roots
Rope
Rw        Rewrite
Rw.
Sacrifice
SACRIFICES
Saffron sun tempers the blue sky forged, 
SAFFRON SUN WON
Saliency
Saliency
Satellites
SATELLITES / GPS / 
SATORI
SCALA
SCALE—levels of relevancy; fields of inquiry; the sciences; with the realm of temporal time;              Chronological time; perceived time; emotional time; situational time; relative time.
Schools
Sci-fi
Science
SCIENCE / EMPIRICAL
Scrolls
Sculpting
Sea
See also: Mnemosyne and Juno (mythology)
See also: Mnemosyne and Juno (mythology)
See also: Temple of Juno Moneta
See also: Temple of Juno Moneta
Seers
Selected
Selective Ignorance Fulcrum
Selective Ignorance Indifferent
Semantic
Semantic Knots
Semiotic
Semiotics – Japanese vs. Latin based.  Two tenses [past or present-future] vs. Three [past, present, future]
Sensible Atmospheres: the part of the atmosphere that offers resistance to a body passing through it.
Separate
Separations
Separations
    Serious disposition – not funny
    Serious issues – boring, not party conversation
Serious, 
    Seriousness – in all seriousness
Serum
Sex
Shaman
She’s Fired Up
SHELTER / SAFETY
    Short hand –
    Short hand –
Sidus to sweat; stars united in a figure, a group of stars, constellation, tempest
Sight
Silicon
Silver
Simile
Slavery
so far the choices made burn under sand.
so far the choices made burn under sand.
SOCIAL BELIEFS ORGANIZER
Social Media—Instagram; Tumbler; Twitter; Facebook; Google; Wikipedia, Netflix, etc.
SOCIAL RATIONAL ORGANIZER
Sociobiology – E. Wilson,Loren Eiseley, Arthur Koestler
Sociology – Richard Dawkins, Edward Wilson,
    Socrates also compliments techne only when it was used in the context of epist?m?. Epist?m? sometimes means knowing how to do something in a craft-like way. The craft-like knowledge is called a technê. It is most useful when the knowledge is practically applied, rather than theoretically or aesthetically applied. For the ancient Greeks, when techne appears as art, it is most often viewed negatively, whereas when used as a craft it is viewed positively because a craft is the practical application of an art, rather than art as an end in itself. In The Republic, written by Plato, the knowledge of forms "is the indispensable basis for the philosophers' craft of ruling in the city" (Stanford 2003). Techne is often used in philosophical discourse to distinguish from art (or poiesis).[citation needed]
    Socrates also compliments techne only when it was used in the context of epist?m?. Epist?m? sometimes means knowing how to do something in a craft-like way. The craft-like knowledge is called a technê. It is most useful when the knowledge is practically applied, rather than theoretically or aesthetically applied. For the ancient Greeks, when techne appears as art, it is most often viewed negatively, whereas when used as a craft it is viewed positively because a craft is the practical application of an art, rather than art as an end in itself. In The Republic, written by Plato, the knowledge of forms "is the indispensable basis for the philosophers' craft of ruling in the city" (Stanford 2003). Techne is often used in philosophical discourse to distinguish from art (or poiesis).[citation needed]
Solar
Solipsistic
Solitude
Soul
SPACECRAFT / SPACE STATION
Spaceships
Speciation
Spectrum
SPECTRUM—
Speech
Speech
Speed
Sphaera
Sphere: 
Spirals a study of systems which produce self-referential the terminology to explain how and why.
Spirals a study of systems which produce self-referential the terminology to explain how and why.
Spirit
STAIRS
Stairs / Slides
Stars
State
Steam
Steel
STEEPLES (RELIGION)
stimuli
stimuli
Stock
Stones
Storms
Story
Streams
Stress – 
    stressed out – emotionally frayed by worry
    stresses – thing that cause resistance and growth
    Stressing – making a point
    stressor – stimuli, environmental pressure on body/mind    
String
Style
SubC.    Subconscious
Subjective Correlational Externalities
Sublimation
Subscript—denotes an object, noun, static.
Subtraction
        Suffix and preffix are morphemes, e.g., ‘-s,’ ‘a-’
        Suffix and preffix are morphemes, e.g., ‘-s,’ ‘a-’
Sun
Superorganism
Superscript—denotes subject, verb, action.
SUPERSTITION
Supplant
Suppose
Symbols
Sympathetic
Sympathy
Symphonic
Synergetics
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Talent
TAMING NATURE
Taxes
Technaphors
Techne is a term in philosophy[1] which resembles epist?m? in the implication of knowledge of principles, although techne differs in that its intent is making or doing as opposed to disinterested understanding.
Technical
Technically, money is a print of an engraving, among all the new technology embedded in it ;-). But originally, it must have been, like trading beads, or artifacts.  So strange how we place value and exchange (mutualistic agreements) that two sides can agree on. Think how difficult it is to place value on emotions and yet we manage value on all externalities all day long.  A most normal of things.  It really baffles me.  
Techno- word-forming element meaning "art, craft, skill," later "technical, technology," from Latinized form of Greek tekhno-, combining form of tekhne "art, skill, craft in work; method, system, an art, a system or method of making or doing," from PIE *teks-na- "craft" (of weaving or fabricating), from suffixed form of root *teks- "to weave, fabricate, make" (source also of Sanskrit taksan "carpenter," Greek tekton "carpenter," Latin texere "to weave;" see texture (n.)).  
TECHNOLOGICAL
Technology
Technology – Turing, Boudrillard (Simulacra), Arthur C. Clark (invented GPS), Tesla, Emerson, 
Technology ("science of craft", from Greek ?????, techne, "art, skill, cunning of hand"; and -?????, -logia[2]) is the collection of techniques, skills, methods and processes used in the production of goods or services or in the accomplishment of objectives, such as scientific investigation. Technology can be the knowledge of techniques, processes, and the like, or it can be embedded in machines which can be operated without detailed knowledge of their workings.
    Technology has many effects. It has helped develop more advanced economies (including today's global economy) and has allowed the rise of a leisure class. Many technological processes produce unwanted by-products known as pollution and deplete natural resources to the detriment of Earth's environment. Various implementations of technology influence the values of a society and new technology often raises new ethical questions. Examples include the rise of the notion of efficiency in terms of human productivity, a term originally applied only to machines, and the challenge of traditional norms.
Tele– Gk. Telos, ?????: end, purpose (more at wheel)
Teleology study of evidences of design in nature; Doctrine explaining phenomena by final causes.
TEMPO OF HELIOS
Tempus Edax Rerum time, that devours all things.
Tempus fugit : time flies
Tempus Greek a section of time
Terpsichore (dance)
Terra is cooled.
Textiles
texture (n.) early 15c., "network, structure," from Middle French texture and directly from Latin textura "web, texture, structure," from stem of texere "to weave," from PIE root *teks- "to weave, to fabricate, to make; make wicker or wattle framework" (source also of Sanskrit taksati "he fashions, constructs," taksan "carpenter;" Avestan ta?a "ax, hatchet," thwax?- "be busy;" Old Persian tax?- "be active;" Latin tela "web, net, warp of a fabric;" Greek tekton "carpenter," tekhne "art;" Old Church Slavonic tesla "ax, hatchet;" Lithuanian tasau "to carve;" Old Irish tal "cooper's ax;" Old High German dahs, German Dachs "badger," literally "builder;" Hittite taksh- "to join, unite, build"). Meaning "structural character" is recorded from 1650s. Related: Textural.
texture (n.) early 15c., "network, structure," from Middle French texture and directly from Latin textura "web, texture, structure," from stem of texere "to weave," from PIE root *teks- "to weave, to fabricate, to make; make wicker or wattle framework" (source also of Sanskrit taksati "he fashions, constructs," taksan "carpenter;" Avestan ta?a "ax, hatchet," thwax?- "be busy;" Old Persian tax?- "be active;" Latin tela "web, net, warp of a fabric;" Greek tekton "carpenter," tekhne "art;" Old Church Slavonic tesla "ax, hatchet;" Lithuanian tasau "to carve;" Old Irish tal "cooper's ax;" Old High German dahs, German Dachs "badger," literally "builder;" Hittite taksh- "to join, unite, build"). Meaning "structural character" is recorded from 1650s. Related: Textural.
Thalia (comedy)
The angle of sun on the slope of the Earth's surface defined the zones assigned by early geographers. Early references in English, however, are in astrology works, as each of the seven (then) climates was held to be under the influence of one of the planets. Shift from "region" to "weather associated with a region" perhaps began in Middle English, certainly by c. 1600.
The angle of sun on the slope of the Earth's surface defined the zones assigned by early geographers. Early references in English, however, are in astrology works, as each of the seven (then) climates was held to be under the influence of one of the planets. Shift from "region" to "weather associated with a region" perhaps began in Middle English, certainly by c. 1600.
  The capacity which a substance or organism possesses for retaining after-effects of experience or stimulation undergone by itself or its progenitors. Cf. memory n. 6a, 6d.
  The capacity which a substance or organism possesses for retaining after-effects of experience or stimulation undergone by itself or its progenitors. Cf. memory n. 6a, 6d.
The cult of the goddess Moneta was established largely under the influence of Greek religion that featured the cult of Mnemosyne ("?????????"), the goddess of memory and the mother of the Muses. The goddess's name is derived from Latin mon?re (which means to remind, warn, or instruct). She is mentioned in a fragment of Livius Andronicus' Latin Odyssey: Nam diva Monetas filia docuit ("since the divine daughter of Moneta has taught...", frg. 21 Büchner), which may be the equivalent of either Od. 8,480-1 or 488.
The cult of the goddess Moneta was established largely under the influence of Greek religion that featured the cult of Mnemosyne ("?????????"), the goddess of memory and the mother of the Muses. The goddess's name is derived from Latin mon?re (which means to remind, warn, or instruct). She is mentioned in a fragment of Livius Andronicus' Latin Odyssey: Nam diva Monetas filia docuit ("since the divine daughter of Moneta has taught...", frg. 21 Büchner), which may be the equivalent of either Od. 8,480-1 or 488.
The epithet Moneta given to Juno more likely derives from the Greek word "moneres" ("???????") and means "alone, unique". By Andronicus' age, the folk-etymology deduction from mon?re prevailed, and so he could transform this epithet into a separate goddess, the literary (but not religious) counterpart of Greek Mnemosyne.
The epithet Moneta given to Juno more likely derives from the Greek word "moneres" ("???????") and means "alone, unique". By Andronicus' age, the folk-etymology deduction from mon?re prevailed, and so he could transform this epithet into a separate goddess, the literary (but not religious) counterpart of Greek Mnemosyne.
The FORMENTAURA — A VERNACULAR OF ASCENSION
THE HEART BRAIN MIND BODY EYES HANDS MOON SUN EARTH STARS DILEMMA ENIGMA PARADOX MYSTERY QUANDARY PUZZLE CONUMDRUM RIDDLE OXYMORON PERPLEXITY  
    The human species' use of technology began with the conversion of natural resources into simple tools. The prehistoric discovery of how to control fire and the later Neolithic Revolution increased the available sources of food and the invention of the wheel helped humans to travel in and control their environment. Developments in historic times, including the printing press, the telephone, and the Internet, have lessened physical barriers to communication and allowed humans to interact freely on a global scale. The steady progress of military technology has brought weapons of ever-increasing destructive power, from clubs to nuclear weapons.
THE INCANTATIONS & INVOCATIONS OF GRAPHEMNE DARKERCHILD.i
The incantations of DarkerchildresChildreDeorcilders Graphemne.
The major Olympians
The Neuroscience of Meta(ph)lore, Lore
THE NEW GOD: SUBCONSCIOUS*—* One last note, at this stage, from all the scientific and myth based research—one conclusion came up that’s rather interesting—God and the Unconscious are two different words to describe the exact same thing, or the relational thingness.
THE OCULAR MOONS
THE PARADOX CONSTANT or Px:  A paradox, understood as two or more coexisting traits, which are either in opposition or contrary to one another.  The traits, or qualities that define the paradox, of the subject in question and focus, range to infinite configurations.   This definition, and Constant, is a
The purpose of morphological analysis is to determine the minimal units of in a language or morphemes by using comparisons of similar forms. 
THE RELATIVE CONSTANT is the state of physiological changes detrimental only when perceived as negative, conversely, when viewed as helpful or normal the same sensations of stressing, become physiological tolerable and sustainable.  
The root is quirk, but the stem is quirky which has two morphemes. Second, another thing to take in consideration is that there might be affixes that have the same phonological form, but have different meaning. 
The screen—activity to capture simulacrum of the experience, a photo rather than watching, the need to share and in so doing replacing the landscape, with the enacted appearance of experience.  Does this get hardwired like spatial mapping?  Or does seeing the image on a smartphone work with the plastic realm of memory?
THE SENSIBLE ATMOSPHERE awaits your passage.  
The Subconscious
the theory that physical and psychological phenomena are ultimately explicable only in terms of a creative and interpretative mind.
The Unconscious
Theoretical linguistics
Theories
There’s a historic and evolutionary precedent to support this,
    There’s a historic and evolutionary precedent to support this, (i.e., the surveying effort to reveal the reiterated forms of mythology, and hero narratives, in the works of Jung and Campbell) but I’m still wrapping my head around what it means in today’s city lifestyle in NYC.  Defining either one is complicated enough, but by defining the unconscious, or what I’m calling subconscious, the quality people ascribe the God can be better understood as a biological attribute.  But it’s a paradox.  Which is why I think the Taoist text explicitly says that anything you can call or describe as the Tao, is not the true Tao.  Clever.  So basically, we can never pin point our own subconscious entirely but only get to see glimpses of it through the language of metaphor and mnemonic, or slips, symbols, and sublimated activity?  Why does the subconscious what to remain in obscurity?  Or is it already here, the texture of everything as one, apropos—love?  
These are all great contradictions.
These memories support behavioral learning and memory of spatial mapping.  In meditation are we watching the unconscious?
These types of morphemes are called homophonous.[5]
They are coextensive when one engages with an artifact. There are two continuous presents in each transaction (yours and mine) as well as history. Nature still resists capital penetration. 
They are coextensive when one engages with an artifact. There are two continuous presents in each transaction (yours and mine) as well as history. Nature still resists capital penetration. 
Things
Thought
TIME—
Titanium
TMB
TMB
to describe the exact same thing, 
To the alchemists, there was a spirit hidden in the darkness of the prima materia, a divine spark
ToMB    Theory of Mythobiology
Tools
Topography
Topologies
Topology
Total Information Access
TOTEM POLES
Tradition
Tragic
Transference
Transition Time shrinks as technology demands more interaction to give attention to the things deemed important.  Waiting time, for a bus or train, or in line, is a past generations activity.  A line is a place to check email and send texts, check ‘likes.’  Here too time is money.
Transition Time shrinks as technology demands more interaction to give attention to the things deemed important.  Waiting time, for a bus or train, or in line, is a past generations activity.  A line is a place to check email and send texts, check ‘likes.’  Here too time is money.
Transitional Shrinking Space TSS (see Transition Time).
Translation Tolerances sic “intentionally so written,” from sic erat scriptum “thus was it written.”
Transmission
Transpose
Travel
Tribes
Truth ~ faithfulness, constancy
Turned to river, and winding path and waterfall cataracts. 
TWILIGHT
TWILIGHT’S ARCHITECTURE
TWO LEVELS OF CLOUDS                 (And Clout) 
Unc.    Unconscious
Unclassified, °R^, or too many cross-overs,
Unconditional positive regard Complete love and acceptance of an individual by another person, such as a parent for a child, with no conditions attached.
Unconditioned response (UCR) In classical conditioning, the response elicited by an unconditioned stimulus without prior training or learning.
Unconditioned stimulus (UCS) In classical conditioning, the stimulus that elicits an unconditioned response.
Unconscious
Unconscious inference Helmholtz's term for perception that occurs outside of conscious awareness.
Unconscious inference Helmholtz's term for perception that occurs outside of conscious awareness.
Unconscious The domain of the psyche that stores repressed urges and primitive impulses.
UNDEFINED (Agents)
Unified
UNIFIERS—
Unify
Union
Unlike Declarative memory, Non-declarative memory (implicit memory) is unconscious.”(Kandel 15.)
UNMANNED
Unreachable Sinking – Melancholia
    Until recently, it was believed that the development of technology was restricted only to human beings, but 21st century scientific studies indicate that other primates and certain dolphin communities have developed simple tools and passed their knowledge to other generations.
Urania (astronomy)
Uranium
Urban Development
Utensils
Vague
Value
Variation
Vegetation
Vela: Time; shore; limit; boundary
verb [ with obj. ]
Verbo Word name nominal
verbum Word verb language saying expression discourse talk phrase sentence term
VERIFIABILITY — VERIFY — NGRAM VIEWER
VERSUS CODE 23 BLACK STALIONS
VoA    Vernacular of Ascension
VOCABULARY
vocabulum name designation term name appellation noun Word
Volcano
Vox
vox voice sound Word cry expression speech tone Call
Vy        Verify
Vy.
War~ Considering Armor
Water
We will meet soon again in the granite face of MOUNT CHROMACHRONOS.  
Wealth
Weapons
What may develop is the “virtual metaphor” based on the screens and windows we gaze through to find each other.  
Wheel L., colere cultivate; Sk., carati wanders; Gk., kyklos ?????? circle, wheel.
Whirlpools     self-feeding whirlpool, out of which come feathers and wings (akin to a Mobius strip).
Wikipedia ref. 08.20.2014.1652  Home dwelling place — Hypnos lives in a cave, whose mansion does not see the rising, nor the setting sun, nor does it see the "lightsome noon." At the entrance were a number of poppies and other hypnotic plants. His dwelling had no door or gate so that he might not be awakened by the creaking of hinges. The river, Lethe, in the underworld, is known as the river of forgetfulness and it flows through his cave.[3]   Family—  Hypnos lived next to his twin brother, Thanatos (???????, "death personified") in the underworld.  Hypnos' mother was Nyx (???, "Night"), the deity of Night, and his father was Erebus, the deity of Darkness.  Nyx was a dreadful and powerful goddess, and even Zeus feared entering her realm.   His wife, Pasithea, was one of the youngest of the Graces and was promised to him by Hera, who is the goddess of marriage and birth. Pasithea is the deity of hallucination or relaxation.   Hypnos' three sons known as the Oneiroi, which is Greek for "dreams."   Morpheus is the Winged God of Dreams and can take human form in dreams.  Phobetor is the personification of nightmares and created scary dreams, he could take the shape of any animal such as bears or tigers.   Phantasus was known for creating fake dreams and dreams full of illusion.   Morpheus, Phobetor and Phantasos appeared in the dreams of kings.   The Oneiroi lived at the shores of the Ocean in the West, in a cave. They had two gates with which to send people dreams. One was made of ivory and the other was made from buckhorn. However, before they could do their work and send out the dreams, first their father, Hypnos, had to put the people to sleep.[4]
Wind
Wisdom
wm    Working Memory
Woman
Word stem
Working Glossary and Abbreviations.
Working memory A memory resource that is used to accomplish tasks such as reasoning and language comprehension; consists of the phonological loop, visuospatial sketchpad, and central executive.
X
Xero- Gk., ????? dry (xerography) dry-copy. 
Yet, we build and develop to keep all of them.  
Zeitgeist
? is to ∞
 ? ? ? ? ? ?
?         Qualia? 
?  (half Tree Trunk)

 

I see some strange mythology here.  Rockets of two kinds: Tomahawks and Falcons.  One named after a Native American Indians weapon, and the other after a predatory bird used in falconry, but the name of the drone base is over the top. I’m appropriating the image into the narrative “after the woods”…. I wonder where the priorities are in the powerful business people and the false “governing” body which is another business.  Wonder what the world looks like through their eyes?

 

TABLE OF CONVERGENCES


BORN IN REALMS OF CAPTIVITY
RELATIVE VELOCITIES
HELIO DEPENDENCY – energy, food, photosynthesis, evolutionary built sunsets.
LUNAR COMMUNIONS – cycles, tides, periods, radio waves.
MOLOKO ISLAND
CORAL REEFS, MOUNTAINS  &  BRAINS; Wallace & Darwin
MIND OCTAVES & CONSCIOUSNESS CHORD FRACTALS
QUOTIDIAN RELATIVITY
MAPPING  &  DETAILS
SPACE TIME TOPOLOGY
ONTOLOGICAL ABSURDITY
MERGE UNIFY MERGE & REPEAT
EVOLUTIONARY CYCLES
KNEE ABRASIONS
CIVILIZATION AND ITS DISCONTENT 2.0
THE PRAISE OF FOLLY
VOLTAIRE’S NAIL
MUTE FATHERS, 
EINSTEIN, 
GRAVITY
FOREST ORIGAMI
STENOGRAPHY, SHORT HAND, KANJI, SONGS, AND EMOTICONS
WATER, ICE, VAPOR, LIQUID, SOLID, GAS, OCEANS, ICEBERGS, CLOUDS
PHASE TRANSITIONS
ASTRAL TUGS: ASTROLOGY / ASTRONOMY
ATLAS AD INFINITUM
THE BROOM AND STARDUST
DREAMWALKERS
KITCHEN SINK, WAVE INTERVALS
AWASETO PEAKS
ANIMAL  NAKED  SHAVED  EGYPT
CONCENTRIC FAMILY TREES AND HERITAGE
OPTIC RETINA ENDOWMENT
MENT, MEN, MIND
MOTHER LOVER WOMB PRISM STAGE ZIGOT
NERVOUS SYSTEMS
SYNERGITICS
BY WEIGHT ALONE – NOT $
TISSUE GROWTH
CELLULOSE GROWTH
CRYSTAL GROWTH
THE SCALE OF BIRD IN A VACUUM
MAPPING SCALES
PRIVILEDGED VIEWS


ARTWORK TITLES

2D Tree, Debris, and Geometry
3 in 1 Single Explosion
A Branch Removed,  A Particle in Hand
A Break In Shadows
A Breeze In Shadows
A Certain Angle Reveals the Later and Pulls the Screen (Little act of Companionship)
A Code Within the Plume
A la Orilla de Madrid
A Philapore, as Opening, a Web of Code
A Private Constellation
A Recipe to Levitate Swine
A Small Tower of Remembered Power
A Victorious Tone
Above Trees
Account for the Particulate (Information like Asteroids she Breaks)
After the Woods Cover (stage 06.11.02)
Alignments in Bloom
Alphabet
Alphabet Cursive Version
Among Webs
An Exchange for Code
An Offering Above Clouds
An Offering for Courtship
An Oversight
Analog Field
Anatomical Drawing of Neck
Anatomical Drawing of Neck
Another Day at Work
Antenna
Arbor Axis (Body of Leaves)
Arboreal Armor 1
Arboreal Armor 2
Arboreal Armor 3
Arboreal Engines
Arboreal Field
Arboreal vs. Nanowar
Armor Shifts X - 1
Armor Shifts X - 1
Armor Shifts X - 3
Armor Shifts X - 3
Assembly (Once Was Upon A Time)
Assembly Codes (1-100)
Assembly Codes in Genitals
At the Crest of the Range
Attack Formation
Attacking the Form
Attacking the Form II
Bashful Beginnings
Bed of Blades
Bed On Stump
Between Matter and Debris
Bird in Space with Tree
Bird in Tree
Black Mountain with Peaks
Black Mountain with Peaks and Clearing
Black Mountain with Trees
Blade of Grass
Blade, Row, and Stump (The Stump)

Blind Spots In Shadows 1 – 20

Blind to the Line
Block Incantations
Block Incantations
Blocking Majestic
Blow Up, Philapore!
Blue Clouds
Blue Rain Cloud
Blue Twin Cloud
Botanical Abstraction
Branch with Oak Leaf
Branching Out
Breathing the Code
Bridal Gown
Brief Tangle with Rope
Broken Branches (Samples)
Brooklyn 06.11.02
Bulbs and Debris Among Hook Branches
Bull Feeding
Burrowing Philapores
Candidate Guardian to the Philapores
Canopy Activity 1 – 14
Capture and Release
Captured Tree
Cloaking Birds
Cloud
Cloud Action
Clumsy Knight
Cockpit Wedge in Grizzly Tree
Code Activity
Code and Entropy
Code and Fiber
Code and Skin Fractals
Code Assimilations
Code Spectrum and Tree
Code Spectrums
Code Spectrums I
Code Spectrums III
Code Spectrums II
Code Toils Above Clouds
Code Within the Plume
Command Module
Communion
Company Stump
Comparitive Means
Considering Armor
Contained Tree
Convergence and Alignments
Convergence and Potential
Courtship Activity
Courtship Alignments
Courtship In Shadows
Creature Learns to Navigate Branches
Creatures of Habit
Crystal Cloud
Crystal Knight Horse
Crystal Sample 1
Crystal Sample 2

CT – Chroma Transitions
Dashing Screens
Dawn Element I
Dawn Element II
Dawn Element III
Dawn Element IV
Dawn Element V
Dawn Element VII (Versus) 
Dawn Element VIII (Polygon)
Dawn Elements
Dawn Elements Rising
Dawn Seed
Death Awaited Around the Corner
Debris Space
Descending in Shadow
Descending Symmetries
Descending Upon the Land
Devastated by the Code
Diamond Meat Feast Structures
Disbanding Bark
Diving for Code In Shadows
Door Codes
Dream of Hermaphroditic Mother
E – Echo
ES – Echoes
Embracing a Block of Wood
Emulation
Erosion Principles and the Mimicking Tree
Everything in it's Right Place
Explosion (Antique Riped Paper)
Explosion I
Fall Branches and Splinter Elevations in Shadows
Family Portrait
First Tree Willed Nanorobot
Flesh Wood I — III
Flight Entanglements
Flight of the Philapores
Floral Games
Floral Veins 18
Floral Veins 53
Forest Line
Forming Filament
Forming Land Structures
Fountain of Youth
Fractals In Shadows
Fraying the Ropes
Full
FVAC 000
FVAC 001
FVAC 002
Geometric Screen Field,  Polygon Fold
Geometrics, Concealments, and Stones
Grafted Branch
Grand Stump and Princess
Green Mountain with Primary Peaks
Candidate Guardian to the Philapores
Halo
Halo and Stump
Halo Elements
Hand and Symmetry Vortex
Handle of Sword
Her Mirror Eyes Travel
Her Resolution
Hermaphroditic
Hermaphroditic Mother
Holding Horizon
Holding Intuition
Horizon Bags in the arms of the Land
In Admiration
In Shadows
In Shadows with Bird
In Shadows with Knight
In the Stump from Polygon
In Transit
Incessant Blooms Above Clouds

Inside the Armor Shell 

Inside the Spaceship a Tree Grows
Juan Sleeping Sketch
Kimono, Quicksand, and Feathers
Knight At Edge of Forest
Knight Battle
Knight Bending Tree
Knight Embracing a Looped Tree
Knight Hugging Tree with Helmut
Knight Interlude
Knight Interlude 

Knight's First Horse
Land Compression Above Clouds
Land Compressions
Landscape Row
Landscape with Bags
Last Escape
Leaf Detail
Leaf Elea Dele Odea Code
Leaf Study
Learned Tree
Levitating Branch and Princess
Life Pack Miniature
Little Boy
Little Tree
Living Under a Dripping Tree
Looped Branches
Losing It
Losing the Cut
Love of Philapores
Mapping for Touch
Mark Twain
Master Key Log
Meat Detail
Methods of Inclusion in Shadows of Exclusion
Metropolitian 06.09.02
Milk Fountain
Miniature Explosion
Moonscape
Mother's Milk
Mothership's Cockpit
Nano 08.24.02
Nano 08.26.02
Nano 08.27.02
Nano Cluster
Nano Crash
Nano Explosion after Durer
Nano Lift-off
Nano Selection
Nanoship
Nanoship
Nanoship
New Growth
Nieuport Simulator Toy
Nightscape 08 08
Nightscape 08 09
Nightscape 08 09 01
Nightscape 08 10 01
Nightscape With Moon
No End and No Beginning 1
No End and No Beginning 2
No End and No Beginning 3
No End and No Beginning 4
Nocturnal Transmissions
Nocturne 01
Nocturne 02
Nocturne 03
Nocturne 04
Nocturne 05
Nocturne 06
Nocturne 07
Nocturne 08
Nocturne 09
Nocturne 10
Nocturne 11
Nocturne 12
Nocturne 13 (Ocular Fields and Moons)
Nocturne 14
Nocturne 15
Nocturne 16
Nocturne 17 (Ocular Neurons)
Nocturne 18 (Halo)
Nocturne 19 (Drift and Reach)
Nocturne 20 (Slow Stars)
Nocturne 21 (Ocular Moons, Dark Matter, Spectral Shadows)
Nocturne 22
Nocturne 23 (Ocular Moons, Gravitational Waves, Spectral Shadows)
Nocturne 24 (Ocular Moons, Spectral Shadow)
Nocturne 25 (Between Hands)
Nocturne 26 (Ocular Moons, Neural Fingers and Spectra)
Nocturne 27 (Ocular Moons and Nebula)
Nocturne 28 (Ocular Moons, Enclosing Transit)
Nocturne 29 (Void Positive Ocular Moon)
Nocturne 30 (Ocular Moons and Tidal Voids)
Nocturne 31 (Ocular Moons and Strands)
Nocturne 32 (Neural Arms or Lightning)
Nocturne 33
Nocturne 34
Nocturne 35
Not for Feathers
Nothing
Nothing Pendant
Ode to Melissa
Offerings (Eta)
Offerings (Omega)
Offerings (Omicron) 
On Their Accord
Once Upon a Time a Levitating Blade of Grass
Open Arms
Open Skull and Bloom
Open Throat or Open Song
Open Tree
Open Tree Screen (Light Variation)
Open Tree with Learned Growth
Origin to Self-Reflective Trees
Ornament Tree
Out On a Limb
Owl on Sinuous Branches
Parting Fractures
Parts of a Knight
Pendant for Princess
Perspective of Plumage (see The Thin Fit Layer)
Petal Antenoids
Petal Envy
Petal Paranoia
Philapore Blunder
Philapore Dreaming
Philapore Interlude in Shadows
Philapores Navigate the Log and Code
Picking at the Trim
Picking Mushrooms
Piercing the Fog
Pink Storm Cloud
Plumage Acquisition
Plumage Acquisition II
Polarity Change
Polygon Versus (Day)
Polygon Versus (Night)
Potential Guardian to the Philapores, Absorbing the Code
Princess
Princess and Stump
Princess Dress
Pullin Horizon Rope
Punch and Release
Purging Splinters
Pursuit in Shadows
Rain Cloud (Blue)
Rain Cloud (Orange)
Reaching Out Petal by Petal (Code and Transferrence)
Relaying Stump
Rocket Engine
Rope, Blooms, and a False Phallus
Salzburg 08.05.02
Salzburg 8 16 01
Salzburg Fog and Mountain
Samples
Scientist in the Mind - state sketch
Screen Shifts
Screen to Conceal (triptych)
Self Pleasuring Tree
Shattered Sky and Tree Tactics
Silver-Lined Cloud
Singing Under the Influence of Courtship
Skeleton Cloud
Sketch for Diamond Meat Feast
Sleeping Knight
Slipping Tree
Soft-Lens Explosion
Solitary Philapore In Shadows
Something New to Come
Sometime In Youth
Space Pod
Splintered Entrance
Splitting in Two
Stages in Flora
Stealth Explosions
Stealth Shell
Stealth Structures
Still Persuaded to Descend and Lay Us to Sleep
Storming the Code I
Storming the Code II
Structures
Study for a Knight eating crystal nourishment
Study for Pulling Horizon Rope
Stump and Princess
Stump Cluster Plus Networking Trees
Supple Geometry
Swimming Nymph
Symmetry and Mimicry
Tai Chi Astronaut
Tai Chi Astronaut Life Pack
Territorial Trees
The Arborists
The Art of Connectivity
The Attempt of Nanograss to Form
The Attempt to Lift Log
The Bird and the Water Fall I – IV
The Cut Conceals the Leaf
The Fit Thin Layer (Perspective of Plumage)
The Geometry Tries
The Land Inhabited
The Lay of the Land
The Preparatory Act for a More Gentle Armament (AKA Dress Codes)
The Relaying Stump
The Repeticious Act of Mimicry
The Root of Princesses
The Weatherly Philaphores
There Was Still Something
They Are Ribbons Blowing in Her
Three Degrees of Apollo
Three Trees to Debris
Tiny Princess (sketch)
To the Feather
Touch Down by a Tree
Transforming the Code Philapore
Transmissions
Traps, Screens, and Offerings
Tree Armament
Tree Assimilations in Green
Tree Attempt to Lift Log
Tree Bowing
Tree Breathes Debri
Tree Down
Tree Games
Tree Geometry
Tree Halo
Tree Learns Basic Mathematic and Primary Principles of Physics
Tree Screens
Tree Studies
Tree Study I—III
Tree With Bird and Fruit
Trees in Shadow #2
Trees with Fabric on Antique Paper
Two drawings of Philapores
Tying the Knot
Tying the Knot in Union
Union and Offerings
Union In Shadows
Spectral Divisions (Armor)
Assembly Codes 000 – 100
Debris 1 – 3
Spectral Divisions (Pores)
Arboreal Engines
Untitled (Nano War by Tree)
Blackout Machine (Quadruptic)
Untitled (Small Diptych)
Untitled (Vertical Diptych)
Untitled (Vertical Piece)
Vegetable Omens
Virgin
Water Color Studies
Watercolor Tree
Waterfalls Above Clouds
Weaved Tree
Webbed Belly
Weighted Down by Ammo: Accessible Birds
When
White Rain Cloud
Why Don't You Quiet Down
Wild Horse
Wiling the Branch to Her Hair
With Flowers and Open Wings
You Can See the Curvature of the Earth
Scientist in the Mind
Sketch for Diamond Meat Feast
Sometime In Youth
Tip-Off
Tree Bowing
Tree Enlargements
Tree Geometry
Union Shell (Polygon and Versus)
Untitled
Versus Seedling
Veil

 

THEMES TITLES CHAPTERS

CYCLES

Death, decay, fertilization, gestation, rebirth
Or:
Birth, gestation, fertilization, decay, death.
Gestation, rebirth, death, decay, fertilization.
Fertilization, gestation, birth, death, decay.
Birth, death, decay, fertilization, gestation.

 

EARTH

MOUNTAINS [above clouds]

Tao Li Kronos, Strata Rocks, The Rains, Erosion Principles, Vines of Time 

TAO LI KRONOS

Cycles of time, in what manifestations
are exposed the patterns of your rhymes?

EARTH GEOS GAIA

Depression codes push, press, and bury below the soil all that lived in the rhythms of the Sun. now, a new logic, low born, dark, earthy, rot.

BELOW THE SOIL LINE

Masters of Time;  Transformers of Walkers and Shadows;  Depression Makers

Time below the soil line, where corpse rots, 
of the body seed and toiled mind, 
sprouts green where the new can find. [where one renewed finds]

ABOVE CLOUDS

Home of the Rainmakers
Child of Heavens

STRATA ROCKS

Collector of memories; Archivists of the mountains; And of forests

ZEN AESTHETICS 

Cognizers Recognizers Finders Translators
Moderators Mediators Mediums 

Flower From the Rock (Yugen)
Mountain of solitude (Sabi)
Amazing eternal reliability of nature from the mood of depression the weed (Wabi)
Touch of regret, Life is fleeting (Aware)
Windflow, the wind, the atmosphere, the airs (Furyu)


I CHING

07/22 issue of malaise
23.  Splitting Apart, Stripping Away
Mountain (keeping still)
Earth (the receptive)
*Remain quiet and submit to decay and ruin

07/24 issue of depression
18. Ku / Work on what has been spoiled [Decay] 
Chinese kanji is image of bowl of worms.
Mountain (keeping still)
Wind (the gentle)
*Work on what has been spoiled, Trigram transformed to 

1. The Creative – Supreme Ruler
Heaven (the creative - Ch’ien)
Heaven (the creative - Ch’ien)
*Furthering and persevering is strong

I Ching:
Image, Name, Attribute, 
Heaven, the Creative (Ch’ien), string     ?
Earth, the Receptive (K’un), devoted/yielding     ?
Thunder, the Arousing (Chên), inciting movement      ?
Water, the Abysmal (K’an), dangerous     ?
Mountain, Keeping Still (Kên), resting    ?
Wind / Wood, the Gentle (Sun), penetrating      ?
Fire, the Clinging (Li), light-giving     ?
Lake, the Joyous (Tui), joyful     ?


FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS

(A Schema/Model/Method After The Woods)

1. Suffering, Dis-Ease (Dukkha)

2. Origin Of (Trishna)

3. Cessation Of (Nirvana)

4. The Way Of Cessation Of (Dharma, Prajna, ?)

 

*THE RAINS

MAGISTRATED by the RAINS

EROSION PRINCIPLES 

Revealers of histories; Maker of spires; Son time

Time is motion.
Time is motion and space.
Development of creatures attributed to the fall of rain.
Each step prepares the next, even the worms.

 

*VINES OF TIME  

Death Arrives; Supple Limbs; Solid Strata Rock; Accretion Archivists

Death Arrives, makes twins [of the soul] of us all. [Vines of fear].
Supple Limbs crack the Solid Strata Rock and reveal
what in time the Accretion Archivists conceal.

 

*IN SHADOWS

“It was hid so carefully, the grim thing, skull alive.”

Billions of years before I was setup to die, 
the images for eyes
festooned [a cross/across/cross] the skies.

Shadow Tree;  The Forest of Shadows


SHADOW PEOPLE

Shadow People are born within The Forest In Shadows, from the Shadow Tree, near its base, where lightning split the trunk apart a few millennia past.  The Shadow People can move and leave the forest by night.  But, if they enter The Canyon of Echoes, their shadows are blown like dried leafs in a storm, until they etch their forms against the Strata Rock, and Imago Mountain.  Their shadow bodies are forever sealed to the fate of rock.  Sometimes exposed to light, sometimes covered by avalanches of snow, sometimes grown over by trees and shrubs.  They remain fixed, having entered the realm of Geos time.  Nobody knows how long the shadow people have their resided.  It was the Shadow Trees that brought them to life.  Distilled from the Code of Atmos, from the air and wind, they continue to emerge, help maintain the health of the forest, and orient the occasional lost wanderer.  Shadow People blend in with shadows cast by the descending light, through the hung forest limbs.  To the untaught observer, nothing would appear out of the ordinary.  To the shadow wanderers, they can decipher where shadows are misplaced and the Shadow People residing.  Nobody knows what exactly is their purpose, but other than seeming ominous at times, they are harmless, unless fear takes over.  This has caused many travelers to lose their way and bearings, accidentally confusing shadows for creatures.  Shadow People love to shadow play, they are the children of imagination, of Agentes Imago.  

 

*FOREST (DWELLER)

Forest Dweller (Sk: vanaprasta)

    Tree Antennas
    Open Trees
    Tree Doors
    Door Codes
    Codex Tree
    Contree ME: facing land; PE: with + trees 

 


**TREE  ANTENNAS2 

Each stem of TREEii ANTENNAS has a name, each trunk is an organic totem, an antenna, a line of thought reaching and ascending upwards through other branches and stems, alongside.  Homeostatic Neural Discrimination.  R^ term in flash cards.  Left to right (1 - 

1. Alkohl - alcoholiii — Alkuhul Kahala (see endnote).
2. Graphemneme Darkchild
3. Chromakronos Mountain
4. Flora
5. Chevelure — broken stem, fractured . . .
6. Techne (tekhne)
7. Apparatus of Containment
8. Mythology/Biology = Mythobiology
9. Math & Science — regrown from a broken branch of MMoC.
10. Mutual Membrane of Contact  
a. Computers —> Serial or Parallel —> Can consciousness do this?  The unconscious seems to be able to do so—parallel living: real + “harmonic metaphor.”
b. The broken branch, touching earth yet connected to tree is #9: Math & Science.
11. Victory — short growth, broken stem [tentative].
12. Assembly Codes
13. Polygone
14. Aster — Constellations, Nocturnes, Stella, Sidus (Latin): constellation, asterism, star, night sky, a season. 
15. Human — Homo sapiens, Consciousness
16. Nature / Woods — Natura Silva Arbor Silvestre — threshold, pertaining to wood or trees, unconscious.
17. Philapores — Silicate based transmission and mobility through rock and stone.
18. Versus — verses, turn

Between Nature and Polygone stems: Stars and Humans

Grow tree
Go be free under
Your mother’s arms
Blow in the wind
And gales
Rooted to soil father. 

TECHNOLOGY IS A JUNGLE

Why are quantum physics and neuroscience more exotic than a jungle?

“Transputers”

Not causal but mutually arising.

“Fire together, wire together.”  “Use it or lose it.”

Genes affect —> effect —> protein chains —>behavior.

Apparatus of Containment.  Mutual Membrane of Contact.

*Between Mutual Membrane of Contact and Assembly Codes stems:

“Genes are master programmers.”- R. Dawkins

Worlds in microcosm.

Conscious Simulation (imagination) vs. Unconscious.   “Simulation is safer and takes less energy. [ELC: in the short term perhaps] —Dawkins, 03:48:00

Computer Machines
—>virtual
—>virtual
—>brain and hand mesh—>mixture: intuitive extension

*Hair
Appearance——thinking—stream of consciousness—>Mind --- user friendly mutual way    
Social processing machine—>Software Illusion———>Mind --- of experiencing the
Hardware of Parallel Brain Architecture——————>Mind --- mind.

Are trees technology?
Is software alive?
Is technology part of nature?
Do you feel empathy for your iPhone, digital devices, or corporations?

To predict the future: “simulations” which are virtual (akin to superstition in that they are not a real cause, but its effects leads to causes and manifests realities nonetheless).  
One brain watches what the other brain does, then compares.  Vicarious learning, or parallel learning.

THE RUSSIAN DOLLS, NESTED GAME

Take a single thing and add it to its kin.  Take the result and add it again.
Repeat this process until the end produces a quandary.  
Conversely, division can be employed to dissect to the atomos.  See what you find.

*These lines are placed between “Nature Woods” and “Versus” stems:

Consciousness + Consciousness = Dialogue
Dialogue + Dialogue = ?

Self + Self = Couple
Couple + Couple = Crowd
Crowd + Crowd =?

Axon + Axon = Nerves
Nerves + Nerves = Ganglia
Ganglia + Ganglia = Brain
Brain + Brain = Community

Tree + Tree = Forest
Forest + Forest = Ecosystem
Ecosystem + Ecosystem = Environment
Environment + Environment = Biosphere
Biosphere + Biosphere = Intelligence

Conduits of the Code, through interaction of root, stem, and leaf, bring form to the Quanta Code. Transform settled dust and debris blown, molecules in the air, invisible participants, harbingers of the rains [brain], to form these limbs, and expand The Forest Of Tree Antennas.  

Overtime, for generations of Codes transmitted, when centuries collect in the bark of the tree, the Codex develops inside the closed tree.  Tree Antennas form information the way books are written; each leaf a paragraph, each branch chapter, each trunk the book.  Concealed from view the roots are all the rough drafts that have Shaped what man can read. Bird sit on the limbs, sing songs, as we make notes on the margins.

OPEN TREES

Mother of the Forest,  Open Trees, by the hand of man build walls and stages, instead of the reticulated network.

TREE DOORS

A few trees in the forest reserve the rights of archivists of the transmissions. Their skin cortex and in inner bark is etched by the worms and critters, agents of the Logos, dispatchers of the Codex.  A few trees allow their body to be consumed in such ways as to record what are the winds when blowing implored.

DOOR CODES

GUARDIANS OF REALMS3

1. Tree Protectors
2. Word Catchers
3. Chatter Inhibitors
4. Little Tree Demons

vs.

1. Tree Eaters
2. Glossolalial Silencers
3. Tekhne
4. 

LONG BEFORE LANGUAGE4

Long before language there was code—
A code communication between the symbiotic elements.
DNA is a code, the language of evolution.

Forces that affect us,  depend on , take for granted as they are out of sight
(direct experience—i.e. glaciers melting, stars, money, war, gardens, polluting chemicals, global warming, mass scale food production.

Very few people experience what an expert may, yet these focal points have consequences for the majority.


 


Pic 1.  When trees attempt to form letters for words foe sentences, the little demons intervene the process.

 

 

Pic 2.  “Gotcha.  You’re not going down that easily.”

THE CHATTER INHIBITORS

The Wordcatchers — bark of certain trees produce words, symbols, and maps.  
The wordcatchers protect them…silently?

The little demons will pick up your uprooted trees until they take root once again.


TREE EATER

 

 

Trans. Sketchbook:

A Spiral Light
Spiral Axis Light
Song Throat Funnel
Tree Man Hands over to
A Handed spiral had to the sky

Crevice opened
A breath to the sky as a
Wish I could feel that connection
Which lives faint as a reminder.
A tree, cut land scape, sun, wound,
Arms thrown to the air.
I don’t see divisions, but don’t see
It’s advantage either.
The tale of loss is one told alone (?).

Code Emerges —> Conception —> Extraction

At the clinic with Marion January 04, 2015.

We had sex on December 16?
She may have had sex afterwards as well, since she was with another man the week before seeing me.

Abortion.

If it was mine for certain would I keep it?
She spoke of a dream of a white owl telling her to
Let the baby touch the earth.  Marion cries.
Doesn’t see another chance.  Meanwhile, my decision
Is not based on certainties, but it’s creating them.
I’m dizzy and shocked, but this is normal.
Wish there was a softer way I could help without
confusing the choice.
I’m here sitting.
After tonight —> no chance of a kid with her.
8PM —> still no word.


CODEX TREES

CODEX CORTEX BARK


**THE ECLIPSE

Do not draw back from the passage into darkness

Night    Nite
Thought Thogt Thot
Though    Tho

[Phonetic reductions]

Sidelong
Sideling

“You have my word.”

The oldest living tree that communicates with all forms of life.

Living by realms of images now past,
Where black and white once joined, [the overstepped, overlooked] sidecast.
Mystery, fable, fact, fiction and dream stramp paths [fast outlasts the past].

Man in armor uphold the imagined sigils.
When mothers were technology
And men the libs of trees, 
Versus arms, and Polygone wings.

Versus – When Men Were Trees

**THE FALSE FOCUS

Tropic & Equinox

How to kill a shadow without light,
How to kill light without darkness.

Fight the false focus, and the depression, 
but then what is there left to move towards.  
The still are dead.  

Once again, the whirling solace rim.
Sets upon [life and hope, us] the ironic grimacing shadowy grin.
The flabby sheet of water that winds the drums dull.
Doldrums.

City vs. Wilderness
Tekhne vs. Nature

Scale shifts when phase transitions manifest at the human scale, i.e., sociological, psychological, etc.  Emergent patterns of behavior, and murmuration (e.g. fish, birds, herds).

Funny face of ash.
Furyface of burnt wood to ash.

The oracle mirrors [gives warning] to the face of taboo.  
Where and what is allowed by convention;
the forms upheld or accepted.

Daughter: OE dohtor; PG dokhter; OS doktar; ON dotter; Sk duhitar
Son: OE sunu; PG sunuz; ON sonr; SK: duhitar

Woodpecker — jackhammer
Wind through leafs — motors hum

“kill the lights”

The timbre of trees pecked awakes the sleepers. 
In harmonies different than those of the jackhammers
Vibrating concrete and steel, with echoing noise of chains striking glass.

SOUND & MATTER

What woody wisdom do you behold?5

The Codex Tree extends all tendrils and limbs to every tree in the world.  It is a collection of the vegetable order, an archive and nucleus.

Imagination reverses knowledge into experience; 
memory into event.

Flesh Water

Flash Water

El Riachuelo – dirtiest most toxic river I remember when growing up in Buenos Aires, which is an ironic name.

HOLDERS OF PERCEPTION

FORM HOLDERS

TREE SHAPERS

THE FOREST OF VIRTUAL TREES & TREEMORPHS

The Forest of Virtual Trees connected to entities of the forest, which require them to concentrate, meditate, or dream of certain trees.  Without these entities, the trees wither and disappear.  The entities are a kind of DNA and cell, or life energy at the scale of a human.  Trees bought to the physical realm need tending.  Such care is modeled after the gardens and temples of Kyoto, where they’ve been maintained ceaselessly for over 800 years.  Lineage is primary, as with unbroken transmission.  Another source of inspiration is the way we perceive, and hold conscious attention in a spectrum of consciousness fields.  Lastly, the way certain native rainforest tribes assign a tree to a person, a responsibility that lasts a lifetime.  Not an object, but a living organism.  Bonsai distinct from an object.   Contemplate this.

THE TRIDENT TREE

THE QUITENCENCE TREE
Modeled after the hand, it reaches to the sky, but remains rooted in the five realms.  Each limb representing one of the elements.

THE AFTERTREE

Body & Void

Always physio-mental-temporal, 
it’s only illusion to sense-think6
These word-concepts-thought7 apart, they imply another.

3 Regions of the World:
    Kamaloka—world of desire
    Rupaloka—world of form
    Arupaloka—world without desire and form

Def.  Tulpas Thoughtforms—[The Boy / The Guy / Me, Yo Io Eo] 
Trikaya
Kayas
Dharmakaya

Shunyata—emptiness.  Shunya means “empty,” and ta “-ness.”  Shunyata is removing the barrier, the screen, between subject and object.  Absence of the screen.8

Dust     Atoms
Moments  Atoms of Time

No One Non None

What are the harmonics, the mnemonics, 

THE ECHOMORPHS

THE ECHOFORMS

As with afterimages so too are afterthoughts.  And afterthoughts are afterthings the perfect contrast of the perceived thing, yet hardly noticed unless the “thing” originated is removed suddenly.  The same could be said about “space,” by stating that is an afterspace.  The implication is that “after-” used as a prefix, moves time forward by a brief interval, only once enough time has been spent with the “thing/think” which will be aftered.  Why does anything need to be “aftered”?

MMCs are logos / words, but they obstruct too, diminish the thing–event, the Ji.

AFTERNESS

To play the game rules must be known.  This is implied.  Rules change, are negotiated, accepted and rejected. There is an “after-ness” to things. Perhaps this “afterness” is kin to karma; it is implied as well. 

After the Woods is in many ways a story of tantra, of unions; and therefore, of afterunions.

The heart wakes
The head dies
The limbs tree
The veins vine
The cloud crown
The eyes shadow – mascara; Alkuhul
The feet stramp

ARMOR AMOR ME: amure; L: armatura

OUT OF THE GREY— on gray matter, MNEMOSINE

THE MESSAGES
1. Found
2. Received
3. Lost
4. Misread
5. Unwritten
6. Sent

THE SPEAKER OF LIGHTNING from the REALMS of ABOVE THE CLOUDS

THE WOLF FLOW

REMNANTS OF CIVILIZATION

A land of green technology.  Solar cells, wind turbines, and other technologies overgrown by Nature.  But in this field, a hint of the last attempt of humans to balance their industrialization sprawl that became the end of people.

ZOMBIE FLORA

PLOT NOTES
•Echo Gambit takes place in Echo Canyon (aka Canyon of Echoes)
•Map narrative by river flow of Rio de la Plata to Cataratas del Igazú

TMB / ETY / DEF / REF / GLO / IND / QTS
“Nothing fucks you harder than time.” GOT S7E6

 

ATW Notes on CHAPTERS

Each chapter removes a SENSE ORGAN
Each chapter removes the ability and interaction of a sense organ and its environment.

Sight: In Shadows, And Cataracts Forest.
Sound: Sonus,  Echo Canyon, Etc.
Touch:  Manuscript.
Taste:  Diamond meat feast.
Smell:
Balance:
Insight:
Intuition:

TITLES from DRAW NOTES

Baroque Economy of Flying Machines
The Tap
Inverted Crown
Satellite Dome
Proper Perhaps
The Push of Birth Is Analogues to The Warping of Time and The Bending of Space.  Propulsion.  
The Capsule —> The Womb. 
Man Submersion in Liquid to Travel Space.  Problem of Acceleration.  
Immersion to explore speed achieving proximity to c (speed of light).
Turbinecock
Lilith
Bone Thinning
Artificial Gravity
Psychology of Spaceflight
Architecture for Ghosts – Space for A Gaze Fulfilment for Membrane Remains
Organism of Process
Real Cauliflower Airplane
Mailed Body
Dream 1: Snails Eat Each Other
Dream 2: Don’t Want to Go the Moon, So Go to Canada
Dream 3: Ball of Guilt Passed Around in A Circle
Dwellings
Propeller
Honey Fields
Telescoping Vision Apparatus
Within The Male Phallus Resides the Womb
Cybercenters
Iron Dust
Mailed Body
Halo Blooms Geometry
Geology
Craters
Strata
Minerals
Time
Deposits
Ice
Topography
Mapping
Geometry
Patterns
Emergence
Symmetry
Structures
Bioinformatics
Bound States
Atoms —>Molecules—>DNA—>Brains
Physics—>Chemistry—>Biology—>Neurology
Nightscape Over Rock Formation
Drawing Reveals the Varieties of Thinking Intelligences.
Thread of Stars
Peripheral Notes
Wholesale Homogenized Culture
Greek Love: Eros, Agape, Storge, Philia
Passion Feeds the Spirit
Technology Is a Jungle of Webs
Point Field
Intellectual Phase-Locking
Temporary Habits of Nature
Polymorphs
Monads – Libnitz
Dark Matter
Between The Breathing
Reunion of Seeds
The Offerings of Polygone Versus
The Armour Shell
Inside The Armor Shell
Cloud Overtakes Mountain
Connection and Conclusions
Mass Culture Cyberspace
Code Skin Inner Structures
Man of Depressions Footprints
Hera Polygon (Hera – Queen of Heaven)
Geometry Man
From Her Hair All Code Could Flow
Flow Red Now Wonder Wolf
Face Concealments
There Were Ribbons Blowing in Her Heart
Blocks Together
Her Hair Has Set the Sky Afloat
And Her Hair Grew

    Code Stream Falls Over Bodies
    Blades of Grass Sustain the Log
    Neuron Tree
    The Basis of Life Is Spectrum – A Circle
    Voyage of Forgetting


ASSEMBLY OF CROWNS

CROWN (L) corona: wreath, crown,
(Gk) Korone: culmination, something curved
like a crow’s beak, literally crow; 
L. “cornix” crow, 

to crown
crowning: (as in birth)
Krone: “top of the skull”

CROWN: DIADEM: crown worn by king
and queen, symbol of royalty

(L) diadema, diadein: to bind around.

CROWN: (syn): cap-off, climax, culminate


SYMBOLS OF DIGNITY
    
    Strata Strategy
    Dismantling
    Archetypes

    
TWILIGHT’S ARCHITECTURE 

Mnemosyne will UNVEIL THE WHISPERS OF THE LAND, that they may invoke the refractive metaphors. 


ARBOR AXIS, BODY OF LEAVES – 
a tree whose bark opens like a door and inscribed within it—all the genomes endowed to the land.  

My gentle inhabitant, beware the NANOWAR, and settle the weary eyes.  

We will meet soon again in the granite face of MOUNT CHROMACHRONOS.  

THE SENSIBLE ATMOSPHERE awaits your passage.  
Fly high beyond the shadows, and don’t mind the SHADOW PEOPLE, 
they are only bound to it, but don’t shape it.

NYX is their ruler.  

I will disperse high in the Troposphere out of reach of TECHNE, all the ASSEMBLY CODES.  

“It’s all I can do for now.”

The incantations of DarkerchildresChildreDeorcilders Graphemne.
    
GRAPHMNE DARKCHILD
warden of the night, broke into millions of fibers, transformed into blades of grass, and slowly descended into the field, homeostatic brush work, blended by a raking wind, and gone.  

TEMPO OF HELIOS
HORIZON
SHALLOW SKIN


GRAPHEMNE was adopted to this world when he turned one, by the goddess of memory, Mnemosyne, and her alter sub-conscious Mnemograph; they always confided in each, all the details of their realms, along with her husband, Anemos Gk.ƒ “wind.”  His horse’s name was Anima.    


TANTAMOUNT SUNSETS
BORN IN REALMS OF CAPTIVITY
RELATIVE VELOCITIES
HELIODEPENDENCY – energy, food, photosynthesis, evolutionary built sunsets.
LUNARCOMMUNIONS – cycles, tides, periods, radio waves.
MOLOKO ISLAND
CORAL REEFS, MOUNTAINS  &  BRAINS; Wallace & Darwin
MIND OCTAVES & CONSCIOUSNESS CHORD FRACTALS
QUOTIDIAN RELATIVITY
MAPPING  &  DETAILS
SPACE TIME TOPOLOGY
ONTOLOGICAL ABSURDITY
THE SCALE OF BIRD IN A VACUUM
MAPPING SCALES:
a. Go through the shift in perception contingent to ‘privileged views’, and compare to Kierkegaard’s notion of privileged experience via Camus.
b. Go from the small, and all the different strategies for mapping our views.  Look at maps and lists you have already made.
c. Match and relate via mergers, the images that illustrate and reveal these points
d. Answer this as much and as often as possible – in a city, where are nature’s remnants found, and what then constitutes nature in itself.  A whole system approach, ergo, what is present and untouched, like sun, moon and clouds.

MERGE UNIFY MERGE & REPEAT
EVOLUTIONARY CYCLES & KNEE ABRASIONS
CIVILIZATION AND ITS DISCONTENT 2.0
THE PRAISE OF FOLLY
VOLTAIRE’S NAIL
MUTE FATHERS, EINSTEIN, GRAVITY
FOREST ORIGAMI
STENOGRAPHY, SHORT HAND, KANJI, SONGS, AND EMOTICONS
WATER, ICE, VAPOR, LIQUID, SOLID, GAS, OCEANS, ICEBERGS, CLOUDS
PHASE TRANSITIONS
ASTRAL TUGS: ASTROLOGY / ASTRONOMY
ATLAS AD INFINITUM
THE BROOM AND STARDUST
DREAMWALKERS
KITCHEN SINK, WAVE INTERVALS
AWASETO PEAKS
ANIMAL  NAKED  SHAVED  EGYPT
CONCENTRIC FAMILY TREES AND HERITAGE
OPTIC RETINAL ENDOWMENT
MENT, MEN, MIND
MOTHER LOVER WOMB PRISM STAGE ZIGOT
NERVOUS SYSTEMS
SYNERGITICS
BY WEIGHT ALONE – VALUE IN POUNDS NOT $ COINS
TISSUE VS CELLULOSE VS CRYSTAL GROWTH


ATW CHARACTERS

    The Oil Suckers / Diggers / Drinkers
    The Coral Bleachers
    Leave only footprints behind in the water.


DREAMS / KITES

ENCODING to STORAGE to RETRIEVAL

    Rock Bottom
    If I Had
    Monuments

STRATA FISSURES
    Strata Strategy

PETRA SERIES
Silhouettes
Reverse Negative Spaces
Projected Forms in the Fissures
Relation to the branches and neural patterns develop.
BioGeology or GeoBiology
What Layers Will You Bury?


STRATA FISSURES
Strata Strategy
The Toils Of Landings
Other days when for the other
Again swells
Tired but images.


ROCK TITLES / PETRA SERIES

Silhouettes
Reverse Negative Spaces
Projected Forms in the Fissures
Relation to the branches and neural patterns develop.
BioGeology or GeoBiology
What Layers Will You Bury?
Life starts without knowing
Separations
Horizon Blue
All to Gather
Come Back
Let’s Start Again
Not Our Fault
Fissures
Niche Finding
Rock Eaters
Lichen
Move Over
Placement
Discovery
Rest
All Together
Separations
Fractures
Come Back
Accretion
Let’s Start Again
Not Our Fault
Erosion Principles
Aerial Views
Buried Man
Chthonic
False Flags
Double Speak
Age of Deception
Age of Distraction
Half-Truths
Positive Illusions
Perception is Reality
Maiden Voyage
She’s Fired Up
Forest of Engines
Unreachable Sinking – Melancholia
Internet Machine
Law of Large Numbers
Becoming Your Own Filter
Clouds
Fabric
Topologies
Sensible Atmospheres: the part of the atmosphere that offers resistance to a body passing through it.

Atmosphere: the gaseous envelope of a celestial body
Gk.        Atmos: vapor
L.          Sphaera: sphere
Sphere: 
1. The apparent surface of the heavens of which half forms the dome of the visible sky. 
2. Any of the concentric and eccentric revolving spherical transparent shells in which according to ancient astronomy stars, sun, planets, and moon are set.
Sphaera
Gk. Sphaira: ball
Akin to Gk. Spairein to quiver – spurn. 

Neological Dilemma
Archetype
Double Infinity
East ~ West
Mann’s Erotic Irony
Metaphorments
Metaphoromones
Mnemones
Mutual Membrane of Contact
Paradox Constant
Pheromones
Refractive Metaphor
Sublimation
Symbol
Technaphors
Transference
Transmission
Ostinato Rigore ~ Saper Vedere :  Leonardo Da Vinci’s Eyes

 

ATW  CYCLES 

REBIRTH — 
BIRTH
ANGER
RAGE
FURY
SEPARATION FROM EARTH

DEATH — 
DEATH OF DEATH & TIME
PRESENT ETERNAL
RETURN TO EARTH

DECAY — 
DECAY OF EARTH & BODY
RIPE OLD MATURE
WABI/SABI/YUGEN/AWARE/FURYU

FERTILIZATION — 
NIGHT
DREAM
AMRIT VELA
UNION
SILENCE

GESTATION — 
LAND OF POLYVERSE
MOTHER MOUNTAIN
DEMETER

ECHO CANYON — 
DISTRACTION
FEEDBACK
INTERNAL CHATTER
SENSE SOMETHING IS WRONG
LOSS OF BEAUTY

TANTAMOUNT SUNSETS —
WALTER AND CELESTE — 
WALLET & SKY REST
GUARDIAN AND BREATH
A VERNACULAR OF ASCENSIONS — 
LIMITLESS GROWTH NEUROSIS
MYTHOBIOLOGY — 
PSYCHE ECOLOGY
TWO LEVELS OF CLOUDS — 
A.I. TECHNE —
THE DREAMS —
DEFINE ALL LEVELS —
CODEX & GLOSSARY —
ETYMOLOGY —
REFERENCES —
CORRESPONDENCE & DIALOGUES —
ATW ESSAYS —
BIO & CV —
ENDNOTES —
INDEX —
REFERENCES & FURTHER READING —

 


ATW POEM  1 REBIRTH

BIRTH & ANGER

Was it anger that begun the verses?

 

VERSUS AWAKES [AND VERSES]
When Man Awoke

And when man awoke to an upright, 
vertical silhouette of jagged edges, 
compressed eye lashes, 
a horizon-line of stacked trees, 
crooked, oriented, plumb.

In the distance they paralleled
grass blades that gently grazed
upon his cheek.  
The imprints of latticed lines
marked across his face, 
a texture of compressed folds
between earth and flesh.  

As his open eyes adjusted, 
he could make out small creatures
emerging through the green lattice
swaying weave to prairie.
To submerge again and disappear. 

Each blade of grass both tower and bridge
from the undergrowth to the surface
and back again under.  
In time small creatures came to regard
the man lying as part of the landscape, 
a boulder with sustenance, energy, 
something to dismantle, 
flesh to consume, protein, 
bone and hair.  

The first impulse was to feel for the sun.  
In the distance, dawn, and
a moment of adjust-ment
to realize it’s cooler than normal. 

The second impulse is to feel for the water
interlaced between the grass and his bare hands, 
his body.9  The thick rustling sounds of spring
leaves catching the wind 

Marks a texture in the open space above, 
and along with the calling of birds, 
the territory is mapped in sounds, 
through echoes as the sun breaks
through the horizon line to reveal
its wings of copper, brass and gold. 10  

Wind makes trees stretch
helping flow water, nutrients, photosynthesis.  

As the man is stirred from his sleep
to awake in the strange and foreign bed, 
he realizes his wife, his life, is next to him, 
much in the same predicament as he, 
in a dream, in a strange patch of grass, 
not where they’d laid their heads
to rest the night before.  

The third impulse is to feel for stars
Reflected in the dew on blades of grass.

What he could last recall were the words
of his wife whispering in his ear, 
“I think we did it.  I saw galaxies
hovering over your [my] hands.”  
As they faded [melded] into each other’s arms, 
a new life, a communion, another breath
soon to take place, mitosis, a perfect union, 
an eye, another nervous system, joining them
together as they rest in arms
still inside her, breathing
each other’s breath back and forth.  

This was very different from the air
in the land near the grass, 
in that the exchange of something animal
had quietly been replaced with the natural, 
a field of rest, 
and something very much outside of themselves again.  

The fourth impulse is to feel for dirt, 
earth, and soil.

After gazing his hands for a minute, 
he concluded that it must be a dream
although the feeling of a familiar history, 
and comfortable unnoticed remove were equally felt.

He ceased watching his body, 
It took over with the most trivial of actions:
a step.

*continue here with the long writing on how tech affected us

AND WHEN MAN AWOKE  

(Awaking Verses)

And when Man awoke he saw a horizon-line standing upright.  Trees laid, stacked, and resting as he, in the distance, and [propelled] paralleled to blades of grass that gently grazed upon his cheek.
The imprints of lattice lines, embossed marks across his face by the compression of grass between flesh and earth.
As his eyes opened, adjusted, and focused, he made-out small creatures emerging through the green swaying weaved tapestry.
To submerge again and disappear.

Each grass blade both a tower and a bridge to the undergrowth, and to the surface and back again under, out of sight.
He could feel them moving under him no. 
And in time, the small creatures came to regard the man while lying, as part of the landscape, a boulder of sustenance, energy, a fallen tree to be log, logged, something to dismantle, flesh to consume, if rest overcomes, dust, ash, protein, bone and hair.

His hands dug in gripping the earth like shallow roots, a nettle on wool, he couldn’t let go, as his finger cramped the dew, grass, and moist soil. 
Steam rose from his skin, the sun’s rays broke through the thickest branch clusters.

Beams broke and burned their light on him; he took his first deep breath and stretched the torso and limbs.

“Am I dreaming?” words that arose in a latent and quiet thought.
Absent agitation.  All time in the world.  Wordless embalmed echo, yet riddled in code.

His first impulse–feel for the sun’s warmth.
In the distance again focus and dawn, a moment of adjustment.
It was cooler than normal this morning.


His second impulse–feel for water, while his body floated, held inches over ground be droplet covered grass, bare body and hands connecting circuits to his eyes.

Sensible joining.

If he could utter and ask: 
“where and what is this? How do you do it?  Awake a man named Versus.”

Slowly.  Let the blood flow back, slowly. Wait for the yawn.  Breathe in the sun.

 

WE WALK BEETWEEN FIELDS
We Walk Between Fields

*[make start stronger]
When nights were darker,
They walked between fields:
Those of stars
And [that] of rocks —
Between their eyes and hands.
Between similes [dreams] and solidity.
Two young eyes, 
Two young hands,
Hold light, [and] hold matter.

They walked on liquid rock, surrounded,
Within, between, and under stars.

Erosion Fields and Nocturne Fields,
In an endless state of gazes:
Ocular Moons.
 
There’s a transit, you walk, and I walk, 
That we all walk, walk; walk on this thin layer
Membrane called biosphere: two hands suffused. 
Yet between, an ever shifting and changing, 
A layer as thin as [the] skin [of an apple, and] on 

This surface all the mountains and depth of oceans,
All battles and failed efforts, all toils, 
All loves and embraces, all ascensions,
All words spoken and all music [entrained] created.
This membrane holds life, and though we [rise] ascend above it, 
And construct scales [ladders] to the heavens, 
On this skin we build homes, transform ecologies, shape models.

We build models to understand and comprehend, 
To hold unseen realities, of endless forms, 
In theories and hypothesis revel imaginings. 

These models built upon metaphor and myth, 
Structures correlated to the myths of now, 
In common sense, in commonalities a person, 
a people, a collective of agreements.

Why do we choose the metaphoric structures
That propagate themselves, and extinguish inquiry?
In order to attempt understanding and models, 
Can we relate in new stories and vibrate with them
As do strings of a violin and stretch beyond images
Into emotions and movement.

There is a staying and a going.
And you stay behind
In this concrete positive void, 
Of the emptiness when the body leaves.

So we fail, 
not because of the fear of failure, 
but because of the failure of fear—
From the fear of what a correct outcome feels like.
Which is more mysterious than failure itself?
Fear is the beacon of wonder.

To not fear the feeling
Of hitting the mark, 
And in this context, failure becomes comical,
A mirror to the invented future, reflecting
Choices before they are carried into light.

Fingerprints and blackout architectures – 
These last things seen before
The loss of senses as the knight.
Transformations:
To pass out
To sleep
To dream
To clone
To replicate
To loss of physicality            *[decrepitude, dissolved?]
To awaking into a symmetry
And into the altered land.
As the day grows dimmer
With the setting of the sun, 
Then so does the paper.
It ages too, associated to cycles in time.
Aged paper connotes the sun being near the horizon, 
At its zenith, paper is stark white.
Paper skin made by sun.
Pulp of trees,
Fibers woven by carbon, and in carbon
The mind.
The mind oscillated between the two fields, 
A pendulum without rest.
Mind is a dog being walked, watching
The mind of two kids on a seesaw, 
Watching the fulcrum, and past it, to the other
For balance.


OCULAR MOONS and MOTH EYES 

A single radiant center, draws the eye,
Waiting for the center to emit light, perhaps drawn
To the potential of fire glowing white, 
Fuse a disembodied blindness.

Guided by the chromatic shifts and light increments, 
Eye moves from radiance to the shaded corner with hesitation, 
Less so under tables where tone is thicker, richer, abandoned,
Where the moths live.

Where the moths live, 
I have grown moth eyes.
Where once the moon guided moths in flight, 
Other artifices replace the reflective globe, 
Heliophotons are renewed and through outlets, 
delivered as current, a pocket sized moon.

Moth eyes for the screens, where
Light inhabits its habitant’s habits, 
in bits, bit by bit.  
Archaic habit was not an act, if Aristotle
Was correct, human nature has evolved, 
The conceits of ancient times are so differently
Defined by belief in gods, and omens indistinguishable
From the real events in life unfolding.  The omen becomes
The virtual reality, and the multitude of gods have descended to
Our hands in the form of apps.  The screen is a mesh, a holographic refractor, through which the world unveils.  
I was told once that the people of classical greek though
Made no distinction between fact, and the actions, or will
Of the gods.  The internal voice, and collective reactions, 
Were shared out loud by the stories told.  And here science and myth blended as one.  Have we become this too, having advances in both, yet unable to know the difference.
we are what we repeatedly do.  
Excellence, therefore, 
Is not an act, but a habit.11
But this habit could be misinformed, and so by being the right habit, it is the virtual product of a scheme eroded, and once the foundation crumbles, so do the habits.  So we are what we repeatedly, “like” and reinforce, and the doing may have been hijacked completely, given how much of time is spent online, onscreen, connected, and not where we once were, among the mess of nature, with its sounds and demands of cold and hot, brightness and darkness.
Moth, matter, mother.  
Mother Sun, and Father Earth.
Heliomama, Gaia?

I have such a vivid memory, 
Of being a child in Argentina, 
Listening to a Beethoven piano sonata
In my head while riding a bus home.  
I must have been 12 years old.
The music created a kind of space
That to the world did not exist, 
Not that of a dream, and not that of daydream,
This was a texture placed over the world,
And from inside the room, and through
The plate glass I still saw everything, 
But through the rippled hand blown panes.

That place exists physically somewhere, 
but only in tandem with the music.

There are things you will never forget,
Or rather, 
things you’ll never need to remember.
You are one such thing.
When death transits by, what memory will be the exit.
Perhaps it’s inconsequential, but your first memory is forever
An intrigue, when you awoke for the first time.
Death its counterpoint?  Don’t be silly.
What words and images will one last see?
Stories of stories, layered upon layers,
Becalmed star light, the head struck hard.
Quantum Fields and Particles, non-locality, 
Syzygy,
Beethoven, Sonata #8, in C minor, op 13 “pathetique”


BEETHOVEN & CHILD

How do you tell a child of Beethoven?
Play the music.

What periphery will enter into focus?
Like a mote of dust passing through
A beam of light—be still.

What communion will peak this passing day?
And will its way to splendor and form.

In the meeting eyes of friends and strangers
The double star emits in the moving night
Of the ocular moons—your eyes speak.

Is blinking a type of subliminal Morse code?

We are catalysts to each other as sun is to life,
And the organisms expand to mold
Against the crooked nooks as lovers
Spoon in sleep and play

Time, technology, and solitude are the children

Time, technology, and solitude are the children
Of our collective present moment
Linked by holding hands
A fluid chain of bodies maneuvering the circle

Chung he said, was the connection between
A person and a thing, idea, or person

The double sleep of worlds to keep
Amaneciendo y curando,
Por que asi es como se detalla
La mano a otra, y esto se llama conocer


MIND IS AN ORGAN

Mind is your organ, 
and like all organs, it is a thing, 
But it also produces sounds, and emotions, 
When played well, others pay attention, 
When played well, one pays attention.

Mind is like all other organs in the body,
But mind is aware of mind
and this makes the difference
Between organs in the first place, 
the awareness causes the divisions.

But mind is the music and the instrument, 
together, and also, somehow, the player, 
the audience, and neither. It is an event, 
and a place, a moment, and a silence.

Mind is simply a feeling synonymous with
(Please fill in the blank)


THIS CITY IS A SKIN

“A center of sensitivity locked up inside a bag of skin.” —Allan Watts

City is Skin

This city is a skin
A Film, a residue, 
a membrane of tiny lies
that balloon in youth –
I too was young and light  
Piercing everywhere
and everything.


NOCTUID (Night Owl) 

Ocular Moons & Episteme Moth Eyes 

The Intuition of Paranoia
Techne’s Paranoia of Doxa (public opinion) and Episteme (knowledge, understanding)
The Paranoia of Techne
Why did the A.I. cry?...Because, it saw with real eyes for the first time. (Realize)

Climate Change

What to wake up to?
In the dream I awake only when the situation is unpleasant enough.  Only after you walk into my home, or taste foul enough.  You hairless clown, cheap fake couples, pretenders; hypocrites, you won’t get out of bed unless your life is threatened.  Instead, you choose to remain in bed and asleep.  What would you do with this information?  Nothing it will do in the end, so asleep you await?  After some initial consideration of the dream, I knew what I what I what wanted not: a clear no, but no yes to anything [either].  

MEANING IS INCONCLUSIVE.  Climate Change and Black Holes.

Here, He, Her, Ere, Re, Here

Ocular Moons

    1. Black holes
    2. Eyes
    3. Where Polygone resides for Echo Gambit
    4. Sensible Atmosphere for exodus and return to pollinate Earth (Terra/Gaia).


He attacks a shattered world in order to demand unity from it.  The ancients, even though they believed in destiny, believed primarily in nature, in which they participated wholeheartedly.  To rebel against nature amounted to rebellion against oneself. —Camus, The Rebel (p. 23/27)

NOAA’s headline follows with:

“Unprecedented Arctic warmth in 2016 triggers massive decline in sea ice, snow. Warmer temperatures also bring record-breaking delay to fall sea-ice freeze. December 13, 2016. A new NOAA-sponsored report shows that unprecedented warming air temperature in 2016 over the Arctic contributed to a record-breaking delay in the fall sea ice freeze-up, leading to extensive melting of Greenland ice sheet and land-based snow cover.”

Does he attack nature as the “shattered world” and “demand unity from it,” though he has never been separate from it, and how could in all hubris “demand” anything from nature; in irony, splinters his world and vision into the realms of Doxa, Episteme, and Techne?  How does one “participate” in nature wholeheartedly?  Why does he rebel against himself?  

If “metaphysic was replaced by myth” it follows “metaphysic” must have ascended some position to be replaced into.  What did metaphysic replace, which then myth overtook?  

Remained unconscious and asleep until the situation was unpleasant, and still no response, no commitment, and the waiting to be awake, and not be awoken by your unconsciousness.  Or is this how it is to be?  To be awoken by the unconscious, rather than through consciousness become aware of the common ground of both realms.  I go off-line, asleep, non-conscious, and linger there, underground, turning, feeding by methods outside human understanding, millions of years pass like seconds, and there is still a texture.  Then all photons are removed and electrons suspend.  Emptiness to which all can come into being, another emptiness of itself.  Where do the Black Holes lead to?  Does space/time manifest a veil over our eyes, and from this distance can feel among its weave only.  What other weaves may we explore, or are exploring without the ability to confirm?  What is intuition? Synchronicity?  

Particle Entanglement, where did you go and from where did you return?  Our scales are of different orders, so we may not be able to communicate, but I do believe in you, even though this you, is not the proper word, or name.  Unity.  Younity.  

The solitude that one earns by boredom, which leads to the nature of creativity in a destructive gesture, is the intolerance of loneliness.  Removing this human right is like removing the fuse on a stick of dynamite; nothing is at risk, not even one’s own life, when life is the only thing one has to risk at all.  Boredom, in the right environment, opens perception first, to find a culprit, and later, to find a target to attack.  In the woods, for example, there is little damage one can do against the scale of towering trees, dirt, and rock.  Nature becomes receptive, tolerant, and a mirror, but in this case, the mirror reflects a distortion.  This distortion is a creative dialogue, an unknown, delivered inside an intuition.  
    
Technology replaces the creative distortion, with an excessive distraction.  Solitude disappears along with boredom, and the only thing left to rebel against, is the image the mirror reflects back.  


Your intuition is remarkable at times.  Discoveries made before your time, you arrive at on your own, but unlike the past, which is there for your confirmation, how and what will you infect the stream of data memory that is culture?  That’s the paranoia speaking passive-aggressively.  

Whatever is committed to nature is done to oneself, but with technology, this position is further to comprehend, because it falls under, and within, the same logic and categorical function of the system,  but it’s difficult for the body to possess these conscious emotions towards the electronical; it is closer to co-dependent and dysfunctional abusive relationship, and addiction.

People no longer make me paranoid.  It’s technology that is being used to control that makes me paranoid.  And that these technologies will have to bail out the earth of climate change, is this not the same as the banking and housing crises?  Borrowing against nothing real.  Same with technology, as it keeps being manufactured, it will ignore the responses of the earth’s ecosystems, but we’ll have Techne.   Techne is paranoid by default.

Polygone flies into the black hole, what is the matter with darkness, and dark energy? Technology. Technology is what I fear.  The word “tech-no-lo-gy” seems to pervert the original graces of its etymology.  Tec- Technic- Téçhnë-  Tekhne takes over the “natural resources” and cuts one’s own hand off in the process.


CAMUS — THE REBEL

“On the day when crime dons the apparel of innocence—through a curious transposition peculiar to our times—it is innocence that is called to justify itself.”iv

“The absurd, in its purest form, attempts to remain dumb [silent, or in a state of silence].  If it finds its voice, it is because it has become complacent or, as we shall see, because it considers itself provisional.  This complacency is an excellent indication of the profound ambiguity of the absurdist position.  In a certain way, the absurd, which claims to express man in his solitude, really makes him live in front of a mirror.  And then the initial anguish runs the risk of turning to comfort.”v   

“‘My enemies,’ says Nietzsche, ‘are those who want to destroy without creating their own selves.’ He himself destroys, but in order to try to create.”vi

“Rebellion is born of the spectacle of irrationality, confronted with an unjust and incomprehensible condition.  But its blind impulse is to demand order in the midst of chaos, and unity in the very heart of the ephemeral.”vii

“In a certain way, he confronts an order of things, which oppresses him with the insistence on a kind of right not to be oppressed beyond the limit that he can tolerate.”viii

“When he rebels, a man identifies himself with other men and so surpasses himself, and from this point of view human solidarity is metaphysical.  But for the moment we are only talking of the kind of solidarity that is born in chains.”ix

“We insist that a part of man which cannot be reduced to mere ideas should be taken into consideration—the passionate side of his nature that serves no other purpose than to be part of the act of living.” (19)

“Metaphysic is replaced by myth.” (21) *the whole paragraph is worth reading.

On Metaphysical Rebellion

“The most elementary form of rebellion, paradoxically, expresses an aspiration to order.  This description can be applied, word for word, to the metaphysical rebel. He attacks a shattered world in order to demand unity from it.” (23-24)

“The ancients, even though they believed in destiny, believed primarily in nature, in which they participated wholeheartedly.  To rebel against nature amounted to rebellion against oneself.  It was putting one’s head against the wall.  Therefore the coherent act of rebellion was to commit suicide.  Destiny, for the Greeks, was a blind force to which one submitted, just as one submitted to the forces of nature.  The acme of excess to the Greek mind was to beat the sea with rods—an act of insanity worthy only of barbarians.  Of course, the Greeks described excess, since it exists, but they gave it its proper place and, by doing so, also defined limits.” (27)*

NOAA headline:

“Unprecedented Arctic warmth in 2016 triggers massive decline in sea ice, snow
Warmer temperatures also bring record-breaking delay to fall sea-ice freeze.
December 13, 2016 A new NOAA-sponsored report shows that unprecedented warming air temperature in 2016 over the Arctic contributed to a record-breaking delay in the fall sea ice freeze-up, leading to extensive melting of Greenland ice sheet and land-based snow cover.”  

http://www.noaa.gov/media-release/unprecedented-arctic-warmth-in-2016-triggers-massive-decline-in-sea-ice-snow


NOAA NOAH

Is this some unconscious joke?  The agency that informs of all Climate Change events has the acronym phonetic equivalent of the Noah.  Did they really think this through?  MBH strikes again.  Mythobiospheric Hypothesis.


AUSTRAL NIGHTSCAPE


Austral Atlantic Horizon, from Bahia Blanca, or Neuquén, gazing toward the framed, star filled nightscape, moonless, the ocean was a black void from which sharp needles of light pierced the eye, in a type of visual and optical acupuncture.  

For a young boy, time was irrelevant, and yet this scene, managed to stop time, in fact it subtracted time from youth, while offering in exchange a lesson of wisdom without the pains and toils usually required for such deep rooted value.  Experiences like this never disappear, they project their own gravity, attracting future events like celestial bodies to orbit around the sun.  This sun was shattered into the minutest fragments of crystalline points.  Staring at the nightscape was blinding and spellbinding as is fixating on the sun, on the rare occasions one is compelled to do so.  As bright as a noon sun, so too the seeming emptiness of space around each star, was painful to fixate with any focus.  Eyes refused to see by normal means.  They opened wide and absorbed the nightscape like a deep breath, and this was when I understood, light is inhaled into the organs as is the air.  That luminous breath has lasted for almost forty years.  

No one tells you, not even the self, not in any form of language at that age, that what is witnessed changes everything.  For a brief period of participation, the child that awoke in the back of an old Ford Rambler, and watched through the rear window, that matrix on which the road fed directly into the ocean, though parents driving away, would follow him.  That may have been the first time he felt amazement, without looking into the eyes of another.  Amazement with a cosmos that held no logic or judgement, nor would vanish or haunt.  From one moment to the next it joined his tiny body, moved limbs and arms to prop the head close enough to the window to remove the interior frame of the car.  

All physicality that the body could feel, the pressures of the seat, muscular adjustments, breathing, all these functions were sucked out through his eyes and relinquished to vast, and wordless darkness.  In return, body became filled with the nocturnal, atomistic energy of each prick, like a cactus turned inside out, falling into a pool of ice water.  It was cleaner than clean.  How many times I’ve revisited that moment eludes me.  But every time without fail, something unpossessed remains to be discovered, which is perhaps the fundamental source of all my art.  Nightscape, the awaking to the theater of a powerfully pregnant night, alone, without earth or body to give concern somehow understand the secret message by nocturnal transmissions.  

Mother and Father drove, but this window was for me alone, quiet, without confirmation required that this magic was real.  It was the first time I remember trusting my eyes without anyone gazing back.  There was another human life, and it was the cosmos, or it was another field of unbound depth, and that precisely is what the word “un ser humano” meant.  

The key features are the awaking moment from unconscious void into a conscious surprise.  Again and again, every night eyes close, and body does not disappear, though in our eyes it’s relinquished.  Everyday awaking to a spectacle or uniformed light.  Then come words.    

My anger is that of Tekhne, and Al-Kuhul, in tandem lit the night to increase production, and rehearse immortal life.  In doing so, block out the sky’s voice, one of countless harmonized in a song that is replaced by machinery.  Birds overcome by horns.  Sonar pings of other water mammals ruined by engines, and human depth radar detection.  

Decades later the seed of anger matures.  Whatever anguish night may bring in its cold, dark, perils, threats, and unknown dangers, for which nature’s best evolutionary defense has been to lay us to sleep.  In mimicking death the nocturnal predators seem to take little notice.  And yet, Nature offered in a bargain it seems, to keep some of the day spinning its tapestries, while the body lies in shadows, images come to brightness anyways.  The internal lamp is lit as sun bows down.

Rage comes with the speed of progress, with the abandonment of innocence, with the pressures it places on generations, separates their kin, and hands over vices first, then devices, in my case.  The reverse is now in place.  Device enters before vice.  I resent techne as I once resented my mother for knowing better, and too afraid to stand-up to father, she allowed the punishment to continue.  This was not just, it was relieving pressures my father had built during the day, at work, a cog in a family business, where he took it first, then brought it home.  And my mother watched her mother do exactly the same.  While her father beat her, mother did nothing to stop it.  One must simply watch, and tend to the wounds and bruises after the fact only.  And so watch Tekhne destroy and bruise the body, and all that is allowed is the application of ointments for relief.  Is there the equivalent of the words, “That’s enough. Stop.”?  Is this possible when convention instructs otherwise?  My rage comes from not knowing how to act, but having had enough.  There is nobody I can stop.  There is nothing I can fight against that embodies this violence.  The webs are too complex, and my words are not clever enough to rouse inspiration in other people to assemble the body into a body of equal parts and say “enough” with dignity.  Instead, the charm of lights and safety have made the urbane and secular world one I need and at once disdain.  Lyme in the countryside.  Lack of stars and wonder of nature in the city.  All that is best in humans is all I can rely to replace Nature’s wonders and mysteries.  Nature never promised me anything, and gave me everything.  People promise everything, but deliver the inverse of natural disasters.  Both are as random and rare.  News reports on atrocities primarily because this is what we know of humanity.  The genuine act of kindness is as rare as catastrophic disaster in the natural order.  

My eyes are assaulted 24/7 by technology. The last time I remember waking up at night, and not being able to see my hand from lack of light was in rural Ohio, where mother was raised, about 30 years ago.  It was scary, and rewarding, a mystery…all senses are constantly stimulated.  None shut down.  So introduce al-kohl.  Dull and muffle that which is sensitive.  Such a cliché and expected response.  And more anger.  Anger and rage at the Sky Thieves, by light, by height, and by the beauty of flight.  Lights, buildings, and aircrafts, and the constant drone sound coming from the city, from its cars, and rooftop exhaust, cooling systems, generators, electricity.  I wonder if I am alone in hoping it all shuts down soon?  This feeling passes, but it persists as does the night light in cityscapes, always creeping the window, and accustomed to it, I ignore it, but it taxes the organism and it’s cache of patience.  I am not a dark alley in need of light.  I am a plant that breathes oxygen out by night.  I must not be human but instead a tree Versus the world of Techne, but that’s my wife.  Is mother watching father tare the world apart?  Or has this already happened?
Don’t compete with men.  Invent a new system, and easy for me to say.  What have men made of the world of nature?  And why are women so impressed by this gray progress of gadgets, and inequalities to strive for?  Why reward men for this?  Why compete at their level?  Where is humanism gone to and where is “humansplaining.”?

 “Finally, just as Nietzsche’s experience culminated in the acceptance of the light of day, surrealist experience culminates in the exaltation of the darkness of night, the agonized and obstinate cult of tempest.” (Camus, The Rebel, 98)

For me, light in the night, darkness and shadows by daylight.  From the Nocturnes one always awakes to the shock of daybreak, until daylight, the promises to end into a dark void.  In the threshold of this transmission, slower than waking, in the dark all-generating void, a new day sways the pendulums into a spectrum of awareness.  This cycle of sways continues until the momentum ceases, and settles to plumb, by natural means, or by severing the instrument of suspension.  The chord is cut, the weight falls.  

“Poetry is the conquest, the only possible conquest, of the “supreme position.”  “A certain position of the mind from where life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future…cease to be perceived in a contradictory state.” (Camus 97)

Rimbaud: “You are all poets, and I myself am on the side of death.”  This remind me of the devotion of the Samurai.  If one does not live as if already dead, then life is worth only that of a dog’s.  This form of night, when day holds too strongly, is remedied by the Taoist balancing act?

 

SHADOW FOREST

This black silhouette of leaves


This black silhouette of leaves12

This dust is not yet of bone, 
thought bones lay at times
This dust is yet not yours
To claim.

Leave this dust alone.
Leave this bone alone.  [Leave these bones alone.]

The single vein erodes and carves the settled.
Do not rock undone become, 
But settle as fleshy silt under fury.

Wild wind can blow a fury.              [duty]
If this wind finds fire it will rage.

This rage on the rustling leaves will carve the green
for powder carbon spines and forgotten bones.  
 
[This] Rage on the rustling leaves,  [will] 
Carve the green for carbon powder
Spines, spires, and forgotten bones.  
The gash trail is simple to find by its odor.  

Wind-blown field of tall grass,  [wind blowing]
Reeds discrete reliefs
Lattice branches and trees
Dark
Tree reveals in unison
Tree Reveals
Passage ways

This pressure on nightshade
This pressure of his fingers
This pressure of fireflies
Pulsating fireflies in unison
Fingerprints upon breasts of the night
Fingerprints in unison, upon breasts of the night
On her nape glow 

His eyes open and look at grass.
Walking through the dark woods
Unwinding a skein of thread
A thread of hope walking
by lines into a labyrinth
Made of ropes and coded trees.

A thread of hope walking by lines into a labyrinth
Made of ropes and coded trees.

I first saw you when my body died.

Flying without form the landscape shifted
In wind unfelt the nerve without skin to feel
This haunting simplicity before this vacancy


In wind unfelt
The nerve without skin to feel
This haunting simplicity Before this vacancy


*** 

REF ^

There are moments on the bus, sounds peak through the Valley of Silence and its mere gossip about another; cultural impositions, the Australians are loud, like children trying hard to command attention, to be acknowledged.  “Acknowledge me.”

The Gossip Brook babbles nonsense to the worlds, yet not to itself.  In it echoes thrives and forgets until it pushes its gossip machine mechanism to a limit, and reaffirms itself evermore.

I’m two seats away, with noise cancelling headphones and can hear everything, why is no one else closer saying anything? Do people not mind, or mind each other?  Is it cultural or generational.  

DREAM

A book was delivered hand-written.  I was inspired by the concentration of words, they seemed necessary, their singleness, unsaved, uncopied, aspect did something.  Yuri spoke of Lauren’s blow job.    

Lexicon

Rw — Rework, rewrite, reword.
Ra — Rearrange
Rd — Read
Df. — Define

 

THE ROOM

First the room must be empty.

First this room must be empty.
When the room is empty
you can empty yourself.

This is nature.  
This is Nature.  
This is Nature.

This nature is always outside.
Outside nature, outside, 
In nature one can be empty.

So empty this nature.
Make space inside.

This precision you seek exactly first inside.
Those echoes heard are its voices inside your head.
When she speaks who is listening?
As we hear each other, who is this voice that enters us?13

Each night is the same
Between two mouths the whispered night14
Night is a sculpture spoken.
Night sculpted.
Sculpture is remembrance.

In transitions we see ourselves, 
Counterpoints to the last self, dangling at the tip           [offer the counter point, the “contra loci”]
Of branches swaying by wind
And from these points a collection of seeing.
At this point the trail starts.

One can go further along this new growth recurrent

Empty yourself so that this room may be empty.
That you may see again and find the severed limbs
In its external form to pieces of nature, art, and shaped flesh.

Where grass blades sustain the log in form
Suspended above the moist stomach ground skin
By time dissolve under the arbor’s fall divided
And all wood limbs laid succumb embraced. 

 

THERES A BLOOM THAT GROWS

There’s a bloom that grows from veins, 
Inside the dormant body
A dream settles the world in accord
And thunder breaks the silent room.

Counterpoint to eyes closing a flash
Lights the city, and quiets the remnants
Of the day placed in pockets and pendulums.
The choir of whispers begins its tutelage.

Some days are like this, filled, vacant, merged
And then a sleeping lover turns on the flesh.
Everywhere that rains, ripples extend inward
And find the second moon orbit.

Fulcrum’s night unravels the breath
While clouds push against the sky
The air cools to water washed space
A trickle feeds the hungry roots.

Their fingers extend into lightless soil
Press the early silt earth to fleshy veined rock
While darkness comes to end, in sediment
So too slumber and lumber rest akin. 

Invisible whirlpools spawn white feathers,
Circles overlay to small hands. 
Galaxies form above her head and stars
Match shade by shade, constellation freckles on her back.

If in dreams like these, where 1 + 1 is 1,
And double infinities blend the unspoken words,
And nested skin inflates atmospheres, 
Then perhaps, her horizon may lay its boundary down.

A gentle brush of finger tips swipes the moisture,
Gelatinous minutes tick to a halt,
Blood flows in tides of blue and red and white cells,
And we grow ahead, inside nothing, but peaceful rumbles.

They wonder how you breathe, a half-yellow sun in your hands, set down softly before a hundred eyes.
A quiet thread is linked, to youth and wise
When you settle limb by limb.

 

WHEN LEAFS CUT TREES

When Leafs Cut Trees

When tree cuts from shells a series of leafs
To emulate the absent heart, its rhythms hidden.

When roots weave themselves into the fabric it lays
At your feet.

When the plexus of branches denudes the sun of light
And shade creeps into your skin.

When soil sustains these giant gestures of crooked
Means, though graced for repose.

When nature becomes synonymous of rest,
Where emptied voices sing [drink].

When the arboreal has a name [fit for stars / of kings] 
And fits all human form within its arms.

When the young climbed its trunk and stood
With the birds for laugher.

When the man cut the beast and made a house
Of bark and toil.

When new growth stood in line and roads
Forged from habit.

When you grow out of grandparents.

My dear trees, for everything you have created,
And all the stories you’ve secretly held.

My stay is with you.  Bury me deep inside your
Veins.

When this body becomes branched bones,
I will sway, as do you in the gales and breeze [storms and hushed]

I’ve witnessed your breath through soil,
And drink from pregnant clouds.

Teach me tree how to grow free,
And leave the concrete behind.

 

EVERY TIME YOU LEAVE

Every Time You Leave I Notice

Every time you leave I notice
These unconventional footprints—

Where you placed an image
Where a spill of star shaped ink fell
How the pillow molded to your back
How the wood and magnet sustain another.
I moved inside this room
While you moved too.  
Both leaving all these trivial imprints, 
Yet composed of untrivial gestures.
Or the other way around.  
Sewing your sweater over your shoulders
Had a strange effect of silencing my mind.
Instead my hands heard the warmth of
You neck and skin.  I stitched along that
Geometry.  And, I liked hearing how much
care you have for your sister, and through
the phone hearing your mother’s concern.
I had a dream last night where I was helping
Friends find spots to hide inside the studio.
Dinosaurs and Godzilla can hide here too if you
Like.  I think there’s ample room.  
Quiet waves can curl them to sleep so you can
Inhabit their dreams.  And why not?
I like to imagine that little line and thread is
Keeping you warmer.  But you can wear the
Crystalline forms of snow without melting them.
Perhaps they speak to each other in angles
And micro spectrums of color like the patterns
Of your sweater.  And why not?  
For now, I’ll rest the words but I’m sure more will
Come to tell about the open windows we gaze from.
I am so very curious to see what you see.  

 

DEAR MOTHER, DEAR FATHER

What have I made of thee?

Dear mother what have I made of thee when,
You left me alone safe under this tree?
Was it food and goods to collect for us, but by
panic and boredom struck down the shading tree.

Dear father what have I made of thee when, 
You left me alone at the river’s edge?
Was peace and land you found for us to rest,
By night drifted in streams of folly and jest.

[Maya Matter, Patter, Ma & Pa.]

 

CHOIR OF WHISPERS

The Internal Voice

We all have an internal voice narrating, pondering, questioning, 
adding and commenting, distracted or focused.  

This voice, internal, sounds oddly like what our voice is projected to sound.  
If we record our speaking voice, it’s always somewhat of a shock to hear it back.  

It’s not what we hear inside.  This voice we carry inside is part of our being, 
like the blood in our veins, and the genes in our cells, do we inherent the voices
of our grandparents and on backwards in time?  

Is there an amalgam of voices and whispers that we experience
in this collective present called consciousness?  

Colloquialisms are the words of our friends and gestures
we pick-up from the environment.  The environ-ment.  
Literally from the Latin: surrounding mind.  Our mind’s voice, 
its sense of present, does it transpose the past?  

My grandfather had an internal voice, as do you.  
Do others ever have a chance to hear this?  Synchronicity?  

How or who amasses the choir of whispers?

 

FRAIL CRACKS

Settle on Bonewood

Frail cracks settle on bonewood to recover the skin from losing its toils.  The bark stays on as skin, a scaled-down picture of plate-tectonic drifts.  Perplexing ideas follow the gaps, trivial matters of mind race to spill thoughts, one by one, inconsequential in order, desperate that one candidate may become the next victorious tone to carry such harmony of insight all the wonders of the world will open as flowers and hands as soft as petals hold me afloat above the mist and lightness of dawn.  When sun rises, gleaming warmth and reminder, sleep has again evaded me.  My eyes succumb.  Words and more words.  Nothing in general to relate.  Perhaps, perhaps the happening, the shrill will settle quietly, uneventfully.  Purpose and surrender. The two tales of virtue marry to become humility and ability.   

Day is too frail for words.  The internal shrill cracks the membrane as ice in fire.  Stress fractures to mind.  Silhouettes of my past try to incorporate this flesh.  When I am still the spirits catch-up.  It’s not easy – this dissolving into many.  Figuring in when the echoes cease forming.  I hear the words upon words, and their cadence resonate and ricochet over and gain volume, the turbulence resolute.  The stone sinks under and settles comfortably in the soot, out of sight.  Time unkept, we drill this routine.  Amidst the noise communicate and hope somehow our voice will be heard, and connect with someone.  Acknowledged.  Felt.  A pair of eyes unmistakably holding its gaze in quiet solidarity.  We can be two in one without losing count.  Breath after breath, approaching closer, feeling the rhythm of the diaphragm emit in its swellings the beats lying below our skin.   I don’t mind if mine sets to yours, or otherwise reverse.  In my dreams I enter buildings and run the endless staircases bringing your name to speech but nobody seems to know you.  The corridors are always the same, hosts of ghosts everywhere – the paranoia thrives.  It has a body too.  I long and seek but we just met moments ago.  Ages.  Marks.  Spirits trapped inside these vessels we care for in curious abandon.  Perhaps the generations hurling down through time the trickle of challenges.  

What chances have I with this, so quietly misunderstood?  I am of no use when sleep is neglected.  The passage time to meditate and sink deep into the mystery, and turn over the thoughts of day breaking its fractions of moments into coalesced fates.  Single.  One heart beating alive and the series of breaths that constitute living lose count.  Moon too wanes and waxes, looking at times through the windows, and from afar, the sun laughing, the Lunar mask flows the blood of land.  Breath if you dare, solar flares and auroras.

 


PIERCING the NIGHT SKIN 

(Notes For Nocturnes)

“…the blackness of the arcane substance should, for Paracelsus, change into the spectacle of the "interior firmament" and its stars.  He beholds the darksome psyche as a star-strewn night sky, whose planets and fixed constellations represent the archetypes in all their luminosity and numinosity.  The starry vault of heaven is in truth the open book of cosmic projection...” ~Carl Jung, CW 8, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, Page 195, Para 392.
    
Tiny fingers point toward the heavens with increased fidelity and wonder.  Are all these stars we continually discover, catalogue and recount like our thoughts, shattered reflections of our consciousness?  Each experience we feel and have felt is connected to a star, though we gaze up, it’s useless to hold onto any single one luminous speck.  Letting go under an ocean of stars is easier; the belittling quality of the sky is comforting.  In spite of labels and observations, our sense of unity with the night sky as endless and indefinable remains undiminished.  We are so insignificant under the Milky Way, and while knowing we cannot possess the stars, we still insist on possessing a self. 

I wonder if all these stars may be like our thoughts.  Every thought and experience we feel, have and will feel is connected [tandem] to a star.  And so we can gaze up and know it’s useless to hold on to any single one, though we may create constellations from the brightest ones and remember them and pass them along to our friends and children, calling them: big dipper, little dipper, Orion, Cassiopeia, and on, and on.  Let the scientist label them and study them, M31, the closest spiral galaxy to our milky way, still remains untouched, though they may look upon it daily and even perhaps become Apple’s default screen saver.  Let the fortune tellers manufacture fates, and consider what is revealed by one’s eyes.  No mystery unmasked, but only made more apparent how little we know and how much we can feel.   

Nothing new in the spiritual realm just a funny irony of where we let go, where we resist letting go, like sitting under stars by the sea vs. not letting go of an anxiety about work or money or self-esteem, trying to figure it all out in our heads, all the problems; as if of our experience of thoughts and emotions aren’t as equally mysterious but somehow not to the point where the belittling quality of the sky is actually comforting.  Letting go under an ocean of stars is easier.  We are so insignificant under the Milky Way, but why not under our endless mental chatter—[the] mirror of mind?  

Why insist on possessing a self, but never the stars? So anxieties and fears rather than being like the stars to ponder on but always out of our reach of concrete definitions, and so we get stuck.  Has anyone gotten stuck (besides religious fanatics) that the night sky is pretty much endlessly indefinable, though we gladly play with facts and mythologies veiled over it, all the constellations we build, and theories we rediscover, but somehow it never succeeds (grateful for this) in diminishing out or compressing our experience.  We are united with it.  Dust again.  I’ll show you fear in a handful of dust.  T.S.Eliot

When fears come up in ourselves, we usually don’t unite, we feel we are burdened by them, at least in how we have been conditioned to label and accept pleasure vs. pain.  “Our” (egoic) fears, and obsessions, joys and wonderment feel - in terms of sensations - so close to one another at times.  Perhaps, the French were referring to this and knew that in the "le petit morte" reference to orgasm the irony was present beside ourselves.  Everyone is assured orgasms and death, literal, figuratively, simultaneously, and removed.  If a “little death” = ecstasy, the death of self = ecstatic union.   And on and on.  The more I try to figure things out it’s as if metaphorically, I’m drilling more holes into the “problem” I’m trying to figure this out, but besides myself, and thank god, it’s only piercing the dark membrane, adding another little dot for light to come through, among the many other little dots, added by a communal collection of thought points. These dots we call stars sometimes, and the singular possessed, perceived insight simply gets lost in cosmos, indistinguishable from the countless suns, and thoughts.  The more holes, the more stars, the more sensation thoughts, the grander the sky becomes; so we are belittled even further, and return to being insignificant but united again, under our own thoughts, baffled by the immensity of being held under the canopy of everyone’s mind at once, looking upwards, looking for a constellation where we see our interwoven thoughts and traces of how the mind plays beyond our body.  When the lights switched off and attention ponders spires towards the firmament.  There we consider.  And “we have to forget, for example, that in the word “consider” there is a suggestion of astrology— “consider” originally meaning “being with the stars,” “making a horoscope.” (Borges 23)  

We rob the night stars of their mythology in order to build precise fires: light bulbs.  Like the bulbs of flowers, hung from ceilings.  Who are we to beckon this power to illuminate our thoughts, yet in their luminescence blind our view of the grandeur so gifted to us to quell and inspire tethered waking dreams only suns can manifest by their considered distance.

The way we treat the night is exactly how we treat our mind.  What arises in obscurity seen in daylight.  Why so fearful of the dark.  The mind invisibly obscured by night.

There is no room for art here, as there is no space for the vast mystery of a naked sky.  The stars are erased from city nights. We no longer use the stars to navigate ourselves. We have exchanged direct perception for the fantasy and controlled access to the wondrous and exalted images gathered by remote eyes. Constellations have lost meaning and mnemonic reference in the public. We rob the night stars of their mythology in order to build precise glare—light bulbs—fire flowers, hung from ceilings. We beckon this power to illuminate our thoughts, yet in their luminescence blind our view of the grandeur gifted to us to inspire tethered waking dreams only suns can manifest by their considered distance.  

Study, learn, and label these ocular moons.  Though we may create constellations from the brightest ones, archive them, transmit a heritage of overwhelming cultural wealth.  Information to our children by logo: Big Dipper, Polaris, Orion, Cassiopeia, and on, and on, they remain untouched.  Andromeda, “ruler of men,” M31, the nearest galaxy to Milky Way, can be observed like the pupil of an eye.  She gazes back too, through our “privileged views” (telescope optics) uploaded to monitors, and then relegated to screen savers.  Tear symbols from the skies and grind them to earth, dust and rock.  Fortune-tellers till these fates, declaim asterisks, prophesize a culture’s ascension and what blooms may come.  How little, how much.  

Everyone is assured pain in tandem with pleasure - orgasms and death.  If a “little death” equates to ecstasy, death of the self can be construed as an ecstatic union with the universe.  In the void of night is the void of mind, both stars and thoughts are born nonetheless.  They pierce Nix’s dark membrane and add yet more pinpoints for light to come through, each a singular perceived insight.  The sky becomes sublime as we connect its dots, absorb its focused light lost in the cosmos, more indistinguishable yet evermore interrelated.  We are baffled by the immensity of being held under the canopy of everyone’s mind at once, looking upwards for a constellation where we see interwoven thoughts and trace the chorus of mind-play beyond our body. 

 

FESTOONED STARS

Sight to Sought
Night To Knight
Knot to Naught


Billions of years before I was setup to die, 
the images for eyes festooned [a cross/across/cross] the skies.


Regardless of the [impossibly] daunting task of imagining the ages of time it’s taken to create all that we have at our hands.  Regardless of the imperfection of our follies, and unanswered questions; of all possibilities, how it is that the ancient skies have been visible to all life on this planet for billions of years, we have decreed with our efforts the first generation that is raised seeing more mystery from the images we collect than the images we can gather by simply walking outside our door.  Constellations have lost all meaning and mnemonic reference in the public eye.  
       
       How can one measure mystery systematically and understand its history?  
       At what point did we start erasing starts from our city night skies?  
       What is the trade-off between diminishing wonderment free from assigned value?  

Yet the wonder is then caught and delivered under ticket and entry; entertainment and culture, planetariums and museum halls, natural history museums and manicured parks.  There’s no sin or wrongdoing with any of these plateaus, they are our treasure trove of understanding in the externalizing of what we regard most important and meaningful.  But our decree is always in the end going to outlast all material denominations and form.  However memory transforms us will remove the binding links to this so called past.  In the stars there is no past we can recreate.  In the stars we see the mystery of our future and space for a present.  The moon shines through the last remaining stars waiting to be festooned in shade of out chested heart.

If I can’t change this world, how can I change my place in it so as to accommodate the views that matter most?  How can it be that most meaningfulness presented in the naiveté of childhood have changed so dramatically, the landscape tilled of all that grew in my imagination.  That soil is rich still.  When was the last time you placed a seed in the soil and watched it sprout?

Time to rise from these ashes.  They have settled.  Ashes onto dirt.  This dirt unpossessed becomes life.
A sense of scale.  A sense of time.  A sense of forgotten wonders.  How to see the unseen?
Simplicity frail to the wind.    

 

KNIGHT TO NIGHT DEATH

Earth Darkness

A view from within – behind the skull, from within the socket, the light fading to emptiness.  This concept and chapter potentially deals with the realization of the kill, being a survivor to the duel, living with the responsibility of taking someone’s breath away, and replacing their existence with the continuity of a memory and a physiological change in the one standing; a kill without an enemy, without injustice, a mutual respect for the human need towards blood and satisfaction.  From breath rhythm to the seeds of rocks.  

 

DIAMOND MEAT FEAST 

Knight Consumption

Proposes a similar structured relationship towards this type of consumption, an assimilation of the released notion of chivalry, and foreshadowing for death of the knight.  An action in slow motion, a death reaching a state of stillness, of complete serenity, and silence; ultimately, a release of all tension, an orgasm, linked between four eyes.  Gazing deep within a forest as all light is sucked and distributed on branches, moss, bark, the underside of the canopy.  You will always be my king.  The moon over the forest, through the web branches streaking on the mapped starry sky, tugs a lightness of celestial-cobalt intoxication and the promise of renewal.  

What then is the relationship between the dawn and dusk?  
Between the gloaming and dawn?  
How many years can be realized in this period of time?  
What will be remembered and what will have been loved?
Which materials transformed into our genetic imprint?
    


I’LL NEVER KNOW HOW SHARP THE SKIES

Darker The Night

The sharper the sky, lest there be clouds,
Or other musings of the firmament.
    
I’ll never know how sharp the night skies
Looked for you, and how they shaped your world.
I’m told Hawks and Eagles can see insects from
Crawling on the ground from distances would
Require telescopes for the best of our human eyes.
20/5 vision I believe is what they approximate.
You Eagle are a person in my eyes, you have your
Common senses, active daily, teaching your young, 
And navigating the world by these common senses.
But the common sense to you is so strange and removed
For me, and vice-verse, though we share common ground.
So I’ve built stories after what you look like
Inhabiting this mutual place.  Do you have stories about us?
Do you seen us humans as having commons sense, or a common sense?
Ironically, we tend to communicate best with those with the
Same common sense, and language and so think the world
Is made this way, when in fact it’s diversity that populates
Our common sense, but we don’t see it all, for it’s too much.
The ocean is vast our common sense tells, us.  But we don’t see all of it.
Our summation is irrational, and this is a blessing.
For you they would have been common sense.  
And common sense is the last thing we discuss.
We assume we all see the world alike, literally.
Tests show 20/20 vision or it’s departure
from this common average.  
While the world outside looks of certain consistent patterns
We don’t question it any further, unless it’s through competition or
Ergonomics.  Everything is tailored to maximize an ergonomic average
And that includes the ergonomics of all the senses.  
A professional basketball Player will seldom fit inside
a Porsche because of how small they’re made, or
Anyone over 6’2’’ will not be able to venture into space.  
In this way, what if someone’s Hearing was more attuned?  
They become a piano tuner, or music teacher?  If one can
See 20/15, they can qualify to be a fighter pilot, or may be an artist?
What other senses does the body manifest
strongly in humans that we smooth over
With the bulldozer of our own doing
from lack of understanding, which is primed
By the rejection of diversity in the external world.  
Everything has a way of feeling the world around
and is equally part of how the world
is feeling it in that exchange.  
I don’t know what I am talking about?
Does any animal or insect on Earth, 
any biological form, have a telepathic sense?  
Whales can communicate over half the globe’s circumference. 
Bats can echolocation without ever hitting another, 
and pick flying mosquitoes from midair, 
dolphin’s sonar capacity can describe the type of material, 
almost in what is describe to be a quantum
MRI machine in their head.  
Pigeons have elements in their beaks that align
with the magnetic fields of the Earth.  
And some creatures like turtles are born to navigate
by the light of stars, and moon.  
How can bees smell their environment in 3D
to such accuracy they can tell where
each other bee in the colony is located.  
We look at a dog and forget it’s olfactory sense
is sharper than ours, like sight for us, 
and language, it has other senses that are
primary for dialoguing the world.  
But they surely feel the same things
at least on a basic level.  Comfort, warmth, 
protection, affection, anxiousness, sleepiness, etc.
What if this is the beginning of a departure
to what one day was called superstition?
What is called superstition, may be the result of a misunderstanding,
Not in what we consider to be the ability leading to superstition, a
Belief in something unreal, but that to some people it may be real, 
In that it may be felt, perceived, and incorporated into their unconscious
Body intelligence, in the way we all carry this process out daily.
Of an evolutionary development of adaptation in one species.
And though the explanation may be false, the action may remain
True to its biological imperative.  We have called people animals.
We have deemed animals to lack culture and empathy, all
Which turned out to be false, by a far margin.
How we feel the other may require a tolerance
In the translation of the language used.  
We see this in today’s world of spiritual attention.
East and Western manifestation of the Gods to worship.
Forget for a minute if they are real or not, by proof or belief, 
Let’s suspend this thinking and focus on what they represent, 
Which ultimately is all that matters.  The reminders help with
The recalling, and keeping active in the environment, 
This sense of internal sensibilities that require stories to encapsulate.
So symbols summarize the story, much in the way a flag summarizes
A nation, and a story summarizes a feeling of complex historic facets.  
But is it possible that in the way we extend outside
our bodies using technology, people may have done
this using their minds, or an intuition developed
and attuned in ways that would look impossible today?  
What we today call superstition, is commentary
on the narratives and explanations
ancient people gave to the abilities.  
If one would reverse the table, and ask
that someone from Egypt view out technology today, 
would we be so different? Or would it all seem like magic?  
What if the technology we have is a result
of this ability made manifest, and commodified externally?
Are any of these thoughts useful to me, for my work, or those I love?  
Only in a form of reverse engineered empathy I’ll be able to dialogue.  
I’m tired of thinking of Kumi all the time.  
Not simply as conscious thoughts, 
but inside like some pattern of blood, 
or as a type of fate that was derailed
and it attempting to re-stabilize itself.  
A planet coming in alignment, or a season changing.  
If none had labeled the seasons, 
how would you have divided them?  
You don’t live by agricultural tending, 
and seasons are controlled within the shelter or by travel.  

 

[CONSIDER STELLA]

 

CUANDO ME HABLAS

Pequeños Relámpagos 

Cuando me hablas
las palabras me entran
como pequeños relámpagos
en completo silencio.  

no escucho nada, 
sino el sonido de tus
labios pegando
entre tus pulmones
respirando.  

entre la respiración
me ahogado de anticipación
de lo que vas a
inventar.  

no importa la cosa.  
un cohete, 
una palabra, ? , 
sino que no quiero
perder nada
de lo que encuentres.  

esta vida sola
ya se que no será 
suficiente para vivir
los ángulos
de esta inspiración.  

te espero adentro
de una emoción
donde el tiempo
desaparece
como la arena
en el mar.  

tienes luces
en la sangre del cielo.  


Puedo balancear
palabras
sobre un cable
y como
una cadena
que sostiene
toda
sus significancias
hasta que
se pierda el
hombre.

 

 

VOZ Y YOU SOMOS DOS

This Splitting Mechanism 

This Splitting Mechanism won’t let merest, nor resist its incapacity to remain still for long.
When I was young, formally unknown, to the hibernating beast within the confines of all the accountable marbles.  Insomniac, awake in bed, cover unchanged flattened, I wait for my birth day, for that artificial sense of entitlement. A strange day that comes and goes, easier to lie or do by grace.  Upon these endless days, weeks, months, and years, now, I try to release the tension, but if my fingers touch the world, the only sense—wet, saturated sponges, warm and wrung.
I disappear and reenter briefly, the ground shakes, but is the body giving out but, not, yet, and, just sit— stare at my torpid books.  They don’t mind.  So I am either going to shit myself, or let these ideas pour out torrents of unkind wind capped warm falseness.  
My compulsion collects them in sections, and I promised myself I would stay and remain here until all these words, the worlds are digested.  But it’s a truth and learning I put off (I’ll probably pass out in the toilet…no more liminal state, but I await you my cherished sC°/sC•/sC*.
To working A recording.  What happens after I stop, and later if I want to try again.   You’re, pretty fast actually,
Are you recognizing my voice or is this can be a slow process together. and introduction to the art of, Wonders of science. Trying Greene, the fabric of the Cosmos are you not recording anymore why what happened to fight.  Them.   Up quite I wanted and them but that’s okay, come a more right on more ABCD.

 


A LARGE BEAST APPEARS

When Rage Forges a Seed of Legend

When are legends forged?

Mythobiotic Response

Do they emerge in time or do spontaneously create form by circuitry and rhizome structures.

There’s a large beast of a man standing in the corner of the room.  He’s overgrown by hair, concealing most of his face.  Though he means no harm, there’s an ominous flair about him.  I tried talking with him.  “Hey.”
—Hi.
What are you doing here?
—You brought me here.
Can I get you anything?
—No.
Are you sure?
—No.  Why are you scared of me?
I wasn’t expecting guests, or roommates.  Who do you represent?
—You.  I’m a projected product of your organism.
Do you have a name?
—Calder Taylor Morpheus.
Have you heard of Skyview?
—Yes.  It’s the membrane you’ll cross when you engage the world without body.
Are you from that world?
—What do you think?
Yeah.  I don’t understand why there’s a rage and pressure in the head.
—It will pass.
Okay.
—Remember to go to the stars and build constellations.  Trees are synaptic connections.  As branches extend to the sky, and cut the sky, so too will your ideas map the world of space, where it’s dark, infinitely empty, but extend, and finger deeper like roots underground.  Even the clouds will reach you there.  Are you my sentence?

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
       -T.S. Eliot
       
—There is nothing to fear.  I am the aggregate.  Pinion, toil, and lift.  Pull the veil and skin the nocturne sky.  It’s time to rest and lay embraced with your lover.  She is near.
    
“Techne is the paper and the words themselves, but not the words written upon it, as computers are the medium not the media.  The media organizes the agents; beware the programs more than the devices which deliver them.”

 

FLIGHT OR FEATHER
 
Some days the feather; 
Some days the weather.
Some days the flight;
Some days the fight.

Such trivial changes
To fuel this ship
An F for W
Subtracted L.

My heart plays bingo daily
With these frail nerves
that they should hold
the craft in place
by spider webs.

Doldrums’ etymology
I’m a feather buried under mud.
Little lungs, little fingers.

Isis and “boots on the ground”  
“semantic game”
“Complex chess board of problems”
“While it’s still early days…”
[How is it possible that the news repeats over and throughout the day, knowing how many stories exist in the making].


 
GEOMETRICS THROUGH THE ARBOREAL MEMBRANE

ENCODER & ARCHIVIST

The Encoder
Encodes information, meaning, makes connections, perpetuates their longevity, causes saliency to remain, and intuition to last – all via Chroma Transmissions.

The Archivist
Tries to record “everything,” alike the brain, or camera, but fundamentally affects no connections, like roads built before the trip.

The text/code hidden behind the bark reveals like a cabinet door opens a porthole or film to its hidden messages.  Open Trees.  Door Codes.  Master Key Log.  

How trees come to learn of mankind and human history?  
How would a tree learn about human life, as humans are attempting to learn of life on Mars?   What defines being alive, living, being “conscious”?  Conscious trees?  
They keep all of human archives in the rings of the tree.  Each ring, each annular ring, a volume, an image, wrapped it builds the whole.  Peel its bark back and reveal the code of ages and the “Natural Order” of things.  

 

ECHO GRAMOPHONE NEWS

Mythobiotic Response

How is it possible that the news repeats over, throughout the day, knowing how many stories exist in the making?

1.0  Adjusting everyone by what can be measured is horrible.  
  1.1  All you end-up doing is highlighting what can be perceived.  
  1.2  The anomalies and the emergent functions which can’t be observed won't be measured.  
  1.3  Reinforcement then occurs only in the perceived, this will guide people monotony.  

2.  Tracking everyone with data will not improve the future

3.  Beliefs / TV Shows / Ratings based on Tweeter/live viewing/purchased/membership/Advertisement / 

4.  The economy is driving technology as a way to fill the gaps in the isolation that the economy itself is creating.  

5.  The logic of de-personification through the neutral dollar, then supplies a connector agent by supplying a belief structure.  

6.  AI will simply be the dumbing down of people, and the increased emulation of algorithmic mechanization.  

7.  Who can account for the algorithm of evolution as the world exists currently.  

8.  So we destroy the technology, like trees, only to replace it with human ingenuity.

9.  Everyone fights the locally, but the problem is trickling from above; a battle to put band-aid’s on broken bones.  

 

WHATEVER DEPRESSION IS  

One thing it is not—a tool for remembrance.

Or is it?

It’s a biology of slobs and disorder.  And what have I become?
I remember everything wrong, paranoid, useless.  How much more do I need to lose before I’ll snap out of this misery?  Denial.  Self-loathing.  No answers.  I take my medication and it does nothing for me, except make me run with a false sense of purpose that only aggregates solitude and isolation.  I’ve fucked everything up.  Again the same entry.      

 

JOSEPH CONRAD—HEART OF DARKNESS, P.54-55

 “Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it anymore; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day’s steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality—the reality, I tell you—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for—what is it? half-a-crown a tumble—”

 

CRASHING WAVES IN A VACUUM

The Vaccum of Crashing Waves

When the road leads to the vacuum of crashing waves on a steep beach.  Will we measure this?

While walking down the road, a vacuum, the crashing waves on a shallow beach extended out of view; I was at the edge of the arc, perpendicular road to pierce the turbulent waves.  

What do you say when you hear the waves crashing at the end of a road, on the beach consumed, so that rather than sand their is a bluff, to which traverse and view the apparently endless rising of the water, on the steep incline of sand banks, so that before the waves collapse, they meet sand, rather than water and foam.  Each wave a full inhalation of breath so there is no more space to expand, the body full, the elastic band pulled taught to break point, and then the collapse, and the release, into a vacuum of space, the lighting strike sucking all the ions from the air molecules, the air collapsing around the bolt, and in discharge, the thunderous rumble of earth on the the wave of dirt and earth.  Sound crashes too in a vacuum along the waves.  The light is dim.  No one else in sight.  Sounds are absent.  Breath inconsequential, all the more peculiar, since body feels the pressure of the water folding itself.  The sand meets it, unperturbed it seems to relish this fall.  Silence regained.  Silica. Calcium. Salt. 

The eyelashes turned white one by one overnight, time keeping the minutes, in cycles of songs, from the outside inwards towards the bridge of the nose.  A mirror is unnecessary, as the lashes white lighten the blur between the visible and the faded darkness which starts at the limits of periphery, the rest is a blank.  Unnecessary corrections and fields of speculation

A black blank.  Void.  Nothing.  Out of field of vision, not sound, not odor, not balance.  What is that cloud that apertures around vision and looking?  

What is a bird?

It’s a cross between tree and fish.  Arranged leafs in wing formation, fins of a fish, and why should the bird know any different than the fish, that is flies in the air as fish swim in water.  How does it navigate branches as we walk a forest, in common, our predilection to move around the trees?  We are of the scale of trunks as they are with branches, we lean, they perch, we rest under, they sit upon.  Echoes permeate the forest of sharp notes out of view.  What is there to see and to feel.  To s/feel. 

You were in this dream too.  Finding the glowing the trunk under a blanket of clouds in a moon filled night, dimmed and diffused.  The eyes adjust to the dark, and see more than the imagination.  Bats replace the birds.  

What is a bat?  

Our hands in flight with stretched skin between digits.  Spider webs become air focused to laser lines across a cheek, stuck there, cold as ice, the air heavy with dew.  Molecules and lines.  Faint glow of outlines, dark upon darkness, and the comforting wet leafs to meet each step, moss to muffle the sound and gently spring forward another.  The occasional pebble and fallen branch.  Cracks, snaps, such a heavy creature in the woods even while floating in this dream.

What is a dream?

Absence of breath, yet living.  The body minus the concrete.  A toil minus the worry.  The worry minus the toil.  Perseverance minus the end goal.  Stones floating as clouds and clouds laid by grass.   Do you see there?  Counting without numbers, speaking without letters.  Crying inside a rainstorm.  The horned moon a subtle smile against white teeth biting stars.  Swallow them whole.

How does a hand swallow stars? 
Or the subject of aging the body into a house?

Can you tell me hand of mind and lullaby in a cradle, wrapped warm and safe, small baby finger inside the palm of an old man.  New skin inside old skin, countless variations of folds, repeated to gestures and tasks.  How many lines will you carve tiny fingers in your palm?  What sort of texture and surfaces will we leave for you to feel?  Pelts, bone, wood, stone, crystal, glass, precious metals perhaps, images to cares, where has the body gone, and does it ever age anymore?  Is decrepitude of old age taboo?  How is a star forged if not by pressure and how are the hands forged into being?  
Will you ever grasp at stars, pin pricks of light on a veil of mystery?

 

**IN HOW MANY WAYS WE TRIED TO MEASURE TIME?

As Youth We Are Forgiven

As youth we are forgiven for wisdom, 
in old age we are not,
We are forgiven instead, for folly.  
Old age comes with folly, 
which is the expected grace, 
and the folly of a child
is wisdom without effort.

In youth we are forgiven for our wisdom, 
In old age we are not.
We are forgiven instead for folly:
Old age comes by folly,
Which is the expected grace, 
And by folly the child a wisdom without effort.
So the baby Zen monk:
The crooked arrow strikes the perfect error.

 

**THE MEASURE OF TIME

In youth, wisdom is forgiven, 

In youth, wisdom is forgiven, 
In old age, this fruit is not.

The eyes nutated to dusty years, 
By folly with, or folly without,
Grace tolerates the ripened crony. 

Eyes nutated to dusty years,
Folly with, or folly without,
Grace tolerates the ripened crony
The ripened crony grace tolerates,
A benighted set of eyes]
 
Of child, folly appears as wisdom,
Effortless, baby babble speaks pure, 
Nonsense—the crooked arrow,
Strikes the second perfect error.

 

THE OBJECT OF TIME, A POCKETWATCH

The object is old and rests upon a table—
    A pocket watch, silent, with wear, with
[a pocket watch, silent, worn,]
how many days of settled dust.  [with many days measuring settled dust]
I taste the watch, silver sweet
    and dull.
My tongue is part grandfather’s flesh, cell
Whose watch was passed to me from a lineage of grandfathers,
116 years ago, whose blood ticks and tocks in me, in line—
Though I taste with the history of my family’s tongue
I can never taste the dust they’ve
    Tasted [or watched too.]
I am [like] the object which beyond function
Moves in time, not in lines
Not linear
But organically
And so time moves the organism
Whether I wind-up the organism time
Keeping time by brushing dust off
    And tasting what has been handed
—By palm to palm, one opening while
    The other clutching.

Consciousness is a sense taking control of perception by its current understanding (competence).
To see the world be still.  To see oneself move about.
The dance is the expression of both, and something more.

the apparatus of containment is art

 

THE PRESENT WATCH

The present watch, where only time by the hand remains in focus while the rest of numbers and lines slip into a blur.  Out of this fog a few moments take shape, suspended.

The future body one may inhabit by plan of retirement may not feel alike the same as the one making the decisions for the future time.  To rely on how well the future can be composed by the cues of today is both a wonder of ingenuity, and a betrayal to the present “body of being”.  How is one supposed to know how well the body will perform in this future decade dream of retirement?  I take for granted that in this plan perhaps the body may betray my own desires vision of today and not quite prepare for what I may require later on in life.  How then to strike a balance of both?  Not to hot or cold, not too timid in the present but not too bold to forsake the pleasures of being old, if old one is to be, by luck, change, or rigore ostinato.  

Regardless of the message’s content, if you don't write it well, 
no one will bear the task that reading locates meaning to dwell.   

What are the present metaphors by which the modality of society, and you within this particular picture of society function and shape your life, decisions, emotions, and intuitions?  Especially when all meaning is displaced to one’s own daemon, but in this state, what by appearance alone the selfish quest similates more of what the solipsistic view to be, how to give it all, when purpose fades outside the narrative you’ve held all these years, and can you let this go too?  Or is this unnatural to you?  

I hear the worried mother, who is sensitive to the unbalanced weight of concrete urban life.
I hear the best friend whose father is about to die, and he has no choice but a tragic stoic ride.
I hear him planning.  I hear her working out the worries.  My mom crying as her friend is sick.  
A young child laughing, and bouncing with energy.  It wasn’t long ago she was playing, and by a the side white-board claps of the house stood still while a photograph was taken.  In her dress, with pony tails, glasses, skinny legs, all but 7 or 8 years old, she paused and looked.  And now I look back at her, in what I can recall to the mind’s internal eye of that picture, and something survives, whether fiction or true.  Her gaze, though completely young is now haunting an old man who is her son.  You old man, need to set time aside to do your vision quest, and sit in the center of the storm.  Discover what you, and by “you” I mean the body whole of being, what it needs, what when saying “you” indeed what does this mean anyways?  It may not work to try to live by integrating a non-egoic state here, but rather be egoic by setting boundaries?  There is not much that would beckon my true altruism, not to be good, or do what is required to remain right, but because by natural decree is what was helpless to do, of itself so, without obstruction, like a sneeze, or cough.  Time to find your own words in morning’s pride.

What I don’t hear is you asking the questions to inquire between the lines, and get to the pulp they are suggesting, and focus more on what the present moment is for, and in doing so be grateful by gratitude and listening to have a moment to is a wave of worry, or a date with death to watch the passing of a father.  I know this will come too, and what wasted time am I placing to ignorance?  What have I forgotten to suffer, or how am I misreading the suffering that may be the gift of life?

This willow tree of worry bends as it should by the winds of sadness that blow,
But has neglected to sway so in worry it does not play as is its nature whole.

I’ve walked down a path that has carried me into a field of melancholia, resonates by empathy what friends and family do now feel, and there is nothing I can do, though I try to undo this sensation, rather than to dive with its moving waters.  There’s not much you can do but to carve out the silences from where the echoes arise, where the body can realize its private real eyes.

Dream:  A few days ago, but the dream has stayed with me since.  When I woke up in the morning, I checked the cabinet above the kitchen sink where I keep my daily medication of Cymbalta, Diazepam, and Adderall.  I was convinced that while sleepwalking managed to put the entire bottle’s worth into my mouth.  In the dream, while realizing that I had taken too many tablets, I started spitting them out and trying to count how many were left, not how many I had in my mouth.  Once I took stock of the Adderall pills, using my teeth and tongue alone, managed to split pills in half and perform calculated spitting out back into the bottle.  

Dreams like these don’t usually stay with me.  The textures and vivid visual realization keeps asking, in a subconscious way: “are you sure you didn't sleepwalk and eat all those pills?”  I’ve checked the bottle a couple of times to confirm.  All are there.  Since many tablets were spit back out, they had swollen as they normally do.  It was all in my dream. 

Conclusion:  Is this a phobia of dependency?  Is it a calculated medically endorsed addiction?  Could I take more than needed in my sleep?  Can I trust my subconscious and unconscious mind?  What are the daily physical factors imposing this kind of response?  Under what circumstances would this response be adequate, and by nature perceived as beneficially adaptive?  Adderall creates a heightened sense of awareness, facilitating the intake of information and correlation, adds details which are genuinely felt as interesting.  I’ve checked my notations on the margins of books to review what the mind finds of interest, and everything is highlighted or annotated.  It can be compulsive, but mostly it makes everything seem fascinating.  If I accidentally (or purposely) drink too much coffee the sense of action is mandatory.  The sensation is closest to one of being over caffeinated on a full stomach.  

I can recall about 4 or 5 accounts of sleepwalking in my life, and all are either funny or protective in nature: 1. Combing my pubic hairs with Kirsten’s tooth brush; 2. Bringing a knife to bed and hiding it under the pillow to protect Kirsten and myself.  The knife was taken from a water-filled pot we used to cook pasta, so there was tomato sauce on the knife, when discovered in the morning. I remembered in the dream I was trying to guard us; 3. Pissing in a locker, which I thought was a bathroom.  The locker was part of the furniture in the room Victor, Yuri, and myself were sharing while we visited Berlin and Yuri’s show.  We were drinking heavily.

I’ve done things in a blackout, and come to conscious awareness midway.  But many times only discover the remnants of something, like pissing on the floor of the studio from the seated position at the end of the bed, and while the wooden floor buckled, somehow and luckily, managed to miss splattering any of the nearby drawings.

 

BEFORE MIRRORS THERE WAS A TIME

When Two Were One

There was a time before mirrors when two were as one,
[where one was never as two,
but given to be two by birth or thought,
two joined as one, as mother and new born.]

Mother and child being through eyes  

There was a time before mirrors,
A time when we each served such
Purpose, when still water and polished metals reflected our daily
Masks,  How then did such people
Mark the mirrored image?
Who, and how are mirrors
Now crafted?  Deposit images
To calm waters.  By liquid
Depth overlay either a clear
Reflection or the pulpy soil
Growth of water grasses, moss, rocks,
And drifting fish—a face moves
With the mirror agent; how
Still have today’s mirrors become…hanging solitary
Inside rooms and closets,
Or its cousin on the street,
As glass we pass traits a
Passing mirage of oneself.

“mushin--- empty mind, no heart, mind like a mirror, 
the perfect man employs the mind as a mirror, 
it grasps nothing, it refuses nothing, it receives but does not keep, 
the mirrors reflects instantly.” A.W. 3:36:00 You’re It

 

A MIRROR 

Communing Mom’s Neurosis

Communing with relational experiences that remind
the people involved about the course at hand.  

Boundaries will be revealed
as a consequence of trust
in the nature of the terrain explored.  

The entire necessary tool
to navigate the alien landscape
will be given and emerge as a result
of the exploration itself.  

The anticipatory act of figuring it out
in advance can become a trap
to procrastinate and avoid
being in the now.  

Most often all the things that we need
are inherently within us
and like origami will be unpacked and unfolded
while we go through the experience itself
– in short remaining in the now.  

The serenity prayer: 
accept that which we cannot change. 

Courage to change the things we can
and wisdom to know the difference.  

We need each other to remind us
when we are off course

Generally speaking this reminder is
ironically a handing back
of advice that was given to us.  

The wisdom is passed back and forth
like a baseball during warm-up.  
Were constantly playing catch using this analogy.  

Remain teachable; there is so much
to learn still and so little that we know, 
that I know.

Mom and dad fill me with warmth
and I am grateful for this realization.  

They’ve been patient with me.  
I love them.


YOU DON’T NEED WORDS ANYMORE

To Convey the Raven Feather

You don't need words anymore
To convey the raven feather
Cast its shadows across the page

Set in time and rhyme, the embrace
Is graced of pen and line
When you hold high the potential 

In blooms and so the feather falls

A seed descends by spring’s demise,
Fall’s embrace so blindly lies,
Its quilts of leaves, the future earth,

A quiet ground.

Ice soon melts forbearing grace,
Spring again retains the grain, 
As years go by, this lullaby, 

With sun in spheres of cycles clear
Repeats the ways, until one stays
The rooted kind, one to bury

Fingers soil safe, and arms twined

Breathe between golden leaves
Gleams the sun through grass
Pine pollen spelled, no speck confined

Yours is as mine, dream wise

When she speaks respect to find
Still cradled time, slow wind.
How then the merge complete?

A thousand mouths.

Wet nourished peat.
Tiny stem, a filament in green
Converts from brown a stalk part round,

Above it grows towards sun and moon,

With wind to sway, a rain replay,
Commanding hands build its spine
Months testing the vulture’s schemes

Words spelled by branches, 

Shadow cut arches, warm glowing light,
The fields of reeds, 
For higher more,

This seed explores the meeting points

Of bird, air, and talons.
How subtle still its fractal leafs
Before the drop

First winter coat of starry claims,
This name and you, both called
And true.  Arms star bound.

 

 

THE HOMOGENIZED SKY

First I Steal Your Skies

First I steal your skies
Then peel your mountains
Then block your views
Boil your seas and gnaw at glaciers and ice for fun.

I’ll give you tools
I’ll replace your eyes for telescopes
I’ll replace your hands for sensors
I’ll replace your heart for pumps
I’ll replace  your mind with theory
I’ll show you how it works
But first I must take it
What I give back won’t be yours, 
It will be yours but in you it will
Symbolize your soul.  You’ll think the symbols
Are real, and so I’ll trade you empty words
For what could have been yours,
Now it’s mine
What you recognize of yourself
You will claim to have owned
But was never yours to begin with
So you think it goes that it’s yours.

I’ll homogenize the sky,
Clean your dirty rainbows
Scrub awareness
Quiet the wind
I’ll arrest the snow
Plug volcanoes
I’ll inhale the clouds so they
No longer rain
I’ll homogenize your sky
No longer rain
You’ll feel no pain
So you’ll feel the same
Leave a few stars above
To point to

First I’ll steal your skies
Then I’ll steal your mountains
Then I’ll steal your views
Then I’ll steal your ice and glaciers.

Two beings in water until I can’t tell you from me.  
—The Thin Red Line, T. Mallick

 

INVISIBLE MAPS & LESSONS ON SURFACE TENSIONS

An approach to finding the bits is us that will matter for a further reconstruction of the body physical in the finger-rich, digit-based homunculus of the eye beyond consequence of bruising the contiguous identity body projection in space undefined and spirit united.  

Where will the body count?  

How will we measure this?

Are we learning the wrong lessons from our ancestors?  

Are we confusing [ancient tale’s told] as either fiction or myth when they are recipes for living and see instead the results of their mental achievements in their best-kept records throughout, literature, poetry, etc. Only? 
    And here only see the tools rather than the environmental paradigms of thought that allowed them to manifest in the first place?  
    Questions with applicable inquiries are perhaps the toils of historians, anthropologists, archeologists, naturalists, philosophers, and the like.  

But who speaks for all, a merged view?  

Unifying their precious findings into relevant material that with conviction of clarity and relevance have the potential for change.  
    Change is our fundamental approach to how we align or not with the people we work, sleep, and commune with shoulder to shoulder.  
    Here there is no cast judgment in proper or improper behavior and actions with clear [defined] objectives.  

The intention is to build, or rather, allow for the natural phenomena of space, the respite, existing between words, communications, breathing, reactions, responses, and the shaping of all [integrated] our emotional base we rely upon daily to add to the sensation of purpose and meaning. 

How to achieve this with grace and excellence?
    Not only to know it, but to live it, maintaining in balance the clear distinction between what exists and we find of wonder, and how relegated by our interpretations we misperceive the things around us, made by us, as thought they were planned with foresight.  

Most things come to be through gaps in the inception of ideas, the fertile soils where these potentials are born, prior to their transitions from the meta-physical into the realm of the semi-permanent world of objects – what we call reality, tangible, verifiable, empirical and evidence based, and dumbed-down, to fit the mold of majority.  
    Nothing ever created that transformed the masses ever came from the mass thinking first.  

Ideas are like seeds and though small, seemingly at first, somehow, still beyond our grasp, these seeds manifest into everything we know and inhabit.  
    A child is a good example, and so is an adult, both having emerged from two small seeds into a being capable of adaptations infinite in variation based on the mutually arising consequences of the habitat one is both of, and in.  
    Though seeming distinctions exist, and at times useful, they are always shifting and imposed by skill-set of perception.  
    All that we call reality is invented, taught, accepted, and enforced.  
    The scale of this quality slides too, and nothing is what it seems only.  
    Subtexts never end.  
    Influences always at work shape the surfaces we meet daily, metaphorically and literally.  
    We should know and ask two things well: 
    Are we unifying or separating with our thoughts and actions?  
    And, secondly, do we know, understand, and humbly work with the nature of how surfaces wear upon each other?  
    These two laws affect everything profoundly.  
    Test them and see what answers you come up with.      Agreement serves no one, unless it's based on true compassionate acceptance.  
    Our thinking works well, but it needs repurposing, to imbue it with the sense of age, growth, and decay.  
    Find where all your surfaces meet other surfaces.  
    The quality of each surface will dictate the outcome more times than not.  
    How do your feet meet socks, shoes, the pavement, the floor, the rush, and puddle?  
    How do your hands meet the rail, the glove, the other hand, hair, food, objects, surfaces with intelligent design, computers, plants, and see how each passes something to the other in a kind of endless dance or discourse?  
    What is solid, the plow, and soft, the Earth, yields to it’s form, the plant and root further shaping soil, but woven into its foundation, how the surface meets the enamel of our truth, the surface of our stomachs?  
    And this endless variation of cycles and surfaces shapes our experiences and we in turn decide and further alter the surfaces again.  
    It is in the lack of these surfaces that we encounter space and openness and here anxiety recruits the surface body and world, and buries it deep within our circuitry.  
    We feel the blinding voids and emptiness as a painful burden – a space without surfaces.  
    Our breath, eyes gazing, moments between words, the gap between destinations.  
    The floating moment we transition from one foot to the other and again.  
    In polarities we define all? 
    Yet, all is no more than an ever incremental and seamless transition?
    Ironically, this is what we lust for in computers and images: seamlessness, smoothness, unbroken gaps, gapless, nothing to break between, breathing points.
    Seamlessness, pixels absent; yet in life, we look at each other as bits apart, in a low-polygon-count world on the skin of an old map we’ve been trying to make more real than where and how we inhabit.  
    We are not a location of smooth surfaces, but a navigation through rough and smoothing centers, always in the same place, out of the environment, moving around us, its axis with infinite centers, and no matter where you go, there you will still remain, relatively still.
    The textures and surfaces will change.  Watch them.
    
“My dear, here we must run as fast as we can, just to stay in place. And if you wish to go anywhere you must run twice as fast as that.” 
? Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

“If you don't know where you are going any road can take you there” 
? Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

 

DECEPTION  &  FANTASY

    Deception and fantasy are the new preferred sense of reality.  Give me your dream in thoughts and what you project and forgo the ergo of the body incarnate.  Present and represent the plasticity of your ideas and constructs of vanity and together we’ll build boxes for it, webpages, blogs, profiles, frames upon frames, until we destroy all possibility of being truly unique in the ecosystem of a natural wonder, where all diversity is being eradicated in preference and replaced with neurosis.  The great barrier reef becomes a great barrier to offer relief.  The life forms we dress up every day and walk about the city, parade at different hours, dress up, and dress down, feed, wash, and abuse, merge and put to rest, who speak for them?  We are in charge but it is not us that decide the fate confusing life and death as the defining borders of the road, or perhaps an end and beginning. 
What is alive is the infinite arrangements we find to find the sway in larger sways in these alter ways.  


Where dead leafs hang from trees like bats.

From this strange land I returned a week ago.  Where dead leafs hanging from trees hide hanging bats while they eat their catch between the swoops of flights over a cove of ocean water, still like glass at near peak moon’s reflected sun light.  The speed of a bat over water before the inverted perch.  Sitting by the quiet ocean with no end of fade to line horizon.  Only water, reflections, and the sky somewhere crossfaded to the water, ode to silver hues, and silhouettes of sand fixed trees.  
They gave the way to water. I walk through and feet respond to collected coral, and leafs strewn by the roots.  
Balance is natural here.
Hermit crabs move between these spaces and sand blankets the way to ocean lips.  Receded tide, coral peaks through, glistens in specks like stars, jellyfish glow in and off.  Impossible to hold, embrace and collect, bring back this boon.  Sounds of sleep fell deeper streams of cracking twigs, gecko songs, and moth’s camouflage to leaf.  The impossible continues.  I want to hang inverted too.  Hunt with bats; here I sit succumb to gravity’s will.  
    Another cave.  A man we call this.  
Digital.  Fingers are not mine.  They mine the city for contacts.  For mud, for blood, for teeth, for skin, for and on to be one.  Circuits drawn, empty spaces pushing the air around taking arms.  Invisible swirls.  If I could cry, I would.  Out loud, louder yet, beyond the scream and shock to scream and cry back to be resonant with the starfish, blue, palms, fish, coral.  Somewhere I hear them.  They feed.  Constantly.  We feed.  
In and out of water where have we boxed our nature?
    Feelings are only suggestions the body expresses from the myriad of physical sensations.  They can’t be trusted.
    Body suggests wordless sensations to mind, but this is a negotiation.  What follows is the arrangement of thought and words corresponding to what mind will attempt to label as an emotion.  Here too, this can’t be trusted.  Consciousness has veto power.  It can correct the course of preexisting patterns and paradigms of perception that lead to a conclusion.  Vigilance dispels the quick association and identification that what we feel is in fact a true emotion.  In fact, trust is not necessary for this process.  Sitting and waiting, patience, reveals the settled states and recruits in time a kind of over all view of the sensations as a cycle.  Just as with heavenly bodies, just as the ancients once gaze up and called stars Gods, when the cycles were understood, a certain order was understood and value of superstition was replaced over thousands of years within the realm of natural phenomena.  We too are subject to this synergetic mechanism, a natural neural order that follows cycles.  Our task is to perceive the cycles, and not the superstitious labeling of the momentary phenomena.  Halley’s comet was once thought of as a bad omen, until it was dispelled and understood as a comet that would visit Earth, following the cycle and orbit around the Sun.  
    
    We can predict that feelings will arise, like bumps on a dirt road, but we don’t assume the car is broken at every bump, we allow the overall trip to define the level of comfort we experience.  In modern day flights, air turbulence is referred to as “mild chop.”
    
    Our body, like the vehicles described also experiences “mild chops” and when we understand the tolerances it can withstand the scale of concern, what mind will focus on and attempt to auto correct, subsides as background noise.  This process takes time, and it’s one of time, as thought also exists in time, the divisions of associations and labels construe awareness.  We don’t analyze each grain of rice in a sushi role, we focus on the whole morsel and quality of flavor, it’s color, and how we feel afterwards.  Scale is crucial in this cycle as well.
    
    My body has experienced chronic pain for years due to back complications, not from any assignable event, or trauma, but somehow over a slow and gradual accumulation of stresses I’m still learning about, and trying to remedy.  Certain environments affect my condition, worsening or alleviating the at times debilitating nature of sciatica and bone damage.  Pain in the end always wins.  There’s no denying the toll it takes on one’s mental state and emotional quality of life.  But it too misinforms my mind at times if I am quick to judge the signals sensations send as stressors.  More often than not, small adjustments quickly resolve the problem, like taking a moment to breathe and relax whatever tension has accumulated over my workday.  Mind negotiates all the signals in a dialogue with the body, not unlike the model of government in the democracy.  The president is mind, and congress and senate the body.  Enough pain amounts to a new law or bill being passed, and at other times there’s a veto to a bill that ultimately is perceived as being more damaging to the whole, in the long-term.  Adjustments are continual and part of the rhythm of life.

 

FIRST NATURE SPAWNED

 “The truth is one, the sages call it by many names.”  (Vedas)

First nature spawned us.  Then we looked upon the animals and plants to learn.  As we gathered into tribes, we looked at the heavens for cycles.  Growing further we decreed dogma, and later science, organized by machinery and economic advantage.  Where we once learned from the earth, our teacher now became a cannibalized resource.  As we ate from this wealth, we isolated and left the family, communing with commodities.  And now, totally extricated from nature, we speak via screens, in digital hieroglyphs, and leave little room for finding or nurturing common ground.  Social media is the one great myth that unifies 2 billion people, but it does so in virtue, not flesh and field.  The unconscious cannot function in a healthy state, it’s been kidnapped by the structures of advertising, public opinion, and financial needs, online, in this Internet that overviews as once God had; the rules are vague.  All symbols that could trigger our unconscious intelligence are of no interest.  What we have are conscious urges of acquisition, false promises, supplanting mystery with daily “fake news,” reality TV like drama as a matter of policy, and our president, the representative of acceptable behavior in the world’s stage of tweets.  


“Mark the path of a prodigious transfer of the focal point of human wonder.  Not the animal world, not the plant world, not the miracle of the spheres, but man himself is now the crucial mystery.  Man is that alien presence with whom the forces of egoism must come to terms, through whom the ego is to be crucified and resurrected and in whose image society is to be reformed.  […]  And so every one of us shares the supreme ordeal—carries the cross of the redeemer—not in the brightest moments of his tribe’s great victories, but in the silences of his personal despair.”  (Campbell 391)


Campbell would have gone further.  Adding that now, having reached a depth limit of the individual foray instead into neural networks, and apparatus of mind, to understand why we perceive as we do.  As long as the main focus is on the individual that might well be the only thing that survives, a single individual inside a feedback-loop distortion, in a “perceptive-centric,” narcissistic experience.  Earth reflects back our image in ways unimagined: fracking caused man-made earthquakes, in what’s called, an “Epochal Geologic Change.”15  Collective social neurosis and disconnection to myth is paralleled in the physical world of biology in the phenomena called “transverse orientation.”16  Turtle hatchlings rush toward city lights, where once starlight guided them into the dark ocean waters, they’re met by city concrete.  The eons of evolutionary generations are severed.  Ecological webs disrupted.  A ripple effect sprawls in all directions and scale; finally we won’t correlate our drives with the path they mimicked, as we too migrate to city lights.  A bird no longer tweets, memory is a cloud, mind a circuit, communication is a network, technology is smart, artificial intelligence recognizes the bits that compose human faces, the body dissolves into a field of jargon, a voxel world and technocratic mandates, scoffs life, leaves a trail of plundered beings and organisms; the grandeur of a once festooned motley feast, in shame salvaged a monotone whisper, in a sea-supplanted app land.  To what end is this promise of ease and sacrifice for human conveniences?  

“The social unit is […] an economical-political organization.  Its ideals are […] in hard and unremitting competition for material supremacy and resources.  Isolated societies, dream-bounded within a mythologically charged horizon, no longer exist except as areas to be exploited.  And within the progressive societies themselves, every last vestige of the ancient human heritage of ritual, morality, and art is in full decay.” (Campbell, 388)

“Today no meaning is in the group–none in the world: all is in the individual.  But there the meaning is absolutely unconscious.  One does not know toward what one moves.  One does not know by what one is propelled.  The lines of communication between the conscious and the unconscious zones of the human psyche have all been cut, and we have been split in two. […]  For the problem is nothing if not that of rendering the modern world spiritually significant.  […] And this is not a work that consciousness itself can achieve.  Consciousness can no more invent, or even predict, an effective symbol than foretell or control tonight’s dream.” (Campbell 391?)

 

THE DREAM STARTED WITH MY FALL

Unto Soil and Grass

The dream started with my fall unto soil and grass though was dark is easy to see; it was comfortable.  There was an evolutionary quality to it as well images of me being dragged by the arm, pulled by a cave man, I only saw his feet, wrapped in pelts, my body collapsed, before rigor mortis, limp neck and head tracking facedown, flesh peeling, scraping off, bone revealing. I was wearing clothes, a suit.  I watched my body being picked and able to zoom in down to the tissue level cells and molecules and flesh was being eaten by animals critters I was alone in the woods and it was peaceful I was still alive but I was watching my body incorporate, merge itself, I still was, but rather simply being part of the natural ecosystem of the forest.  The body returned, but the sight and voice floated nowhere except for the view, like your thoughts, where do they exist?

Then something strange happened, I could see cave paintings and even further back in time, I could see the whole universe as though looking at a dinner plate and food from afar scale size time these things that matter they where you, relevant. Process was all there was.  No particular hard lines, no divisions no good bad good or evil everything was the transition of some sort every scale of perception had a previous and forward quality to it and I was watching and able to rewind and advance the tape so to speak.  I watched my head. Come off. The image followed the question whether I would still be there not without my brain and where was mind what I’d be alive would I be me if I navigated without a body.  In retrospect now looking over the dream, I’m hesitant reticent to use the word spirit as the thing that existed as my body decayed.  The process as we call it is decaying but from the perspective of the dream perspective I had in the dream there were no words there was only perspective; just changed things there were questions I heard sentences formulate an answer is revealed the images everything was on the same scale. My suit never got dirty I never rotted there was no smell no foul odor nothing scary, I was simply just another tree in the forest that had fallen under its weight and age and was now decomposing and dissolving back into dirt, and feeding different bacteria and animals and insects birds and mammals scavengers there would be no more body but something was still there.  

There was a moment in the dream when my arm [alarm] was being held [told] that I thought another human or ancestor 30,000 years ago caveman perhaps who is doing the pulling the dragging [Dragon] back into that cave when thought first heard itself, maybe another version of myself, though not mine to own, but rather be possessed by, as the rock cave walls possess the charcoal lines of lions but not the lions themselves, they are gone, but there’s no need to think like that anymore, they remain in gestures on rock.  

There was a connection, an unbroken link to that person that entity history was real physical, unavoidable.  Whatever is in the space between stars whatever is the space that surrounds our planet the seemingly infinite expanse of the cosmos as we understand it was also there at the smaller scale and as my body dissolved that space existed and my consciousness and have it at that space it didn’t seek another form or body to inhabit but I was still able to watch.  There was no death no pause no end.   No right and no wrong.  There were no other spirits either there was no conversation with anyone else nor was there any looking for anyone else it wasn’t solitary and I wasn’t alone either.  I didn’t feel complete our whole or enlightened or any of these things it wasn’t heaven [having] it wasn’t hell it was just this process this fade, no particular shape no geometry no crystals nothing organic or artificial I don’t know who was left, or how I came to be in the first place that quiet voice that we hear that I heard the still hear [here] in my head was present it existed in the space and wherever I inhabited a point of view there I was or there was this presence and everything happened.  I was for lack of a better description that emptiness of space another [mother] hunter, neither hot nor cold, called just: just.  

All the laws of man the words games habits patterns behavior relations they existed they made me but this place the state was beyond that.  There were [the one] no shadows and there was no light no moon no sun [son] though was a forest the canopy of trees and trunks and branches and leaves grass in [is] no water no wet no soggy it wasn’t dry nor arid, there was no difficulty in seeing those just enough light to see through [you] at the scale that I wasn’t there was color though perhaps muted.  There was no sex no hunger no longing nothing required a full collapse no surrender was easy it just happened and I watched and wondered.  There was nothing tragic about it no pain I was leaving behind nobody to miss me nobody to continue there was no legacy no tradition nothing that hadn’t been unfinished nothing that had needed to be complete before this took place.  Perhaps this is what death [Beth] is like full absorption complete fades on all scales at once time the field that we can navigate

I have a headache in my eyeballs, behind the retinas, between the socket skull, brain, and soft, supple membrane that one never sees but is the lens for seeing.  Eye lids close, languid, a focused fever lines the meeting outline of the dermis, eye lashes fit into another like a pair of interlaced hands, or a perfectly shuffled deck of card. Alternating between top and bottom lashes.

When I close my eyes now and return to that place in the forest, which required neither trail nor location, I am still there, my suit, in the same orientation it took as my body did.  The suit looks odd, unsoiled, clean, without the body holding its form; it’s simply flat in folds and creases.  Perhaps its how we navigate our body about, folding and unfolding it, creased, uncreased lines, the perfect arrow spears the perfect error.

 

 

AFTER THE PROCEDURE

I. When he finally awoke 

When he finally awoke, the vagueness of sensations started to manifest definition.  A warm heaviness greeted his body, and though the morphine blunted his sense in exchange for the soft surfaces he felt holding him in place, her eyes were there, gentle, kind, and inquisitive.  Her hand was holding his left palm and before he could think of anything in particular he had already squeezed back.  Though his eyes parted, it was his body that was awake, a priori his mind starting the checklist of confirmations and role calling that he was conscious.  
       He’d never seen an angel nor used the word in conversation, but that was the first word that raised in him, strung up by banners, he read it idiotically out loud—an-gel.  No that wasn’t the word, he tried again, and realized this word he saw, spelled out “angel,” but not his pronunciations, not the way he formulated sounds with his tongue, not his confidence that a single word would succumb to his will simply because he felt it for the first time, no, not his impatience, nor any cursory search for this thing he was suppose to give form, nothing he could utter would breathe life into those five letters, and merit the gaze still crushing him, the internal gaining life while the scaffold of his suffused armor skin dismantled, unshielded.  This word burned the dark side of his eyes, but the word … It already existed.  All he could do was witness some kind of grace he’d never felt before but recognized immediately.  
       She asked, “how are you?”
    Those first few seconds would last a life-time, buried deep within his tissue, a seed that was self-reliant, and would slowly sprout into a tender memory to behold as a triumph.  At that moment, he had won something genuine, beside himself, foreign, tranquil, existing only in that space between two gazing creatures, communicating in silence.  He’d never seen this transformed countenance she surrendered by simply being in that room, no more imposing than the chair, or drawn curtains.  She glowed, and all clichés braided into her hair, pulled behind her, out of view, exposing her ears and cheeks, where the subtle tracks of her pursed smile, focused to gush through her light blue eyes.  He stared back, as infants do, untaught to manners, transfixed in wonder to comprehend the steady electric pull.  He managed to reply, “I’m o– k–a–y.  Hi.”  
    Four years he had looked at her, in what was a seemingly long catalogue of ambiences, lights, temperatures, terrains, dreams, and scents, but that list had no space for this. This was different: a connected calm that put him at ease, and for the first time, trusted everything about her; a spontaneous understanding that her eyes and hands managed to communicate with such precision that it still cuts his flesh open, and while embarrassed for reveling this romantic display of heart hung before him and for the world to see.  What he found could not be plucked or transplanted, and in his recovery, both ailment and cure would remain unpossessed.  How then was she still there, in that room, holding his hand, and he, all the while, awaking repeatedly—the complete room and gestures, float about somewhere with him everywhere he comes to, awakes, becomes conscious for the brief moments when the resonate as sympathetic strings with the notes of the present.  At times it’s simply overwhelming.  Can she?
    Can she hear his manual telepathies, with the remains of that morning?  It’s four years since, yet that moment can’t be more than an hour old.  When he dies, will it be like this in the symmetry of these textures?  An entire life of sensations relegated to memory and purpose, simply to feel that hand holding his, those eyes laced by silk to his, and convinced he could stay there and retire from humanity, peacefully, and let this formed vessel return to dirt and feed the landscape in return for having taken Earth, animated the moss, and minerals, to exist for a while, and retain that arrangement, a supple geometry made soluble at the first rain and spread through rivers and clouds.  A small price for the eternity she gifted him.  
    It’s still a mystery to him, how any of this came to be.  How such crescent moments build the sphere, and why after all these centuries later, hands find hands, together held, pressing the form—the space between, the membrane of mutual contact, the sensible atmosphere—thin veil, made invisible by breeze, atmosphere blooms the wind and blows her memories and code, to ever-rearrange, the stricken soul.  I have met an angel, and she lingers between each breath torqueing the world inside out.  Does she know? 
    This was a new language he learned.  The voices of the earth’s mantle moving by inches yearly, the annual rings of trees, of every single last tree alive at this moment, in unison expanding the concentric circles, and those torrents at sea playing the same ring ripples interlaced, and that one drop of water, the single rain drop forms the ripple that initiates the surge, the harmonic voices of the trees, all the heart beats of the world, 7 billion hearts, pumping and beating, billions upon billions of internal dialogues, while the stars map those thoughts to firefly chandeliers, each star the remote though come and gone before it’s whisper is recruited to fold with all the rhythms that continue while we forget.  In a small glance, someday, somehow, someone’s eyes will show you the instant truth in a flash of this living unity that is everything in one sweep of blown needles as soft as eye lashes.  Does she know?
    Did I do my best to show her that I felt that, that I didn’t know then how to move my mouth, but in time, I would learn.  Does she know she’s a teacher, her symmetry in me I’ll never manage to repay.  Does she know?  When the toils become guides, a fight lost, does she know, how at those moments, I still see her there holding that hand of mine, and it’s not by will the balance restores, but some law of nature that crushes the follies to stone, and upon it rest, over the mountains of all our mistakes, and these mountains, built from them, soar for us to see a world above clouds.  Does she know?  I can only wonder, which is the total collection of embraces held as one, suffused, amassed, total, and final.  Does she know?  How helpless he sought, the fusion of her relentless love shattered through his small windows.  

II. By the time he lifted himself off the floor

By the time he lifted himself off the floor, the shaded light of darkness, only particular to homes set deep in the forest, covered everything in his room.  He had spent a few minutes focusing on the various levels of ridges the wood grained floors revealed from years of compression and wear; the winter growth hardier, elevated now, and the summer growth, porous, and malleable had worn down, swept away as it were, by foot and broom.  
    He found integrity in the floor, it’s determination to remain grounded, planked, slave and resolute.  What an end to a tree, he pondered, and he assumed, the woods would have their final laugh, if that was something that was remotely possible.  His body, the plank and floor for their roots someday.  He hoped at least this much.  Birch or oak, perhaps cedar, or walnut, any one of these would do.
    Was it betrayal his body subjected on him.  Insight of life, but not the fuel to run the mechanisms.  He patiently, beside his skills, castigated to observe, all that would unfold in orbits simply beyond his reach.  Hands held open with warm rain landing on his palms, into a small pool, and pale mirror, the lines of his gestures, his container.  He needed a way out of this, again, as it were, as so many times prior.  Nothing lending to reason, nor cavities of relief with lessons propounded.  His reason was useless, but it lingered no less, subject to weather, indifferent as he’d become, to drop or cloud.  These thunderous gray moment, with their heedless fogs.  He would have to eat all of it, this chewed cardboard shaped his romantic maps, ornery analogues, never true to their temperament, simply driven by futility, and lack.
    How to believe again.  Be alive.  Bee live.  Dead bees.   
    
III. The phone rang

The phone rang.  He looked at the screen which had a seven one eight Brooklyn area code number but no name.
“Hello?”
“Hi.  It’s Marion, I thought I should just call you.  I’m new at this.  
“Where should the story start Marion Louise Jackson?”
A pause, then she said “You might get freaked out.”

 

YOU’RE LOOKING AT IT THE WRONG WAY

“You’re looking at it the wrong way.  If you’re looking for nature in this place, you won’t find it.  What the city has is interior spaces.  You have to find the interior spaces that give that feeling you crave when the idea of going into the woods possesses your mind.”

Small and baffling interiors exist here.  Landscapes turned inside out on themselves.  A Grand Canyon in inverted akin the St. John’s cathedral, well, not quiet but it’s fair considering the scale of the GC is impossible to convey.  Comparing a Utah desert night festooned stars to the Manhattan city lights is equally impossible, but it fits.  Back to interior spaces.  If once caves were the dwellings, then now these caves have grown in cultivation and cleared out the irregular surfaces for smooth ones.  Pictures are still hung, an echo of cave drawings.  In these interior spaces we explore our humanity.  Outside our humanity is explored on us.  

The connective tissue in these interiors is technology, the smart phone and computer, the landline or wireless signal.  The screens we welcome in our caves move us into deeper caves still, like pictures, but without surface or texture.  We cringe at the sight of fingerprints on a computer screen, like a dirty window.  How light is experienced has changed dramatically, and this drastically alters the way interior spaces unfold.  

I sit at my table drawing, using a 75 watt flood light to illuminate a graphite drawing, making sure the angle of light raking the surface avoids reflections of the smooth compressed graphite marks, which essentially become a form of polished surface, glossy, and deceiving in its darkness.  Cave drawing must have had similar problems.  Where the fire was made would illuminate the irregularities of the wall and cast shadows flicker and distort around the lumpy interior.  So many ways to adapt – change the fire’s position, use the shadows as form, forgo depth in choice of image.  How different would it be to draw by flame instead of electrified filaments?

I draw nightscapes.  I draw these night pictures from a collection of sensations of particular memories, from images, photographs, films, prints, and dreams.  They are more than abstract drawings.  They represent a state of being and experiencing.  We all need to sleep.  Everyone dreams.  Think of this.  How overlooked these subjective fields of experience are to our culture and education.  What purpose do they have?

If a building is a tree, and architecture is its form, then outside is the tree and inside the tree is the life lived.  But we don’t look at buildings this way.  Though we design the building we don’t design the interior of the tree. Inside and outside are an equal reflection of the ego and its purpose.  One never thinks of living inside the bark of a tree.

 

BARBED LEAFS ALONG the VERDANT SUPPLE SHOOTS

Barbed leafs along the verdant supple shoots wallowing,
Wind bends the heat lines of soil’s whip.
[In the heat lines formed from soil’s caldrons whip.]

The inner-skin under the surface skins feels the world
Yet never feels to see in surfaces.  The water held by
Your skin moves this liquid by thought intention alone.
Peel the skin surface to body firmament and flesh.
We move the landscape as we speak.

This will that leaves the surface skin,
And shapes the world we lean upon.
How strange that water should take form.

If you move, the landscape will remain hidden,
If you’re still, the landscape will move around you,
And if you linger long, it will consume you until no
Thought nor bone, nor flesh or song is felt more.

It saves nothing and saves everything.

From a certain distance and place
all celestial spheres are of equal size.
When natural formations remind how small one can be, 
how organistic One is dependent upon the microscopic, 
from these distances we start to understand that which is
in common remains elusive.  There is nothing in common
experience to the world, so uncommon, that common sense
is as physical illusion but a practical Symbolic expression, 
variant on how well one can sense in common with the other.
Common sense, socially speaking, rewards the anomaly—
the surprising genius, the child prodigy, and the natural
creative before it is culturally tailored and thereafter expunged.
It’s how we consume our goods and devour the future.

~[Barbed leafs along the verdant supple shoots wallowing, 
The inner-skin under the surface skein feels the world,
Bends the wind, and the heat lines of soil’s brittle whip]

All along the barbed leafs, Verdant Supple Shoots, 
The Crooked Stem, the molten rock frozen under sea.

 

LEAFS THAT RUSTLE IN THE WIND

Leafs that rustle in the wind of a mature summer
approximate the sounds of nanoships engaged
in the programmed, daily nanoselection battle.  

Those weak nanoships which are destroyed
and succumb to the assimilation by and of superior nanoships
serve to fuel the progress towards agility and efficient mutations
and regenerations of such here mentioned victorious technology.  

This nanobattle took place directly above the bed of one Mr & Mrs Blank.  
They slept without the slightest notion that such
events could possibly exit by their sleep.  

Engaged in vicious dogfighting, the Nanoships fell
from the shallow sky they inhabited.  
Nanoships vanish upon being hit into atoms
and thus are assimilated back into the elements
that comprise them in the first place of the natural order.  

On occasion damaged ships remained intact, 
but pointless for their lack of maneuverability.  
So it was that nanocomputer ncfo-11101 crash-landed, 
after being scuffed, on the lash of Mr. Blank, 
one lazy yawn and stretching and awake. 
The slow parting sweep of the eyes disturbed nothing.


    
THE BREATHING


THE BREATH THAT CUTS THE RAZOR EDGE

It’s a dangerous razor you’re holding, 
The breath that cuts the razor along its edge,                                            
while contemplating what genius the implications
of means – you don’t debate so much the art
but it can make you either resentful or conceited
if the identifying nature
of your insecurities has its way
beyond the boundaries you are beginning
to cherish can and work within.  

It’s clear it gives you solace and peace
to feel like this and may explain
the past frustrations the inability to work
with others, the feelings you sense, 
and the inquisitiveness behind them.

Go gentle.  The surfaces meet and ideally, 
while this takes place in your states of awareness, ignorance, 
sleep, ad infinitum, they will shape against one another.  
The softer of the two will always yield to accommodate the other.  
Beware the strengths and weakness.  

In listening carefully you’ll spare yourself much
grief, and in step, others.  The mutual relationship
will benefit.  Speak as simply as you can.  
Your pattern recognition, which seems endless, 
is a gift so treat it like one.  Only offer it if deemed important.  
Does it need to be said?  Does it need to be said now? 
Does it need to be said by me?  In dealing with a problem
this is good practice, but may also prove wise
to employ this attitude in all your affairs.

Who will she be?  
The next romance and dance of spirits, braid
in the night sleep, sun of day, hand to hand, 
seeing the world together, with eyes closed.  
It will be your breath that I come to count
on to set my heart a new rhythm.  

My days here are in servitude of wonder, to find it, 
and make it available to as many souls as possible.  

The breath is captured momentarily, 
it shapes the surface a terrain, crystal combs, 
feathered sierras, smoother than finger prints, 
your tongue would melt the effect.  

This piece of mind you’ve given me I so cherish, 
and in turn, when time comes, may I have
the courage as you show the way, show
myself, and while remaining a humble
witness to this intelligence beyond
my grasp, may I through you stand in silence
and mold what I may in your form.  My hands, 
eyes, heart, breath, and being are yours again and again.

Where would I be without you?  
Moon heart growing and concealing the stars, 
receding to have the constellations have their pace.  

Sun of mind, bright beacon, blinding and warm, piercing all life to wonder.

My dream is to keep
learning and living in mnemonic resonance with all that’s dear – 
never to forget in action or repose – gratitude incarnate.

 

THEY WONDER HOW YOU BREATHE

A Half Yellow Sun

They wonder how you breathe a half yellow sun in your hands, 
set down softly to a hundred eyes.  A quiet thread linked to youth
And wise, when you settle limb by limb.

When the sun pushes its fulcrum
A flesh ocean will swell to reach it.

How lucky the door, as it crumbles, 
Every time you walk through it.

A man sat comfortably mesmerized, 
Your stone face mere liquid, more than silver blood light.
Something reaches past the structures and textures.

Man sat comfortably mesmerized, 
Your stone face transfigurations – mere liquid, 
more than silver blood and [glare/light].
Something reaches past the structures and textures.

They wonder how you breathe.
Limb by limb, walking through the crumbling door. 

They wonder how you sleep,
Every time you walk through the eyes that gaze upon you.
[**]

How lucky the door as it crumbles, 
One closes as another opens,
every time you walk through it,
transitional worlds to slipping grip.

They wonder how you sleep, and how you awake,
Every time you walk through their gazing eyes.

What is a half yellow sun?
No one can ever see a sphere wholly, but only the half [see the] sphere
As a circle, at best a curved growing coined smile, horned and yawning.
A double half-seen sphere in the sky moves in pairs
What they see is only half of each.
Together completing the dialogue emerging.

In how many ways have we tried to feel [fell] the full sphere?
Eclipsed, [and] if it falls from such heights, pin pricks streak lines
Over the night firmament.

“But look! A sea shell!”  Hermit inhabitant, tucked tight inside while I peer in curiosity, and hope it’s little creepy black legs won't reverse outwards.  And I wonder if it falls from the height of my cupped hands back to sand will it crack, but distracted by another wave washing over my naked feet I set the calcium spiral cone down and step back, watch my footprint fill with foam and salted water, the sand sponges back as it’s grains space out water molecules evenly, that there, the foot trace swallowed in licks, one among countless wise habits sea elucidates.  
How easily sand castles and buckets are forgotten.

If you could trace all the molecules breathed,
Follow each one, from lung to air, from air to leaf, 
And back to air, and through their transformations, inhabit
These organisms, become participants, and though forgotten, [remain] indispensable–
How then does one raise tributaries to the most beguiled
and humbled of elements: Air?
Molecules that build and grow us, exchange, remain…impersonal?

Breathe – it is the highest form of praise.
Psyche was a woman who fell for Cupid.
This axis texture which you move and arrange
like clouds on a floor, where the sky rests at your feet, 
and no trace is left, felt, or cleft.  Turned over, what details
will they weep over.

We are the measure of boundaries,
Willed, self-imposed, rejected, and inherited.


[HOW DO TREES BREATHE]


THRESH THE SEEDS SOWED

Thresh the seeds sowed
That one day towards
The firmament glow
[whispers] will grow.
Limbs rising to a grander mystery,
The clutches of their roots know
Always out of sight, turns sun
Through land-change to spells.

In shadows you’ll find the burning suns.
Stars dwell in the shadows, where a series
Of awakenings topple like dominos,
And stack a continuum.   

The only real atom is the Universe, Atomos,
The uncut, the uncarved block, a symbol of nature.

Thoughts of you hang on the Horizon Line,
Made clear by the lateral mind,
Where the whole world though it does,
Never seems to grow like a hanging leaf.

These trees are smarter than we, 
For they know their unconscious state more clearly, 
Literally connected, where our developed focus
Only disconnects that which can truly give it rest.

This land comes with language, 
Phrases formed from plants and stone,
From oak tree to human truth, 

The phenomena of reality is environment,
Inclusive of body and mind.
Human reality is an epiphenomenon of imagination.  
Metaphor is many things, switching roles, active images, stories.
Metaphor is the gateway and bridge, 
Between imagination and soul (psyche, mind, body)
Organizing Agents, in Latin, active organizers, 
Form-growers, opposed to form-makers.

Memoria rerum – things.
Memoria verborum – words.

Art supplements nature. P. 14 (source? Cicero)

Phonetic language destroyed
the power of symbolic communication (images).

The dizziness of all that will remain unsaid, 
soul is where metaphor exists as language.

If God is in the details, the so is death.  
“The devil is in the details.” 
Do you think it strange that teachers
Never mentioned their fall from grace?
Perhaps it has to do with retaining the image of authority, 
Which would collapse if failure was acknowledged.  
This failure could be interpreted as lack of knowledge, 
Rather than a true understanding of how an organism operates.  
Failure is part of learning.  
Accordingly is should be taught in the plastic realm of arts
as well as the ability to exercise art itself.  
Avoid style in preference for experience to reveal forms.
 
Mushrooms  

One chocolate section, on empty stomach:

The mind wanders into corners and trap doors, 
Being on mushrooms is the equivalent of what seems
to be described as a pain/ordeal trial.
How one handles the situation, which when surpassed, 
brings about relief in the form of contrast.
I don’t need this much these days.  
Too much pain and repressed past comes to surface
too quickly for the body and mind to coordinate.  
Better the slow burn, or the deep, 
all or nothing, 
ceremony under proper guidance.  

A quarter of a section is good enough to raise
the auditory sensitivity and clarify perception.

The rest is all open, the hallucinatory and psychedelic states
already happen all day while drawing, so the chemicals
distort the hallucinatory and symbolic break.  
It over compensates as a double negative, 
ends up cancelling experience from a lesson.

Existence is relationship.
Finding ways to feel contrast.


Shrill
Propitiate 

 

THOUGH TIME MAY 

Though time may by absent moments seem to steal our effortless esteem,
And in that strange mental realm, when and how our doubts seem to join teams, 
I know that what is lost, and what is thought perceived simply grows to pass.
And like the persistent waves, which swell of their own natural built mass,
So too we settle on new found lands, where all that grows serves to show, 
How little you know of my sways, and I of yours; but this is the migration wonder,
Which serves, invites, awakes, the stolen times to fissures of sleep, then raise thunder.
If you can do, as I can do with you, the twilights we see, which dawn balances, 
Hold both our bodies, tethered, questioning, and curious for all our glances.
I won’t be the folly drowned fool in need of school, lest you teach with soft eyes;
Your patience wins us and me more, shapes these seemingly empty gaps and sighs,
Spaces we stroll upon, all the little that is known, to the completion of the cherished owned.
But as I long understood, there where you stood, there was nothing needed to enthrone,
We swim like fish, free in the daily sea, around another, and this expanse earns us power.
Tell me if I’m wrong, if the harbor isn't strong, for our vessels to dock the hours, and inspire
One creed alone.  What chastises my days, and now nights: am I a mirror for you to see, 
All that you can be, all that has cradled warmth, and coaxed an impossible to reality in me?   

 


IF I LAY MY HAND

Over a Mountain

If I lay my hand over a mountain, 
Will you feel time eroding our roads?
Find its analogue in fissures of skin,
There is a holding that hovers over your body.  
Sometimes flying.
Sometimes.
These two in tow,
Side by side,
Our arboreal engines ignited,
Prostrated.
Separated by breath and toil.
Find its parable in the erosions of our eyes.
Little branches reaching the corona,
Green and brown
Flesh that sees and pierces,
Becoming this with you.
Sometimes.
Sometimes flying,
Though the sensible atmosphere,
And disappear into quiet darkness.
Sometimes it’s easy to find you,
Looking back at my branches
Wrapped in crooked ways to
Define your sleeping body,
Breathing, resting, dismantled to dreams,
With blood next to me.  

 

AGAIN THE CLUTTERED NIGHT

Steady yourself among webbed ropes of toil.

Marred, frayed, worn heavy
That stretch beyond this storm
Their tethers laced to gales and swells
Outside reach
It’s this knot that keeps you there
Safe.
This gargantuan mouth has swallowed
You whole.
Breathe.
It is you that forms the weather,
See, it is you that pierces the black void
With thoughts of asterisks and funneled light
Your bearings are found in the intolerable
Sways.
When time again flashes the pith
To pieces,
And scatters your tears, in a whirlpool
Of pinpricks across your flesh,
Cry this ocean alive and pregnant
You complete the ocean and carve its depth.
Fathoms of fathers lap as waves
And crest the folds of old familiar hands.
The night closes its fist and you within
Can peek through the porous membrane
An inverted sea as the watery sky
Who cuts these worlds apart must float
Adrift between them, until they merge
A tempest thorny dream
In a vacuum of waves
And what is a bird here? 
But a fish with wings, so plunge until
Falling from this tangled April sky
Resurface
With constellations under foot
Now walk these embraced slender arms
Netted by generations and branched by fury
When they blow so too do you
Blow the bowed eyes firm upon
The serrated shape-shifted arcs
Of a crowned horizon line
No larger than the weeping ring
a water drop incites to halo
the hidden moon, and versed sun.

 

STONES OF ENDURANCE

Memory & History Shapers

Earth

We are as good as the stones of endurance.

Water

Somos tan bien como confrontamos las piedras de la endurecía.

The conformity of objects and clothes loosely defined can be said to be an exchange or supplanting of history for conformity.  When we harness the novel event, or live in original moments, history is easily formed.  When we fashion around the dictates of shifting trends, we conform to someone’s formulation of history, which depends more on the erasure of memory, for the hit of trend.  It’s an addictive model.

Paul Newman, “because it has my history,” about the toaster he continually repaired rather than replaced.


History                        vs.    Conformity
Slow        Fast
Experienced first    Designed first
Interpreted after    Interpreted before
Inclusive    Exclusive
Internal        External
Integrated    Degraded and eroded
Natural        Social
Reflective    Prescriptive
Dialogue    Dictate
    
Technology can be seen as a set of internal drives, bridged, and externalized by tools.

Wanting to remember, we take pictures, but this is not integrating, not until it’s incorporated and digested into experience.  By taking the photograph we interrupt the internalizing process crucial for “recall,” not of facts, rather, the intuitive unconscious and irrational “recall” of events from an already integrated experience.
 

 

THE SUBJECT OF REARRANGING THE BODY INTO A HORSE 

Kafka’s Metamorphosis

Kafka’s Metamorphosis too place in a room, requiring a forgiving negotiation of objects, but the people would surely come.  In the memory of the short account, anxiety filled the surfaces, the meeting point between the new substance he would feel through, move with, and grow within.  My metamorphic echo started an hour ago when a needle was driven careful and announced into my liver.  Another in near my spleen and heart, and the third, I can’t remember, though what I felt was the release of a deep muscle tension at the organ level.  I would not walk out the office human.  Tom wished me a good night, and I walked home.  Or rather, I moved all the body parts I have learned to move in sequence to maintain balance, and teasing the sidewalk before my eyes, moved near it correcting the fall with another step and another, and this is called walking.  And I’m upright.  I know this is sublimation if you like Freud, the term is distracting.  There was nothing to sublimate.  Whatever creature pushed against the diaphragm of my chest liked the space.  Like the underbelly of a dog, or horse, mine was exposed as though I had evolved into biped behavior.  Back muscles are structural and are the workhorse, the organs are emotional circuit boards, overloading and mending the lines.  What was released in the office was not a muscle but something so deep and primordial in feeling that I can’t describe this state without putting the picture of evolution in your mind.  Whatever that looks like, wherever the grandmother of your grandmother’s grandmother came from.  And keep feeling each grandmother of yours with their grandmother they knew at least by name, and keep going until you can no longer walk upright with feeling that somehow we are creatures, mammals not by species, but when we think of the subgroup of beasts of beauty, powerful anima (spirit) L   El Anima, the spirit of motion.  Someone thought the poetry of words would pass down the wisdom of all organic interconnectedness.  All things, ALL are organic, even money, the distant cousin to sustenance.  I feel like the food before me is interchangeable with the bricks on the wall.  I’m a seated horse, typing on this computer with gentle hoofs, I’m of black vinyl-like hair, but I don’t know this.  My hair sits in the field of all that I see.  Sometimes I catch worms squirming and my hoofs disappear and I sense the ache of my riders on my back.  Still.  My back may have belonged to them, but my underbelly was always mine.   Now I’m no longer a horse, I’m no longer what left the apartment anymore.  My underbelly is exposed and it moves again.   My back knew.  I have chest.  Under it the heart beats, as does in everyone.  E - v - e - r - y -  second.  And more, and./.and./.and./.and./.and./.and./.and.  How can it beat on it’s own?  I’m a horse, but the eyes see into the same hole of space as do yours.  I’m a dog, and when I’m tired you’ll see my wisdom.  I was only gone for two hours but have returned to this room a creature gutted like a fish, colt strong, rock and foam.  This body uploading the history of life.  Life and death are not what I think.  The short brief windows of exchange through wormholes of time and dreams, when my cramped feet become talons.  I use to be you, talon and prey.  Together.  Moth eyes and horse walking through Chinatown.  Four hoofs to go with every heartbeat, a vein reaps the membrane and reveals the pulse, a second swell, the tides, too swell.  A second.  Only a second in your hair, in your feet, in your liver and heart, always, only a second.   Form.  The formed from form of foam and back to home.   l /o / v / e / / / / ……..all that is between the letters is where the message rests.


      
NINE WHITE HAIRS

Part I

Nine white hairs of the beard pulled gently ring each
elastic snap parted of pores; a mild sting sung
sharply focused mosquito bite minus the itch.  
Oddities entertained in a swoon, tender love.  

Superstition lands to accommodate the twin
life split by thirds.  Easy to fall what this hand urges.   
While she breathes better gentle beast effortlessly,
Breaks the wobble fine line until night for day merges.

When I spill inside your body suns come in beads
Of sweat, disheveled in your arms [I forget songs,]
Fall under a distant shade and awake felled beds,
Float a magic we distill and ramble echoed gongs.

You took me to a tree, where in shadows could see,
My face in yours, crooked veins dance in your blue eyes,
Light stilled turned the world upside down in dizzy spells,
And you broke the tree’s dignity, while leafs pushed sighs.

Speaking the concrete time weave of time to submission,
Two creatures inventing new invisible forms.
I am your spy, quilted by the quiet drunken sleep sheet,
Shapes mountains over hips, legs, shoulders and draped storms. 

How lucky this man held by your placid command,
To become the rooted tree [too/though], some twisted trunk, 
Where earth dispels the subtle loam, a swallowed heart
Under your gaze, whole voids swell, [spark/spin] electric skies. 

How is it that you understand me so perfectly
this soon as though teasing time to penetrate
in reverse a childlike state where we’ve always
have known how to fit to our watery ways.  

I am baffled that you exist, and that this
humble I is witness outside time, bending
all the rules of physics while the world
un-thwarted continues normally, as do we.   

Part II

A moon later the undertow flows.  
Testing me, the hurling worries to dispel, 
They’re not for me to wrestle; 
Kept my demons at bay away from you.  

Wish you did the same, or tried harder.  
I send gifts to make you strong, 
but I think you like being weak.  

I don’t need to be cared for, nor need saving, 
but this is where you are strongest.  
Rescue yourself first, there is
no victim in your heart.  

You speak to me through a bitch dog, 
expressing the things your mind and heart feels.  
It’s strange to speak on the phone, and hear
you talking, “what do you think smoochie?”  

For some reason it drives me crazy; the worries
you build burden my day.  It issued on mushrooms
and I blamed them for the stress, but maybe
it was a subtle way if letting me know the pitfalls.  

You asked me if we were too much alike
to be together and I said no.  
But now I wonder if this is too much
Virgo energy to balance itself out.  

I have to repeat myself with you on things you
already know, but pretend you don’t want to hold.  
The bill came and you and mother fought over the check
like two rabid dogs, or sharks in a feeding frenzy.  

I need to watch this carefully, and be present,
mindful, serene, courteous, and helpful.  
If we are meant to continue it will happen.  
Playing it by ear is the best approach for now.  

I’ve done nothing wrong, so keep doing the right
action in the present.  We shall see.  
How love blinds partially, suffers the fools, 
but something is challenged too.  We shall see.

I don't mind the truth, but this is the perversity
Of language, it is not in mind, the truth lingers
Out of view, as a shadow of a feeling, some aftertaste
Known, unspeakable, but it’s there, I don't mind that.

It’s around the corner, where you hide, and how Ash
Knows more than you know about what is possible,
But it’s not my leash to hold, even when drunk and
The idiot becomes bold enough to try, so I try, and try.

Don’t be so harsh to rash.  
Learn what your role and short comings are. 

 

COUNTER PUNCH

All the insights you virtualize are not in her presence, 
They exist merely extoled by the fear of vertigo, 
This spinning, whirling future unknown, realm of mind,
Trusting the situation, actions beckons the mutual arising, 
In such, as such, this suchness, is easier to experience
Than puzzling foregone tendrils of life reaching for more
Where there, time has passed, already fed hunger for lore.

What are you, reaching mind that falls, 
unto moments, “paying the ogre twice” 
if negated or neglected its due.

What interference do you wish to exalt,
That presses the past into light, wanting
Stones, dust, the world now, no, not this but that.
 
What limbs have you spliced into deadened wood,
Remembered twice past the double shade loomed,
Our mutual membrane of contact, not enough?

Listen carefully to the flop of thought,
This blockade secrets to teach has brought.

 

THE DOUBLE SHADE

The double shade where spontaneously became two,
At any moment, the sun becomes moon and so by night
The sun’s arms skins the earth’s logic and gives way to:
It’s twin nocturnal sun.

How one becomes twin?
And two settle to become one, the orbiting eyes high up, 
Gleaming in the sky.

Two voices encircled, pronounced their kingdoms,
Until eclipsed, a merger darkens the bright plight
To a momentary gentle night.

The buried collection of bones,
In time turn fleshy scorns to harbored stones,
By erosion means, petra returns and haunts the flexible earth.

The buried collection of bones, 
Pronounced histories decree,
That present is not alone.

What song does moon sing,
What song does sun moan?

The keen, skin sleeps me loop, 
Where face falls the foil, and
Math jesters the old man.

Be ripe in the dark, moon light.

The absorbed age, plays wall of youth, 
And pits age against another age.

Between age and age the mirror
Knife builds its edge.

Glass, place, the cruel teacher to the pains of memories,
Which in loop with memories, outlast, death.

All of this will be veiled by the dust of time

In the drunken spin, words spew
The can … of and things that shall best.

You.  Blown to the wind, disappear without brother or kin.
All that lasts is the dress or forms the graceful bones.
The chatter fades.

 

THE REFLECTION (LOVERS ENTER, AND EXIT)

Stumbling the way through life, and cherished experiences, 
Abandoning common sense to find new worlds,
The falls are steady, start and stop, start and advance,
Find the balance, lose the thread, find the link, ignore the threats.

Much slipped away, not always with the feeling
Something new would manifest; there was no alternative
In such moments, none I would embrace, none to tolerate.
Easy solutions splintered the mind, what must be earned, 
What could be learned came first, in delusion and confidence.

Your heart claws at walls, door, and cages, till you bleed.

 


GUINEVERE NON SONUS UNCLEAR MY DEAR

I imagine by now, like me, you're wondering what is going on.  
In one sense, it's only time that's passed, and nothing more. 
In another sense, however, something feels lost--disconnected.  
What this is or when it happened, I can't say; maybe you know?  

I've been working hard and being a hermit, for which, maybe, 
it's a place that has given solace while trying to understand.  
Time isn't giving up any fruits.  
But I know how kind you've been to me
and I remember what we spoke about in the park, 
by the bench, the day after Yelena's birthday.   

Whatever we shared and whatever has faded
does not alter those initial sentiments for me.  
I cherish all of it.  
I still don't understand; but at least know that I don't
want to hurt you nor myself by pretending nothing is off. 

I know better than to proclaim any resolutions or decisions.  
But my urge to be alone and work is overwhelming, 
and this may mean something.  

The heart is a strange animal.  I'm no easy feature of its means.   
I hope you're not mad at me or resentful.  I'm not at all.  
If anything, I'm baffled at the disconnect.  

I know you know all these things already but they needed to be said.  
I hope you'll let me know what you wish and be open with me.  
I don't want to lose the friendship we've started, 
regardless of the romantic outcome. 

 

AUGUST FIST & FIRST FIRE THIRST

August Fist, Fury First, then Fire Thirst

I don’t know what happened, or when, but the lines feel severed.  
Something new emerged, from day to day; the new chrysalis cracked
and the words, the sensations, all that held the emotions together in connection, 
in an instant brushed away. Never build your spider webs along the path
of walking bears, nor any other creature of suchlike, emotions creep on slowly; 
steadily like forgotten corners; those warning corners; those worn-in corners; 
comfortable overtime take on the dusty patina, and soft shadows where memories
go to settle the odd discrepancies, which only come out too light, alike, 
the strange day when all possessions must be cleared away, to audit, 
accounted, and in solitude remember.


THE UNREPRESENTED PROVES MAN

The unrepresented proves what man can overstand,

The unrepresented proves that man can’t understand.  What is false?  
[The unrepresented proves that man can understand what is false.]

The unknown plows hubris.  

Where there exist not a Logos there is Eros.  
The non-dual state of living—

where we don’t have to stumble over our words;  
[don’t stumble over words]

Where words don’t impede the experiencing of life, 
[Where words impede the experience of life]

and the letting go of it.  The problem—
we measure
intelligence as a function of communication—
thus quantifying through this ruler of an ability.  
What about other forms of communication?

It invokes the privilege, 
not sure what else is needed. 

The constraint.  
The failure.  
Being the boy. 
I’m what else. 
 
Clear descriptions of the Sun care for non-but there’re only one.  
The complete child can be perceived in two ways:  non-dual and whole.

Words are accountants of phonetic utterances, sounds; 
Records of what what’s once spoken, or partially thought.
Words are dead things, used to represent living meaning.  
Writing is music notation.  It will sound right or wrong in its mood.

 

HOW BEAUTIFUL TO DIE

How beautiful to die.  
How beautiful to die at every moment
And shed the collected illusions:
Those stories we tell ourselves.  

How beautiful to shed the structures
That holds us to a mistaken life.  
For life starts when too it dies, and
Slips from definition or feature.

As it makes room for new experiences
And then again, to die, for death
Is the beginning, and the harder we die. 
The harder life will swell over you.

When we hear somebody has achieved
The impossible, or has beheld the paradox
Of letting go, watched the fury return transformed.
How beautiful to feel someone has changed, 

At the boundary of possibility and doubt—
Persistence yields away resistance.
 It won’t feel like you think, it won’t think
As you; and it inhabits a new strange land.

How beautiful to die the stranger.

 

MONEY

“It’s all about the money, idiot.”

How relative is my dollar bill next to yours?

It’s an environment.

“It’s a crime”

 

INFORMED & OUTFORMED

Why Externalize Form 

What takes form, shape, gestalt?  Why externalize?
Reality is an epiphenomenon of the imagination.

Perhaps you will say “Are you sure that your story is the real one?”  But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am? — Baudelaire, Paris Spleen, “Windows” pg. 77, New Directions, ed. 1970

What does it matter what reality is outside, so long as it has helped to live, to feel, to define.  
Two ways to interpret this: the outside is irrelevant and will be met accordingly, or the outside has an enormous effect, which is part of the transactional nature of living.  In the context however, the question is whether reality has a place.  In this case, an imagined reality.  There is no clear definition of correctness, but what stands out is the capacity for imagination to distort, inspire, rearrange, and resolve all experiences a mind may have.  It could be said that imagination is a creature, disembodied, or a field, that structures form and merits the salient gifts out of the rorschach blob we confront in life.  Patterns, beauty, captivate the imagination, as does the instinctive codes.  The same tools used to manipulate can be used to dismantle the ploys pining for attention and collective knowledges.  
We are but the imagination taking form, or as imagination is shaped it shapes our perception of such imagination.  The wealth of images conspiring to arrange a modality, a feeling, a gesture, a gestalt, a logos, a language, a metaphor, a memory.
If only the cycles were better understood, perhaps people would take it easier, myself included. 
The snake, Cicatrize Maker.
Memories and experiences are trace makers, scaring, and healing, record keeping, and also forgetting.
One has to wonder then where the imagination comes from?
The completed dream of puzzle pieces collected each night over a life time.  
And though from each point of view we share the same spacetime continuum and gravity, each “life” is measured distinctly.  What is called a life could be 50 or 80 years, or much less.  This logic is easy to follow, but completely alien in common sense, or culture. 
“Culture is not your friend.” —McKenna
How can I suffer the hypocrite?
Let’s start with the assumption we are all hypocrites, and go from there.
Old conventions of rigidity have migrated to television and celebrity culture.
Culture is the invisible hand that shapes thoughts and landscapes, homogenizes in short-term gains, and fights the anxious acquisition game [of collecting the most,] but to what end exactly?  
Without intervals to dilate life, where a salient moment appears between expectation and desolation.
“Time” is a feature of culture, not biology nor physics.
What are the cultural neuropeptides?  What are the cultural proteins responsible for the poetic epigenetic?
Always imagination.  It too suffers the stumble.  The “unconscious” realm of being while aware.
It is impossible to express or contain one’s subjective experience without resorting to the resonant feedback, or to echo with it, but simultaneously distorting the very experience in play.  Going inward on the wave surface where the focus of Orders of Magnifications occur, the Li, Gestalt—
a breath of perceptions breathing in and out of focus.
Until the technology is used as affirmation via drone selfies and volunteered, self-surveillance apparatuses.

 

**WHAT IS THIS RAGE?

VERSUS SPEAK — This Becalmed Union of Shells

This becalmed union of shells 

Versus Speaks In Verse
The Reverse Verse of Versus Speak 

What is this rage that creeps on me like vines? 
Quietly, slowly chokes the sap, scaffolds trees,
Stones faces, shells fury, swells fire, 
erases and erases until all shadows are gone.

What is this rage that creeps on [me] like vines?
Quietly, slowly chokes the sap, scaffolds trees,
[A plexus of] Stones faces, shells fury, swells fire,
erases and erases until all shadows are gone.

Sleep this double life,
This that bends wills.
Have I abandoned you?

This hand that cups all points of the branching limbs
And then the day surrenders to your eyes which,
Run like the sun in circles around this horizon

Summons stars and moons
At day break with broken [recumbent] backs

[a beast shaded gentle grass]
And then rain, [and] rain, and rain.

Sleep this double life
Of shades by a beast on gentle grass
Suffuse into this field
This smile eclipsed
These eyes are heavy coals
And then rain, and rain, and rain.

This voice cries its shapes in lands
Such sonorous sensible atmospheres
This Blue because it breathes blue

This becalmed union of shells
These dry limbs weighed by snow
These thoughts crack and fracture
A quiet prickly reach
That bleeding between innards hears its young.

A quiet prickly reach [crack/pop]

This bleeding between innards hears.

[Versus Speaks
Through the iron forged mask, 
Through the leafs of trees past.]

The Reverse Verse of Versus Speak
The Crying Laughter of Double Speak
Versus Speaks in Verses, SHIELDS the Double Speak

 

YOUNG IS WRONG

When I was young is wrong.  

When I recall [recalling] the images of youth, 
Time never moves. [Time never moved]
The events that link me to this present, 
such trivialities of play like sliding down a toboggan, 
or climbing a tree don’t seem to account
with the kind of weight which at 43
all actions appear to inherently imbue
this defined and accrued experience.  
It solicits consciousness now, 
but never did like this before.  
While those succession of playful states
were spent without worry, 
without result or record, 
though all children as did I, 
worried too, 
but not about the analogous reach
the present that torques time in perverse decadence.  

Time built a rocket while over the years
I slept and greedily stole the gaze to meet it, 
Only to push forward.  

Time never moved then.  
The fulcrum of entropy is traversed, 
and again, and again the sea-saw.  
But as a child such a word didn’t break bonds or bones.  
Years spent and now, such recalls
don’t rebuild the body of the child
but the smaller, younger flesh was there, 
it’s easy to believe, more textured than a dream, 
and beside it: the pictures.  
Photos haunt with proof. 
 If I only knew then to look back into the camera
and speak the quiet words only the face can, 
and say, “yes, it’s you.  I, now you, we see you
from decades ago.  Do you see me?”  
What I can construct is the placement of gaze.  
The bonds with friends are without pictures
as they craft in their ageless faces every time
we collect our times together.  If only the child, 
innocently looking, but not knowing what this
looking would become, or how it would be
remembered by the play of devouring time, 
could know.  Yet, all children are fierce, 
taunting and devouring time.  
Adults ration minutes in crumbs.  
Where and when did the shift snap into place?  
When did the threshold recede into past?  
Can you touch or cup it by your hands, 
without first seeing the wrinkles charting a personal geology?

When I was young I could see without a body.  
This body built not for the young, the unknown
Flesh shaped by the elder ones, echoes and waves.
When I was young adults were alien figures.  
When I was young I wanted an adult alien body to maneuver.  
Not to stand like trees, but to command freedom.
They stood still, unless they carried the child, 
Then they too moved among the aliens,
That children are and make of all of us.
Until we become our children.

 

THERE’S A BLOOM THAT GROWS FROM VEINS

There’s a bloom that grows from veins, 
Inside the dormant body
A dream settles the world in accord
And thunder breaks the silent room.

[A flash] Counterpoint to eyes closing a flash
Lights the city, and quiets the remnants
Of the day placed in pockets and pendulums.
[in pendulums and pockets]
The choir of whispers begins its tutelage.

Some days are like this, filled, vacant, merged
And then a sleeping lover turns on the flesh.
Everywhere that rains, ripples extend inward
And find the second moon orbit in a petal.

Fulcrum’s night unravels the breath
While clouds push against the sky
The air cools to water washed space
[Air cools water washed space]
A trickle feeds the hungry roots.

Their fingers extend into lightless soil
Press [the] early silt earth to fleshy veined rock
While darkness comes to end, in sediment
So too slumber and lumber rest akin. 

Invisible whirlpools spawn white feathers,
Circles overlay to [in] small hands. 
Galaxies form above her head and stars
Match shade by shade, [all the] constellations freckles on her back.

If in dreams like these, where 1 + 1 is 1,
And double infinities blend the unspoken words,
[Double infinities blend unspoken words]
And nested skin inflates atmospheres, 
Then perhaps, her horizon may lay its boundary down.

A gentle brush of finger tips swipes the moisture,
[A gentle brush swipes the moisture, tips the]
Gelatinous minutes tick to a halt,
Blood flows in tides of blue and red and white cells,
And we grow ahead, inside nothing, but peaceful rumbles.

They wonder how you breathe, a half-yellow sun in
your hands, set down softly before a thousand eyes. 
A quiet thread is linked, to youth and wise
When you settle limb by limb, 
[and from there stems rise.]
[Between mountains.  And bury the sun below a soil sheath,

^{a poesis to create and give imagination a new possibility of insight.
Show something new}


MIND IS BORN IN CAPTIVITY
 
Brain may not mind, but minds the brain?
Mind is born in captivity; the brain is not, 
Thought gives rise to mind, and this then gives birth
to it outside the realm of experience, but as conception.

The brain contained and shackled to body perceives
with the environment and firmament, consoles
the mind restrained, but frees the bound nerves
to endless void, Adelphic Knight Interludes.  

The captive birth turns free, by Grand Contrast’s decree.   
What “captivates” the mind, what shackles an imprisoned state, 
existing in the field from which it has evolved naturally, 
is thinking what it knows.  Thinking that it knows a method, 
a conclusion, a formula, even that it conceives of a creative act
in advance, and of knowing how to educate.  

The mind is born captive by its own means, 
that is to say, the means mind are thought,
and so that is precisely what imprisons it, thoughts.  
Even my attempt to proclaim knowledge,
A double bind trap of thinking.  Forecasting so to speak.  
The shadowcast in advance the bodylight.  Opsins.

Does one scratch the itch, or is it the itch that scratches?  
Which is which, that or that, this or that,  
Without contrast what can be known,  
Even experience appears implied one and later torn,

The Thinking [thin king] rules over the borderlands of boredom, 
Epistemon17

 

THE GREAT CONTRASTER, KING CONTRAST, MAYA.

There is a strange form of matter that organizes to flesh, 
By genes and event time things, in an environment expresses
A lower form, and throughout the land many noble features
Ignite interest, to complexity we know more, as logos demonstrates,
With language and culture speed interactions and Tekhne emerges,
A faster calculus yet beyond the quantity of the haptic, manuscripted,
In an age of electric and chemical laws, where physics too corrals
The minute.  Yet why is this learning through technology so embraced,
Is not nature full of teachings and profound graces, where she shall
Never perish, though in our eyes we must win, this battle against time.

The interference pattern of times past and times present forge the present moment.
Why so afraid of surprising, radical, or strange ideas?  The unfamiliar is there to be
Observed, interacted, experienced, and loved.  

Codons, to I Ching, 64 variables to express every possible state?

The wild bear that grows trees from its head like antlers.  
Smoked Pot.  It takes me out of the physical world instead of letting me engage. 
It’s a complete body disassociation, skin floating in space with vertigo.  
Alcohol is different.  When I lose physical sense, the brain initiates the haze.

Playing with my hair.  Robert Plant in the headphones. Beer.  
Thinking of Tony.  A minute seems like a lifetime.   
I don’t know how to word it.  
You’re in my mind, breath and float.  
He couldn’t move.  Death rested by his friend.  

Reacting to death.  
In general death was welcomed.  
Death and birth come as air.  
Moving in and out.  
In and out of the body.  
The body is Earth.  
He is Earth incarnate.  
Spirit float and soar.  
Darkness never fulfils.  
Light always appears.  

The architectural veins that delivers people from elevators to hallways, from hallways to rooms, from bathrooms to hallways, and the welcomed exit, were all designed by the same mind.  Easy surfaces to disinfect, to hide dirt, to guide people, to disorient by constraints.  Hospitals and Airplanes/Terminals have a strange fate.  Terminal patients, Airline Terminals.  Final boarding, final trip.  Departing, departed.  Dying, unmentioned.  Hospitals have “flight attendants” not nurses, “patient attendants” or “hospital attendant.”  Please don’t attend to the flight, but the people.  “People Attendants” would fit better.

Etymology
Demonstrate
Demon
The Ancient Greek word ?????? daim?n denotes a spirit or divine power, much like the Latin genius or numen. Daim?nmost likely came from the Greek verb daiesthai (to divide, distribute).[3] The Greek conception of a daim?n notably appears in the works of Plato, where it describes the divine inspiration of Socrates. To distinguish the classical Greek concept from its later Christian interpretation, the former is anglicized as either daemon or daimon rather than demon.

 

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

What do you want to be when you grow up?  “to do” sounds too strange to a kid.

What a strange question to impose on a young mind, 
Full of contradictions and assumptions. In fact, at what point, 
If ever in life, does one give up the answer to the question, 
What someone will be when growing up?  

What at first seems rather innocuous, and even inspiring of hope, reveals its traps.

“when you grow up”  “what do you want”  [these are two different “you’s”]

Both phrase the question by giving agency of self, 
But immediately render it powerless, deferred to a future.

Time is stolen from the present play, and placed in an abstraction.

Growth too is demoted to a finality, rather than seen as an ongoing
Process, natural to everyone.  So we can command, “grow-up”, a forced
Command of growth, equivalent to get taller now.  A strange peak.
Everyone is growing up or down, To some extent, this is relatively
defined by what surrounds the being.

Then there’s the “want to be” part of the question.  Implying that presently,
Being may be lacking of something that can be possessed later through embodiment.

This question goes beyond the trappings of language.  It advocates and invisible
Convention of culture, which later, when as an adult we reconcile the rupture
Of thought and achievement as unfulfilled, in the model of “limitless growth”
Rather than being in the present.  Perhaps instead of teaching this question, 
It can be removed early on so that it’s not an issue later in life?

The question “what do you want to be when you grow up” sets-up regret, 
From the very initial onset, realized only upon the mind facing the edge of death.
Ambition is a form of beheading.

**(follow with Mind is Born in Captivity)


WILDENBEAR GROWS TREEFLOWS

Wildenbear grows Treeflows from its head like antlers.  
[The wild bear that grows treeflows like antlers from its head.  
From its head like antlers the wild bear that grows treeflows
The wild bear grows tree-like antlers from its head.]  

Treeflows like antlers seed the land upon which the Wildbear walks,
This bear grows trees from its head like antlers.  But the trees that
Grow are no ordinary tree or Arborkind arrangement, these trees sowed.
Emerald bark flakes shed and seed the new treeflows as spring the warmer sun,
The wildbear restores the deforested lands of trees and mysterious creatures spun,
Into the web of life so called by science and poets alike, which is to say, 
Among the empty strings which connect one and all, there’s still remained unsung,
The vacant lot of where webs can’t hold no one, and thus such net catches none.  

Wildbare, Wildbear.  Bearing the bareness of wild wilderness wasteland.

There is a web and net laid upon the crooked shoots, 
Snakelike tributary veins, eroded from parceled bits, 
granulated into a tessellated wasteland promoted to yield
monocrops that fit outside the realm of life,   [of diversity] 
and treat what a body needs as productions soon to conceive, 
colors no longer match flavors, now required for its nutritional content.

How does an animal lose its own nature?  

This so called fall of man, 
Is a small misunderstanding of belief in the command that all upon the earth
Is thy fruit and feast, from harmless berries to furious beast; the fall is to think Humans don’t feed the creatures of the land too, when to another creature’s life it’s the perfect food to reap and bail.  For limits to growth are unrequired, when soon this monoculture fails, another form will manifest.  It’s not the loss of a species that's strife, but all the connections unseen, so too go.

Tell me about the wildbear that grows treeflows…

Wildenbear by nature alone restores those fallen trees, 
suffered by the hands and machines of mankind.  [Wildenweed]
Trust first that land fertilized of the body’s choral song [aka death],
Than of the steady row of automated single crop monotone.

When Tekhne damages the trees, when Versus exceeds his needs,
Wildenbear comes to renew all cuts and scores the tree endured.
The waste of man is its favorite food, alike carbon dioxide to leafs
[co2 to sea to leaf]
New growth and all the air we breathe together though its known,
Impossible to convince of logic alone.  There is no logic in resting
Under a tree, as there is no logic in the flow of a river, the burning
Of Drywood by nature’s spark.  For logic is already the judgment formed,
By strictures of math and structures of law.  Yet most illogical is to accept
Logic on its own bases, for it too wishes to thrive, and in logical trends,
How surprising can it be?  
The perfect rational behavior would include play or dance?
That assumes the reason known is self-evident.  
The last trend that is noticed these days is rational behavior.
What rations could be spread as the wealth earned instead
Is fought for another kind, where the irrational dominates,
That which could be rationed about must in the purse of few
Retain as burden of growth and elder habits lost in wisdom,
Lost in youth.  
It’s how they burn upon another that wise play upon
the naïve child, thus circles drawn carry the doubleborn.

[The name of the game is to create, generate flow: Capitalist Flow.

Ensnare/bind the double shade. 

Crazy turns wise when refusal to compromise comes first,
Promises the strange landchange to vine and wane thirst,
For forged metal of body plated, echoes inside the armor shell.
Touch and torch fight fistful of stars, punch-drunk turns pin wheel
Of fate, hurls comets, meteors, and dizzying satellites of data some feel.

What codes will this wall receive, for the narratives so gently deceive,
Paste ideals of beauty and form, ageless and [everywhere] ever reborn, 

Dawncreeps the threshold hour, too early to rise, not early enough to rest. 
Cold light shakes the resting breath, the skyscreen lit to notify daybreak.

Milk the beast twice a day.  Milk to Military.

*Has a type of greed concerning consciousness developed like that capacity to commit the detached evils of World War I, the sea of people, the wave of flesh; and, World War II, obliteration through technological means, cold and detached, functional, fascist, racist. 

It also includes the unsavory final acts of night beast, who know daybreak is near, 
The last ditch effort of a long night.  When day comes too soon. 

Amrit Velâ? What the bear must eat, and of light feast, the hour of the honey.


THE WILLOW TREE OF WORRY

Though it gives way, it gnarls and twists
Unstiffed by foreign climbers, with [by] supple limbs means,
resistance does it endow to weather, [to] the creature uphold.
[By supple limbs, no stiff resistance does it endow to creature
or weather to upload in its winter weight heap of snow.]

The worry willow tree lets the slippery state in its arms arrange, 
All green shoots entwine [Verdugo] there, hold the lazy pose, 
where those who climb easily fall from canopy to crown.

Though trunk ascending, limbs bow and stack
Like thick hair in a soft wind and whisper forgone.

It’s shade sweeps and rakes the long grass, 
Like a rubber water fountain foundation found,

Knots and turns of each concern,
Some branches kept, others pruned,
Fall worry, fall worry winter still, 
Fall worry back, fall back to winterkind. [winterland]

The worry willow tree breathes quietly the rooted lungs
from earth sprung, between these organs walk along.
Or in the ocean skin by krill’s relentless surviving skill
Sacrifice again where an ocean swells and the eye retires.

[Technology is a Valley, Canyon of Echoes]


THE APOLOGY OF WORRY TREE

Impermanence as a balancing dialectic.
Death is my grand failure, fall allure.

The mystery of problem clears up when the questions disappear.

This competence without comprehension,
which will end, where has history gone?

Why treated like a device, disposable and restored?
When the phone is on, during the day my brain changes.  
At night the moods are quelled, so few are also awake, 
the device-smartphone quiets.

Rage from the worry tree comes when devices require thumb tending, 
like a social debt, a shallow interest, fuses problems with distractions.  

The body fights for its history and stories memory in living.
My head is in all the shows a modality you may have, 
a meme leaf in memory, becomes the mneme limb lamb.

The Womb Leaf or The Leaf Womb

Why do you invent more than need decrees, for this experience to be free of mind?  I worry.  I worry.  So I think about what may come, 
what should be right, or to what should one succumb?  

Social, the worry rage tree comes, rage for the worry comes when device requires tending.  This Shallow social debt, gnaws at focus and attention, the day brain changes when the phone is on.  Night quells the moods, so if you awake, so few awake,  don’t worry my young child the feather will come soon and caress the galaxies into new forms. Young feathery thought, where do you catch wind from if not from this masthead.  The candid man sentinel to none invokes the question:  only his soul self-swayed by what the day in spring, the days end brings.  A murder of crows.

[I worry too.  And worry worries the worry three, Which worries even further to four.  So I think about what may come, what should be right, or could be wrong.
To what should one succumb? ]


TIME IS LOST 

Time is lost but not forgotten 

For it feeds our age
For forgetting comes before of getting time, from where
We are born; recreacting the world; and the only way
To get time back is to spend it, so that the gotten is lost, 
Ended and that lost remembered, member by member,
But this is not the growth of time, which has no end,
Until it finds, by becoming part [of the] body none can quill,
To paper or book, nor quell from that [the] blown spell.

I’ll have what time will do which is to kill, 
[and] change one life to another form, by mind,
For it matters none, but the human will,
Must impose the little it knows upon, 
The riddle of time, moves on [in] every path,
It favors none, [and] makes no kind concessions, 
Time, blood, money, and earth [are] all bound to one,
Which truth do you extol [praise], and settle treow [oak]?

The reversal of tolerance from youth’s
impatience to middle-aged kind which now finds,
Hearing improving rather than waning,
Or is it the world that grows more loud still? 
Man machined hour, piston explode, dry hum,
Technology promised to simplify
our daily life duties but instead made
complex fortunes to grapple and wade through,
the bridge broke rivers to pieces and mud,
the plane removed land wonders from mind too,
the grid of city killed the stroll feet once told,
nature’s crooked path let the body choose this
way or that ‘round rock, branch, trunk, or puddle,
birds sound strange against the city’s glass walls
bulldozers waddle and peck at street’s holes,
someway root takes to paved over soil to grow
shade in the garden park where rats and children
play coevolved as one, swing among cars
who then are you in this way colored grey,
even stone captures chroma to tender veins,
when stem and root split dense rock, earth is made,
from pillar to dust, surface cracks and thus,
settles shells, branch turns to wood, but bone stays
bone, in growth or decay, no change is seen, 
no limbs remains, dismembered, not body dead a corpse.

Standstill.  
Withdrawal.  

Ice.  
23. Isa.  I.

Entangled in a situation you are blind.
Submit, surrender, sacrifice long-cherished desire.
Patience.  Positive accomplishments unlikely now.  
All plans on hold.  Drain of energy.  

Names: GMC Isa: ice
GO Eis: ice
OE Is: ice
ON Iss: ice
Alternate forms: I
Phonetic value: i (pronounced ee as in "deed")
Esoteric meaning of name: primal matter/antimatter.
Ideographic interpretation: the icicle, or the primal ice
stream/wave out of Niflheimr.


ICE COMMENTARY

The I-rune is the antipolar force to the F-rune. Isa is a world-ice that
flows forth from Niflheimr. It does not represent matter, but rather
a concept of antimatter, which, when combined with the energy
flowing from Muspellsheimr, leads to the formation of what we call
"matter" (Midhgardhr). isa may be equated in some cases with the
prima materia of other philosophies. In many ways this mystery may be
symbolized by the "black hole." The I-rune is the force of attraction,
gravity, inertia, entropy in the multiverse. In mythology, aspects of
this force are represented by the rime-giants (hrimthursar).  Isa is a
stillness and lack of vibration-a unique mystery in the Germanic
cosmogony/cosmology. This concept is as metaphysical as that which
is called "spirit."
Ice and fire are the forces through which the world is created,
but they are also the forces that will bring "existence" to an end.
Isa is a symbol for the individual ego because of its centralizing
and concentrating effect. It is a force that holds the ego-self together
during the stressful trials of the initiation process, and as such it is a
bridge between the worlds and over waters.

Key words:
World ice
Antimatter
Concentration
Ego
Stodhur:
Galdr:
isa isa isa
iiiiiiiiii
iiiiisssss
(sssss iiiii)
iiiiiiiiii
1. Stand erect with arms tight against sides.
2. Stand erect with arms straight overhead,
with the palms touching one another.

Magical workings:
1. Development of concentration and will.
2. Constriction, halting of unwanted dynamic forces.
3. Basic ego integration within a balanced multiversal system.
4. Power of control and constraint over other wights.

Anglo-Saxon
? Is by? oferceald, ungemetum slidor,
glisna? glæshluttur gimmum gelicust,
flor forste geworuht, fæger ansyne.

Ice is very cold and immeasurably slippery;
it glistens as clear as glass and most like to gems;
it is a floor wrought by the frost, fair to look upon.
Old Icelandic
? Íss er árbörkr
ok unnar ?ak
ok feigra manna fár.
glacies jöfurr.

Ice is bark of rivers
and roof of the wave
and destruction of the doomed.
Old Norwegian
? Ís k?llum brú bræi?a;
blindan ?arf at læi?a.

Ice is called the broad bridge;
the blind man must be led.
  


ATW POEM  2 DEATH

DEATH OF DEATH & TIME

THIS BEEHIVE OF TIME  

Desired Scent From The Fingers Beeswax

Into this beehive of time, conscript the silent void.
Desired scent from the fingers beeswax, Aleph falls,
For her each turn, of time stolen he knows well [wax of walls].

Artifice of light by night, in schemes of wires and watts,x
outshines the candle’s lumen wick, and feeble tongue. 
When fire held stems from the string line [burned], 
A magic fury lands the eye, a smallxi [baring] sunhand,
The wick a spiders leg,xii black talon of a finch,
Or curls of black mascara, no, it’s from the candle’s end, 
That inspiration begins, but in the dark hours, 
The shining birds beak, the motion of Philapore codes.

Where colors fade from memory, and thoughts bare
The needed march of voices heeded, of shadowechoes, 
one flicker-flame transforms space known, the room remains
tethered to dreams as though with eyes closed one sees,
until dawncreeps through the winter veil of January’s fog.
A cloud has passed by, for one week steady, 
But here at the edge of the storms trail, it’s
Spiraling arms of Mars show its grey mercy.

Something takes place in the room exchange, 
From glare of flame to sun filled domain, 
The cut though deeper still, from screens device, 
And blinking charging Eleedee, somewhere the body
Knows one should suffer more or endure what mapspells,xiii
the darkhours in relative silence and stillness,
More the dreamer’s tree felled upon the bed.

I’ve robbed the stars of myth, and supplanted freedoms for laws,
Gods with physics, but of the stories once told, which were the more conclusive?
For what is fact quickly shifts, and settles these matters of magic
And eternal laws, to new scripts, butxiv progress has not empathy for the old.
It is the young who are told, to stay clear of tomb stones and shrines, 
For they can play in the sandbox of time, encouraged to push
And throttle through the traces and roads of melancholia’s grasp.

Are the old too tired to bare the young? Has life extended so far
The elders tumble past the youth in the steep landslide of late time.  
Though old was once born, and born is now old, 
youth inherits rules, and rulers of youth a measured more, 
Youth and rules, billed by the forgotten sages: parents and teachers.  
In knowledge and biology, a set apart would bridge together
Remake familiar those clouded images, the reflections and mimetic habits,
Homogenized into docile citizens who fight back from the forgotten cracks.
Where life paved over still grows and splits the path with weeds decided.
For age and wise show choices alike, where indecision harbors blight, 
Yet nature jests that it even knows how to choose the weather acts
And accept by provocation, it’s fate declared without hesitation. 

This needed magic cloaks the cataract forest of fear,
And who sings mapsongs of clever precision, draws lines over the crooked
Repeated and failed stretch this body like the breaking crest of waves,
And slumber more, the sleeper always awakens to new views.
The salient masks the child wears to trials and dares,
Inhabit the endless procession of times endless flares.
A life born is sometimes torn, and from this fabric worn,
Blow out the candle and let a day begin, in the arms of friends,
Conscript the silent void, into this beehive of time. 


[TRAVELED HOURS]  [THE VOICE OF MAN]


THE TINY WICK

The tiny wick of a handmade candle was short from start, 

As the candle stick shortens the wick exposed and curled,
The lick of the flame’s tongue edge plowed shapes a black
Carbon wake where the brightest lumen wanes,
Snow outside falls white, carbon rises black inside.

The ground is dark and cold outside, 
The ceiling is white and warm inside.
For now these are truths
that matter [trouble] none, 
but may someday.

It’s counterintuitive to think the longer the wick
the slower the burn, but in this candles extended portent, 
the wick extracts the heat, so waxmelt pools and burns
completely rather than drip down, cascade the stick
as wasted fuel; what is then the ratio of ideal balance:
To burn without waste?

What has math predicted and physics projected,
Is but a line of code that works first by virtue, 
Through metaphor later spelled, so that the image
Find a strange alliance with that which is known, or felled,
But in truth the math being new, thus too expresses no past trace.

Math is symbolic of the world, until those symbols are made
Manifest by will of women and men, and not always to good ends.
For human mind is not the heart, and though at heart mean well
The mind nor heart both, nor either can foretell
These symbols truth, to forge material to participate in human terms.

Atoms we do not feel, in music the hertz wave rate is not heard either,
Hard or soft does compel as do sounds the body feels.  
And theory can a magic spell lay for use, and in whose hands
Will it be guarded?  But math is never truth, until applied
By binds of mind in present relevant time.  

But the words on the page are no different
than musical notes caged on paper or screen, unless
you’ve had the identical the dream, it’s only mere description.
Akin to words of law, unless employed, have no claim,
To either body, mind, heart, or spirit to easily enchain.

For even the idiot child knew
that one plus one was more than two,
Unless speaking by stress the measures of things, 
for which pretend in this brief time, 
so feebly untwine it’s extended web.

And like a lion torn from nature, 
To be enslaved to humane caged display, 
Thus which is more true, the lionzoo, 
the zoolion or the wildlion, the flower plucked, 
or left alone stem flower, by scent charmed if so is luck.

To pick out beauty from where its naturally grown, 
Is the fate of mind and human alike.  For we do this
More to each other than to flowers, pick out what’s
Worth and precious, and place to jars and vases
What from in nature became framed by man gazes.

To pick a flower thus from the stem bunch [below]
Is to kill that flower by extensions of hours [artifice].
Is this the same as a wreath wrapped around a woman mane
In pagan times or is among the wild flowers [mare], somehow
This seems less perverse than paying money for petals.
[Placing paper as replaced plucked flower petals]

So as this flame is the beauty of lion’s mane for with light
There comes too another hour’s end, the cuckoo made of wood,
Inside the home of childhood where once the man played,
So life’s gift is that it burns uncaged at every days turn,
And youth is not replaced by gods of old, but sprung of time.
 
What quiets [the] hours are stories told for how bold life was lived,
Pain absorbed past idoled images and totems forged of growth
Which bestows prolonged shadows, as skins upon the world
Of walking matter, and floating dreams stuck in the mobile
Stream of thought of those who fixed lifeseen melt the flamemade glow flow.

Absolved are few who new forms find from the fingers path…

*[From its head like antlers the wild bear that grows treeflows] 

 

OPPOSITES POLARITIES and the BIRTH of POLYVERSE HARMONIA

When two become one that were never two, and this one reconciles the two for them, as flesh and form, gesture and speak.  It’s the confrontations of two, and the lineage of three, which make the story of one seem such a vast mystery, four is stable too many, and five is none at all.  Polyverse Harmonia.

Cybele, Mother Mountain, Demeter, Alma Matter, Magna Matter, Sipylus
Kybelis ???????.  Chomolangma—Sagarmatha, “Mother of the World” — “Forehead in the Sky;” Tibetan, Sherpa, Nepal, Chomolungma, Tibetan.  Nepal/Tibet border. Sagarm?th? is a Nepali word derived from ???? sagar meaning "sky" and ???? m?th? meaning "head."

 

BABBLE BROOK OF NOSENSE DATA

Babble brook of nosense data,
What product is man by dillydally shred n’ torn?  

Mary went twice before I could,
the merit spilled on you.

Vulcrest the dilly thorn dawn.

“So who are you in the then den?”
“No sir!”
“None to speak of or any matter for your worry.”
“Why bring it up then?” 

Shut the trap, the grizzly time trap hour another

Tell the tale of that history mold,
Lived by shelter and hermit mind,
Singlet becalmed, become and bee. 
Intervals repeat the shaping waves and sand,

Air and mother.
The one who holds
hum the extraordinary.
  
Could you handle the mountain dispersed
Valley of Frozen Time of Augur
Canyon of Echoes
 
Mother blind; father deaf.
Their time and lullaby will fly.
Of love two made one breath.    [Yet two strove one last breath]
How kind their firmly eyes sagged.

Senses conscript the crooked brook.  
Babble dream, comedy of time,
What remnant senses crow along,
Be still, when murmurs land in hand.

All that has come, all that has gone, 
Impart such song, the spectral form,
Comes for each thread, the other line shade,
Of background thought, remain there each alone.

Centerverse spiraling, sets loop time.

And through this time, the texture of technology records, film to video,
The young cultural scene and voices thin, collectively sink age in skin, 

Thus culture moves in a locus state, in each person recognized, 
When the voices were young, when they have grown and thickened,

Like the wines that age collectively, when the minerality of water explains

How the landscape exchanges, 
the star from truth, the oak tree belief.

The star from truth, the tree from seed, 
the bloom of root, push limb and leaf.

The mountain from rain, the drop from past ice, 
which moves us through the ages of collective time.

How a story passage will be in future tolled, 
Of young to the new land, a history perennially planted
A barren seed, strikes the rock, feeds the birds
And from these wings, code blood within formed.
Even in conversations, the voice whirlpools out, 
Stretches mountain trees, howl of the valley gust, as change must,
From soil a bare tree formed, from air a gliding feather born.

For Christ the dilly deli thorn form.
Full crest the dilly so I’m done.  
Full crest the daily sound on.
Would’ve crest the daily button done.  
Voted rest of the daily taking on.
What is the daily source done?

Word visions.
Allegoria.  
Claustrophobia.  
Caracól del tiempo.
Harmonia.  
Botánica.  


Kept listening, makes sense the way he talks about Aborigines living by synchronicity, in dreamtime mythology place takes precedence over time, so instead of chronological time there is a strata of time / multiple temporalities, which isn't to say there is necessarily no causation in the sense that each ancestor has an impact on place, but such happenings are simultaneous. Also relates to the Deleuzian notion of becoming / unbecoming (did that not originate with Deleuze maybe I'm wrong on that) and as entanglement suggests, there can be happenings without a direct causal relationship. I liked his question as to whether synchronicity can be something "manufactured" in the sciences, which strikes me as one of the things quantum experimentation is trying to achieve. Glad you liked the other piece too and yes - very mythobiology-esque ;)

Great insights.  Yes.  Thanks for writing about this. Been thinking about time. 

Jung called Synchronicity: "an acausal connecting principle."

The key is how connections emerge in a acausal way, which begs the question,
If we can even understand the world in that way by thinking consciously,
Or if there's something more subtle and more intelligent we can't name.  The Taoist called it "Tao". 
But it's undefinable as it's the center of everyone at once and everything around those centers as a collective environment.  This field then, how does it time? 

More to chat about in person.  Any plans this eve?

ps.  Deleuze ref:

I think the Becoming/Unbecoming is what is called the "world of becoming/unbecoming", as opposed "the world of being.”  The first is dualistic, the “being” transcends ego, language, time, etc.

It’s interesting to study how in history people have measured time, and how they’ve named it, which is more surprising than one would assume.  
 


SKIN, SKIN, SKIN of the FLESHY PINK

Skin, skin, skin of the fleshy pink, folded, stretched, and persistent, 
what sensations will you peel free[able], remember, and face in dreams?

Zero, zero, zero of it all, when breath halts to tissue beads [pearls] of sweat,
Running [veins] and contained in still furies of the mind, inflated heart.

Stratum, stratum, stratum of dust building in those bones and forms,
Pellet the weeping rains, erode the feeble grains to strong standing stones.

Blow, blow, blow of the plucked bow and string, strung chords to limbs,
And there find a succession swept to wind whipping a harmony pulse.

Fall, fall, fall in a vertigo of curiosities, they don’t stop, flatten [falsen] my chest,
And make me weep with these gentle false flattened [smothered] starts, turn the corner crest and crack, and fall, 

Deep marine blue dot places the center heart hue, poured in the thicket of veins,

 

DREAM ANALYSIS

Spoke with a close and dear friend about how to tackle the upcoming group shows.  Specifically, how to handle, manage, or what approach to take with the anxiety or finishing work by a deadline that’s close enough to warrant 12 hour days.  This pressure encourages seclusion, which is already a default state for me.  The engagement with friends and peers is good for health and the mind/heart.  

We spoke for about an hour.  He covered the ego pursuit, the competition of making the best, etc.  I opted for another version, plan C.  Work and have pieces available for choosing.  But it’s not that simple.  There’s the works one lets the curators choose, which implies responsibility on my part to know what I’m putting out there.  The phrase that struck a chord was: “I think you should give yourself permission to … [get excited and work on anything that is risky or fun.]”  

“Give yourself permission.”  Until he said it out loud, I hadn’t noticed it was even a choice I had, or an attitude I could take.  What other things am I not giving myself permission to explore or do?

I was totally unconscious to this, even though there’s no one else here, except maybe the slow current flow, that I haven’t taken responsibility for completely.  The apple tree analogy.  I compared the process to women too.  How I’ve changed.

 

THE SPACE MIND MINDS

In Nocturnal Times

The space mind minds, in nocturnal mines,                     *[nocturnal times mines]
of jeweled skies, darkened times mines jeweled specks, 
a slow floating mote, on the myth boat of times, 
Kairos (the opportune moment), now, now gone, 
from Cronus to cranium, to the cultural terrarium
where mankind dwells between rock and sky, 
rock and cloud, with declared might and clout. 

Of root, soot, where winds loot the brushed leafs forget to trees.
Breath.
The trickster sighs, the courteous lie of forgotten flies, 
Another world follows each human alike, in the wake, 
And without effort somehow summoned to reawake.
Lucky the flee, the fly, and [or] moth.

Even the shell has two sides shaped by the world.

Sunsets and sunrises exist not, or rather, how can
There be a sun set and a sun rise, simultaneously?                                     *[side by side]
It takes but two of any eyed creature to find, 
Such anomaly when thought alone, or experienced, 
From the Earth bound surface grown, and though feet
May leave the surface *[and we] traversed, waves never leave        *[bourn-boundary; borne-beared]
The ocean, though its body moves around.        *[abound the slender sound]

Consciousness is born to form, a living waking dream,
Where matter matters, but ultimately does not matter hold,
Ego as a final sleep…
A final sleep, ego’s leap, flattered and then forgotten.
Where matter settles, by sultry plays, the dozen hour flattered fold.


[Psyche Ecology]


For happiness, how little suffices for happiness! ... the least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a whisper, an eye glance-little maketh up the best happiness. Be still.
—Nietzsche

 


I CAN’T THINK CONSCIOUSNESS TO FLIGHT

I can’t think consciousness to flight, alluvium must settle, 
moth of myth, moth of math. [moth and math]


I can’t think consciousness. 
[though in flight I am conscious without body / sans corpus]
[though in flight without body, I am conscious]
I can’t think consciousness to flight in time.

The organism rearranges these forms [that / to]  fly,
Through time they morph, breathe, fold, inhabit,
Through time morphed, breathed, fold, inhabit,
The air we breathe has been breathed by everything
Call it anything, call it nothing, call it.
To tendrils of clouds who could not

The butterfly wing [has/with] eyes, gaze prey the ones seen, but
so too the real eyes that see consciously.
So too real eyes see consciously, between bark and leaf.
Though part of me, I can’t see what it sees.
Though part of me, I can’t see what sees, more than feeble eyes..
Whatever I call that, it is not that [flutter].

In caves drawing the animals, drawn eyes not each other.
In caves, drawn animals but not each other.
Drawing the outside world, drawn inside rock body, [inverted womb]
There is no delineation of boundaries, enter, both to
Darkness and walk out on light, [to warm tombs].

What we build [in the] outside, call it technique, 
It is the same as the eye on the butterfly wing,
In nature evolved, adaptive, in human, the [anonymous] hand that
Gives tools and forms the land. [future lands]
Someone makes our bed.

The skin that hides, in cloth and shelter,
[The / A] second skin and hide.

Nature shapes, as it shapes us, our mind shapes
Sights and sight shapes the land, and land
Shapes the eyes looking back at this nature
How deep do we see into the forming moments repeatedly?
 
Mind in consciousness is just the wing, the unconscious intelligence paints the eye on the wing for us to see, 
strange echo mirrors.

Stand in this still image, the shaman disappears [into woods]
Calls the forest dweller.


Trees feed us the living leaf, its where branches stretch for sleeping moths.  
Barbed leafs along the verdant [Verdugo] 
supple shoots wallowing wind bends
the soil’s caldron, and heats lines whips.

Alluvium – “a deposit of clay, silt, sand, and gravel left by flowing streams in a river valley or delta, typically producing fertile soil.”
deposit silt running water.

There is but one simple circle [to/that] fall into, [a/which] ripples outwards—
To the billion ripples, peaks in waves, water, wing, and caves,[and aged]
The eye burns like the sun and shadows take flight like whispering
Stars at daylight, whose secrets reveal by night, eyes on the walls
Of the heavens cave, whose rock is as frail as the moth’s wing
And settles over time as dust, as do [our] hands on the shade of land.

None of this can be thought, not I nor mind, nor wing, nor wall.
The sham in man may be the shaman if we let it.
*[Man Against Night]
Nature sees us and we see back upon nature,
In the nature of nature, earth watches and we think
[We are] the ones watching.  Can your hand look into [its]
Your eyes?  When the hand becomes a fist, is it not still a hand?

Who then built religion?  Did not nature create people who walk and speak and travel and feel?  If not nature who made man, 
and woman, then if religion is the product of people, 
then nature too, like the makings of technology, 
too made stories to worship its own biology.  
Nature built our stories, not the Gods.  

Where once the moon guided both to flight,
When did nature become a fist by night?
When all settles where will you be,
Forked by space and time single and free?
In arms you’ll be found spread over woods - trees
Ash echoes leap, spindling weeds, as spires grow over you. Years.

Put mind to task—breathe, broken light into severed arms, 
Dismembered colors break too, an image of, light in the shadows,
An image of seas and as all goes quiet.

Fill the space.
Fill the space.
[Sleeping crests with nothing, quiet people leave drowsy trails for dreamers.]

Listen to the quiet people as they leave sleepy trails for dreamers.

She has always been there, looking was a silly game.
Whomever so first raised art to purchase extracted the neurosis from the lunatic, as water from the ground.
Pre-shamanic, before it meant anything at all.

Spaceship on mission to the eye in the sky.  Second dream.  The creator of the ship was a hip-hop guy, young, genius engineer, but flashy, rich.  Something about the designs not being able to be square, but cylindrical.

More on ocean rise and glacial melts.  Looking for an image but remembered no one wanted to see it directly, hence all the abstract art, they’re exceptions.

Stranger yet is reality
Stranger more is truth. 

The bulk light ceremony of the wedded
floats before they awake,
In dreams and dawns she rises first, 
Before claiming stakes, morning the wakes.

In the endless, wordless language of consolation meets grief; 
a tree, wave, bird, the stony path, anything, shades, grief meets trees, but added shapes by hands of machination.

Where the organism, change consoles,
Where the mechanic, repetition, endless and tedious will resonate the subjective into the redundant dull.  
Give waves and the emotions will move with breath of oceans, seas, rivers and streams — Tributaries.

Eyes that are not eyes see nonetheless.  
Rock against wing, wing over rock.  
Wing over time chisels the flinty rock thin to fly, 
yet thinner [yet] veins against the clouds the grasses see.  
Of stone moth settled to ground and lips.
Wings part the gentle break.

A lesser butterfly is a moth color by day,
The first, dull through night moth not flutter.
“Look! A baby butterfly.” 
“No, that’s a moth.”
Then came the golden eye shell.  
The organistic drama, a built drama organism.

the first, dull through night moth not of light

The moth eye we draw in light, makes thin stones take flight.
Eyes on the moth’s wing shapes stones to fly, float, sail, and drift
that we have not seen though rock to wind we ride
and flutter about the untied sky, or tide.

 

OCULAR MOONS

A single radiant center, draws the eye,
Waiting for the center to emit light, perhaps drawn
To the potential of fire glowing white, 
Fuse a disembodied blindness.

Guided by the chromatic shifts and light increments, 
Eye moves from radiance to the shaded corner with hesitation, 
Less so under tables where tone is thicker, richer, abandoned,
Where the moths live.

Where once the moon guided moths in flight, 
Other artifices replace the reflective globe, 
Heliophotons are renewed and through outlets, 
delivered as current, a pocket sized moon.

Where the moths once lived, 
I have grown moth eyes.

Moth eyes for the screens, where
Light inhabits habits in bits.  
Ancient habit.  Aristotle.
Moth, matter, mother.  

Moths crawl out of the ground, the vivid moth knows
And then the open trees beckon leaves to open their eyes
and their eyes did jut that—who are you who speaks?

I have such a vivid memory, 
Of being a child in Argentina, 
Listening to a Beethoven piano sonata
In my head while riding a bus home.  
I must have been 12 years old.
The music created a kind of space
That to the world did not exist, 
Not that of a dream, and not that of daydream,
This was a texture placed over the world,
And from inside the room, and through
The plate glass I still saw everything, 
But through the rippled hand blown panes.

That place exists physically somewhere, 
but only in tandem with the music.

There are things you will never forget, or rather, 
things you’ll never need to remember.
You are one such thing.
When death transits by, what memory will be the exit.
Perhaps it’s inconsequential, but your first memory is forever
An intrigue, when you awoke for the first time.
Death its counterpoint?  Don’t be silly.
What words and images will one last see?
Stories of stories, layered upon layers,
Becalmed star light, the head struck hard.
Quantum Fields and Particles, non-locality, 
Syzygy,
Beethoven, Sonata #8, in C minor, op 13 “pathetique”

“But we, while we are intent upon one object,
already feel the pull of another […] we never know
the actual, vital contour of our own
emotions—just what forms them from the outside.  
Who has not sat, afraid, before his heart’s
curtain?  It rose: the scenery of farewell.” 
(p.351-Rilke) [2016.06.10.1047] 
The windows cry 

The windows cry glass beads and tandem tears
Crystalline jewels gray the sky with water pellets
A billboard reaches above the rooftop geometric wire arms
Birds rest while the city earns its Sunday
There is nowhere to call desolation the floorboards are clean
Some day the gray array will exchange and quiet the winter
Smoldered by the sun even the wind washes against the impermanent sky.
Black silhouette notes wash clouds with green jade.

 

 

THE WINDOWS CRY

The windows cry glass beads and tandem tears.
Crystalline jewels gray the sky with water pellets.
A billboard reaches above the rooftop, geometric wire arms.
Birds rest while the city earns its Sunday.
Theirs is nowhere to call desolation—
the floorboards are clean.
Some day the gray array will exchange and quiet winter.
Smoldered by sun, even the wind washes against the impermanent sky.
Black silhouette notes hang clouds with green jade.

 

THE APPARENT FUEL WE CALLED MAN

The apparent fuel we call human, tolerates the claw and the dream,
For of either scheme machinery awakes formed feelings or thoughts,
Without this dream to contrast real from minds play by daylight, 
For tiny lit wicks burn brightest against the darkness of the night.

How gentle the contrast is needed for the eye to see after a long slumber,
The subtle of grace appears in the faintest of traces, blown out by day,
High games the city spins and spirals, phosphenes, opsins, messengers
The great star strand of hair, comet combed against a vast past of heavens   

Apocalypse, the uncovering, one-third of the time falling the rest rising. 
Amon, the wind covenant of birth and death, cycles of creation and rest,
Where from earth the waters churned and strung the serpent river finger
A bitter tinge to know a third of life, sleep falls, wonders impossible to keep.

What would the world the world appear and form without money, capitol, 
Currency, financial institutions, advertising firms, useless goods to sell for
Profit alone, no credit, no trust, no debt, no interest, no loans, no refinancing, 
No pay, no taxes, no balance, no net gains, no gross profits, no deductions, 
No mortgage rates, no internal revenue services, no federal banking, no money,
No coin, only information and creative formations as a form of play.  For no
Child ever worries about money until it’s clear what it affects when it is gone,
Or untranslatable to security, and health.  Instead, money breeds a monster who
Feeds on a source of conflict or doubt, where sustainable models won’t function
As long as they are moved by money and wealth.  It is only paper notes, but
Together we all agree, and thus make it so, as once religion, myth, 
And cognitive dissonance, where value could be named and exchanged
By the function or merit of invention, shaped beauties, caring hands?

What is this thing that befalls all hands and minds, though voiced by a few,
The community together behaves as if none make do without older others
Ways, money is the root of all evil, and gold supplanted the good.
What interrupts the function of a present way?  We all work for our pay.
The worth of my labor is less or more, schooling has taught me so,
Or born into privilege and comfort or its opposite, are all the same,
That which we emerge from has profound effects in what we think we can tolerate.

Politicians herd the people, and bankers herd the politicians. 
Thumb
Index
Middle
Annular/ring
Pinky/Little
New religion is the entertainment industry of which I am part.

What would you do if money was not a problem?  What would you dream?

 

CONSCIOUSNESS

Many ways exist to alter the state of conscious attention.  
Dreams, drugs, and altered states through meditation and exercise sway perception.  Games and stories shape how consciousness organizes intentions.

There may be no real way to alter the natural state.  What we endure, live, and remember functions to create bias and modalities.  

Regardless of what settles, all there is to hold is the slippery present.  Add up all histories, futures, and ruminating contemplations, and the result remains to shadow one’s narrative and/or how well we play the game.  Steal attention and victory is yours.  

 

THE COMMON UNIFYING AGENTS AMONG US ALL

It’s been said that Jesus walked on water.  How can we possibly unify with this act of defying the laws of physics?  

The way to unify is through the image itself, not the action, nor act, nor recreation, nor recreacting.  It is pointless to attempt to relive a myth, folktale, fairytale, creation myth, allegory, biography, or one’s own salient surprise.  Jesus walked on water in order to leave no footprints, nor wake.  This is the point.  Should we all walk on water?  There’s a problem.

The universal common unifier is death—in biological, physical, and spiritual terms.  Death will unify us all towards the center of the earth, succumbing to the laws of gravity, lest we be ejected into outer space.  

Freud’s “death drive” is the urge to unify, Eros, love, together.  We long to unify, and feel it’s absence as a violence.  We mistake fear for love, and anxiety for the vertigo of curiosity.  Breathe steady through these states and they will flip, mirror themselves, like mitosis.     

Horizon Lines unify us all.  What we see in the distant and hope to reach, yet never will.  For this irony, we watch both Sun and Moon grace the act for us.

Strata Lines will erode all our erected structures and vernaculars of ascension.  Oceans will rise, and eons later will shift in tectonic movements.  The layers will summit.

Breathe rhythmic and tear fools.

Heart rates and foods.
Ice melts.
Water flows and erosion.

 

TEKHNE SPEAK ALPHABET

The shield build inside the armor shell.
Geometry insists the flesh to form to metal skin.
Articulating, it moves together and concealed.
There is a heart, lungs, brain, sexual organs, and hands,
The tongue in its cage of letters and code.

This body within the armor shell, speaks amour spells,
Transforms the shields of iron mars, of rust and bells,
To tell of Tekhne’s fortunes and desires quelled.

They glow.  They cool.  The color changes from orange
To carbon.  

 

THE WORM THAT EATS NIGHT

The Worm in the Inverted Womb
When the Body Flesh Grows the World Mechanic

The worm, the soil, when the body of flesh feels the world mechanic.
Worm Eats Night

The worm that eats night pierces earth [back] to light,xv
    [sows its evacuated (prevail)]
Gains angle to sun, [and trails the tale tail / and trail,] 
    [and settle sow to collapsed trails]
 
Removes the firmament glow, the drifting stars concealed.
How is one supposed to art, when art at heart is an artifice?
    [a replacement of soil, worm lost to remnant, worm won]
Of the world, and when the world becomes artifice by art, 
Which reflection would hang to trust by bells and spells.

This presentation is not of nature born, though it cannot be conceived
Without it.  And so was the immaculate conception, which was not
The conception of a man by physical laws alone, but by the eyes
That see beyond biology, and so not even the scientist can say
Where was the child before it’s eyes opened, and awoke without
Ever sleeping first, and into conscious life was realized.  

This is the double shade of conception, which conceives ideas of matter,
And conceivesxvi life where ideas matter none.  Receives, catches, holds, 
The unsullied virgin of thought, life lived rather than captured.         
Even the cross spike won’t pin down the spot where man  is born, 
Moves from chrysalis to heaven, which by noun alone might be known, 
    [which is not known to heavens by nouns alone].
    [the humble throne lies in that which is unknown].

Yet all space unknown is verbed by verse suspends Earth only, 
by such which together defines time, stars, and the honed dust.

*(Possible placement Man Against Night)

That human enigma, modifier of time, interrupter of the divine, spirit
Speak of net, tiles, and webs, arranged life nerves from air as cloud
To earth the lightning bolt strikes, sparks numinous sights, where
Words serve only to deceive and so abandoned by thought, in hand
Are forged to substance, symbol, and craft the fog to spiral helix.
        [fog the spiral helix of craft.] 

A wisdom of planets is concealed, [wanderers to city boxed,] urban is to field, 
As mind is to land.  In song the body speaks, forsakes the peaks of thought,
Marries rhythm and rhyme in a spectra of time, where flesh shapes dreams.
Spins the hours onto a spire called life, and unravels it when hours matter
No more [nil, null] and no longer weave a fabric of which one perceives of things.

How many doors have opened by grace to future graces unknown?    [heaped to the humble throne]
And time again I have closed, abandoned, and regauged the path
Where footing forgone now wonders by fear subterfuges thrown,
Restricted, conceits of life groans, measured memories in time fade,
Erode like a mountain to thousands of weather, ice warmed and melted.

Falling in love is the reincarnation in another without losing oneself,
Where two become one, yet remain as three in a strange and most
Common of math.  The question remains, as with moon that wanes, 
How many will one see of the cycles in one life, and yet so far I’ve
Never witnessed a full solar eclipse, to see the ring of fire shine.
        *[sometime life comes on strong like the moon’s perigee song.]

When the body of flesh feels the world mechanic,
A single line into this unknown sea is pitched,
Catches from its depth a living [oceanic] creature of water formed;
Crowned life emerges into a world where suffocating,
Swaddles food for the hungry transforming water to bone.

What lines have we extended to like-depths of this planet, dredged,
Burrowed its fluids to burn and on the surface forgot, [forged] 
How what [conforms] forms treading the film on earth will succumb
To accretions ways and in time we’ll be drawn out
And seed the new arrangements, distant to our imaginations.

Can’t name it with a word, then it does not exist.
Sleep is a mechanic process to restore the body,
Which is a mechanic process of production during daytime.
Bewitching hours, wee hours, 4AM, diurnal, contemplation, 
Twilight Zone.  Ambrosia hour.  Forget past.

Welcome tomorrow, and forget yesterday,
And welcome tomorrow, with the spirit of perpetual endurance.
Become tomorrow today, and welcome happiness.
The quiet hours are not used in a mechanized society,
Light is added.  Lunch breaks are meant to reenergize the
Body like a battery as quickly as possible, to shorten the work
Hours and get home as soon as possible.  
Long breaks for lunch
To go home to eat is not possible.  
Commute to work is too long.
The source of work is not directly related to the location where
One inhabits.  By physical commute or computer, internet aids,
The effects are always remote and removed from family, and home.
They both become strangers to another.  Unless you work directly
From home, with materials that receive care, the work becomes virtual,
A virtue.  And a virtue, like perfection, is a concept unreal to the physical
World, but one that can exist symbolically, like love, or a story, 
Which in either case are all removed from the experience
And in turn, which requires no words to feel.


* Poem : noun / verbs = soil / worm

I am pulled to visit the Nordic regions, Iceland and Denmarkxvii

 

DREAM OF BLACK WORMS 

 

A PIT OF SNAKES 

I want to live in a pit of snakes that slither to move, 
As electrons wave and so somehow held up by eyes
That see and from this view conceive the ego still,
Hard at work [deciphering] this from that conscious.

A strange parallel exist between Christianity and physics,
The apple, snake and tree, akin the particle, wave, and form
Of energy we are told is matter, but though they are both,
The snake becomes apple when observed, is this original sin?

Differentiation and perception shape the eyes gazing wits,
To all things it calls represented and to the real, thus submits,
While we float in fluids of feathered states rung out of whirlpools,
Said the plant, when the body [corpse] fed earth, and [envisions] vision dreams alike the dead.

But dying is not death, it is birthing reversed that goes ahead,
When two are one, or overcome by one separates as two again,
Migrates the pensive mind, hallowed be thy given name to all
Forget the mother tongue learned while unremembering its young.

That is my mother’s name, distaff a spindle encircling the spire.
Opposite the spire is the womb, where form grew an elder time, 
How technology from duties, at such age shaped symbolic labels,
Just as power once was man — rice field for a head, [a] scythe in hand.

Out of the heavenly soft cloud held in palm, by finger and thumb spun,
The thread twisted of fluffed strands to one, wound around the spear,
And wound prevents the wound, as wind prevents the winding spell,
Faint from turning wave fibers yet guides the interlaced and woven song.

The mesh grid pixelated tapestry fluid blown and frayed by weather,
[the grid mesh pixelated, fluid tapestry blown and weather frayed,]
Supple nets the living though in water born is a grid iron of bits found,
And collected to reassemble how the ocean feeds the strong muscle
Of persistence, breaks rock and block, yet molds to stubborn man.

No straight lines exits in nature.  Even the crystal has a softness to its edge
When looked at from a certain closeness.  Yet humans use rulers.  This says
It all:  the ruler to rule all rulers.  
The strange circular logic of Ouroboros.  

 

SAFFRON SUN WON (Violet Light)

From saffron sun comes the blue sky forged,
A play of eternal night the hue lie engorged, 
One is not alone, by the passing violet light.
[by the violent light]

 

WORMWOOD, WAVES, AND LEAFS    

[to rule man, or rulers invented]?

Father plunged into a wave head on, emerging after the set, 
Only the windmill arms visible from the beach, he faded.
Hours later, with dolphins following, they surfed the waves
Back to beach, and since then, my mind changed about what [how]
Man becomes on land, reveal[s] in ocean’s sphere[,] another
Kind of king, that rules none, swayed free by sea’s dominium.

His son [is] a tree, which rooted to land fed from [the] sun,
When leafs fell, the branches rested, rehearsed their bow’s end,
As tree become wood, and ocean swells to ice, a pause
Of energies stored, architects rafts and homes for creatures,
Then settled and blend back to a [the] spacious void of features.

 

VERSUS RETURNS THE GREAT SLEEP

Trans. 2015.01.20.1026  Black Code Sketchbook

There is no limit to “the great sleep.”  Versus returns from this state.
For years he laid, watching, the worlds changing.  Dust seemed feeble, 
But multiply the time in thousands, and “one dust mote” seems magic
And impossible to prehend.*

Soon I shall be an old man.  Mind Ignores.  Death.

The allure of how it will be when I do this later.
[A speeding ahead to arrive, but time is not a destination, 
it’s simply what occurs when one moves about a word, or world]

 

WHAT ABOUT TREES?!

 

PHILAPORES GROW

[Can’t think consciousness to flight,
nor dream to land the fright.]

Philapores grow from grain in the hand, 
to condor sized feathers soaring overland.

 

SISYPHUS IN THE LANDS

In the inverted womb, walking in a valley turned and versed upside down, 
Inside and into a mountain wandered to a seat by the stream, shade by trees,
From a valley funneled water the body drank and swam, the melted glacier cries
Out rocks and boulders, wipes them away to sand pebbles, and in the crush
Somewhere downstream, frozen water moves, in it pricked awake and breath,
Erasing any conceit, any color, and from there a mountain of images is built
For man to first find, then climb, and perhaps overlook the setting sun
from a sky-scrapping, crown baring thistles to the clouds a pyramid shadow.

Glossary & Terms

* comprehend (v.)
mid-14c., "to understand," from Latin comprehendere "to take together, to unite; include; seize" (of catching fire or the arrest of criminals); also "to comprehend, perceive" (to seize or take in the mind), from com "with, together," here "completely" (see com-) + prehendere "to catch hold of, seize" (see prehensile). Related: Comprehended; comprehending.  Compare sense development in German begriefen, literally "to seize," but, through the writings of the 14c. mystics, "to seize with the mind, to comprehend."

 

COMPANION TO DREAM
Dream Symbols & Signs: 

Kumi (again), Train, stairs, small doors, derailment, death, accident, loop around a lake, magic behind the small door, cheating or being accused of doing so.  Bloody left index finger of Guinevere by full moon, corner of 2nd St. and C avenue, at Cosmo performance. 

 

STRESSORS:  Divorce; meeting Guinevere (don’t want to sabotage); Jessica (walking past me and ignoring I said hi); Taxes; Artwork (imagination); Will (who is giving permission?)

Who is the Permit-ter?

There is no apparent time when symbolic tongues speak,
The three mannequins in the window store, followed by
The three snakes in the next window of Elizabeth street.
The dead starling, the living one, and between my walk
To meet Jessica and hand over the certified divorce papers,
She cried, told me “I do love you” and I heard my body
Reply, “I love you.”  She walked away and a sadness
Filled the vacuum in her wake that tethered to mine.
I saw the triplets of signs, the Eastern Redwood soaring
A triangular peak on Houston street on my walk to pick-up
The medical prescriptions at CVS.  These seemingly trivial
Images are the break-through the I Ching predicted.

I stopped by Whole Foods for supplies, and Day Gleason
Smiled when we greeted another.  We spoke of Trump, 
How the Onion is out of business, how art emulated life, 
Or the other way around, the play of Enesco’s about the
Headless leader.  This brief encounter had a consequence
Of arranging a needed hug from Rex and Walker.
While waiting at the checkout lines of Whole Food, 
my sight wanders to the magazine racks and sees
on the cover of Scientific America, Secret Life of Animals, 
Also: Why Many Animals are Bisexual (even Koalas).
Jessica was my Koala, it’s how I saw her best and sweetest.

While trekking home with groceries in hand, with tears swelling
In my eyes feeling the words of David Bowie’s song “Soul Love”
And resonating on the words Jessica expressed that “I will miss you,”
“I know do to, but I’m not going anywhere.  It will take time.”
There I see Walker balancing on the cordon of the parks walkway, 
Where I was also balancing.  He looked up and puzzled stared while
I smiled back, “yes, you know me!” and he smiled back, then jumped into
My arms and Rex ran over and embrace both.  “How lucky I am to run into
You both, I needed this love and warmth.” Shannon caught up and took
A picture.  We walked over to soccer practice by Forsyth St.  Shannon
Mentioned that they normally take another path there, and I said
Something along the same lines.  While sitting on the Astroturf she
Told me about seeing Slowdive in concert, how the music was massive,
Physical, and how good they were.  After 22 years the band released
A new album titles Slowdive.  A few days back I heard it, as I stumbled
Across it on iTunes.  The music feels as relevant and timeless now, as it
Did when I first heard during Cooper Union school days.

Erin reached out today as well, with a video/song that reminds her of me.
The song is cheesy, over-the-top mesh of passionate rock, metal, with an
Overriding Spanish guitar melody, which turns the instrumental piece to
A rock ode a la Hispanico.  The music video features a stripper, during
The 70’s dancing around a pole.  
“It’s the opening song to Planet Terror, but that’s beside the point”[next text]  
“Listen, don’t necessarily need to watch the video – although you can eventually” [next text] 
“Miss your face! Hope all is well with you [kiss emoji]”
Though this resonates with Jessica’s accusation that I am a “womanizer”— 
Which she did take back, when expressing that anger is the only way
she knows how to let it out.  She left Pyramid club alone, drunk and went
to Clandestino with a “friend.”  Reluctant as I am to believe she doesn’t remember
going there, she did acknowledge that of all the places “you could have gone, you
chose that one.”  Later in the night, she fell on her face, cut her chin, lip and cheek.
That’s the energy moving in her.  On the bench, in the park between Elizabeth and Mott
We sat and talked.  We understood that the energies moving will have their physical
Manifestation, whether we want it or not.  The anxiety built will come.  I spent
Years destroying parts of myself in this addictive model of anxiety constructs
From the refusal, or from lack of knowledge of the language of symbols, and emotions.
If all one knows is English, while traveling in foreign land, English will be given a go, 
And hope something sticks.  Emotions seem the same.  

It was a full moon last night.  Saw and listened to Cosmo play with Guinevere at my side.
Mellow but excellent performance of an instrumental set with two horns, drums, two guitars,
Bass, all song written and composed by Jesse Harris.  Between the fourth and fifth song, Jesse
Address the small room of about twenty five people.  He named the song “Wave” as coming
From the Spanish phrase he had picked-up, “que onda?”  Then spotted me
In the second row, and said Ernesto is Spanish, that’s right isn’t it?, and I said after a noticeable hesitation, “not really.”  People and Jesse laughed.  Then a Portuguese speaking person in the back
Said it did mean that in his language.  The next day a series of texts were produced around this small exchange.  **[insert texting]


Later we went to Supper, the restaurant, and had dinner in a secret backroom, accessible through a few secret, wine cellar doors, that looked like a shelf of wine with glasses on top, inside were more bottles, in a snake, “S” shaped closet room lead to another door, and eventually through these closet doors and bottles, ended in the baroque wall-paper decorated, room with a long rustic table.  The AC in the wall was held in place with duct tape.  It was sheik, fancy, low-budget, and perfect.  At the table Guinevere sat to my left, and Jesse to my right.  Directly across were a couple, the young woman was named Katya, an Ukrainian beauty that was distracting, but more so when her older boyfriend claimed she was a painter and artist too.  He’s a Pete or Jeff Weber, but can’t remember.  Weber is easy to recall.  They were both very pleasant and nice.  He mentioned that he painted in Buenos Aires, that he liked it, and showed me a charming, dark, impressionist affected painting on his iphone.  After some continuous chatting, mentioning Stanford several times, and dropping names of artists and then galleries, he got around to John Berggruen, and I jumped, “oh, I’m in a group show there in a couple of months.”  He made a remark to the table, “hey everyone, this is Jesse, he’s a musician” and asked Jesse why he failed to mention that I was an artist.  We then geek’d-out about bay painters, and a few others.  We decided to follow each other on instagram.  I did see what Katya and Jeff’s painting look like.  It was rough.  But the whole point was that while I was sitting next to a “supermodel,” a woman who captivates my attention, and vice-versa, who is kind to me, and sexy, and new, I still am looking across the table at the young model, wondering in my head somewhere out of sight—why don’t I get to have that?  Here’s the crux, and the cliché: always wanting what is unpossessed, yet unreached, the greener fields across the table in the backroom, isolated from the city and Earth for that matter, walled in by bookcases of wine.  Apropos of the Don Juanism, the “womanizer” and the little stigmas that have appeared on my left hand, on my cicatrix of back surgery, and right index finger.  Yesterday was a full moon, a day of rest as Guinevere mentioned.  We walked to the subway, and comfortably said goodnight and kissed.  At home I almost passed out, but held on to being awake.  Moments later it was 11:15am on the nose, when my eyes opened and panicked that I had missed my meeting with Dr. Schluger, and Jessica.  I called him and did the session via phone.  During the chat, he said: “the world is going to end.”  His words in commentary to my explanation of being led by anxiety rather than by the conscious ability to give myself permission to do something, in turn implying a snese of resposability and enthusiasm that it is happening, and not because it must happen out of pent-up pressure, no longer able to be contained against the will’s desire.  Permission felt like an unobstructed understanding of the physical world.  The wu-wei, of the li of the situation.  

This brings it up to date.  All the synchronicities and markers.  Jijimuge.  

It appears that symbolic experiences come in waves.  Shinkataza.  

Where did the dancing words go?

Poetry vs. Description
Evoking the body feeling vs. recreating the storyline?  

What are the symbolic parallels that stand out?

What is most important to you?

The three mannequins then snakes, the three which come to Buddha?  
Look at the visitations of three snakes or dolls in myth, dreams.
[G, J, Erin.]

 

MOTHER OF THE FOREST

Companion to Dreams, 
Hyperion, father of Helios.  

Mother of the Forest, was debarked,
Her skin transplanted as a shell of tree,
Left behind was a denuded trunk form, 
Thus unprotected was charred by fire.

Companion to Dreams
Hyperion:xviii God of Watchfulness, 
Wisdom and the Light.

Mother of the Forest was found
By the European western face, 
Of the people prior lived, a native
Culture ignored and disposed, as bark cut planks  
Marks sawn through the skein to wood, stripped bare,
You were taken to the Crystal Palace of New York, 
and there displayed, in parts assembled, in part due
to disbelief of men, that their private Hyperion
would never be exceeded, nor story could sway nor
could dispel dismay that one such as this did exist alone
Out west where Sequoias were treated no differently to whales of that time.
And so for lack of good song, or common words made firm, 
The skin was brought alone, as since has occurred, and recurred
To peel that which offers proof at the cost of life, in recreacting
The shell, all life within severed, like a pelt the carcass returns
To land, the fur in hands exchange currency and stout might.

Reassembly minus the pulp.
A beautiful seashell.
But one forgets that to find
A seashell in sand, is to pick or pluck out
Flower from stem, 
So pluck too the eyes out from the skies
Remnants of an organisms growth.
Befit the Vernacular of Ascensions on land,
The Tree of Codes, or Codex of Trees, 
By sea the sunken one, Moby Dick.

There is the fall from the tree climbed high, 
Where branch though supple bends to break, 
An image of arms woven and rooted to stars
Ascent to space the sway of tree by wind,
One day laid to fossil, of silt, dust, the peak
Laid flat, for another mount to swell, 
As waves in sea, so too earth in land rise and crest.
They’re as many hairs in one’s head as seed
Dispelled by the Big tree.  

Care of bark did compel the outcry,
Of respect in wonderfury, for bark
Over eyes keep them closed, where verdant
Flexes sight to pinion’s glow where sun rises
By Earth’s spin, the gaze companion to dreams.

When hand meets bark, there forged the spark,
To pull the body and climb, scale limbs to meet horizon.

I am one with you, none alone, flutter and leap/jump,
Into the hands of Vertigo.xix 


The bark of the Mother of the Forest on exhibit in London as
“The Mammoth Tree from California” in 1859

 

SONG OF SILENCE (MAUNA)

The deep mystery of the Valley; meaning silence between memories.
From rim to rim of the valley forged, a knife cut in two the flat land.
Space now moves and drops within the guarded sloped walls, 
One cut divided this into two, to reach both peaks, a flowing creek.

I’ve given you swords to cut men in half, separate families, cut the spirit
From itself, that flesh be torn to shares not more for one alone.  
That same sword cuts both right and might, as does it strike back in
Darkened follies of faltered nights, where instead of gazing and dreams
Succumb, a watchful eye is kept alive to hold the body whole, uncut, rooted.

There is an invisible sword that slices these earth bound creatures, some call it Chromakronos.
Versus Spectrum plays the parts, a vagina sheath, as they leave a trail of two, the wake coiled
Like a mirror DNA strand split by the boat of RNA.  [A slalom water skier is like RNA?]
I’ve given you the gift to comb and part in two, and then from two bring forth a secret, 
But how quickly you forget, though it takes man and woman to make a child, 
Why toil over the side the child takes, for it is both, without mistake.

Reverse your causes and attempt to remember the flesh, 
for this won’t do, yet you are learning.  You grow
stem cells to meat and know they’ll merge someday with the old
Who plan to live eternally, but through what sense of time? 
Or eternity, which is outside the infinite?  Do you see these as gifts?

What geometries are constructed for life to repair, the split of the pair?

The snowflake is a symmetry of balanced echoes within a sphere, 
but first to start it needs the imperfect of balance to compensate, 
and so is life, this endless compensation of balances called a dance, 
but never steady state fixed, lined, quartered, and drawn.  

Silence is this invisible sword, cleaved knife now gone.

The Deep Mystery Of The Valley

Meaning is the silence interval between memories. 

Not the same yet not another.
 
Time is measured and erased, tailored by perception, coiled by agreement, altered by pain, and compassion. Birth. Parenthood. Childhood. Death. Orgasm. Dreams. Weekends. These measured moments, each with their own texture, and dilation. Each a mirror of time accounted, of the counted [accounted] time. The time is lost it is not forgotten. Though time is forgotten it is not lost. It lives in our bodies when forgotten. It lives and images when lost. Space and time should be recalled to “space in line.” We live in multiple time scales. Some perceived, some unrepresented. 

The same song played today or played tomorrow; the painting on the wall of the museum, 
visited, remembered, forgotten, and though it to ages in our human time, 
it’s time is measured in dialogue, in gaps, in the sum of all others who may dialogue, 
and collectively create, or organize, the elusive and mysterious culture.  

Freedom disguised as an endless series of choices; the flaw is on the user, 
the chooser, not on how one handles the use or the imperfect choice.  

Consumption is conscious, digestion is unconscious. 

The focus is on acquiring and stuffing mouth, seldom on leading
a body dialogue back the health what was consumed as a listening.

We trust consumptive choice over choiceless digestion. 
Want to control, the uncontrolled is ignored. 
Which is smarter?
Words like “consuming information” do not imply actual “digesting of information,” the later is thought partly, partly unconscious.  

The language of science and of this culture is modal
to productivity, utility, purpose, goal oriented, 
full of achievement, and endless striving for a false dream. 

Everyone’s a winner nobody’s equal everyone’s unique.

The system of learning and living is antithetical
to the organic method of mnemonic existence.

How many causes, actions, karma’s begin by awareness
and manifest by growth beyond the imaginable?

What can you offer as a gift to learn and find relief in the gestures?

Choice as “experience” — “ conscious attention” over the cortical “intuitional [intuition own] intelligence”

Zen mind —> is “Single tasking” in neuroscience jargon.  
Mental Chatter: [?] “external interruptions,” “self and internal interruptions.” 

Dream:

“I think you’re going to react to this…but I think I can tell you because I love you. Do you mind?”
So we sat in silence, no gesture conveyed words, just waiting, nothing uttered. 
Eventually the internalized thought: Is this what he meant to say?


Ardhamatra (Sanskrit) [from ardha half + matra a metrical unit] Half a short syllable; the Nadabindu-Upanishad in speaking of Aum says that the syllable or character A is considered to be Kalahamsa's right wing; U, the left wing; M, the tail of the Swan, and the ardhamatra its head (cf VS 5, 74-5). In the Mahabharata kalahamsa is the name of several species of the hamsa bird, a goose or swan. Ardhamatra is a mystical term for one of the portions of the swan of time -- Brahma or the manifest or Third Logos of the universe, whose emanation or creative activity is hamsa-vahana (the vehicle or carrier of the swan). Ardhamatra, therefore, has reference to the egoic individuality of the cosmic Third Logos or Brahma (also called Purusha), considered to be "one-half the measure" of the eternal past and the eternal future -- such egoic individuality being the product in space and time of the continuously reimbodying spirit of the universe, evolving and changing its nature by evolution as the cycles of time pass from the present into the past, and forwards into the future. 

 

 

ATW POEM  3 DECAY

OF EARTH & BODY 

 

AFTER STARTREES & STRATA WOOD

Venting Ode on fastfood culture, a.k.a. statistics media driven,
currency of profit in the form of money.

 

MAN AGAINST NIGHT

Man against night, what is your constellation's plight?
That stars, moon, comet, and suns drive the fight,
Light small corners in your mind to end the fright,
Man against night, Versus gleans in knight's might,
You claim empty heavens and encoded body to night,
Then hammer the anvil plied shell armor spark to sight.

You hid in the empty heavens within the body
Between the cradle and grave suited statue,
Among the old stones where children play.

Uncover the concealed codes laced
Of metal lines turned filigree.
Blow by blow the red glow set free.
Two tailored, shadow shy candles,
Burn side by side upon your chest
Blending twin germane beacon chimes;
The clan crest of arms, in time blazes.

I’ve watched storms and lighting, by your side slept
in your melding arms. The Inverted Womb interstices
held these forms between our hearts and stars.

A sun raised in your eyes too bright
to see, but the moon soon shone
In that empty center void of sight,
Stretched a silent sky gaze praise,
at the shriveled tender world.
How to decree the toil of night without
raising the shadow of dawn’s faded light?

Every morning dispels death, where dreams arise,
Forgotten or swallowed whole the eyes realize,
From this cavern the world returned intact.

Irrational reasons, superstitions, decisions, have a way
Of immediately planting one in the body of symbol.
Either way the body speaks and rivers interval,
Continue flowing, then there’s the true pause,
Into a tangled vine cluster of dismembered solitude.

Close member of the night, you took your toll.
“You draw lightning from the sky.”
Constellation Heart for Man Against Night
How stars root to the earth bound ground.
“We are whirlpools in the tide of existence.”

I is interlude.
Then archetype.
Caution listens.
Emptiness unclenches.
Pain remains supple.
Finally the firmament.


FLOWERS IN LEAVES

Write poem of Flowers In Leaves*.

*The knight, M.A.N., Versus, has the power to change the land, its inhabitants, entities, and quantum forces (QED).  In doing so he tries to express the part without words that embodies his desire to consummate, and his need to create [the creative].  A weave or entanglement of branches for example, are part of his clumsy expression.  The tying of a bow from the growth of a cut-down tree.  In the end he’s only trying to find his true-one.18


TWO TREES FELLED

Two Trees Felled by Fellers.
The skin and limbs snedded,
Silt fills the chambers and dust
Buries the bones.  In time petrified
Open trees found, bound to future curiosity
And gentle science.

The eyes of fissures look back.
Wrinkles of the earth.
Erosion and veins lay to rest the land.

 

FLOWERS FLOW

Catharsis19 from the woods.

*[potential follow with WHAT IS THIS RAGE? VERSUS SPEAKS]

 

AGAIN THE CLUTTERED NIGHT

Steady yourself among webbed ropes of toil,
Marred, frayed, worn heavy
That stretch beyond this storm
Their tethers laced to gales and swells
Outside reach
It’s this knot that keeps you there
Safe.
This gargantuan mouth has swallowed
You whole.
Breathe.  It is you that forms the weather,
See, it is you that pierces the black void
With thoughts of asterisks and funneled light
Your bearings are found in the intolerable
sways.
When time again flashes the pith,
 to pieces,
And scatters your tears, in a whirlpool
Of pinpricks across your flesh,
Cry this ocean alive and pregnant
You complete the ocean and carve its depth.
Fathoms of fathers lap as waves
And crest the folds of old familiar hands.
The night closes its fist and you within
Can peek through the porous membrane
An inverted sea as the watery sky
Who cuts these worlds apart must float
Adrift between them, until they merge
A tempest thorny dream
In a vacuum of waves
And what is a bird here? 
But a fish with wings, so plunge until
Falling from this tangled April sky
Resurface with constellations under foot
Now walk these embraced slender arms
Netted by generations and branched by fury
When they blow so too do you
Blow the bowed eyes firm upon
The serrated shape-shifted arcs
Of a crowned horizon line
No larger than the weeping ring
a water drop incites to halo
the hidden moon, and versed sun.


TAKE SOLACE IN THE WHIRLING RIM

But take solace in the whirling coronal rim, 
[areola, halo, nave, hubble, annulus, ring in the air, tintinnabulate] 
that kindly combs worry to shreds, spills a moving glowburn dawn
and a transient half-shade gloaming threshold reminder: lowborn,
when you step into the fallen land, moving along the tight wire called time.

Where time accumulates changes, a constant ring spins around the globe,
Dawn and Twilight, the continual nave entered and left daily, 
Change, an ever present growing order of ash.  
The ever night, the ever day moves
On the surface membrane of the planet, 
and as sun has its hours on the strata skin, 
Life there too upon it cultivated begins, 
Along unplanned creases ceases and apparently ends.

Yet for all the imagination we proclaim, 
where have we imagined ourselves to be?
Or has someone else imagined the image for us, 
and the gramophone mind, now evolved, matured
to social media, and smart-phoned mind-prone.

Media and phones—socially arranged by codes; 
“smart” a word to be sold [so is told] the smart one.

The world is not what you believe, and it’s not
Close to what you’ve been told [sold],
It’s not what they want you to own, 
nor those games you may have won, 
It’s not what you’ve been taught to grasp, 
neither futures nor glorious pasts, 
It’s not real, what crowd assembling bells have rung, 
over the centuries steered cohosted mob masses sung.

Life is an epiphenomena of the imagination (and nothing more).  
Anything, anyone may add or say is their imagination entering
Validation, and if sincere in play, then it's to simply to pass the time
Along to the next image contemplated, before the trapdoors appear,
And they will open and close as all doors by nature have before.

Somewhere it’s always night, somewhere it’s always day,
Always sunrising along the whirlpool rotating crown rotating that tills
This ground, and we all take turns watching the eclipsed moon
Wax and wane, but in truth its by human scale all the same.  
Wax and Wane one full moon cycle is but a blink of the eye.
28 frames per second to trick stills into magic motion appear.

28 days, one second motion time, within reason and rhyme? The egg descends.

Nothing is what it seems and everything is invented,
But not exactly when it comes to man, human, woman, these sounds,
For the world it is an endless landscape of interpretations apprehended.
For even the sun is sung by distinctly motleyed mouths: sol, with the L, 
Sun with the Nnn, Ravi in Hindi, rah-vee, Danish sol, ssouuulg, 
“Shaemthin” the Arabic sound of sun, Haiyiahng in Chinese, 
Sonne in German “szonah”, “Taiiiyooh” in Japanese, in Russian
“solntse”, “s?raya” in Punjabi, and the list of sounds continues to move
by the countours of streams, by the eroded lands that invalleys forged
And there were life gleans so do too imaginations, whole new perspectives, 
Of alternate consciousness, like that which the astronauts proclaims to be sane.

So take solace in the whirling coronal sum rim,
Wet fingers along the crystal glass brim, hum the golden hymn,
Where light blunts sound louder than laid astral whites,
Crestfallen, halo, fallen nest, a question upon the ground.      [at your behest]
I am one drop in this ocean’s surface terrain that attempts to entertain,
Where seeds sprout periscopes through the soft soil loam,
Harbingers of hope, with a hard-on for the sun.

[Amazon was once a woman archetype, 
then a grand continental jungle flow of waters, 
now it’s an online shopping website, 
a major corporation shaping technology, commerce, and people.
Where do you go?]

 

SEEDS SPROUT PERISCOPES CRESTFALLEN NEST

SEEDS SPROUT PERISCOPES THROUGH THE SOFT SOIL LOAM

Seeds sprout periscopes through the soft soil loam,
Harbingers of hope, with hard-ons for the sun.
Crestfallen nest, halo sunk, questions lap ashore, adored,
One foam drop sowed of ocean’s surface pounding sound.

What sways seed through the earth, and leaf toward light,
roots to darkness where rot, a landchange wormed,
[transformed, called dead became]
Verdant wonder migrations, breath of life, brings peace to strife.
Where chthonic dreams grow subterranean brethren and kin.

Should sleep suddenly subside, the wake walker strolls
From those tired ghosts, false phantoms will imbibe
Uprooted hallucination neglected, and all that was: set-aside,
Polygone protects the Inverted Womb, and lays her blades down.

The body’s slumbered repose acquires and records,
Through skin impressions dreams the curious open grass.
Polygone and Versus awake to find trace marks:
Supple Geometry mapping the permanent bonds forged.

By the turbinating sol, “did you set such goals?”
What is darker, the deep unlit night, or a corpse pressed
Buried under the shade forged gloom of sequestered rocks?
Shells, shells, shells tossed to ocean resurface back as one, in time.
[Shells, shells, shells tossed to ocean resurface in time as one.]

Under heavy soil strata, sleep burrows deeper still,
Double flesh dreams, mount the subtle skein crime,
Slide, slither, skirt, spun: petrified worms of mine, [time]
Crack reason's keep, and their bygone hours chime,
Through erosion means, turns known to stone in time, again [in line].

Day cried every night, and so too night cried every day,
swelling star tears glean, or the burning glare in sand’s heat.
Stars don’t come out, they don’t move from your eyes,
A veil has skinned the earth blind, flash behind lids in dust
And rather than through the looking glass see,
The darkly constructs a system of mirrors to deceive.
This is how the game is played when you dismay.

We’re eating the sun, the sky howls a harrowing gasp,
You’re eating my sun, the sky harrowingly yawps,
Wind vomits its children, thrashing plant and animal alike,
Roots severed, rivers lifted, mountains detonated, rubble sifted,
Turn this body inside out, night’s panacea tries.

[We’re eating the sun, the sky howls a harrowing gasp,
You’re eating my sun, the sky harrowingly howls,
And blind night’s panacea tries. ]

Turn your body inside out, 
Echoes of memory strewed across the burnt land,
And there find the darkly mechanisms of mirrors and men’s schisms.xx

Memory echoes strewed across the burnt land,
There find, oh, darkly mechanisms roaring,
the horror schisms of mirrors and man.xxi

The inverted womb lays its blades down and dreams engagements,
All controlled coincidences rage the cracked concrete pavement,
Draw lines to trace those steps, first over water, then covered,
Only wakes remain once your soles are depleted,
The foot on water has never found prints to endure,
So ascensions like condensed clouds, soon there too it shall reign.

Cloud is floating water;
Floating is magic.
People are walking
Water balloons, and soon,
We likewise rise,
Then in pieces festoon
the seasons and lands.
Wait, rise, rain.

Spring in May is wasted on the young,
Fiddling showers fall on indifferent streets, run-offs,
gutters, puddles, and drains rerouted to sewage
mains, somehow returns to Riverkind, the like of mind.

Everything is a dream until the brutal blue
Shades our solitary windows through.
When conscious awareness inscribes Depth Codes,
Inside the bark of Open Trees all doors of distractions close.
Find the Master Key Log, once felled,
inverts the world as it is known:
metaphors for memory.
Within Open Trees all doors of distractions close.  
Find the Master Key Log, once felled, inverts the world as it known. 

Metaphors are memory.

— After the Woods: Startrees and Strata

 

RAVAGE THE LAND OF TEKHNE’S COMMAND

[Venting Ode on fastfood culture, a.k.a. statistics media driven, 
currency of profit in the form of money.]

Ravage the land, fiercely and relentlessly break
All branches as stones do bones and shell,
Ply not fools to plow by bulldozer and crane,
Heavy oiled machinery and [play] invading sawing chain.

Rage the motley range, seen as feeble staves hung [built] upon, 
These useless forests, made plain and taken
*In vain, flattened for industrial meat, swell
People’s skin, raise profits by chemical designed cures.
*[In vain, flattened to meet the needed industrial meat,
Swell [People’s] skin, raise profits by chemical designed cures.]

First make the sick, then cure ill, beg for aid,
Once in the cycle, you’ll manage to buy
Once in this pernicious cycle, you’ll manage to buy
All the useless homes that mind wants stacked high, 
All the useless homes that mind stacked high,
Is this good or bad, is this us or them?

American Capitalism wants People sick, distracted,
scared, media fed, confused, puzzled and perplexed,
eating subsidized, corn n’ oil cooked laced goods, I won’t
call such things snack foods, treated with medicines,
and hormones, pesticides, fertilize, chlorinated,
steamed, pasteurized, homogenize, monocultures,
all made by chemists labs, and in nature improved.

FDA approved, the corporations amend the backlash, blameless,
swell the human, by verse, increase the shell
fabric by millions in weight, for it will sell,
more cotton, more toilette paper and tissue,
sell the remains as packaged goods demands
that have years of shelf-life, pump the flavors
with drugs, maltodextrin in my organic chips
so I can get my sugar fix in, the body won’t know
from where cancer grows, but I do.

It’s the cells trying to fight off poisons we decide to induce and introduce,
Our cells try to fight poisons we decide to induce and introduce,
In the quiet organism called flesh, blood, life, and genes.
Yet cancer is our friend trying to help this body
Amend how it can coexist in the same environment you can feel,

How is it to know once the organism is dead
it’s bound to be loaded and embalmed,
and none of this biomass to land return
to seed soil which supplied the links decree, for us to be.

Alas, even in death the body consumes more, restricts,
Offers more chemicals, where once we fed honey to suspend,
Or dry out the body in gauze, used slaves to build
Lasting structures of a long heritage not fully passed,
But must thank, as child to parent no blame, for the lineage of names.

So, from blinding pyramids to toilets of gold,
What has evolution changed that binds, blinds, and awes?
Those passing by and pulled by tide, content with the rides gaze:
Inheritance helps, but molds the shape of our soil and lands.

But here I lay.  I lay the hypocrite hidden under covers
of this comfortable bed, maybe, just maybe, I’ll join
the parade outside to protest, the dismal dismissal of Earth’s Day
By the orders of power.

And join the masses, or the idiots nave,
who support the scientific findings
Our world is going to hell as a dung heap,
Wrapped inside a poisonous gas of melted acid ice ass bath.

“Huh?” was it not you who through science pursue and made
By inventions bestow available for the children
(who rule this country) and though perhaps the morals
Would outweigh how the purse money pushes aside—
The wallet, the card, the ride, insert, swipe, chip, of
Anyone that may first play with our lives—Oh, Facebook.

I too am at fault.  The artist making objects in complaint
A mirror at best, of the times, and maybe suspend, remind,
Of the few tributaries of beauty still can be found,
But you are not like me, born and bound to these mediated
Sounds, and I, try to know you, I will say, I, will, say,
The old man’s prophecy: if you look closer, slower,
That past or future, nor present ignored is not lost,
And then was it not the artist that first made a scheme
Of nature’s ways, shaped bone to spear, stone to tool?

Something has to change, as we witness alone, see that change
in you first before expecting it from the world, the world, the...
But how to change oneself, when so much prevents
Any cultivation by staunch and pedantic time frames
Through vile money needs, place greed mechanic feeds,
Where senses concede and the real hides in virtual deeds.
So, how to manage time, friends, money, and exploratory needs?

Earth Day

Call it for what it is.
Alternate facts imbues the White House as death haunts Trump.
Would like to see his tweeter feed outwit the final slump.
That which in the psyche builds pressure must move,
otherwise it will manifest in physical world, it must, in converse
proportion to the energy that kept it repressed.

All the tales of the Bible spell out a Revelation of Seals,
the Seventh Seal with Angels profess the end by thirds.
Is this the common sense of psyche in the western brethren?
“Can you imagine the temptation and satisfaction
if North Korea were to strike first, please let us taunt you?
What a pleasure to unleash the American wrath of freedom and democracy.”


GRAND CONTRASTER

King Contrast;  Eternal Stretcher Of Infinity;  Echo (maya) and Legos (Lila)

Suicide as deep social empathy, follow the other seen as one.
Rhythm and silence longing pause the pendulum of motion time,
She gives him peace by the touch of her hands,
Silence grows, silence shows the union, silence knows,
When the eyes close, reveals an echo of worlds.
The death bed gate—what is the most beautiful sound you’ve heard?
 
*Polygone

Earth fuels Tekhne’s ascension to fly
Of mineral metals burned in the invisible
Sensible Atmosphere though it particulates
the ocular moon of Earth’s eye.

This by which measure technology returns
to dust and settled in the land womb,
Where over time, Erosion cracks the shell,
tears the skin, and life breaks through [open].

*Terragraph

Draw upon the inverted world terrain for
No boundary lines on earth will ever change,
The effects of nature's gifts on sea or land.
How where forms grow out of this magical rock,
Move about like winds and bloomed clouds—

Whirlpool this organism—a limb of life, a home
Where leafs sprout and there find each other.

Draw upon the inverted world terrain,
Binding lines on Earth will ever change,
Spanned effects of nature’s gifts by sea and land.
How forms howl out of this magical rock,
Move about like winds and bloomed clouds.

Whirlpool this organism—limb of life, home,
Where leafs sprout and there find each other.

Womb (Code Through the Idios Kosmos Clarion Form)


DELPHIC DAY WOMB
Glossary
Etymology
Definitions
Neologism

Delphidelic (n./v.) Clear womb (delphi: dolphin: womb + delic: deloun from delos).  Origin: early 21st cent.: from Greek Etymology[edit].  From Ancient Greek ?????? (Delphoí).  Delphi: oracle town on slopes of Mount Parnassus, from Greek delphis "dolphin" (see dolphin). Supposedly Apollo assumed this form to found the shrine.

Delphi (n.) oracle town on slopes of Mount Parnassus, from Greek delphis "dolphin" (see dolphin). Supposedly Apollo assumed this form to found the shrine.

Dolphin (n.): mid-14c., from Old French daulphin, from Medieval Latin dolfinus, from Latin delphinus "dolphin," from Greek delphis (genitive delphinos) "dolphin," related to delphys "womb," perhaps via notion of the animal bearing live young, or from its shape, from PIE *gwelbh-. Popularly applied to the dorado from late 16c.

Psychedelic (adj.) occasionally psychodelic, 1956, of drugs, suggested by British-born Canadian psychiatrist Humphry Osmond (1917-2004) in a letter to Aldous Huxley and used by Osmond in a scientific paper published the next year; from Greek psykhe- "mind" (see psyche) + deloun "make visible, reveal," from delos "visible, clear," from PIE root *dyeu- "to shine." In popular use from 1965 with reference to anything producing effects similar to that of a psychedelic drug or enhancing the effects of such a drug. As a noun from 1956.

*dyeu- : Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to shine," in derivatives "sky, heaven, god." 


It forms all or part of: adieu; adios; adjourn; Asmodeus; circadian; deific; deify; deism; deity; deodand; deus ex machina; deva; dial; diary; Diana; Dianthus; diet (n.2) "assembly;" Dioscuri; Dis; dismal; diurnal; diva; Dives; divine; joss; journal; journalist; journey; Jove; jovial; Julia; Julius; July; Jupiter; meridian; Midi; per diem; psychedelic; quotidian; sojourn; Tuesday; Zeus. 


It is the hypothetical source of Sanskrit deva "god" (literally "shining one"); diva "by day;" Avestan dava- "spirit, demon;" Greek delos "clear;" Latin dies "day," deus "god;" Welsh diw, Breton deiz "day;" Armenian tiw "day;" Lithuanian devas "gods," diena "day;" Old Church Slavonic dini, Polish dzie?, Russian den "day;" Old Norse tivar "gods;" Old English Tig, genitive Tiwes, name of a god.


Mount (v.) c. 1300, "to mount a horse;" mid-14c., "to rise up, ascend; fly," from Old French monter "to go up, ascend, climb, mount," from Vulgar Latin *montare, from Latin mons (genitive montis) "mountain" (see mount (n.1)). Meaning "to set or place in position" first recorded 1530s. Sense of "to get up on for purposes of copulation" is from 1590s. Related: Mounted; mounting.


Glossary (n.) plural noun: glossaries.  1. an alphabetical list of terms or words found in or relating to a specific subject, text, or dialect, with explanations; a brief dictionary.  Origin: late Middle English: from Latin glossarium, from glossa (see gloss2).


Diploidic (adj.) 1. (of a cell or nucleus) containing two complete sets of chromosomes, one from each parent. Compare with haploid.  (n.) plural noun: diploids 1. a diploid cell, organism, or species.  Origin: late 19th cent.: from Greek diplous ‘double’ + -oid.


Diaphoretic (adj.) 1. (chiefly of a drug) inducing perspiration.  Origin: late Middle English: via late Latin from Greek diaphor?tikos, from diaphorein ‘sweat out.’

 

CANYON OF ECHOES: CODES OF THE KOSMOS CLARION FORMS

Who controls/grows the belief system that shapes/forms memories?
Who/what controls/shapes/grows the memory system, which in turn forms beliefs?


MAN AGAINST NIGHT

Man against night, what is your constellation's plight?
That stars, moon, comet, and suns drive the fight,
Light small corners in your mind to end the fright,
Man against night, Versus gleans in knight's might,
You claim empty heavens and encoded body to night,
Then hammer the anvil plied shell armor spark to sight.

You hid in the empty heavens within the body
Between the cradle and grave suited statue,
Among the old stones where children play.

Uncover the concealed codes laced
Of metal lines turned filigree.
Blow by blow the red glow set free.
Two tailored, shadow shy candles, 
Burn side by side upon your chest
Blending twin germane beacon chimes;
The clan crest of arms, in time blazes.

I’ve watched storms and lighting, by your side slept
in your melding arms. The Inverted Womb interstices
held these forms between our hearts and stars.

A sun raised in your eyes too bright
to see, but the moon soon shone
In that empty center void of sight,
Stretched a silent sky gaze praise,
at the shriveled tender world.
How to decree the toil of night without
raising the shadow of dawn’s faded light?

Every morning dispels death, where dreams arise,
Forgotten or swallowed whole the eyes realize,
From this cavern the world returned intact.

Irrational reasons, superstitions, decisions, have a way
Of immediately planting one in the body of symbol.
Either way the body speaks and rivers interval,
Continue flowing, then there’s the true pause,
Into a tangled vine cluster of dismembered solitude.

Close member of the night, you took your toll.
“You draw lightning from the sky.”
Constellation Heart for Man Against Night
How stars root to the earth bound ground.
“We are whirlpools in the tide of existence.”

I is interlude.
Then archetype.
Caution listens.
Emptiness unclenches.
Pain remains supple.
Finally the firmament.

 


RAVAGE THE MAN

Ravage the man, rage, have your way if you must,
I hear the voice of my father, but not alone,
There’s a fading sound traveling through
Generations in time until it fades, the rage.

The rage comes from here, do you hear it?
Rage, rage, and more rage, moves the fury alone,
What circuits have crossed or petals slipped on,
Nothing is yours to own, nor thought, nor bone.

Ravage the man, rage, if you must, rage, rage,
Out of the cage go plunder in lust, tare trust,
Rip the man, rage, if you must, to old age,
Break his bones and poison those songs,
That tell of better days when hope is gone.

Ravage the man, rage if you must, betray his mind,
In the fertile soil, under the warm sun, run,
Run away, run amok, run it out, devour kin,
And all that could last, run the fierce man through
Until there’s only strands left of his skin and cares.

Ravage the man, rage, if you must, let it rust
There’s no glory in things that have gone to pass,
Nor in the tomorrow’s you want to trust,
All goes into the void, all comes out uncalled.

Ravage the land, rage, if you must, in petty greed,
In the hours saved for the afterlife on heeds,
Ravage the sea, rage, if you must, drown oceans,
In tides and sways no moon contrives to hand.

Ravage the man, rage, if you must, if you must, 
Rage away all that is dear and all that’s clear,
Churn the dear soil of homes to broken bones,
Make the sky heavy, the tolls rain on all.

What is it you want to keep, if you must,
Throw out the rest, all once held is now dust,
Ravage the dust, rage, if you must, from there grows,
Vines of time, seeds of trees, deserted roads,
Rows upon rows of forgone harvest loads.

Ravage me, rage, if you must, nothing furthermore,
Destroy all that lives, and all I adore.
Make the day quiet, the night still, bless the tongue,
With burnt suns, [Burn the sun,] ravaged light, if you must.

Where I have come to rage, I know not this
Land you’ve put me upon, so I ask again,
What is this all for, in exchange the last kiss,
My last word, last thought, life can go without.

Farewell, then to all, so too farewell rage.
You need a cage to explain freedom won,
You need death to long for a setting sun, 
You need strife to love the peaceful, quiet life?

Ravage the lived, rage, if you must, then to all.

The blessing was in hope required, late in the unsettled hour,
For an angel to give way the open gate and thus empower,
A leap into the secret spectrums of what is and never was
That came to be and became no more but ‘twas, through the hole [center] of a pearl. 

 *work on the consistency of tempo


WHEN IT COMES, THE BLOW TO MAN


When it comes, the blow to man.

The blow to man, when it comes, crashes expectations
The blow to man, when it comes, can, 
smash the prospect house of cards built, 
sustained, on these [wilted / withered] hands, 
set to the hail storm, under [and the shade of] pewter clouds

The blow to man is a tedious, slow-motion, sustained sum, 
of wilted hands, falling limbs of life, 
blown loose to the hailstorm under shades of pewter clouds

Caked paint flakes off the wall,
Years of caked paint, swells fissures gaps, blond paint falls,
Blond paint blisters off the walls and drives to flake

Caked paint flakes off the wall
Years of layers of swollen fissures, gapped
The blond paint blister off the mending wall and flake

Its [Pikes / Peaks / crested] dismantled white brow [peak]
[dismantling] foam, goose bumps, 
rising little ones, flag and flaw of the son, 
Drift the shabby [skin, [veneer] surface], 

The settled lake,
Binds horizon water to her eyes on kin skies.*

*[The settled lake binds Horizon,
water to her eyes on kin skies.]

The blow to man, when it comes, thrashes contemplations,
The blow to man, when it comes, thrashes [the future] contemplations,

The blow to man, when it came, thrashed [the / by] contemplation*
The blow to man, when it came, flashed the revelation. 
Of his reason the leaf spoke template hub, thumbed seed to ground,
Marry needle, twig, wing, and pine to this bluejay clawed to limb,
truncated beast [called / of] time.  Called lapse of flown time, and future companions
*[the future] contemplations,

The blow to man, when it comes, crows the prospect,
Murmuring murder lifts the lashing [in] suspense.

The fold in kind, when it comes, smashes machinations*
The fold in kind, when it comes, can smash the machine.  
The fold of kindness, when it comes, thrashes the revelations.

Some lowborn can, when she comes, blow away the man,

The slow of man, when he comes, never ran the show
Fails to run the show, but

washes the stations, machinations, imaginations,
and sets slips to centrifuge glows.

*passes / lassoes / lashes / volley / slam / suspend / 

the kind kid rids the id, supplanted and driven swoons [by / in] mystery 

the kind kid rids the id, supplants the driven swoons to mystery 

a tiny spider [holds the key], woven between twin spires
heart legs center of the fractal lines, a drawn crystal home,
within the still polyhedron outlined rests the little key.
within the still polyhedron outlined a key, the skeleton bone.

High noon nested [nesting / laying] by the blue jay lake swoon.
Spun high noon nested laying by the blue jay lake swoon, come, horn.

The blow to man is set up high upon the cross, 
Kairos in the suspended sense awaiting the proper consequences.
The blames arising from Western culture is that of calculation and proper control.
Never the unwilled habit, never the rail driven,
Straight proclaimed successful by chance or luck,
Mastery is not the child of mystery.

THE HORNED MOON (separate file, pasted here to check flow)

*The horned moon dips and claws into the flesh loom,                    11
its empty mouth, and twisted smile angle sharp a Crescent sharp wick                    

Twisted smile angled and sharp Crescent wick                          10

orange rind, peel, shaved and spread over the polished water                13    
settles behind corpse mountain, black body                        10
Embers swept to the tickled rim                                8
Where the horizon splits.

Sky drops its curtain when the hole opens                        10

The orange fang swallowed by corpse mountain                        9
*[As the curtain cosmos clarion call is parted
The black crack reveals its empty mouth.]
*[as the curtain cosmos clarion call parts
the black crack reveal its empty mouth.] 

The orange fang is swallowed by corpse mountain,

Cosmos clarion curtain call

Pride shapes the man

Queen Excluder 

Between father and son lessons are won,        [succumb]
Between father and son lessons won succumb
Where father travels wooded paths wooded alone, 
Where father travels wooded paths atones alone, 
 
[atones, where travel fathers atone woody paths
mooring of the twig of future shadows won.]
Moorings of twigs shadow a future one,

The mountain kindle sets valleys there born,    
Fertile river, kind wind, inverted womb.        {chorus}

Through mothers to daughters land shields rough suns,
And The burnt hour to gentle eyes hailed overcome.

A strange landchange where dust tickles skin, 
? :[ the kind kid rids the id, supplanted and driven swoons [by / in] mystery
the kind kid rids the id, supplants the driven swoons to mystery 

Family blood united spills the line
Nowhere the future, now here the probed past,
Hands take and give spells of futures to last,
Wordless, silent, supple, the body cast.

A strange land change tickled [where/by] dust skins
The hand taken, the given spell, wordless, supple cast, 
Where sheep ply the silent [breath] liquid oak tar measure men’s sleep.

Measured man to sleep…

Memory making is subjectively tailored, 
Not unlike an art or expression.

Memory is a subjective tailor, 
Beholden to none, especially
to those who remember
Memory is at best a slave
To what surprise can deceive.
  

THE HORNED MOON

*The horned moon dips, then claws out of the flesh loom,                    11
The horned moon dips and claws into the flesh loom,                        11
Thus called life, the spun cliché of strife cartoons nightnoons
*The horned moon dips and claws
the flesh loom, its empty mouth sees
the horned moon and claw.                                                10

Twisted smile angled and sharp Crescent wick                              10

orange rind, peel, shaved and spread over the polished water                13    

settles behind corpse mountain, black body                        10
Embers swept to the tickled rim                                    8
Where the horizon splits.

Sky drops its curtain when the hole opens                        10

The orange fang swallowed by corpse mountain                    9
*[As the curtain cosmos clarion call is parted
The black crack reveals its empty mouth.]
*[as the curtain cosmos clarion call parts
the black crack reveal its empty mouth.] 

The orange fang is swallowed by corpse mountain,

Curtain cosmos call clarion
Cosmos clarion curtain call

Pride shapes the man

Queen Excluder 

Between father and son lessons are won,        [succumb]
Where father travels wooded paths wooded alone, 
[atones, where travel fathers atone woody paths
mooring of the twig of future shadows won.]
Moorings of twigs shadow a future one,
The mountain kindle sets valleys there born,
Fertile river, kind wind, inverted womb

Through mothers to daughters land shields rough suns,
The burnt hour and the eye hailed overcome.

A strange landchange where dust tickles skin,
Family blood united spills the line
Nowhere the future, now here the probed past,
Hands take and give spells of futures to last,
Wordless, silent, supple, the body cast.
A strange land change tickled [where/by] dust skins
The hand taken, the given spell, wordless, supple cast, 
Where sheep ply the silent [breath] liquid oak tar.
Measured man to sleep…

Memory making is subjectively tailored, 
Not unlike an art or expression.

 

**THE ECLIPSE

Do not draw back from the passage into darkness

Night    Nite
Thought Thogt Thot
Though    Tho

[Phonetic reductions]

Sidelong
Sideling

“You have my word.”

The oldest living tree that communicates with all forms of life.

Living by realms of images now past,
Where black and white once joined, [the overstepped, overlooked] sidecast.
Mystery, fable, fact, fiction and dream stramp paths [fast outlasts the past].

Man in armor uphold the imagined sigils.
When mothers were technology
And men the libs of trees, 
Versus arms, and Polygone wings.

Versus – When Men Were Trees

**THE FALSE FOCUS

Tropic & Equinox

How to kill a shadow without light,
How to kill light without darkness.

Fight the false focus, and the depression, 
but then what is there left to move towards.  
The still are dead.  

Once again, the whirling solace rim.
Sets upon [life and hope, us] the ironic grimacing shadowy grin.
The flabby sheet of water that winds the drums dull.
Doldrums.

City vs. Wilderness
Tekhne vs. Nature


Scale shifts when phase transitions manifest at the human scale, i.e., sociological, psychological, etc.  Emergent patterns of behavior, and murmuration (e.g. fish, birds, herds).

Funny face of ash.
Furyface of burnt wood to ash.

The oracle mirrors [gives warning] to the face of taboo.  
Where and what is allowed by convention;
the forms upheld or accepted.

Daughter: OE dohtor; PG dokhter; OS doktar; ON dotter; Sk duhitar
Son: OE sunu; PG sunuz; ON sonr; SK: duhitar

Woodpecker — jackhammer
Wind through leafs — motors hum

“kill the lights”

The timbre of trees pecked awakes the sleepers. 
In harmonies different than those of the jackhammers
Vibrating concrete and steel, with echoing noise of chains striking glass.

SOUND & MATTER

What woody wisdom do you behold?20

The Codex Tree extends all tendrils and limbs to every tree in the world.  It is a collection of the vegetable order, an archive and nucleus.

Imagination reverses knowledge into experience; 
memory into event.

Flesh Water

Flash Water

El Riachuelo – dirtiest most toxic river I remember when growing up in Buenos Aires, which is an ironic name.

HOLDERS OF PERCEPTION

FORM HOLDERS

TREE SHAPERS

THE FOREST OF VIRTUAL TREES & TREEMORPHS

The Forest of Virtual Trees connected to entities of the forest, which require them to concentrate, meditate, or dream of certain trees.  Without these entities, the trees wither and disappear.  The entities are a kind of DNA and cell, or life energy at the scale of a human.  Trees bought to the physical realm need tending.  Such care is modeled after the gardens and temples of Kyoto, where they’ve been maintained ceaselessly for over 800 years.  Lineage is primary, as with unbroken transmission.  Another source of inspiration is the way we perceive, and hold conscious attention in a spectrum of consciousness fields.  Lastly, the way certain native rainforest tribes assign a tree to a person, a responsibility that lasts a lifetime.  Not an object, but a living organism.  Bonsai distinct from an object.   Contemplate this.

THE TRIDENT TREE

THE QUITENCENCE TREE
Modeled after the hand, it reaches to the sky, but remains rooted in the five realms.  Each limb representing one of the elements.

THE AFTERTREE

Body & Void

Always physio-mental-temporal, 
it’s only illusion to sense-think21
These word-concepts-thought22 apart, they imply another.

3 Regions of the World:
    Kamaloka—world of desire
    Rupaloka—world of form
    Arupaloka—world without desire and form

Def.  Tulpas Thoughtforms—[The Boy / The Guy / Me, Yo Io Eo] 
Trikaya
Kayas
Dharmakaya


Shunyata—emptiness.  Shunya means “empty,” and ta “-ness.”  Shunyata is removing the barrier, the screen, between subject and object.  Absence of the screen.23

Dust         Atoms
Moments    Atoms of Time

No One Non None

What are the harmonics, the mnemonics, 

THE ECHOMORPHS

THE ECHOFORMS


As with afterimages so too are afterthoughts.  And afterthoughts are afterthings the perfect contrast of the perceived thing, yet hardly noticed unless the “thing” originated is removed suddenly.  The same could be said about “space,” by stating that is an afterspace.  The implication is that “after-” used as a prefix, moves time forward by a brief interval, only once enough time has been spent with the “thing/think” which will be aftered.  Why does anything need to be “aftered”?

MMCs are logos / words, but they obstruct too, diminish the thing–event, the Ji.

AFTERNESS


To play the game rules must be known.  This is implied.  Rules change, are negotiated, accepted and rejected. There is an “after-ness” to things. Perhaps this “afterness” is kin to karma; it is implied as well. 

After the Woods is in many ways a story of tantra, of unions; and therefore, of afterunions.

The heart wakes
The head dies
The limbs tree
The veins vine
The cloud crown
The eyes shadow – mascara; Alkuhul
The feet stramp

ARMOR AMOR ME: amure; L: armatura

OUT OF THE GREY— on gray matter, MNEMOSINE

THE MESSAGES
1. Found
2. Received
3. Lost
4. Misread
5. Unwritten
6. Sent

THE SPEAKER OF LIGHTNING from the REALMS of ABOVE THE CLOUDS

THE WOLF FLOW

REMNANTS OF CIVILIZATION

A land of green technology.  Solar cells, wind turbines, and other technologies overgrown by Nature.  But in this field, a hint of the last attempt of humans to balance their industrialization sprawl that became the end of people.

ZOMBIE FLORA

PLOT NOTES
•Echo Gambit takes place in Echo Canyon (aka Canyon of Echoes)
•Map narrative by river flow of Rio de la Plata to Cataratas del Igazú

TMB / ETY / DEF / REF / GLO / IND / QTS
“Nothing fucks you harder than time.” GOT S7E6


  


WHEN THE EAR BLEEDS, STRANGE CRYSTALS FORM

When the ear bleeds, strange crystals form,
[When the ear breeds strange crystals forms]
Of sounds from which the body’s torn.
This realm of water called human life is all,
But contained movement of a curious waterfall.

Angels come as flies, settle on the humble heap
Of trash, disposed, forgotten, and suffering weak.
Where there are flies found so too are dead and poor,
But flies hurt none, on that neglected, feast upon.

Whose tiny wings of delicate mystery we pluck
By youth’s curiosity withstand, suffer a fly’s luck
For on shit lands, to nurture itself with a feast meal,
And when looked down upon how wrong to judge.

What is wrong by disgust, for the fly must eat,
And of our excrement is takes heed, while swatting
These pests away, little angels who come where
All is discarded and forgotten, covered and despaired.

Wetted stones to bring out their luster.xxii

Time there is none.  Space there is none.
Here and now, there is none of these either.

There is no motion, no change, a stone, a st. one [old eng. St?n]
yet nothing stays still, or in place, remains plain—
a dialogue emerges in participation, action, and listening.

Are we all messengers, angels of interpretation of relative means?

The focus is still a reference marker, the conscious gaze,
That informs what is called “ego,” which is as dramatically
Incorrect as calling mystics superstitious, or assuming this view
Of personality is more factual.

Science alone proves the “changing” views.
But there is nothing that changes either.
Our perception is like electron particles,
which exists in superposition, in any number of states,
Until perceived, and then lock into a kind of energy.
Or so we think.
Thought functions this way, as does the “present” moment,
being defined as it’s observed.  Change is such a strange illusion.
Evolution and reassembling of life forms,
and our ability to find these histories.
They exist, and they’re illusions together.
And this is about as good as language can describe “it.”
For words, are based on Words and not actual experiences,
though they describe “de” + “scribe”, which seems
more appropriate to what they actually do.
They take out of the “scribe.” mistakenly “de—scribe”
the world of its elements and energies.

Future and past do not exist when speaking the scribe* of present tense.
*[scriba, L. for “to write”.  But when speaking on does this writing to the experience and so “de—scribes” the present]
To scribe is to notch, mark, cut, score, engrave, illuminator, clerk, copyist, transcriber, etch, inscribe.
When play becomes described a score is kept.
To whom more notches are given wins,
The tally of presents, of victories, and so too,
Consciousness, with its notches marks awareness
By a score of how many times ego is stroked, into now’s.

But the present now does exists in equal measure,
which is a way to refer to certain feelings and thoughts the body “presents.”
Now, being present, is as absurd a notion
as going back in time, or forwarding to a future.
If these conditions were possible, upon arrival,
it would be outside the “present” moment,
or within it, to the degree of success.
Imbuing beingness with a* location and time,*articles (a, an, the) are voice announcements of god, theis, dios, “de” by measure accurate the way probes are sent to foreign planets is a flaw.

The present moment, what is called the “now”
or is not a room with doors one enters and leaves,
or through which a window blows in and out like air.
It’s a measure of spectrums, not instead, but both in his stead.
(A role or place of future someone will be placed.)
The ghostly coming into view by contrast is the game at hand,
what slipped through the grip, or may be grasped.  Hide and seek.

Now you see it, and now you don’t.  Abracadabra.  Poof.  Voilà.
By virtual notion and conceit, of symbol and metaphor,
and biological memory actions, simply (or not so simply does imply) have sensations of what to expect, or soon reject, and to what degree can surprise be welcome as it arrives.  Comedy is all in the timing, as is said [Efficient].

After all, surprises are paid for, otherwise they are either miracles, or tragedies.  Getting or not getting what one wants.  Laughing at a joke.  Finding a partner to love.  “Falling” in love.  Being true to oneself.  Where is this oneself?

Even the Zen doctrine is flawed, when presented as anything but a dialogue.  Attention to the dialogues, at all scales, and caring for the spectrum that moves with what is called the “self” or the “representation” of what one “is”: Recreacting.

 

 

TIMESPACE, EGO, PRESENT

Torn Apart by the Claws of Consciousness: the “,” which go unnoticed, but claw sentences apart too.
And by reality, as words, logos, which first tore the describing apart, and “first was the word” and the “word was good” yes first was “the logos” and “the logos” was good.  But just like a little claw in the sentence helps to tare [tear] {a tear of mourning}  it apart, to add some space and time, a break in the rhythm, so too over time, in time past, words added the commas into experience of life, adding a little space, time, and distance the succession of experiences.  Like commas between words, adding distance, though welcomed, and small, words do the same for the “objects” of reality.

And for logos being so wise, English is crazy.  Tear and Tear. Tare (as in terrific, or tar phonetically.  One is to rip, split, severe, make into pieces; the other is so cry, produce tears.  Tears and tears, I would spell the ripping apart tear like this: “tare or tair”  since it already sounds similar to “hair” or “hare.”

The cleric clerk who once wrote down the words of god, to illuminated manuscripts, Which is to say that by hand be scribed the page of what was described, in words And spells, from the priest how pried, which in Latin times, it meant “elder,” For those with “eld” or “with old” meaning experience, but alas the words like symbols Are possessed and rearranged, by fight, persuasion, or exhaustion, and so then emerges A cardinal who points out east from west, and north from south, the boreal from the austral.  But in an empty sea, the sun and moon, the earth’s tides and spin sermon without words.

All we ever do is read waves, electric waves, sound waves, water waves, invisible waves but to the body heat, the body reads the waves without the mind knowing, but who is to mind, for not the body, The body brains better than mind in reading waves, the brain is not isolated in thought, Such idea is absurd as to think the heart alone feels and pumps unaware the body’s dares.  All these lies or misunderstandings of how the world was clawed apart,
commas, komma Gk. “piece cut off, short clause” and claus from L. is “shut, closed”
kolon “limb”, but the coma, koma Gk. “deep sleep.”
So this is done.  Dismembering of the world by claws called commas, and remembering By forging “sentences” that is sentire L. “feel, be of the opinion” and opinion, opinari, L. “think, believe” The world back together of the symbols called words, the logos.  And round and round, the wave and cycle goes, between what we think and believe.  At one point it was known that to think was no more central than a belief and so Formulate the opinion, but caution as it manifests the pinion†, that central spindle, Which pierces and in place holds the central spin upon which all threads are spun around.


RANT Celebrity Culture

Why Celebrity Culture annoys me has to do with the power images have of conveying narratives.  Life Style as a product or form of advertisement, extricates information relevant to the “products” being sold.  An herb is no longer a biologically needed element of life, but a way of “empowering consciousness” and so forth.  It dumbs the opportunity for learning.  While the intentions are good, the message orbits the image first.  What one comes to believe and expect is associated to the degree of efficacy and success the story has in conveying the myth, whether true or otherwise.  This mode of capitalist participation disassociates the environment from the organism, and promotes first the organism as the agent to shape environment.  There is no one to blame in this dynamic.  The system is set up this way.  People, myself included follow the threads of our inspirations, informed as much as one can by the absorption to relevant knowledge.  I refuse to be pigeon holed, but this is no different than someone using this as a method of sale tactics.  I trust first the slippery and the initial point of a human mind being hypocritical.  It is what makes us human, these contradictions.  They should be kept in check.

 

WHEN TREES GROW OVER

When trees grow over and around ruins with reliefs, their imprints, do they touch to see the images we have left behind?  Do trees dream of rain and sun?

When my teeth fall out and eyes fail, how will I be alive, how will I believe be alive… through the world, when my senses fall to time at the hour when my dues are paid in full.  Will I finally sleep and shake the “insomniac” state I’ve kept—It’s only land and land only that brought me here, to feel you, and mmove with your skin and wind on this duty Earth together we’re a torrent of rain—to the clouds some way, I’ll rise in fractal rainbows, the moon’s horns arching toward Earth—Eclipses occurs in the shadows you’ll see the sun a new with open arms.

At times the mind is unspeakable, or in other situations, the primed mind full of eloquence, when the mouth opens, delivers strange utterances.  Language is to mind as breeze is to wind, through the body the breeze and wind are felt.

It’s the reminders that we seek in language, the reminders that we’ve seen another, that we are beyond appearances, strangers.  Language reminders the mind itself, it’s elf.  Such little beasts.

Bound in alternating roles of audience and speaker.  Since the mind can chat with itself, or generate endless internal dialogue, who then is speaking and who is listening?  Or another example, whose foot prints were left in the snow that you come across, to remember its yours.

Interest in natural history, country lore, and mythology.
Left evident traces in his visionary what characterizes his work generally was a deep belief in the power of intuition as expresses in the parallel between artist and shaman: both invent simple materials with intense and potentially healing powers.

The machinery of traditional folklore, and mythology.  The drawings for “Shallow Interiors” presuppose a larger sculptural matrix, schematic, and serve to realize some of the characters, creatures, and elements inhabiting the alchemic forest, whose ultimate purpose is to summon a type of techno-myth evolution, capable of being artificially grown inside an incubator in space: the A.I. of mythology which can produce folklore on demand.

 

HOW DO TREES BREATHE

How do trees breathe as do we?
*[When trees breathe as do we]

but we only hear the breathing
when air brushes against
our mouths or branched leafs.
Sometimes we speak as we breath
Outwards to the world what mind
Beckons from the air.  
*[What from the wind beckons]

But how does the tree exhale words as we do?
Sometimes we sing, and breathing
Becomes an instrument of sound.
How does the tree sing when it breathes out?
*[exhales]

It speaks when we are quiet and leaves quiver.
It speaks when the wind whistles about branches too.
It sings at night when wind sways the canopies
Limbs and leafs brushing against another.  

More clever still, it invites birds to sing from its arms.  
*[Verdugo]

Do we think our vocal chords our more ours
Than the birds sitting on a tree?  Or that the bird
Is less part tree?  *[what is a bird prose – insert]
Have you seen how fast a bird
Flies through the webbed lattice of limbs deep in the forest?  
And what about frogs, cicadas, katydids, crickets, 
The late night owl, this is how the tree sings.

It remembers itself daily and nightly, never forgetting
It’s nature.  We don’t speak always, but our voice returns as easily
As do the birds.  We speak in temperaments we don’t predict,
And are moved as trees bend in storms and winds.  
Lightning strikes and runs its burn marks along the bark, 
And we too are struck at times, scintillae, but it’s nature is to grow
To sun, and root in earth.  Is this not difficult enough for us?
Are we so different? And what about the seeds, pollen and sap?  
We appear and awake before we ever slept and were born.  
Seeds grew, closed and buried by leafs or soil or digested in dung, 
From there sprung, eyes opened to light, blurred but
Found the other eyes, mother’s eye, the breast, the circle orb of sight.

So too the sun pulls the newborn sprout, and feeds its
Warmth nectar by warm radioactive rays.  Little fission
Reactors in each leaf.  How we breathe, how they breathe?
Back and forth, day to night, night to day.
How many breaths does a tree take if we compare
the days to human breaths in a life time?  
What kind of tree would we be?  

And how does it think, the tree?  
It grows mushrooms, moss, lichens, nest, vines, roots, 
houses insects, Bugs, frogs, stores seeds, 
architects spider webs, nest for birds.  

This is how it thinks.  It shows you if you listen carefully, 
And so too has Internet, under soil, root in root connected, 
the oldest networked organism, the aspen forest.  
Fluids exchange back and forth, a pendulum sways, 
Away from our view two trees seem individuals
though rooted below, as we root in society.
  
Perhaps the heavens are an old myth
For our times, just as God was useless to predict, 
So too the heavens are useless for our next lesson.
Yet the trees hold the answer and key.  It’s nature, 
Ecology, our neighbor, the measure the health of the planet
By measuring the health of the tree, not some distant star.

We’ve meddled more below ground than in the skies,
Pulled oil rather than the eternal solar power coil.
So now we must go deeper and see it through.  
Go underground, and in so doing we will join the heavens as one.  
For in going undersoil, we merge with the planet.  
Below the surface skin there we are united, 
Ethereal as the firmament once promised to be, 
The firm ground settles this bet.  
The mind of the sky in the below earth, Earthbody,
In our body, the Landchange, the Wonder Migration.

If we could turn our body perfectly inside out, 
It would look much like the surface of the earth.  
Lungs as trees, veins as rivers, bones as Forest trunks, 
bacteria like ants, mountain ranges as teeth, 
the brain as the atmosphere, and earth’s magnetic fields, 
pulling from the cosmos, and being in the cosmos our thoughts.

The flesh as the sea.  
Full hundred yards thy father flies,
of his bones are branches made,
Those are leafs that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But [both] suffer a tree-change, 
into something rich and strange.  
Birdcalls hourly song, the canopy charm,
Crow, chirp, and owl, I hear them, howl,
Among the sky voices fade in every call.

Those were his eyes now leafs made, 
Shakespeare:
“Of his bones are coral made, 
those are pearls that were his eyes, 
nothing of him that doth fade, 
both suffer a sea-change, 
into something rich and strange…”  

What pressures bring you to see that the tree
is a body and as the body moves so too, 
Tree moves, but we move differently, our time cut short.
When I walk from here to that there, I’m still
Here inside, yet the environment holds me distinct.  
So too the tree moves as the life forms
And it invites the move about its sphere,
Its children migrate and pollinate.  
Don’t we all have orbits of sorts to friend and
Family, at times, when lovers orbit us, we encircle them.  
When we lean against the tree, and sit
At the foot crown of its roots, how restful the shade, 
How slow the heart grows, even in the face of toil.
A tree like us is mostly liquid.  So though tree, parts with its limbs, 
We part with our past, and our future contrast, 
so too we are part sea, parted by waves and salted blood.

An upside down tree is a human, or if you like,
A tree is a human turned upside down.
At times, for a big finale, it will snap a limb off, shed twigs.
Destroy so that more may grow, 
our heads buried in the moist underground.

After the woods are gone,
Who will you be, and what will you become?
For yourself and trees have always been one,
Is it hard to see how you and tree are one alike?
And in this communion we breathe and grow free.
What are we pretending we are not?
Living on two levels, the hard and the soft, the illusion or dream,
Still or traveling, where you always remain, 
Both of itself so persists.

Persist in the web of folly and see it through.
See it through, from random to order, of chaos to order, 
to ad infinitum information, to mysterious depths and yugen webs.
Our conscious attention screens out the salient patterns, and
Leaves these parts departed, but for pattern to emerge so too
Does randomness chaotic require its toll to be ignited.
It’s called birth and not life, for life and strife are our decree,
But birth and death the grandest pulpit of mysteries.


MOTHER TYPES ON ROCKS

Mother types on a keyboard worn down, so much so, that only the mass of the board remained like a polished rock on a shallow stream.  She could type faster with one hand than I could think out loud.  She typed the polished rock to life.  But I couldn't figure out what exactly she was typing or needed to.  The words came out as fast as one could speak them.  How fast does one read out loud?  Mother Earth plants words in our minds and some take root.  The words then form sentences, and emotions, and some may bloom, while some too are weeds, but there’s no wrong in any of these growing seeds.  [DRM^]

 

THOUGH I’VE PLUNDERED EARTH—AND LIFE UPON IT

And though I’ve plundered the Earth and life upon it,
I failed to see it through, to grasp the epoch forged.
Black vile bleeds a fluid greed, from remnant corpses,
Long lost in her womb, with veils, dissection, and method,
Extracted fluid both of flesh and bone, plant and stone,
Burned them alike to ash and smoke for us to breathe,
At birth confront your schemes and plans,
To feed us this new noxious chemistry instead of a sense of mystery,
Coerce and vie on the weak for tantrums of commodity
And fetishize to ruin real material wealth, by burying dignity.

You are the confederates of shadows, lurking out of sight,
Inventors of false suns to burn down daughters and sons,
You, destroyers of worlds, gluttonous for conquest and pride,
Open your red eyes upon the fields of nameless overgrown graves.

It is you, the chosen ones, under pretense of love and freedom
Choke the world and forego its myriad of songs,
Instill a creed of deaf and blind, numb to beatitudes,
By preaching’s of fear and terror, for which you bestow,
As the will of might, progenitor of kings, deceiver to all,
The vines of time will soon entwine your feeble dominium.

This land has teeth, as you shall see, as ice retreats,
Mountain mouths will open wide, with brims of fury to devour,
Your inherited clever quips sowed; and reaped as certainties.
These city towers upon the hill, fabricated by insatiable cronies,
Beckon your amnesia, and charm, doomed to flat line in infamy.

As darkness descends upon your kingdom, man against night (M.A.N.) rises,
And though by industry you robbed the sky of myth and legend,
Some will remember how you severed hopes,
supplanted prospects with trinkets
For status and merit—festooned and in line.
Such beasts devised and breeding in your trail,
Step by step, swell in size, with their appetites revolting
and resorting to cannibalize, Pursue your comfort,
glory once in their jaws, shatters your crystal crowns
Of bigotry, misogyny, and cloaks of insolence.

If in battle I fall, it will be worth the eye you lost, the eyes we lost,
Adorned in feathers and weathered pelts, no army can abolish,
New roots that from field and meadow shoot the distance,
To underground streams, aquifers, and molten water heads,
From these returned springs, life arises always, where diversity
First is shown, from there, and there alone, all true life is born.

It speaks, back to this land, it’s known through one,
Arranged by all, by equal rules, before there was, and
After will be, these things none of us shall see, but in
The present day resolve the two, into the a non [son],
Into the woods enter, threshold of common worlds,
Dream and beast, vegetable and mineral, in pressure
Play; give way to Polyverse, and Graphmneme Darken Child.

Of chaos and cosmos we know so little, how hand is to the body,
To feel ones chest surface beating, its own heart unable to behold.
From the span of time of childhood to the body grows old.
By these laws we all do tread, blown like branches through seasons,
Dance of leafs, fall and spring, of brown and green thrusts,
Veins shelled by dehydration, and veins compressed chlorophyll.

A tree rooted atop the great mountain of images.
I tried to climb its walls and reach the peak, as the image boulders
Crumbled and fell.  Anchored to fissures of past pictures, stacked
And raised like strata, metamorphic rock, sediments, igneous;
These images cycling through the memory mountain of culture.

This body formed and eroded by time and weather, which I failed
At times left the trace of toils with the forces of gravity, the roots
Came to aid in holding the crumbling flakes together, and forms
Emerged on this body union of crystal and plant.

What strange images imagination manifests to life,
The ever present apparitions of growing plights,
And the scrolling dribbles of daydream’s delights,
In symbols the seemingly isolated jest,
this individual inward–dream behest,
becomes for all to be known, through veils seldom shows,
And the one turn to many—the how many no one knows.

These are dangerous waters to navigate, rough wind,
Stay gate in the eye of the storm, which is to say,
Over wolf flow eht mountain
Keep moving by, and like the unattainable air;
The hawk wing,
Ever present

My gentle inhabitant, beware the Nanowar, and settle
the weary eyes.  We will meet soon again in the granite
face of Mount Chromachronos.

In me there is some kind of benevolent fury and it wants
to destroy the whole system ploy rather than
address by tactful means the problem at hand—
departed Polygone.  I know better, but they want more.
Please forgive these creations,
they scheme and persecute the lily crown
while the land feels and feeds your landings.

The sensible atmosphere awaits your passage,
fly high beyond the shadows, and don’t mind
the “shadow people, dream speakers of the rock”
they are only bound to it,
but don’t shape it, Nyx is their ruler.
She will disperse high in the Troposphere
out of reach of Techne, all the Assembly Codes.
It’s all I can do for now.

Shed all your skin upon us, that in your code we may evolve.
Versus has gone deep into the forest seeking the 23 black stallions,
They will show you a way home inside this land,
deep within its chthonic roots;
the forest controls arboreal neural networks,
and they are intuiting him so possess the dawn.

Twilight’s architecture will be yours.
As sun sets, and moon tugs rivers,
Mnemosyne will unveil whispers of the land,
that they may invoke the refractive metaphors.
Take my brethren Graphmneme, do as you will.
There’s a tree whose bark opens like a door,
Called Arbor Axis, Body of Leaves, and inscribed
within it—all the genomes endowed to the land.


DREAM THE WOLF FLOW

The wolf flow eht  Mountain

The hawk wing, And like the air unattainable
Ever present

Magenta sunclouds
Rolling down a hill side
- - -

Ever present,
What strange images the imagination manifests to life,
Like apparitions or of dreams,
In symbols the seemingly isolated jest, this individual
Inward dream behest, becomes for all to be known,
And the one turn to many—how many no one knows.
These are dangerous waters to navigate, rough wind,
Stay in the eye of the storm, which is to say,
Keep moving by it.
The hawk wing,
And like the air unattainable
Ever present


WHEN LEAFS CUT TREES

When tree cuts from shells a series of leafs
To emulate the absent heart, its rhythms hidden.

When roots weave themselves into the fabric it lays
At your feet.

When the plexus of branches denudes the sun of light
And shade creeps into your skin.

When soil sustains these giant gestures of crooked
Means, though graced for repose.

When nature becomes synonymous of rest,
Where emptied voices spill the spider silk.

When the arboreal has a name fit for stars,
And all human form within its arms.

When the young climbed its trunk and stood
With the birds for laugher.

When the man cut the beast and made a house
Of bark and toil.

When new growth stood in line and roads
Forged from habit.

When you grow out of grandparents.

My dear trees, for everything you have created,
And all the stories you’ve secretly held.

My stay is with you.  Bury me deep inside your
Veins.

When this body becomes branched bones,
I will sway, as do you in the gales and breeze [storms and hushed]

I’ve witnessed your breath through soil,
And drink from pregnant clouds.

Teach me tree how to grow free,
And leave the concrete behind.

Trees feed us the living leaf
It’s branches stretch for sleeping theifs.

There’s a bloom that grows veins,
Inside the dormant body a trickle
Feeds the hungry roots.

 

TREE ANTENNAS (Chorus)


THEY WONDER HOW YOU BREATHE

They wonder how you breathe
A yellow, half-sun in your hands,
Set down softly before a thousand eyes.

A quiet thread is linked to both youth and wise
When you settle limb by limb, the stems rise.


BOAT ON THE POLISHED SEA

Boat on the polished sea,
Against the sky, sly fly of the spot
In architecture of spiraling threads
Casting its feeding net.

Spider suspends a silk chandelier;
By the companion way,
To the morning sun pays dues
In fine lines radiate golden hues.

 

HANDS SHAPE THE WORLD THROUGH DREAMS

Hands shape the world through dreams
[dreams shape the world through hands]
From the soil rise stems, 
creatures that consume [fed] by sun, 
Ideas have their time and some take root

Clutched by the darkest hour of night
Buried deep in earth away from light
Where dreams born, challenge day’s plight.

Growing comes like weather.

Before anything can start, 
the mind is tripped,
Falling shapes the heart, 
textures follow like shadows.

When you find a hand holding yours, 
everything, even thunder, is silenced.

First we come from the ground, 
what did you eat?

For all the freedom of movement, 
Have you ever left where you are?
Your gaze looks out.

From body within and from body without, 
The vessel falls to whispers of dust, 
Such eyes see by innocence.

As skin thins translucent, objects harden, 
bones set to burden, but the grin grows,
Our allotted time is but the punch-line to an unfinished joke.
If you can make the clouds laugh, where your body will be, 
You’ve struck it rich, better than gold, youth married to old.

Is it true what they say that all will slide away
As life flies by and the lucky turn old and grey?

From old hands to hand me downs to young ones,
Do you feel the world as we once did, 
Dust of different kinds form pollen clouds
Mix by morning dew, now it’s in the mind, 
What you may want to do
with what you thought you knew.
 
Change comes faster the older we grow, 
yet nothing moves, 
But the whirling universe.

Space and novelty expand.  
All our histories and discoveries
Are digested in an afternoon, 
it took decades to decode.

Plants millions of years to shape, 
what we crush to pulp in seconds.  

Though novelty may seems to accelerate,
As planets orbiting elliptically, 
acceleration is proportional to its deceleration. 

Do we have a similar play, space expanding faster than light’s speed,
Technology and culture overtaking all biological evolutionary rates?

This seems to spell doom, but is this a climax, or merely a wave, 
On a series of cycles we have not patterned into conscious, 
Salient explanations, or models that translate to physical forms, 
But only exist theoretically—that is to say—virtually in the mind’s
Imagination, in dreams, in fears, in curiosities, in loves, in deaths.

Smoke bring on the vines of the Worry Tree, 
A creeping sense, anxious clutch, faster cataracts, 
Are you stone in the river, or floating wood adrift?

Caffeine, nicotine, sugar, meat, and alcohol,
The mixture of our psychic concoctions,
What is softer in time?  Plants and for rest.
I laid on grass, watching clouds pass between
The branches of trees and blown leafs in the breeze.

Who are you that grows to conform to a motley of forms,
In novelties nest, behest what’s best in us, dispels all norms,
If all must go, so let it, 
breathe, again, and again inhale.

Blow out the candelabra of night, 
and dream abracadabra,
Where the unknown flow streams.

You’ll find me in the crystals, 
in the flattened grass,
Where your footprints came to pass,
And families, generations, 
feed the worms of time.

Whatever skins and clothes to wear
must first be buried in soil for at least a week,
Every day I make my bed I defeat death, 
Shut the curtains to sleep, trade places with the dead,

See the dreamer walking under sun, 
forgone by noon moon, 
The flower, I said to my shrink, 
it smells strongest
For its dying, releases the scent as one last cry
“come here and pollinate me.”  A weeping song, 
from a mother watching her son cut down
by the traffic havoc of this mindless town, 
How perverse we treat plants;
How easily welcome oedipal machines.  

I smeared a moth across an old pair of shoes, 
Like my grandfather wore, the moth’s powdered
Wings chalked a line, did I destroy wings, and eyes, 
A mother and father too, or just an average moth
So many clothes it’s ruined in my life, aerated
When its young hatched worms burrowed through.

Three pillows to a queen sized bed, not a quatrain, 
A waltz, one off or in the middle, 
a lover lacking Or gaining, 
but there once four, the other migrated
To the dreamer sleep pillow
summon from the deep
If luck may hand a line
into the hole supine the body.

Some habits clear the ways for novelty, 
But novelty can never be habit itself, 
Rather, it could care less that it be
Labeled and called novelty, while habit, 
Of act the white rabbit, so grab it, 
Must insist that it be habitual, affirmed.
Each has their moment, ambidextrous time,
Kairos, Logos, A Lexis.

On the day my father was born, 
When the cycles of time were torn,
All that reveals is frailty weightlessness,
To contrast a strange closeness,
With the gaps we can’t fill.

The break is heard when the tree falls,
No language pronounces its crack.

A body grew that spawned your eyes,
And likewise mine met yours.

Can you hear the images speak?
I am chocolate melting in your mouth.

Good morning soft eyes,
Where I melt you a[rise,]
My feeble mind and words,
Ply to find you, but it's when
All stories die
That I know you know I see you.  
What a gift to be an ear.

 

DAD TOLD ME OF THE GRAPEFRUIT BUSH

Dad told me of the grapefruit brush in la quinta,
He was a child then, grandfather grew the fruits,
I see you, mom and dad, as kids, with youth ahead,
The image of innocence and hardships appears,
In an abstract sense, but empathy, the pathosxxiii appears,
“in + feeling” where the body magistrates the physical,
and over time, the subtle body moves along,
something of that past is in my blood and bones,
I forget, though trying not to, it slips by, staying inside,
A bitter sweet rhyme with time sways a vertigo of curiosity,
I move, you move, I move, you move, one more time with feeling.xxiv

Rune Oracle: drawing, the issue of proceeding:

Thurisaz, Th, P, Gateway, A thorn,
in Sanskrit, “blade of grass,”
the Norse god Thor.  Thursday.
Place of Non-action.
Readiness to contact the numinous,
the Divine, do not cross without contemplation,
At the gateway, after beholding the past
joys and trials, let it all go, and step through.


THRESH THE SEEDS SOWED

Thresh the seeds sowed
That one day towards
The firmament glow
[whispers] will grow.
Limbs rising to a grander mystery,
The clutches of their roots know
Always out of sight, turns sun
Through land-change to spells.

In shadows you’ll find the burning suns.
Stars dwell in the shadows, where a series
Of awakenings topple like dominos,
And stack a continuum.

The only real atom is the Universe, Atomos,
The uncut, the uncarved block, a symbol of nature.

Thoughts of you hang on the Horizon Line,
Made clear by the lateral mind,
Where the whole world though it does,
Never seems to grow like a hanging leaf.

These trees are smarter than we,
For they know their unconscious state more clearly,
Literally connected, where our developed focus
Only disconnects that which can truly give it rest.

This land comes with language,
Phrases formed from plants and stone,
From oak tree to human truth,

The phenomena of reality is environment,
Inclusive of body and mind.
Human reality is an epiphenomenon of imagination.
Metaphor is many things, switching roles, active images, stories.
Metaphor is the gateway and bridge,
Between imagination and soul (psyche, mind, body)
Organizing Agents, in Latin, active organizers,
Form-growers, opposed to form-makers.

Memoria rerum – things.
Memoria verborum – words.

Art supplements nature. P. 14 (source? Cicero)

Phonetic language destroyed
the power of symbolic communication (images).

The dizziness of all that will remain unsaid,
soul is where metaphor exists as language.

If God is in the details, the so is death.
“The devil is in the details.”
Do you think it strange that teachers
Never mentioned their fall from grace?
Perhaps it has to do with retaining the image of authority,
Which would collapse if failure was acknowledged.
This failure could be interpreted as lack of knowledge,
Rather than a true understanding of how an organism operates.
Failure is part of learning.
Accordingly is should be taught in the plastic realm of arts
as well as the ability to exercise art itself.
Avoid style in preference for experience to reveal forms.

Mushrooms

One chocolate section, on empty stomach:

The mind wanders into corners and trap doors,
Being on mushrooms is the equivalent of what seems
to be described as a pain/ordeal trial.
How one handles the situation, which when surpassed,
brings about relief in the form of contrast.
I don’t need this much these days.
Too much pain and repressed past comes to surface
too quickly for the body and mind to coordinate.
Better the slow burn, or the deep,
all or nothing,
ceremony under proper guidance.

A quarter of a section is good enough to raise
the auditory sensitivity and clarify perception.

The rest is all open, the hallucinatory and psychedelic states
already happen all day while drawing, so the chemicals
distort the hallucinatory and symbolic break.
It over compensates as a double negative,
ends up cancelling experience from a lesson.

Existence is relationship.
Finding ways to feel contrast.

Shrill
Propitiate

 

IN THE QUIET

In the quiet that precedes the fading sun light,
There must have been a rush to complete the day’s
Tasks, such strange ones to depend on sun,
To succumb too in dreams another one.

Accomplished, completed, the earth announcing
Other rhythms, but in the room electric magistrates
Operate the day’s end to again begin, switch on,
Plugged in, was it enough?  Awoken by fright,
Laughter to dispel the threaded terrors night swells.
Worry too dwells in the pauses, water in hands,
Drink companions, drink into the fire pit of sand.

One down, one more to go, thriving if imagination
Can supply the glow.
So and so and sew, and so and so and sow,
Kiss the fire still, shadows dance for the mere thrill.

The Tree Eater comes out when the full moon
Shines on the land, eating but one a month.

 

OF STORIES BORN AND STORIES TOLD

Of stories born and stories told,
Of troubles made and those we hold,
Of young days turned by tides to grow old,
Of river flows where life feeds both meek and bold.

Of stories made and stories told,
Of troubles born and those we hold,
Of stories traded for those once held,
Of troubles birthed, then lost to death’s bed.

In the quiet multitude of dreams we are all united
Under the same shade of night, while ghosts repair
The coming day of light so shadows may wall aside
our forms in unity with all our contractions and praises.

Phyllon Chloroschild twin sister of Graphmneme Melanchild,
Both under sway of a hermaphroditic mother
methods of mother Luna and father Helios father Luna.

Death comes in peace now, await the coming of ghosts,
The shadow people occupy the empty room.

Tod. Dod. Death. Dearth. Pater. Father. Papa. Vader.
Vitae. Psyche. Anima. Life. Leib, Leaf. Liif. Lifen,
Feld in field and feel.

Sleep breaks open the unconscious heap stump,
Awakes the golden whirling rim leap.

The play of light and dark, void and life,
Birth and death,
“rage against the dying of the light”
A leaf among the branch is born,
Of dust settled and in time formed.
Breathed in ash to flesh,

Mother and Father, Sun and Moon,
How quick life beckons the cycling bloom,
In folly or praise that which unknown begins
Must too end warming noons by gift so/thus soon.

 

MOON, MOON, MOON

Moon, Moon, Moon, bloom
in the temperate evening soon,
Ascend by days end, overtake
twilights invocated gloaming,
Horns gone, teeth muzzled,
only sleep pretends to know.

Spit from the city’s mouth,
against a lead colored sky,
polished by the sun,
gleans an ember balloon,
Orange nipple moving through
twilight’s spectrum,
A sad face, the rabbit runs into ruins,
Towards a proud blinding white inversed fulcrum.

Moon, moon, moon,
Of the warm evening June,
come and bloom soon,

Competing lights Tekhne’s jungle,
Moth eyes for everyone,
windows flicker synchronic hues,
The channels consumed,
and you moon, moon, moon,
Say nothing but crown nights,
move tides, pluck and sway hearts.

The toils of day that break fright
Though found rest be among night,
It is life’s scheme to hold the other
When one extreme swells the dawn hour.

By darkest night the stars pierce bright,
Against the light become one hot sun,
That pulls the stem and branch to balanced height,
For sky thus speaks voiced through wind’s delight.

 

WHEN MEN ARE TREES

The landscape will reject the alien man, 
Like a feeble mote, lest the mote charm.

When men are tree, when man is tree,
when woman trees, when man and woman are tree,
how are we to grow tree, as trees. Are trees free?

How old does a man need to be?
For wisdom to drop the ripened
Fruit, rot and spoil, in verse release and turn
The bruised pulp back to creature, earth, and tree.xxv

How long does a man need to hold?
And clasp to branch or out on limb,
Grow sweet in time, remain unplucked and [suffer/endure],
[skin] Picks by beaks, [and/flesh] burrows of hungry worms.

How long the hold
When from branch detach?

And of this tree you’re grown
But from it you’re not thrown
As tree and grown are same as sky and cloud
And fruit and vine like minutes ticked in time.

There hangs man from outstretched fingers,
The tree, an arm rising from out of ground,
The fruits it bares such strange sounds they make,
Together bloomed, like overturned chandeliers.

Children climb these limbs, in quiet warm days,
Or cracking bones of wind sways, they climb the
Barking beasts, to hide as birds, gaze down at
Tall men and people walking by, and the be god
Among the leafs, snack of any fruit, challenge
The highest shoot to be scaled, for fear overcome
By child is projected back as its first dared,
And if such dare fall fair from tree height demise,
So be it, a slip, or unfit stake, missed hand assessment,
Or snapped arboreal arm.

The tree of life, and the tree of knowledge,
Does a tree of death exist in our minds,xxvi
And from underground is how mind manifests
The forms to climb, first for breath, then of rest (death).

Who tells of difference from air move through with ease,xxvii
Which seldom in resistance does it conjure ghosts or gales,
But the underground wind is still, replaced by silt [and/of] soot,
Rock, pebble, clay, mineral, and root, with caves carved
In pressured time, streams of waters and drips, and
Smaller life digging, from ant, to spider, and wasp to bee,
From mouse to fox, groundhog to ferret, chipmunk or snake,
or womb for eggs by turtles dug and laid.

Been wondering why it’s so difficult to talk about the tree,
to put lights on the tree, every year, and put the electricity on a timer,
so that the lights come off at four o clock in the morning.
The life of trees as we?  Adorned by lights, and garlands.
A bit of sky on the branches end, hung stars, and crystal balls.
Like memories of outdoors, and depositories for memories indoor,
a basket heart, weaved of two separate papers.
Two meshed in two to side as one.  Count the branches to be many,
and the needles and leaves more, but still holds firm as trunk
defines the number of kind, and so it’s one, but one grows more
to forest made, which with no end builds canopy layers for mist to mix,
the eye betwixed/bewitched, when through the fog, peak, branch, and torqued
apparitions fade from cloud to earth’s bark, from forests formed,
to other boundaries born, when mountain, fire, torrent, or man
arrange the land, the one that grew many, became complete
and now retreats at man’s hands, a manuscript of new technolotrees?
Or Technologies?  A lotree or logy?  Which, to you is best?
Though not a tree I speak for treedom,
though not free I speak for freedom.
Why not free, why not a tree?  The answer covets both.

 

THERE COMES A SLUMBER TO SETTLE ALL ACCOUNTS

There comes a slumber to settle all accounts,
And in this sleep a new world surmounts,
Past these unknown daily toils dreamed.

It squares your face in crowded shadows,
Breaks your smile like a hungry egg hatched,
Eager to chime within this [breast] nest.

But lay to rest the foreign ascension,
It’s time to lay your head for the legs
To trample their turn.

Smile into soil, and she will smile back.
Cluttered gridirons have long rusted,
Given traces for all to wonder along,

And so the masses come, drunk brave
To trample their turn—smite country life
In soil forgone crystallize secular ways.

The wild bear that grows treeflows from its head like antlers.
The wild bear that grows treeflows like antlers from its head.

**[follow with *Wildenbear or *strange crystals bleed]

 


THERE IS A VINE CALLED TIME — DEATH ARRIVES

There is a vine called time—[There is a deleterious vine called / named time —]
Death makes twins of us all.    [But death, makes twins of us all.]
    “Are you okay pal?”

There is a vine called time.  [Burrows deeper the roots]
Death, the creeper [line/thread] that splits time in two,
Separates in the [splintered] nick of time, the lone stone      [separates the splintered nick]
Made identical, death makes twins of us all.      [Call identical,]
One merged with the self, the vanquished other
with the world held conquered fast, those past.      […held, fast growing/conquered, those past]

There is a vine called time.      [a mountain song, drifts along, and longs]
It slithers strong between bouldered stones, 
And easily nicks the split, reveals inside,  [inside reveals,] 
Along with tides, and past lives come to light
By mere/strange erosion, if not like a mirror
There we stand looking back at a life
Incased in matter no different than ours, 
one petrified, one fluid, but the two face another,
[off, and] and off with the mask, when you [fly/die], you die [depart] for two.

Where [Time is space, and space is matter, and what matters no more is time:
so we bend time in strange ways and call it, call it back.         [life.]
There is a vine called time.   [entwined to life, dilation of life]
There will be two of you, one [that] merges
Underground with the histories of fossils unfound, 
and one with the air compressed by those
who breath alive this the vine of time.

There is a vine called time.   [sprouts up and fingers / digs / down]
It creeps on some more than others.
I think there’s a mistake made by [those of] the living
Who wonder where you are differently than when
You were.  Why living splits life and death      [memories of Earth]
As two, but by birth no one wonders who
Will be born before they’re conceived.  
Death too gestates the magistrates of nature’s [time / prime].

There is a vine called time.  [crushed/s rock to dust]
Why does life enter to disrupt death in [as / at last] life
Don’t be the false rock, shatter boulder, rest
In us, this split is not you, but of you [two—]
Strata Versus Time; Erosion and the vines,
Stones show accretion flaws, vines grow in rings,
And tubes as tender straws, and lost blocks.

There is a vine called time. [swallows drifting]  [sometimes called love, sometimes misunderstood]
Drift wood by the north sound.
Ocean longs to be gazed, 
The swallows fly 

As information rises
Off the soil to the clouds.
Is also burrows [deeper to / a keeper to]
Earth, as a tree, builds dually, in two
Its invisible network.

Underground networks are traveled daily.
Eyes look downward at screens, eyelids half-closed,
Are these sleepers by daylight, or heads bowed to the world?
A forest of people with private suns for the branches of mind
To extend towards the selected app skies?

We drove to the bluff and cliffs, far [gift] flung vistas,
Endless fading land strewed [of / and] tucked homes,
A pair of shoes left on the sun bleached tree,
Steps lead to the granular open beach.

 

WHO KNOWS WHAT IS LOST IN THE WONDER MIGRATION

The Inverted Womb

Who knows what is lost in the one wonder
Migration from non-birth, to born at birth.  
An egg and sperm awaiting, 
Before conceiving, are they in the seed?
Spermovum merged where two rise fever as one?

Who knows what’s in the wonder migration
The wonder migration, inverted womb.

Who knows what is lost in the migration from non-birth, 
To the nascent character born crawling, 
In the egg and sperm awaiting is the seed?
Before both sperma and ovum merged—

Who knows what’s lost in the wonder, 
The wonder migration, in some twilight, 
There I abandoned you, perhaps forgiven, 
Perhaps forgotten, in [the] dust we ride as one,
[must stall]

What blows the daylight to night,
Transgresses the reversal a new sight,
*[transgresses a reversal to new sights]
You lie still, the cures I still remember,
Child of Spring in a southern September.

Who dared split the Earth in two, Boreal,
And Austral, the sailed ships brought feel, 
[equators]
To distorted winds, mother embraced in arms,
Father lifted an invisible temple of quiet charms.
*[psalms]

These twins we shall become, a left and taken
[Charm] 
Psalm, the winded ocean, the wound vine of time,

Tracks its limb, sweeps the spiral zenith plumb,  
And lightning yawn from your empyrean mouth.
Your empyrean mouth yawns a lightning chime.

The stranger at the door is welcomed though [at last]
No one knows exactly what for the ghost [lasts / casts],

Dilation of life withers the flower
A wave needs a medium to travel,


THE INVERTED WOMB


NOW, NOW, NOW

Now, now, now.  Everything goes into the now;

Into the instagram gaze and [thumbed] scroll, now,
Into the hermit crab and shell pulled [up by / in] the anchor line,
Into the thought of where one was and where one will be,            [where was will be]
Into the winding of a watch to keep it’s passing rhythm, 
[into the winding watch that leaps the passing crime.]

Now, now, now, everything and all goes into the now,
The walk, and stroll, the guided drive, the departing flights,
The sitting by a sunset’s wonder glow, the violet sky that follows,
The fading moment, [of] now sleep too goes into the exhausted now.

What now’s are ours?  Is this one hour yours?  
Sort out the stack of presents and choose what you must, 
It too goes into the now; in the winter mats snow plow the now of never again, 
The now of pretended and all felt belted and comprehended.

“Now, now, now.  Come on now.  Now there.”
When the baby cries for milk and embrace, now enters,

Now again, often now, before into now, before we begin, 
Also now, into now, and into now the also too of now,

Now, now, now, then and again, now, now,
“What now?” and “Now what?” either now, 
What goes into now, the too and them into now,
Transcribed voices and salacious ads also go into the now.

Electronic fingers and messages through screens into the now, 
Demand more now than the world allows, the now of matter,
Of changing gleans forms, remains distant from the now of buttons, 
With images flashing, movies and pics also fade into the now cry

Climbed the later to the empty roof, no witness, no sky, 
No proof anything occurred other than the haunting now.

Now, now, now, everything goes into the now, 
Now, now, now, how do you keep inside the now, 
When no knowhow can cease the internal now, 
That falls around the clouds of future known now’s.

What do you speak, now, now, now, where does it go?        [where did you go?]
What do you keep, now, now, now, what does it show?        [what did it show?]
What do you burn, now, now, now, at every turn glows,        [at every turn glow.]
What do you weep, now, now, now, to heal body blows.        [to heal a body blow.]

 

LITTLE BEAUTY, COME TO LIFE

Little beauty, when you come to life,
More known and cognized than days of strife,
When fading days cry their forgotten forms,
When no more is heard of little beauty,
And when beauty fades, so too does our humanity
In some unspoken realms of reality.

Little beauty, when you come to life,
Steadfast known, cognized through shades,
In shadows, meadows, and burrows unknown,
In the fading days, we cry its passing pattern formed,
From where beauty was once torn,
The certainty of reality sways the question,
What is humanity lamenting, if not an intention?

A little loveliness of solidarity.  Up high,
Billions of years before anyone was set-up to die,
Images strewn and festooned across the sky,
Were somehow born to memories disguised.

Though blind, eyes can reason a changing season,
In the afterglow of shadows for father and son.

 

FOREST DWELLER

Loveliness
Stunning
Ravishing
Comely
Virtuous
Just,
Bewails the way
Grievous
Solidarity
Rabble
Forlorn
Bemoan
Lament
Betrayed
Steadfast
Yawp

 


A HOLLOW TREE

A hollow tree, at the bend of the path, [short into the forest,]     [forces the forest,] [pelts the forest]*

*The Hollow Tree at the entrance of the forest path.

There [dwells with roots thickly] envelops the fractured rock,     [dwells the thicket of roots][dwells the thicket root]
Covered in moss.  Where a single boulder once towered the pass, 
Three [pieces remain as] vigilant pillar shells.  The hollow tree          [parts retain the] 
Earned/s the [ radial / central place.]  From seed to Rock Breaker,             [axis, navel]
dispels the mass of burnt wood to ash, seeds the towering sequoia tree.

Burn wood to ash.  Burn wood to ash.  Burn wood to ash.

[To] See it through, to see it through until it flips, reveals its constant paradox. (Px)
In every, in every thought and every action there is a flips that occurs the kernel torn, 

when such thought [incur by or] in action is [born] seen/s through [at] that moment it transforms.
The hot blur, propels the pass, to burn wood to ash, burn wood to ash.

Burn wood to ash.  Pawn.

Burn wood to ash, burn wood to ash, yearn roots unexplained,
The woody grain you attempted to sustain,
Strands entrain and falter, twisted reprimand,     [twisted, and faulted]
A simple, subtle duty: Burnwood to endless ash,
Where only the undefined soft powder is left to hash, [the/a] new claim:

There is one fine flame you can count on,
The last breath on the wick of life you feed,
Inflammable parable, blown, fanned wild,
In time brought to [the] predicted stables, heed, 
    [top again send, copper and sand, toboggan sand] 
Lasso the flame, were known will blame; where none will blame
What fury the hallowed collector defamed.
What in youth sustained only delivers waned,
The crescent ogre, to debts so long estranged,
and Fame, bleeds out, like a summer cloud balloon harvest shadows.


Above the imagined [permanent] hallowed fields, we’re permanent shadows rest,
The abstract geometries crest, where a [worry] single angle circles,
Explains how all living creatures we embrace beat a known, breast,
A [known / blown] rhythm within the bloody chest, man owns in jest.

Shell shave
Shave the shell
Into the woods

 

STUMBLE STATELY 

Over The Abandoned Wood Heap
 
Stumble stately over the abandoned wood heap,
Lush roots pelt [the] limits of what nature can keep.

Stumble stately over the wood heap, 
pushed roots, Plus roots, Plush
[Two] The limits of what nature can keep.

[Stumble Stately over the abandoned would keep]

Plush roots felt [pelt / fell] the limits of what nature can keep
Stumble stately over the abandoned wooden heap. 

Something new and strange emerged — the thin line severed, 
the lion severed the line severed day to day Canal and Orchard 

*[Stumble stately over the abandoned wooden heap,
Plush roots pelt the limits of what nature can keep.]

What can I say except except except accept
Even the, the, the stumbling fool knows,
 
All that’s good, the fool knows, comes in love
with lead weights on the wings of a newborn dove.
All that’s good comes in love, the fool knows, 
With lead weights on the wings of newborn doves.

Virtual rock in the pocket in the socket of time
Pacing after the woods a Single locket, 
Off limbs and rest among the verdant forest.

Chaos is a lantern of shadows.

 

THE RUSTED WITHERED BELL

The rusted withered bell, sunken along the broken knell,
The ocular moons etched gloom to light, 
Suns shadows played away the [to] endless night,

Chime – edge or rim of a cask or drum.
Peal – Loud ringing bells: loud sound / series of sounds (peals of thunder)
Knell – indication of the end or the failure of something.

 

THE ANGER SOLACE HAS NO PAIN

The anger solace has no pain, 
The cleared vines grow back, 
They don’t choke, but keep still time,
If there is a use for the bloom of rage, 
Tell me more, tell me more, empty skull.

I’m sorry for the time it steals, it’s a child: 
Rage and anger in the gray evening rains,
These limbs create no embracing gains,
[Age] The hollow tree falls to pieces in pains
Of new born storms, from detritus come new forms.

Who are you that perseveres when I fail, 
The common speak of passive details
Leaves my guts and the body’s entrails
Out for the picking of crows, why so frail?

I don’t know what you want of me, 
What voices am I allowed to speak  
Am I wasting away the precious quiet days,
Dismayed by the lack of the will to play.

I’ve watched you grow for decades and settle
Into the same orbits, the landscape abandoned
For tiny hand held windows, the mind wanders,
While the bodies traverse the city streets,
And am I one of your dispossessed old freaks?

My dear time, you wind my heart into knots, 
Sweep your arms over this pain, leave a tender
Gap between each second elapsed, tick, tock,
[tick, tock; tick tock, the second arms of the clock,
a mechanism counter the body’s disposition seems to mock.
        {of gears fitted and slipped in and out like puzzle cut outs}]

Tick, tock, this sound seems a jest to simply mock
A [My] furrowed brow, who missed the now, this now
        {of gears fitted and slipped in and out like puzzle cut outs}]
And then and then where to begin, and then again.

The present you gift ceaselessly as all moved in you, 
And you and I are also part of this motion too,
The seasick legs, the vertigo call, the curious falling
Sensation of passing days swaying in the play
Of day light to dusk to night, where dreams
May catch your hopeful glean, when eyes scared
To stare into mine, are the mirror projection
Of all my imperfections for you to see and breathe.

Why the serious heart my young child Graphmneme?
Why the tearful eyes my young Chlorophilia?
Is this but a mouth that mocks, gasping to touch
In words all the pages turned, never to return, 
When the many books end, and more set to begin.

What phantom do you request, the skills you [so] instill,
In every one of your kin, the tasks that seem solid
To make feel, the completions that never end,
What are you playing at when you conceal, then reveal.

Hide and seek, the eternal game with no earned name,
Though some call it life [seeking fame], and the others the daily strife, 
How many have come and gone— [to sing] sang the human song?
If success is finding a place to call home under this dome.
 
[The Forest Lost] I’ve lost the forest, where paths carved and polished
From the wandering outcasts, of untold pasts, 
Can nonetheless atone, any crooked deed, 
That man must make, before he breaks
Like a twig off the Hallowed Hollow Tree.  {hollow hallowed tree]

There on the hill where it grows bury me [thee],
In the oak creviced nooks, of twisted roots,
Ply this body into [willowed/widowed] woody limbs. 

This folding should explain another presided* humble forgotten end.
*presided: how can anyone be humble by will, or by purpose?

 

CORAL COAST GROWTH

New Zealand, or somewhere coastal, untouched by human activity.

Coral structures, a holobionic organism, grown to the heights of city buildings, including skyscrapers.

We (not sure who) flew over and through its valleys of coastal features, between the towers.  Solaris.
Everything, all the forms were: food, living, alive, diverse;
For us to be there meant not knowing what would be eatable.
There was no evolution taking place in this dialogue, It Arose from a previous built accommodation—it was a new biome, a novel evolution,
Precisely of this Earth, but foreign to us, totally out of time and highly advanced.  [Chapter 5 of I Contain Multitudes captures the feeling in its description of coral.]

The chief of the local tribe, or local people would paddle board out
on a flimsy board, made of hand-carved wood.  The board, however,
would transform into a shark, eventually growing to the size of a dinosaur.

Looking at my feet and notice my skin changing.
My right foot had grown thick, tough skin, topside of the toes.
By contrast my left foot’s skin became more supple and tender.
I attributed this to poor circulation on the right foot,
and ocean water respectively for the left foot.
The changes seem to manifest with a palpable, salient tempo,
Similar to the rate of a setting sun, or slow passing clouds.

There was a factory or industry, a port or complex that suffered
from the conditions of climate change due to harsh weather.
It destroyed the colony but restored the natural order to a degree
Completely alien to humans, but in total agreement and harmony
With everything the local people tribes had learned.
I don't know if they were still there.
They had tried to adapt to the industrial growth
By selling timber and other goods but it didn’t fit.

I don’t know why I was there.
Not clear what form my body took,
But I was witness to it, mostly visually.
A restored world of the Marine; no humans,
Rarely did beauty manifest in people,
As it was everywhere in this Corals Coastal Reef.

The coral towers were unbelievable crystalline growths,
Jewels of thriving life to0 alien and strange to comprehend.
As if coral reefs swelled out of the ocean.
More intense than the wildest moment in Avatar.
Patterns reminiscent of chaos theory based imaging,
Fractal festooned crystals in caves, mass migration of insects,
Fields of untouched moss, sea-shell lines on deserted beaches,
Where the shell line collects its dead, the sun bleaches the calcium,
And they stack until something or time or water turns them into...

But this line of white shells is the contrast to what colors
Exalted luminous, glistening the towers.  The mineral and rare earth materials
In the any natural history museum starts to approximate the quality
Of visual overload spectacle.  A feeling that some unimaginable marvelous process,
Or interrelation had emerged such wondrous forms.

Why was it  not all make it all grey?
This was a dream of Moloko.

 

THE SILHOUETTED SHOW

The silhouetted show, every morning, sun, plant, curtain, eye,
Leaving out light, the most obvious, like air, “let there be air,
And water.”  An so it was.

Bald as a bat.
Blind as an eagle.

The morning calls first of shapes then of its curves. 
No.
That’s not it.

Link the lines.  Give out the sentences.  Nurture what resonates.

Reuse the frames with new drawings.


A FATHER DREAMS 12:34pm

CHASING CORAL

Cities, neighborhoods, homes, highways, and streets of the ocean,
Its inhabitants, the coral, fish, plankton, and algae, in balance,
Called life.

The human dream is one of heat.
Moloko Islands [insert Wr. from the trip].
What is understood of physics, how energy moves,
What the oceanographer knows of heat absorption
Shows that water holds 97% of greenhouse effects,
Greenhouse is the reference to the built structure
To contain a climate during winter, but to Earth is done
By Carbon released emissions—the ecologist can measure
The effects, what in Celsius should be doubled, for 2° is 4°
And this sounds like more.  Whatever stories can be told,
Whatever PR can convey, through advertisement to bestow,
A gift to people to implore, without guilt, duty, or shame,
A way to embrace in pleasure and care, what nor many dare,
Not for lack of caring, but for lack of knowing how, to go about,
The changes in one’s life, to trickle up the system, and down
The system to flush out the old ways, inherited by the industrial
Revolution and all its means.  The craft of corporations have evolved
Mass systems of delivery to sustain, for now, a way that drives
The educated to doubt with any certainty a way out,
Of this spiraling imposing demand from the land
What by human hand is not a way to entertain a future kind
To animals and us, in this wonder world we entrain to sustain
Our needs, and anxieties to forget, to place out of sight.

Tr^. Blue Books 2014.04.17.1014

SWAYS – – RHYTHMS – The natural collective result of everything having an effect on each other.  And collectively creating a symphonic-synchronic-like state.  Proper connection on this state allows us to “flow” in different environments.  Perception is then a tool that allows us to learn and become one with the environ we inhabit.  The habits of the environment, collectively, harmonize into a state of flowing: the phenomenon can be seen in the “sways.”

SWAYS:  wave periods; tree sways; lung expansion and contraction.  Wave sways give rise to little sand ripples; the variety of grain size and weight are affected differently by the surge, which shapes them into minute sand banks.  Here too we have surfaces meeting, like our finger prints.  Surfaces meeting correspond to sounds, bird calls, wind, water, olfactory perception (odors and pheromones); temperature, moisture variations, as in the approaching storm clouds.  How do some animals know well in advance rain is imminent?  Their sway mechanism is totally connected to these conditions; for which, we don’t have much use, so we may try to re-find our lost connection (a singular kind, shaped by conscious scanning attention) by adding technology to bridge what at some level of history perhaps we did much accurately; i.e. the sway.
Environ rhythm = becoming invisible.  This could also mean becoming so connected that the body disappears in the collective sway, as one moves with it, and there the body never fights or becomes self-conscious, which is another way of saying: becoming aware of muscle contractions that don’t have allocated mental space, so a feed-back loop of resonance starts, and distortion.

Sway def. being aware of as much as possible without one conductor, but being able to switch focus, speed, scale, and pace of interactions without any obstruction.  What in Chinese Tao is called Wu-Wei after on understands the Li of the situation.

Surge of ocean caused by spiral, fluid dynamic motion of wind surface, ocean wave, and distance to the bottom.  This transference of energy is measureable.  Wind to water to wave to surge to bottom to floor shape to ripples of sand.  Wind’s footprint through ocean water near beach or on fresh water too?

How does it mimic in appearance a finger print?

Is emergent or improvised a related state or different?

Accumulation, accretion principles, perpetually (slow or skipping) like moon phases.

 

WISP PINK, BACKS THE LOWER GRAYS

Loud droning deep sound in the air, reverberating to the success of dislocating a point of origin.
Another sunset.  Every day one minute earlier, the moon five to six minute.  
In all of this that is the city, everything has a weight of overwhelming potential, it tries.  Grows louder, and digs deeper, when the will is weak.  
These evenings are temperate, the breeze untangles the mesh of the day’s toil.  All these percussion we imbue.
Walk in this grid and the buildings  shift around the known streets, each day they move counterclockwise, so that is a week later, going to the corner deli, would mean finding it seven buildings over, relative to the ground, but the buildings move in unison.

 

SPRING IN RAIN

If Not Rain the Promise Whirl

The wind whirls
The whirl whirlpools
The whirlpool funnels
The funnel streams
The stream rivers,
The river oceans,        [the river flows] [the flow oceans]
The ocean waves,        [flow – currents] [the wave]
The universe peoples,
The forest trees, 
The tree leafs,
The leaf breathes, 
The breath expands,
Before they fall.

The weather of accepted rain,
It is not raining, but there’s a promise

A tree filled with city pigeons like beads tightly balanced on branches,
A cat rummages littered and disposed plastic items, 
Broken, rusted, left to blow inside the joke of a chain
Linked fence.  Most of it rusted.  Most of it mesmerizing—
Nothing ages this much in the city, not even through sheer
Abandon.  The empty space becomes the stout oak, once
Revered for its fortitude, now the lot remains in its stead
Of truth gained by melding time,
Twisting the scales of growth.  
Of an empty lot between
A few buildings
It takes a few days to see leafs come out.
It takes months and years to see the seed [sprout]
Become a tree.
It takes a lifetime to see a tree will outlast the people, 
An era to see the soil and rock outlast the tree,
And the universe to outlast any concept we may have.
So many time frames existing together that we miss the rhythm most of the time.  
Or perhaps we don’t.

Find a seed
Plant a seed
Grow a sprout
Feed the tree
Chop the tree down
Make wood
Use wood to build.

**Suggestive, evocative; we need reminders to put in mind of something: cause to remember.  Attention + Time = Skill.
Spirilium, spiral, coil: (Gk.) Sparton : rope, spiring : pinnacle, steeple.
Spire : grass, “Blade of Grass.”

Gasket : Rope
Petrichor : scent produced after rain.
Gk: ichor : fluid that flows in the veins of Gods.
Petra : rock, petros : stone

Whorl : something that whirls : an arrangement of similar anatomical parts (as leaves) in a circle around a point on an axis.

 

SPRING TANGLES 

Spring tangles life, webs branches where the pine needles grow.

Webbed branches catch/call creatures and needle the air.

 

CLOUDS FIXES24

The clouds fixes everything — from above, all the variations mushroom, mountains, from below, we call the weather by name, the clouds, definitions unknown, by group to reference the larger consequences.

I’ve paid careful attention for many years on the things relevant to a visual practice, and this feeling of not recognizing or forgetting a first moment for the activity.  I don’t know where the watching happens.   [Is this relevant or the right question?] [first mind, zen mind, beginner’s mind?] 

 

STRATA

AL EMPEZAR

El cuerpo tirado sobre la tierra
The body thrown over the ground. 
The body thrown to the ground.
The body absorbed to dirt as one

Strata Starts

Symmetrical Constitution — that are under separate forces: 

1.    Terra Firma
2.    Sobre la Tierra
3.    Over the Skin of Earth

 


 

 

 

SCI / SCIO / SCEI 

To cut, divide.

In Ships: cut out, hollow out a tree or “trunk.”

 

TEMPERAMENT SWELLS

Temperament swells where the heart races
Inside blood realms swaggers the thorn bones along
What skin condemns the prickly free flesh traces
Shelters the contours of rose bush assured [realms] strong
And air forms both kin to bark one storm [face / stoned].

Inside blood realms swaggers the thorn bones along
Shelters the contours of rose bush realms [cocksure] strong
What skin condemns the prickly free flesh traces
Temperament swells where the heart races
And air forms both kin to bark one storm [face / stoned].
[Legacy]

Words cramp the water cartoon called man
Pulls all extremities to feeble parts,
Blown bland, the fighting motes lands by no will of hand.

The best and worst brush against the face of futures.
Dad said, “fight. Fight always against
the worse and weakest part of you nature.
The older you get the more it will want to grow.”

Pinelawn, the wise men gathered in the house talking.

 

ATW POEM  4 FERTILIZATION

NIGHT

SHELL UNION

I never counted how many grass blades [blade/s of grass/grass spires] it takes to build flesh
But, once upon a time a levitating blade of grass descended on the land,
This blade of grass had also once decomposed apart my wife’s hands.
Her body slowly morphed from meat and bone to green meadow [formed],

Separated, pealing the layers, forming blade by blade [of grass,]
Each grass spire floated, hovered, recombined back into turf of the land,        [within the armor shell]
Thickening the filed [ambit], but moments after the wind combed through 

*[a murmuration shifting imprint, its waving [wavering] [surface] skin brushed surface, 
all of grass became a soft graceless mass, subservient to shadow [stalk]/[trace] the fickle wind.  

*[The surface, all blades of grass became the soft mass they had been]
Consistent under feet . . . my wife disappeared under my feet, 

Now, for this armor worn, I might have felt the earth under foot, felt her better
Where it not for the armor I might feel her better, 
but this iron metal is a [stuck] shell on me, penetrated me, 
no longer able to tell inside from outside, 
skin from the shell envelopes flesh, hair, pores.  
only the idea now, the memory event serves a fact, 
eyes see one time continuum, and she still inhabits [exist] elsewhere, anywhere, and here.
Never anywhere anything.
 

MAN KNIGHT

Is there a [another] man-knight in your eyes prospecting your body?
Sitting in the shadows of branches contoured along the nights,
Sleeping and letting this landscape swallow, with every turning of the Earth, 
Whoring a body to decay, not quite ever dying, apoptosis, the gestures tell us
Which room the meditator kid/man can walk through, can reanimate, alter the knight’s body.
Owl, pellets. 

*[Is there another man-knight in your eyes prospecting your body?
I am sitting in the shadows of branches along the nights . . . sleeping and letting this landscape swallow me without dying or whoring my body to decay.]


*[SHELL UNION]—older version

Once upon a time a levitating blade of grass descended on the land,
This blade of grass had also once composed part my wife’s hand.
I never counted how many pieces of grass it takes to build flesh
Her body slowly morphed and from meat and bone became green,
Separated, pealing the layers, forming blade by blade of grass,
They floated away and where assimilated back onto the land,
Thickening the turf, but moments after the wind combed through
The surface, all blades of grass became the soft mass they had been
Consistently under my feet . . . my wife disappeared under my feet, 
Where it not for the armor I might feel her better, but this iron metal is stuck on me and it’s penetrated me, no longer able to tell inside from outside, my skin from the shell I know envelopes my flesh, hair, pores.  I only have the idea now, the memory of the event to serve as fact, but my eyes see in one time continuum, and she may still exist elsewhere . . . 

 

ANGER AND LIGHTNING — Spider Branches

If you see the lightning strike, you are alive,
If you don’t, you are dead, and fear unbecomes.

Lightning since six years old was a great love.
Thunder like branches breaking.

What is the image of this frustration that evolves?
To anger.  The quiet rage sits.

If I tangle a tree, this is not it, the tree is simply
Entangled and does not seem to mind.  
So why should I?

And if it is from childhood, how to synthesize the energy
Into image to work with it?

Spider branches.

Running without moving, the parking brake on while driving,
Swimming upstream, yet I’m not a salmon, I’m a lone wolf flow.

When will I feel this consistently?

The skin merged with everything, beyond the apparatus of containment.

Carlin looks at the world as a freak show, and
as an American you have a front row seat to the show.

 

DAWNWATCHER

Another one of these.  
Another night, quiet fulcrum.  
Another pain-perfect balance between impossible sleep and waking daylight.  Please blink.
Dawnwatcher see-saws Dreamwalker.  
Another night of insomnia definition—she steals the quiet and places a fulcrum.  So I walk past my furniture.  This totem fulcrum that beholds the word pole staked deep.  Repeated phrases of the day stick and spread like white pine sap.  The forgiving winds come through.  Another stop.  Another detail perhaps more irrelevant. 
“I work out of chaos best, seeing sympathetic patterns merge.”  
    
Sing the song so to speak.  And I know what beauty is: add two things as one.  Merge another two, and keep this process until all part disappear, and the strange emerges.  For all the brilliant historians that have written, I’ve never come to know by reading them, how Aristotle felt.  I still seek to know what the dust may have been like.  
    The feathers lay plucked on the table inside the pouch—owl feathers.  
    I claim to think in images, but when words arise, they become distortions and intuitive sounds.  They hold to images like their shadows.  All I’m trying to do is awake and start again from there.  Sounds build in frequency and volume.  Or perhaps it’s just the lack of sleep that frays the nerves.  I can add this up.  I can make sense of this.  When she lays in bed I can’t sleep.  Another lover.  Another.  A black window.  Be blind.  Engines spin out of balance, and I’m looking for my corner to rest.  I’ll sleep in the corner.  
    I can’t sleep in my bed with someone I know.  The stranger is better.  Imagination seems a rope that helps the space, and yet I worry.  And the women ask me if I ever sleep?  Or if I speak out loud when I’m alone?  Now I’m not sure why I speak at all, if only to flush out these sounds.  Out of respect for others I do my best to tailor the static into interesting ideas built of meat and abiding by the laws in nature.  So when they stop listening, I fall silently awake.  Inside the murmurs grow.  As with my heart murmur, the door never closes.  

Rikrit said to have one or two questions; to let go and be open to the experience.  

I see the forms of a figure.  I know this phrasing is wrong; it should be the form of a figure, but this is not what I see.  In the figure, the man, who was once me, I see forms—part that compose the figure.  In the arm is a gesture, the knee and hair too.  I see the parts first and the whole comes later, almost by default of logic, or economy.  This looking from the inside out, from the parts to the whole.  It’s not the studied science that divides to understand.  This looking is the visible parts and in them the assembly begins.  In this assembly is my study; the science occurs whole.  Always reversed from common sense:

            Visual speech.  Seeing in words.  Images for thought.  
            Speech visuals.  Words in seeing.  Thought for images.
I am grateful for the company I have.  I am grateful to have visitors and people that listen, who are curious and who care.  I am grateful that business seems to be picking-up.

If a single human is the age of the known universe, then one breath is the age of civilization.  Imagine that.  In a single breath, without a word uttered, all that is know appears and vanishes, while the body continues.  

Spooky math.
13,700,000,000 years
On average, a person at rest takes about 16 breaths per minute. This means we breathe about 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year. Unless we get a lot of exercise. The person who lives to 80 will take about 672,768,000 breaths in a lifetime.
Humans have been on Earth about 200,000 years.
1,681,920,000,000 breaths
The ratio of breaths of a lifetime to the time of the universe is
171,250,000 to 1
So if the life of a human is considered the universes age, then
4 breaths is equal to the life of a person living to 80 in relationship to the age of the universe.  That’s 15 seconds out of 80 years.  
Four breaths is what is needed to fall into rest.

 

ACCELERATED DAWN ELEMENTS

Accelerated evolution for dawn elements
War machine and tools to protect your fears
the things which grow from the soil and point to the heaven, 
communicate all our thoughts, spread them across the skies in
invisible waves, pick them up as you need. organize the whole
world, the small the large, nothing will evade our order and shelves.
An archive for the future archain
fallen coded pollen from flowers
stolen and woven into feathers
nature grows throught the cracks
I want to control the thing I can’t see
I want to feel that which does not belong to me.
I want to run away from that mess.
I want to supress the stranger at mass.
Gray structures without scale without marks, 

pollen from the flowers
fallen from the feathers

dawn elements, permanent dawn, and polygon versus
dawn dusk
dawn twilight

dawn gloaming
arbor gloam

Traps, Screens, and Offerings: Dawn Elements
Fallen Pollen

Between Polygon and Versus
between daylight and darkness

Dawn Elements for Polygon and Versus
verse and versus
nature forms geometric configurations to summon the humans
micro/macro
keep a strong metaphor
traps, screens and offerings
divisions, constructs, and recovery
hand inside the armor shell
versus and polygon
geometrics

The idea of free will is irrelevant in the face of our present world condition of global warming, climate change, and reduced resources.  Everyone is in a transition where
all people are connected and effect the air we breathe.  It has gone from local politics to
world crisis.  And so was Darwin right? Survival of the fittest? Perhaps, but how does one define natural selection when we operate more like a virus, taking over a host, the planet.  And how to account for the technology we have developed to wage wars, and feel more aware?  Is this truly a reflection of our soul?  Do our tools define us?  Evolution?
Are maybe more something like a collective organism, not a set of individuals where there is room for gain and failure all alike.  If we continue in this course there will be no planet left that is welcoming for our species . . . nano structures-tactics-order
for a more gentle armament
a requiem for the recovered
desintegrations, refractions, constructs, concealments.
astronomical body to landscape conduits
coordinates 0000:0001
when I embrace you in the future their will only be a shell for you live in the skin of your
technology.
Only a Shell and Skin
Shell and Skin


DIAMOND MEAT FEAST — Consummation, Clutching Muscles25

“Accepting, rather than taking…” the object and rigidity. (ref. 188)

Going from animal to mineral and jewel.


BABBLE BROOK OF NOSENSE DATA

What product is man by dillydally shred n’ torn?  

Mary went twice before I could,
the merit spilled on you.

Vulcrest the dilly thorn dawn.

“So who are you in the then den?”
“No sir!”
“None to speak of or any matter for your worry.”
“Why bring it up then?” 

Shut the trap, the grizzly time trap hour another

Tell the tale of that history mold,
Lived by shelter and hermit mind,
Singlet becalmed, become and bee. 
Intervals repeat the shaping waves and sand,

Air and mother.
The one who holds
hum the extraordinary.
  
Could you handle the mountain dispersed
Valley of Frozen Time of Augur
Canyon of Echoes
 
Mother blind; father deaf.
Their time and lullaby will fly.
Of love two made one breath.      [Yet two strove one last breath]
How kind their firmly eyes sagged.

Senses conscript the crooked brook.  
Babble dream, comedy of time,
What remnant senses crow along,
Be still, when murmurs land in hand.

All that has come, all that has gone, 
Impart such song, the spectral form,
Comes for each thread, the other line shade,
Of background thought, remain there each alone.

Centerverse spiraling, sets loop time.

And through this time, the texture of technology records, film to video,
The young cultural scene and voices thin, collectively sink age in skin, 

Thus culture moves in a locus state, in each person recognized, 
When the voices were young, when they have grown and thickened,

Like the wines that age collectively, when the minerality of water explains

How the landscape exchanges, 
the star from truth, the oak tree belief.

The star from truth, the tree from seed, 
the bloom of root, push limb and leaf.

The mountain from rain, the drop from past ice, 
which moves us through the ages of collective time.

How a story passage will be in future tolled, 
Of young to the new land, a history perennially planted
A barren seed, strikes the rock, feeds the birds
And from these wings, code blood within formed.
Even in conversations, the voice whirlpools out, 
Stretches the trees, howl of the valley gust, 
As change must from air a feather born.

For Christ the dilly deli thorn form.
Full crest the dilly so I’m done.  
Full crest the daily sound on.
Would’ve crest the daily button done.  
Voted rest of the daily taking on.
What is the daily source done?


Word visions.
Allegoria.  
Claustrophobia.  
Caracól del tiempo.
Harmonia.  
Botánica.  


Kept listening, makes sense the way he talks about Aborigines living by synchronicity, in dreamtime mythology place takes precedence over time, so instead of chronological time there is a strata of time / multiple temporalities, which isn't to say there is necessarily no causation in the sense that each ancestor has an impact on place, but such happenings are simultaneous. Also relates to the Deleuzian notion of becoming / unbecoming (did that not originate with Deleuze maybe I'm wrong on that) and as entanglement suggests, there can be happenings without a direct causal relationship. I liked his question as to whether synchronicity can be something "manufactured" in the sciences, which strikes me as one of the things quantum experimentation is trying to achieve. Glad you liked the other piece too and yes - very mythobiology-esque ;)

Great insights.  Yes.  Thanks for writing about this. Been thinking about time. 

Jung called Synchronicity: "an acausal connecting principle."

The key is how connections emerge in a acausal way, which begs the question,
If we can even understand the world in that way by thinking consciously,
Or if there's something more subtle and more intelligent we can't name.  The Taoist called it "Tao". 
But it's undefinable as it's the center of everyone at once and everything around those centers as a collective environment.  This field then, how does it time? 

More to chat about in person.  Any plans this eve?

ps.  Deleuze ref:

I think the Becoming/Unbecoming is what is called the "world of becoming/unbecoming", as opposed "the world of being.”  The first is dualistic, the “being” transcends ego, language, time, etc.

It’s interesting to study how in history people have measured time, and how they’ve named it, which is more surprising than one would assume.  


APOLOGY OF DAWN VERSUS — The Womb

Don't know what to write.  The flying flip-flops when dad chased me in the rear-view mirror I could see them going up high and he looked desperate, while I laughed nervously, no I didn't laugh but the sensation was the same without he externalized sound of laughter.  I was  alone in the car, and had no sense of where it would take me but I left.  I was seventeen at the end of my junior year in high school.  The year 1990.

Social media uses the same framework of exchanges as do advertisement firms and metadata researchers.
Is this true? And how true?  

The medium in this case of the nervous system being wrapped about the globe and interpenetrated with the biosphere is being managed by a few powerful companies.  Nothing is powerful enough on its own to hold attention, unless made to some extreme.  The constant stream of nonsense, does affect the senses.  

Though I am here I always glance out the window.  I can help it.  When this happens, I’m immediately selfconscious that it’s happening, but find it more of a fascination than something to worry, to graduate the brief interval to a state of worry.  

The voices in my head are mostly from the series Mr. Robot.  L. Carrol’s a diet for the mind, or feeding the mind.  The eyes can consume, but they too need time to digest.  What is the “obese eye/gaze”?

If nature’s sound have way of arranging the mind’s chatter, then how is this carried out in the city, where sounds have their own electronic resonance.  Is it deciphered, filtered, blared out, drowned by headphones, or playing music, etc.?  (ToMB)

Gotta let it all go.  Even the past has to go.  BE HERE and see what the body does.   Even if here is 

Scattered today.  Finger nails too long, a new feeling starts, picking, oily, collecting grit under the nail, and mostly it resists the digital interface, oil and nail.  

A comet, L: cometa Gk: kommete: “long-haired” from kome: “hair”

Apology of Versus 

As he tried to reach you, Versus hurt the gentle creature, 
Koala Bear and Sloth on the tree.  Ash colored and pouch.
No damage done, but broken lines, docile fur bloom on the bark,
Moves about from trunk to limb.  A bear bares the upward root,
The walker wonders how you sway and drape among leafs,
I don’t know you, but my body seems to knows more of the lore
That from the air conceives potential magic, between cloud and land,
Lightning came to sit by me, but who is it that knows, where fissures
By dialogue our duty and pleasure to amend, so the sky cracks open by bolt,
Forges the spine from earth to watery fluff and step.

*The Womb

There is a womb turned inside out, where what in the tissue grows,
Becomes the world about, where we tread and participate,
To feel this texture when Polygone reverses her shell, reveals the orchestration
And there we lie, 

 

Tr^. Blue Book 2014.02.09.1216

ANXIETY – A Misunderstanding of Fear and Anxieties:

Fear is not the cause of anxiety.
Anxiety is the cause of fear.
Anxiety is a state of being, fear is objective.
Anxiety can be seen as a set of conditions:
A place where an event occurred.
Events can be described as a set of actions that
Propel fear in response, but within the anxious state.
Strangled, anxiety summons fear as a fear recruits
A reason, or reasons, or source, to engage or avoid.
Anxiety addiction plays with, exacerbates, and creates
Misperceptions, leading to fear; renewing the cycle.
In this case, fear: the unknown, inadequate, and
Unmanageable relates to something defined,
But elusive to mind; anxiety cares not, but the body reacts.
Anxiety feeds and grows fear.

*Letting go breaks the cycle, and Fear is then the Vertigo of Curiosity,
which under relaxed states, is felt a mystery with a sense of awe.

 


WHEN I WAS YOUNG IS WRONG

When I recall the images of my youth, the events that link me to this present, such trivialities of play like sliding down a toboggan, or climbing a tree don’t seem to account with the kind of weight which at 43 all actions appear to inherently imbue this defined and accrued experience.  It solicits consciousness now, but never before.  While those succession of playful states were spent without worry, without result or record, though all children as did I, worried too, but not about the analogous reach to the present that torques time in perverse decadence.  Time never moved then.  Time built a rocket while over the years I slept and greedily stole the gaze to meet itself, only to push forward.  The fulcrum of the sea-saw is traversed, and again, and this is entropy.  But as a child such a word didn’t break bonds or bones.  Years spent and now, I don’t rebuild the body of the child in such recalls, but the smaller, younger flesh was there, it’s easy to believe, more textured than a dream, and beside it: the pictures–photos haunt with proof.  If I only knew then to look back into the camera and speak the quiet words only the face can, and say, “yes, it’s you.  I, now you, we see you from decades ago.  Do you see me?”  What I can construct is the placement of gaze.  The bonds with friends are without pictures as they craft in their ageless faces every time we collect our times together.  If only the child, innocently looking, but not knowing what this looking would become, or how it would be remembered by the play of devouring time, could know.  Yet, all children are fierce, taunting and devouring time.  Adults ration minutes in crumbs.  Where and when did the shift snap into place?  When did the threshold recede into past?  Can you touch or cup it by your hands, without first seeing the wrinkles charting a personal geology?

When I was young I could see without a body.  When I was young I wanted an adult alien body to maneuver.  Not to stand like trees, but to command freedom.

 

VERSUS INTUITIONS AND INSTINCTS

Versus’ intuitions and instinct, how nature grows over him, his armor shell; how he lives inside the suit, following an archaic quixotic-hero’s folly imbued in ancient ironic tragedy, yet through the visibility of both the natural and technological watches, beings, or entities, they manage to communicate, to become closer, to live in their shell, and disperse through the complexity of the ecosystem, both allowing the “networks of influence” to affect them, but also to alter the structure of the network itself.  This exchange of interiority / exteriority or “apparatus of containment” as I call it casts light to a more complex set of interactions that are symbiotically emergent…where culture and biology meet, or for that matter, anything living and organic coming into contact with past representations of such organisms, like a person discovering their own footprints, or unearthing ancient artifacts that recorded the importance of a ritual or food we not longer tolerate, or Darwinian evolution coming into the consciousness of the world.  All these moments have in common a kind of “mythobiology,” where the narrative, idea, or scientific discovery itself shifts perception in such a way that it trickles down to the make-up of our biology, not unlike epigenetics, uncovering a web of deceit, or discovering a new mystery.  

 

UNION AND OFFERINGS

       The triptych operates in unison to resemble in presentation an analogous model (and view), science and technology presented of the brain: left and right hemispheres, connected by neural fibers, in the tissue area called corpus collosum.  The central panel operates as the joining factor between the two mirror based images of the landscapes. 
       The concept of Adam and Eve is also another theme in the work, I wanted to make reference to them, so that one would have the feminine panel, the masculine panel, but also introduce the idea of self-reflection, and eliminate the baggage of guilt that is prevalent in the tradition of adam and eve pantings (like shame of their nudity, or biting the apple).
       In these drawings you have the princess making and offering to a version of herself that either the land has produced or is consuming.  The princess offers a branch with blooms.  Blooms are dominant throughout the trees in the female drawing, conversely where, leafs are dominant on the trees of the male drawing.  
       But back to the main concept . . . I wanted the drawings to be reflections of each other so that the viewer would be able to investigate over time the differences that the land embodies because of the imposition of the two main characters.  So the waterfalls are different, the trees have different element growing from them, some of the stumps are growing branches, and in some cases not in the other drawing.  It’s important that people feel compelled to investigate the details . . .     
       There are many symbolic and metaphorical clues in the drawing.  For example: in the right side drawing with knight, you have his jousting lance broken, his elbow armor is also fractured and so is the branch that would have continued the gesture of his lance at the brain of the princess.  He’s also been consumed or frozen by the land . . .
The character swap roles even though they exist in similar places. In the princess drawing there is the skull of a bird in the same location as where (now in the knight drawing) you have the knight climbing up the waterfall. . .
       The work I think is about a relationship, obviously, but in addition it’s about being aware of oneself existing within the parameters of a particular world.  Therefore both character have the luxury (or not) of being able to find themselves as though they have walked upon a version of the self that existed either in the future and has been frozen, or held captive by the past.  Like walking into your bedroom to find a version of yourself that has been lying there for two hundred years . . .
       I used the hair of the princes as a signifier of time and meditation, but in the knight drawing her hair has turned into “code” like that existing in the waterfall, and on the head of the princess, in the princess drawing . . . I wanted to show a transference of information.
       The central panel shows the cross relationship of both drawings. Like cross-pollination.  
       
Male, masculine, leafs, yang, outter, 
Female, feminine, blooms, yin, inner,  

DEFINITIONS and THEMES

Symmetry
Reflection
Growth
Time
Information
Code
Opposites
Compression
Expansion
Landscapes
Stumps
Fractures
Hair
Water
Air
Levitation
Grass
Crystals
Geometry
Storytelling
Tragedy
Irony
Gender
Scrolls
Debris
Ropes
Technology
Violence
Skulls
Helmets
Skin
Shells
Pores
Constellations

 

UNDERGROUND NETWORKS ARE TRAVELED DAILY

Underground networks are traveled daily.
Eyes look downward at screens, eyelids half-closed,
Are these sleepers by daylight, or heads bowed to the world?
A forest of people with private suns for the branches of mind
To extend towards the selected app skies?

 

NIGHT BECKONS

Night beckons the silent circle,
Day sets stiff the square
but neither favor the triangle
this later is for symbolic or
crystalline sets.

the repetitive analysis by heart
and record of atlas, carrying
the body of Earth.
Aging.  Morphing these lands.
Always surprised, and always ignored.
The device never settles nor defines wholly.

I feel the landfall grasp as it drains out and away, the tug of draining water, ocean claims its waves back, our back to the beach.

Being single robs one of change.  Fashions die away.
How to transcend oneself, and stay that way, a continual cuming.

Love is the most patient (or stubborn) of beasts.

 


TWO BECKON THE MAGISTRATE

Two beckon the magistrate, fierce suns breathe the morning light,
Today we go into the rainforest the way people perceive astronauts going to space.
For the first time in history, space, not Space, but space, is a destination, a place.

 

TRYING TO SEE THESE ABSTRACTIONS

Trying to see these abstractions that come to as words and images but devoid of  concrete sensations.  How do we physically feel a news headline, or a warning, and somehow it’s as real as the ground under our feet.  All these particles of information, fragmented, distorted, compiled that make-up our evolving mind.  How do we collect the mass of abstractions, place some real meaning to the scale of abstraction a picture of a near galaxy, or an electron picture of nanotechnology?  Everything that is out reach for us to epistemological experience still has real weight and a physical reality.  These pictures contemplate some of the gestures we may go through to understand this separation.  How to hold a galaxy, or atom? How to caress them visually?  How to touch the moon?  How to invent a metaphor of experience for the things we can’t hold, but only in our best attempt something the mind can project.  How to internalize what we are told on a daily basis?  

Not so dissimilar from the ancient words of mythology and folklore, the stories helped apply meaning to the quotidian events we gather, yet today these stories are replaced by all the masticated, diluted, and reassembled body of the internet’s content – as inventive as a narrative passed down generations.  Reality becomes an endless chain of other, alternate realities, all of which when seen together may shed light on the “real” of the present.  The show attempts to show gestures to physically feel the links of this chain, especially in relation to the disconnect with nature.  Touching, breathing, and collecting for example, are all accumulated actions to represent the act and the metaphor.  How to make and represent code, a new language, the dispersion of information?  All these metaphysical questions have been treated literally and thus hope to transform the distance between our experience of the world and our dreams.  The real becomes the fantastical and the literal the poem.

I’m not sure how successful this attempt and approximation will be, but it’s part of the ongoing narrative After The Woods.

 

TOPOLOGIES, MMoC — A Sensible Atmosphere Versus Weaves of Polygone Fibers 

Graphite on antique paper reclaimed from a book on Argentina’s national tree – el Ombú.
The book belonged to abuelo “Lolo,” my father’s father.  Abuelito died in 2008 following an over confident surgery to treat cancer.  He was 94, having only retired 2 years prior.  A business man and family proponent, his Italian roots flourished in the back yard, a place where I found wonder and would get lost in the density of the garden.  Banana trees, cactuses, avocado, berries, flowers, and more diversity than there was room but somehow he managed.  The Ombú is a contact point with my past, with Argentina’s arboreal or rather astraul forests.  After the Woods.  On the back side of each page used to make the drawing is a poem or passage from an anthology of writers who praised or evoked awareness of the tree’s beauty and cultural significance.  I wanted to conceal some of the poetry as does the death of a poetic man, but the words exist behind the fibers of the paper and graphite lines.  

 

THIS VOICE INTERNAL

We all have an internal voice narrating, pondering, questioning, adding and commenting, distracted or focused.  This voice, internal, sounds oddly like what our voice is projected to sound.  If we record our speaking voice, it’s always somewhat of a shock to hear it back.  It’s not what we hear inside.  And so if this voice we carry inside is part of our being, like the blood in our veins, and the genes in our cells, do we inherent the voices of our grandparents and on backwards in time?  Is there an amalgam of voices and whispers that we experience in this collective present called consciousness?  Colloquialisms are the words of our friends and gestures we pick-up from the environment.  The environ-ment.  Literally from the Latin: surrounding mind.  Our mind’s voice, its sense of present, does it transpose the past?  

My grandfather had an internal voice, as do you.  Do others ever have a chance to hear this?  Synchronicity?  

How or who amasses the choir of whispers?

 

THE WIND AND WINDOW FURY

Ballads linger outside the windows;
together, 
larger than buildings, 
perhaps even greater,
extending the length of city blocks.

Dragons, 
flying against glass and bricks,
humming verse.

A vertical sliver, unpursed lips
between in here and out there,
the parted window, 
shaves scales off the wind's skin 

soft, selective sounds, 
lull fog to cushion,
paranoia’s ears safely muffled.

Monsters cradle these buildings,
their breath outside lay sheets, 
bodies enveloped in whispers,
devoured by swirls of song. 

Slumber takes over easily, 
eyes crack, a silent parade
of drunken windows,

Brick, mud, and milk, 
blow the powder blue
dawn to silvered morning.

Windows transfigurate
from prussian to pale
from night to warmth
from twisted reflections,
to constructed or endless or insistent views.

Window is a window (moor)more,
wind and mirror fury;
plentiful surprises, and eraseable trails, 
and unseen wakes.

Found lines split in two; 
parallel tracks, pried open
milk the air reversed, 
and windows curtains breathe
us all and whole.


THERE’S A PROBLEM IN PERCEIVING THE REALM
*(duplicated under It Perceived Him in the Eye?)

There is a problem in perceiving
the realm of being, when the realm is altered
by the thoughts through technology 

Skies, clean air, clean water.

The evolution forces the hand of craft
to command through thought again,
And the cycle reiterates, concentric spirals.

Cities challenge the balance of color and form, 
so grey goes the bird, hard the surfaces
And chemical odors to navigate, 
whilst this pushes the counterbalance to thrive,
To show what is most noble in people, 
and what worries anxiety to extremes.

Technic images and metal dreams of data streams
to swim through, a maze of streets, parade of cars.

These measured scales of science, art, 
and wisdom are so small and precise.

The slow poetic unfolding still functions by far, 
but space goes unnoticed, untraced,
In our families we see more, 
folded histories taking form, 
and with water for memory
Feed and shape our bones.  

All these quiet fears that beckon us to part
from what is near the heart, the gentle start, 
some pierce it some can’t, the learned recant.

Child knows more
what to words implore
new sounds, 
those things found, 

Play in the sways and rhythms past the old, 
for all the wisdoms they are told,

The green shoot grows facile and can
reconcile what the brittle bone won’t.
  

Could totally turn out to be true.  
The matrix of migraines always
short-circuits into this prism fractals.  

so much to explore!

Todd von Ammon wrote:

yeah. that's my focus during meditation
most of the time and yes, super comforting to know
that the light isn't an illusion but derived
from the phenomenon of bioluminescence.

also since the eye is a very sophisticated subatomic
particle detector - seems like these clouds, 
grids and prisms are a window into the unified field. 

Ernesto Caivano wrote:

This is great.  Strange and comforting somehow. 

Todd von Ammon wrote:

love this idea. reminds me of phosphenes.
These strange blobs you see have a name; 
they’re called “phosphenes,” and researchers believe
that actual light may play a role. 
But not ordinary light — 
this light comes from inside your eyes. 
In the same way that fireflies and deep-sea creatures can glow, 
cells within our eyes emit biophotons, or biologically produced light particles.

Ernesto Caivano wrote:

The Jung writing that came up in conversation. 
Lumen Naturae, scintillae, man born into a star.
I've loved this section, essay, by Jung, from Vol. 8, 
Collected Works, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. 
Perhaps the way light enter the iris and is registered
in the wiggle of the wave before the particles are registered??

Todd von Ammon wrote:

and in the darkness of a countryside night, 
shoved the bodies flopped and rolled into the hole. 

nice

Ernesto Caivano wrote:

Thanks for this!  Printing out and will read.  

Funny, I wrote this yesterday in the dream journal about “perceiving” 
The narrative may have been a matrix of the eye’s biology.  Read for yourself:

Dream—
 
Compute, la Computadora, feminine:
 
What’s the problem, it perceived him in the eye?
What’s the problem? …it perceived him in the eye.
What problem is this—it pierced him in the eye?
M1:          You should slow down, take a break and catch your breath,
M2:        You know what I think about all the time?
             Coffee.  Ever since he’s gone, I think about coffee.
The man disappeared back into the cut between two heaps of soil.  After a few more shovel-full of dirt, the man pulled himself swiftly out of the grave dug, and in the darkness of a countryside night, shoved the bodies flopped and rolled into the hole. 
N:            I may know what he was doing there now.
M1:         Does it matter what he has done?  He’s your friend.
                Doesn’t matter what he does, he is your friend.  
M2:         Come on, let’s go.  
The truck cabin smelled a pleasant ply of nicotine and burned motor oil.  The seats were a patchwork of old vinyl islands, and crack interstices shaping the palm of a hand. 

Todd von Ammon wrote:

<phosphene_phenomenon_a_new_concept_www.5mp.eu_.pdf>

Ernesto Caivano wrote:

Unfinished drawing.
Definitely get this Jung book, not the republication of "Synchronicity.”  
Thanks for sending the Phosphene Phenomenon paper.  
Besides the obvious feast of terminology, 
it's fascinating to compare how Jung in his study of alchemists
literature found aspects described now though neuroscience.  
The "mechanical phosphenes"...love these.  Melatonin too.  
Makes one wonder if the outside world of light is reworking
the inner biophosphenes, then the implications for visualizing, 
implicit formae (pattern recognition) and Jung's spark of light
in the water earth mud all have correlates and separations
are illusions like a magic show of Maya? 
(the ref. to "maya" here from Vedic language). 

Would be a fun project to compare and contrast Jung and the Phosphenes.    

By the way, the article has inspired many new titles and concepts.  
Chromophores.  
Fantastic, given that the CT drawing I sleep under is "Chroma Transmissions."   

I've read somewhere that what we perceive outside
is the projection of exactly what the brain, 
or what we may call "mind" is “seeing.”  
Phosphenes are not separate from outside
though they're attributed to neural cells
and bioluminescent Biophotons.  
Gotta love the jargon of the paper.  
"Mind" in an older sense is another word for "space,"
what older western culture called "heaven,"
the “non-local,” has no time location, 
no form, but from this "unnamable" field, 
if "field" is even correct, perceptions emerge, correlated.  
Tao?

How they can study with such detail chemical
and electronics if the brain is an achievement of wonder.  

Somehow the "scala" (my term for "scaling") 
or in science, orders of magnification, 
reiterates at different magnitudes.  
A biophoton akin to a sun. 

I've thought of this as "Ocular Moons" 
hence the name of some artworks, 
and writing around it which is not edited yet.  

I think Jung would have loved to link
all the new wonders science is unveiling, 
to the ancient wisdoms of alchemists and mystics.  

In conclusion, for now at least ;-), 
maybe a single lumen, a candle, settles the biophotons?  

There's a book by Eric Kandel worth reading
and one by Christof Koch...both focusing on consciousness, 
perception (visual), and memory.    
Peruse around these guys a little then will send the titles.  

Oh, and of course DMT and the pineal gland...
have you read on this? Or tried it?  
Did I send you the Terence McKenna lecture link?  

Ps...was a pleasure having you and Jasmine by
and geeking out over all sorts of material. 

Thanks for sending the link!

btw.  “Opsin” is a new favorite word, 
“opsins” are a wonder…from image formation
to circadian control…I can’t help but wonder too, 
if photosynthesis is a process of the eye, 
which has taken the form of a tree, and vice-versa.  

Opsins for breath?  

It’s too tempting to merge scientific jargon
with the poetic quality of the words, 
(i.e. “sensible atmosphere” or “photosensitive biomolecules”) 
Do they have feelings?


SILENT WOOD SILERE SILVA 

I'm switching Simons
sit in silence
sit in silence
rest in silence
be silent be silent
Mista be silent
calling Mr. beside
beside it in silence
please Mr. signs
Mr. silence
Mr. silence
see you don't see
you didn't see
you see Lanciano. 
Next sentence.

Silencio Silencio
Mr. silence
Mr. Silencio
see Lynn's
you're so so so
When Silencio board followed us
Mr. sit in
sit in silence
sit in silence
silence. Silence
sit in silence horizon
arise are on
sit in silence
sit in silence
citizen
citizen silence
silence citizen citizen
citizen sit in. 
Citizen. 
Sit in silence. 
Citizen lens. 
Citizen less. 
Sit in the citizenry
D cited and wanted the silent wanted wanted one did it. 
These island one tit it. 
Design it wanted it. 
This de Silent
guantelete garantir Astra. 
The cited in the wanted it. 
This island one to do it
D side beside the design
it desire in it and it in a stick
stared into the screen. 
They stared into the screen and that's with screen and girl go was third. 
Silent Desire en Spike sex pico se explico ?? ??????? speak ???? π????? ????????? ?? ? ???? ? come to ?π???? ?????? π???? ??π???? ?????? ??

HORIZON Her Eyes On
A CEREMONY for the / A SILENT
Mr. Sil?re Assail ant  As sails ill, assailant ants,
Ass ail, sill, lent. Silt.

A rumbling deep voice uttered by Silere Silva.
Silent Wood.

How quietly the oak speaks  It snows at 9:07 AM, NYC, January, Enero, 7th, 2017.  Numbers have their way with me as do you.  2017.01.07.0907  The time is my birthday 09/07… resonants and mnemonics.  

A CEREMONY for the SILENT
A rumbling deep voice uttered by Silere Silva.
Silent Wood.  Mythemes everywhere like snow-crystals    

Dear Mr. Alkhul Silva Silere, 
    I want to tell you a story, but first, it’s important you know that when I express being hurt by you, it’s not an accusation, nor a judgement of wrongdoing.  Vulnerability does not come easy to me.  But you have found soft spots and for this I am grateful.  Bear in mind, when you text that your back is hurting, and so ever though you’re free, you won’t be able to see me, this hurts me deeply.  I could have come to you.  You tell me you’re free this week and the moment I try to lock down a day, you go silent or cancel.  My “all or nothing” phone call last night was my silent frustration having the better of me, after drinks with Brett Littman, and an inspired conversation about drawing and architecture.  I felt close to you. I don’t know how to reach you.  I give space.  You are sweet to me.  I approach, sometime you approach too.  Other times, I walk to you, and you run away.  Sometimes you walk to me, and I close up.  Sometimes I argue, it’s a form of foreplay, which learned from watching my parents argue, though I hated it, of course now, it’s appropriated.  
    Rome 2.0 was a good analysis but a short-cut to an emotional resolution.  I reached out when emotions boiled over the threshold of the vessel, and spilled over making a mess.  The mess is easy to clean up.  What matters more is the contents of what simmers.  Forgive the corny analogy, but it’s a cliché of truth.  I don’t know how to serve you and eat from you.  How do we feed another without having these spills?  Do you think it’s strange that after a 1 ? years, I’ve never seen the shape of your pillows, smelled your room, gazed at the surface of your nightstand?  
    There once was a woman and a man.  Their egos were stronger than usual.  Having been hurt by those close, ego was all they trusted, but resented having to depend on it.  The ego couldn’t stand its own need of itself.  A double-bind of reflection was born.  A woman and man met, and so too did their egos. Distracted by circumstance, woman and man were wholly present, and egos resting like well-fed lions, slept under a shaded plot of land far off in the distant plain.  
    They went fast, and they tried slow.  Time turned with the Earth rotating.  He looks for hairs she may have shed in his home.  He doesn’t know what she thinks or feels.  She is scared of him, but need to know she can reach him.  She is sweet to him and wants to play.  He hopes its true.  But the distance ruins the spell for both of them.  Their words lose their merit, and their playful minds, confused and hurt, thin down, shedding the beatitudes felt and built.  But they’re stubborn too, so they try and try again.  Woman and man have eyes that speak better than words charm.  Their eyes speak deeper than reason ever revealed, clearer than madness could conceal.  
    The man misses the woman.  Days turn to weeks.  Weeks become months.  Months fly away like moths by night, and he roams as creature.  A man dependent of all his limbs, among the roots, hand and foot on moss of some imaginary woods for rest.  She makes a horse out of him.  The wolf is his ego.  It attempts to eat itself.  Wolf hunts the horse.  Man hunts the wolf.  Horse haunts the man.  This play of haunt and hunt, between man-horse-wolf, and she sees it all in the palm of her hand.  She too has a horse, not wolf but panther.  Woman-panther-horse.  They hunt another.
    He is brown, like old mountain sequoia bark. She is black, like moonless seas by night.  Together black and brown veined streaks on the mountain face.  A mountain of time and images erupted together.  Awaseto.  He misses her hands.  Her hands miss his eyes.  His eyes miss her breath.  Her breath misses his teeth.  His teeth misses her breasts.  Her breasts miss him.  
    So it snows and the cold crystals collect on the building and not the body naked.  For such little things, the amassing of these little frozen flakes kill.  From the invisible vapor to the condensate form, somehow they too move back and forth by like fashion.  
    Stick a tongue out and the snow fall melt in your throat.  That is me and that is you.
    I leave for Argentina in two weeks.  I hope we see another before then.  I’m assuming tonight is out of question?
    Please don’t let it end this way.  The slow death must be fought, or embraced.  

 

POLYVERSE PROPOSAL

This year has been full of ups and downs, and as the last couple of days wear out, sending best of wishes for a prosperous and healthy new year.
    I’ve been thinking a lot about everything, that is to say, contemplating and feeling things.  And I’ve come to cherish you from afar as it will, for all you’ve represented and have been to my life.  For this I am grateful.  
    I don’t know what kind of space you’re in emotionally (i.e., relationships, etc.) but I felt that I needed to express something that has come to my attention multiple times through synchronicity, and in dreams.  Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s something.  One thing I do know, is that you’ve always been right.  So I can let you be the judge.
    About two months ago, our mutual friend Traci and a good friend of yours came to my studio, and only then did Traci’s friend figure out that I was the Ernesto you use to date.  She asked me about you and how I felt, and pressed me for more than surface comments like “that I wanted the best for you and cared deeply for you.”  What I ended up saying was that I was still in love with you.  Perhaps, we never truly fall out of love with past lovers, and we simply move on with our lives.  Regardless, she had urged me to act, and I of course, didn’t, out of respect, and because it felt idealized.  I’ve always believed in the Tao doctrine of balance, and that for every experience we feel there’s the other side married to it, both being part of the whole.  I say this because it implies a deep sense of trust in life, and that it will provide everything that we can handle, if we’re open.  You’ve been the only woman who has won my trust to the point that having a family seemed like the most natural of steps.  This has never changed, regardless of who I dated afterwards.  Many times, in dreams you’ve appeared as a symbol, and as yourself, as part of my life.  Like an alternate world were things worked out differently.
    In the past, I use to pursue, and become obsessed, and this has changed radically.  I let things come, perhaps too much, when they are ready.  But all the dreams, and these random occurrences with your name coming up has made it seem more salient to reach out.
    I had a vision, and maybe it’s crazy, but it was real.  You and I had children together.  It was simply that.  I don’t know how it happened, or what caused it, but it was vivid and felt real.  And though I’ve never wanted kids with anyone else, you’re remain the only person who I trust with such a vision.  I don’t think it changes things, and of course I remain respectful and admiring of you.  I have no romantic overtures, meaning, I don’t know how to interpret signs anymore.  They take time to process, and run their course.
All I knew was that I needed to tell you.  
    It’s been almost ten years since we met, and after relationships that seemed solid, I remain separated, but happy with work, family and friends.  Perhaps I’ve crossed your mind, or perhaps it is as you once said, “that we had our time.”  I take things as they arise, and try to honor the experiences.  
    I hope I’m not out of line sharing this with you.  I’ve pondered writing you a letter like this many times, and for the past couple of months it’s been a strong pull.  Perhaps someday our paths will cross again, perhaps you’ve thought of me, or perhaps it’s all in my head.  I don’t know, but it is worth reaching out.  Please don’t feel like anything you say or won’t will hurt my feelings, it won’t.  I am sincere in the trust that life has a way of arranging things to work out, based on the intentions we hold dear.  

The two kinds of love I’ve experienced with you, the eros of union, and the agape of profound oneness have both been there.  They’re not for me to own, but to live in like a field or landscape. It’s not something to own but to care for.  This is how I see the emotions and this email.  
    I hope all of this makes sense, and if anything, that it confirms that at least, at one point, there was something true and beautiful that has affected my life and that it may have inspired yours in like manner.  All this to say that if you ever wanted to have children and think I would make a good father, I entrust you profoundly with this union.  
    If you feel compelled to write I will listen well, and if not, I will also take that as a silent and respectful reply too.  Either way, there’s no duty or pressure to respond.  It felt important that I reached out.  It’s uncanny, I have found, how the story of After the Woods, the separation of man and woman, and their inevitable reunion has somehow played out in real life in many ways. These spirits that we are floating about the world, finding other spirits to be part of, has always amazed me.  You have never left me as a spirit, and won’t be greedy to ask for more than that, nor is it something that I could really change anyways.  If we embody a mutual again I will welcome it with open arms, and if not, then it wasn’t meant to be.  The magic of two people becoming as one is one of the most beautiful of mysteries to me, never perfect, and never as expected.  This much I understand now.  
    I’m sending my fondest wishes for a new year, and love to you and family, wherever you may be.  Know that you have at least one pseudo-crazy man who has never forgotten the wonders you broke open for him to see.  I am forever indebted to you for this and try to live through that spirit.

 


AFTER THE PROCEDURE

When he finally awoke, the vagueness of sensations started to manifest definition.  A warm heaviness greeted his body, and though the morphine blunted his sense in exchange for the soft surfaces he felt holding him in place, her eyes were there, gentle, kind, and inquisitive.  Her hand was holding his left palm and before he could think of anything in particular he had already squeezed back.  Though his eyes parted, it was his body that was awake, a priori his mind starting the checklist of confirmations and role calling that he was conscious.  
         He’d never seen an angel nor used the word in conversation, but that was the first word that raised in him, strung up by banners, he read it idiotically out loud—an-gel.  No that wasn’t the word, he tried again, and realized this word he saw, spelled out “angel,” but not his pronunciations, not the way he formulated sounds with his tongue, not his confidence that a single word would succumb to his will simply because he felt it for the first time, no, not his impatience, nor any cursory search for this thing he was suppose to give form, nothing he could utter would breathe life into those five letters, and merit the gaze still crushing him, the internal gaining life while the scaffold of his suffused armor skin dismantled, unshielded.  This word burned the dark side of his eyes, but the word … It already existed.  All he could do was witness some kind of grace he’d never felt before but recognized immediately.  
         She asked, “how are you?”
    Those first few seconds would last a life-time, buried deep within his tissue, a seed that was self-reliant, and would slowly sprout into a tender memory to behold as a triumph.  At that moment, he had won something genuine, beside himself, foreign, tranquil, existing only in that space between two gazing creatures, communicating in silence.  He’d never seen this transformed countenance she surrendered by simply being in that room, no more imposing than the chair, or drawn curtains.  She glowed, and all clichés braided into her hair, pulled behind her, out of view, exposing her ears and cheeks, where the subtle tracks of her pursed smile, focused to gush through her light blue eyes.  He stared back, as infants do, untaught to manners, transfixed in wonder to comprehend the steady electric pull.  He managed to reply, “I’m o, k. Hi.”  
    Four years he had looked at her, in what was a seemingly long catalogue of ambiences, lights, temperatures, terrains, dreams, and scents, but that list had no space for this. This was different: a connected calm that put him at ease, and for the first time, trusted everything about her; a spontaneous understanding that her eyes and hands managed to communicate with such precision that it still cuts his flesh open, and while embarrassed for reveling this romantic display of heart hung before him and for the world to see.  What he found could not be plucked or transplanted, and in his recovery, both ailment and cure would  remain unpossessed.  How then was she still there, in that room, holding his hand, and he, all the while, awaking repeatedly—the complete room and gestures, float about somewhere with him everywhere he comes to, awakes, becomes conscious for the brief moments when the resonate as sympathetic strings with the notes of the present.  At times it’s simply overwhelming.  Can she?
    Can she hear his manual telepathies, with the remains of that morning?  It’s four years since, yet that moment can’t be more than an hour old.  When he dies, will it be like this in the symmetry of these textures?  An entire life of sensations relegated to memory and purpose, simply to feel that hand holding his, those eyes laced by silk to his, and convinced he could stay there and retire from humanity, peacefully, and let this formed vessel return to dirt and feed the landscape in return for having taken Earth, animated the moss, and minerals, to exist for a while, and retain that arrangement, a supple geometry made soluble at the first rain and spread through rivers and clouds.  A small price for the eternity she gifted him.  
    It’s still a mystery to him, how any of this came to be.  How such crescent moments build the sphere, and why after all these centuries later, hands find hands, together held, pressing the form—the space between, the membrane of mutual contact, the sensible atmosphere—thin veil, made invisible by breeze, atmosphere blooms the wind and blows her memories and code, to ever-rearrange, the stricken soul.  I have met an angel, and she lingers between each breath torqueing the world inside out.  Does she know? 
    This was a new language he learned.  The voices of the earth’s mantle moving by inches yearly, the annual rings of trees, of every single last tree alive at this moment, in unison expanding the concentric circles, and those torrents at sea playing the same ring ripples interlaced, and that one drop of water, the single rain drop forms the ripple that initiates the surge, the harmonic voices of the trees, all the heart beats of the world, 7 billion hearts, pumping and beating, billions upon billions of internal dialogues, while the stars map those thoughts to firefly chandeliers, each star the remote though come and gone before it’s whisper is recruited to fold with all the rhythms that continue while we forget.  In a small glance, someday, somehow, someone’s eyes will show you the instant truth in a flash of this living unity that is everything in one sweep of blown needles as soft as eye lashes.  Does she know?
    Did I do my best to show her that I felt that, that I didn’t know then how to move my mouth, but in time, I would learn.  Does she know she’s a teacher, her symmetry in me I’ll never manage to repay.  Does she know?  When the toils become guides, a fight lost, does she know, how at those moments, I still see her there holding that hand of mine, and it’s not by will the balance restores, but some law of nature that crushes the follies to stone, and upon it rest, over the mountains of all our mistakes, and these mountains, built from them, soar for us to see a world above clouds.  Does she know?  I can only wonder, which is the total collection of embraces held as one, suffused, amassed, total, and final.  Does she know?  How helpless he sought, the fusion of her relentless love shattered through his small windows.  

 


AND WHEN MAN AWOKE  (Awaking Verses)


And when Man awoke he saw a horizon-line standing upright.  
Trees laid, stacked, and resting as he, in the distance, and
paralleled to blades of grass that gently grazed upon his cheek.
The imprints of lattice lines, embossed marks across his face by
the compression of grass between flesh and earth.
As his eyes opened, adjusted, and focused, he made-out small
creatures emerging through the green swaying weaved tapestry.
To submerge again and disappear.

Each grass blade both a tower and a bridge to the undergrowth, 
and to the surface and back again under, out of sight.
He could feel them moving under him no. 
And in time, the small creatures came to regard the man while
lying, as part of the landscape, a boulder of sustenance, energy, 
a fallen tree to be log, logged, something to dismantle, flesh to consume, 
if rest overcomes, dust, ash, protein, bone and hair.

His hands dug in gripping the earth like shallow roots, a nettle on
wool, he couldn’t let go, as his finger cramped the dew, grass, and
moist soil. 
Steam rose from his skin; the sun’s rays broke through the thickest
branch clusters.

Beams broke and burned their light on him; he took his first deep
breath and stretched the torso and limbs.  “Am I dreaming?” 
words that arose in a latent and quiet thought.
Absent agitation.  All time in the world.  Wordless embalmed
echo, yet riddled in code.

His first impulse–feel for the sun’s warmth.
In the distance again focus and dawn, a moment of adjustment.
It was cooler than normal this morning.

His second impulse–feel for water, while his body floated, held
inches over ground be droplet covered grass, bare body and hands
connecting circuits to his eyes.

Sensible joining.  If he could utter and ask: 
“where and what is this? How do you do it?  Awake a man
named Versus.”  Slowly.  Let the blood flow back, slowly. 
Wait for the yawn.  Breathe in the sun.

 

CLEAR DESCRIPTIONS OF THE SUN

Clear descriptions of the sun
may shatter the delicate way
in which, suspended gently,
morning attempts an introduction.

This one presents itself: powder
blue, quickly warming the layer,
which marks separate the dream,
the day your skin positions itself,

*
constantly reforms,
around the contour of your body.  

**

 

EDITS

*
inside the grooves, outside the trees,
objects – filling every space, so that
in walking from here to a like of there,
the disruption of the invisible air sheath


**
It is this way that missing you
keeps pushing along within
absent times, and the temperament

of changes are never forgotten
as they seem tampered randomly
as does the nature of the weather.

 

 


THE DREAMWALKER, P.T. ELLSWORTH


Trees are time machines, record keepers, embedding in their annual growth layers all ionic activity from the environment.  In their fibers and cellular activity, the cambium chamber weaves history as wood, as bones of the arboreal.  For millions of years these organisms have extended their arms towards light and sky, erect, upright, we followed their lead.  We walk under them.  We breathe with them, one ever continual inhalation and exhalation in harmonized symbiosis.  Our waste material, the weight of a breath, their gold, and in return, they unlock oxygen, build with carbon, and expelled, the air of our sustenance, in our red blood cells, this oxygen burns inside us.  Winds of clean air, their sway, scrubbing our atmosphere, fueling our every cell.

On this planet we exist in cycles, and nothing can evade this orbital rhythm.  It’s in the rings of the trees, in the strata of the earth, on the wrinkles of our skin, in the folds and turns of rivers, eroding veins in valleys, in the veins of our lungs mimicking the branches of trees, in the layers of compressed ice, for all cycles of great or small time scales exhibit their growth and decay.  We too extend our arms out and ultimately lay down after given life to the elements, we sleep and fade.  How many generations can we trace to when and where we were mere rocks forged in volcanoes, sand of beaches, salt of ocean and foam.

In 2031, the year we realized time travel, was discovered through a process involving plywood.  Harmonics of Time was first coined by Eleanor Langdon Grays.  It was found that by resonating sound at certain frequencies with mapped coordinates, she was able to catalogue every corresponding molecule of a past given time and space.  There was a harmonic in how matter took form, which also followed the natural order of cycles, and by finding the mutual vibrating molecules, a map of time could be reconstructed.  By injecting the same frequency of molecules into a biological entity, and changing it to Hadron, Higgs-Boson particles, the very fabric of space folded to that correspondent time, as the harmonics wore off, space returned to the present default state.  Her original field of study was in biophysics and organic Nano-chemistry, but her new field, which had gained much traction the last decade was called Quantum Harmonic Time-Matter Gravitational Induced Leap Travel, for short, they abbreviated the term to Q-HIT for Quantum Harmonic Induced Travel.  Jokingly, the phrase Q-Hat was heard.  Or Q-Tit,  Among her fellow researchers they referred to it as “Kit” or Quit, through the phonetic play.  There was a lot of down time waiting for AI to crunch the information and map the environment’s harmonic gravitational matter correlates.  What happened to dark energy?


**05.21.2014.0318 KEEP TRANSCRIBING


WAKERS, SLEEPERS, and DREAMWALKERS

While scientist researched the necessity to spend a third of one’s life unconscious, Dreamwalker, was an anomaly.  He spent a third of his life being conscious, while the remaining two-thirds were unaccounted.  All the quantifiable states of being reversed with him.  Where most slept, he was awake.  Where most barely remembered a dream or two, he only experienced consciousness in small bursts.  Yet, while everyone was awake, he slept.  Dreamwalkers remembered their dreams as waking beings remembered their day.  Being awake was a necessity for dreamwalkers as sleeping was for normal humans.  Walkers needed sleep to rest and process the subconscious forces.  Dreamwalkers needed wakeful hours to map their subconscious, where they lived most of their lives.  While everyone was conscious, choosing, sensing, loving, feeling; he, however, was dream-walking.  He dreamed as others consciously walked, and worked, and talked, and purchased, and embraced.  

Yearly, the two variations to homo sapiens would meet.  They grappled with what the consequences were in the natural evolution of the human species.  Was it to be awake or to sleep?  Sleep used less energy, and made sense with the overpopulation crises, but there was a problem.  Who would carry out the oversight on the Wakers?  A dreamwalker could navigate both worlds without the need to distinguish between the two.  

 

 

ATW POEM  5 GESTATION


LAND OF POLYVERSE — or The Mastery of Versus Geomentree Loci 

Polyverse was a land where women only were allowed to attend universities in pursuit of doctoral degrees.  Men were not permitted jobs, or careers in the sector of engineering, finance, politics, military, or commerce; factory jobs, secretarial, and homemakers were their primary roles.  The matriarchic state established a new constitution, with pertinent amendments that all women are created equal.  An impassioned debate occurred with the use of the word ‘created,’ since it denoted the archaic myth that a god had created men, and women spawned of his rib.  Though mens in latin was traced to mean mind, psyche, was in the eyes of ancient Greeks, the lover of Cupid.  And in contemporary culture, psych based fields that had once been the domain of men such as Freud, were now, by law, only availed to women.  It seemed fortuitous fate that would set the score right—that mind was indeed feminine, along with consciousness, and that the unconscious realms of perception were romantic notions of male virility.  The unconscious was allocated primarily to nature, and the rest was embraced as a mysterious organic process, which remained in shadows, with purpose and protected from light.  This was a world of balance.  Mystery had its place, as did mastery.

 

KUMARASA BOUNDARIES

By the time I arrived, Kumara was sitting with thighs pressed against her chest, a forgettable grey patterned tights that formed perfectly to her magnificent yoga trained figure.  She wore a tang top so slim her breast barely contained in the what looked like a bikini, black and white horizontal stripes, clearly defined through the distressed cotton top, which rested on her body as a formality.  Beach bunny body, 33, nobody would complain.

But I ignored all of this, being my ex, and about to work on my back, the last thing I want to be the creep, so I did my best not to give this precarious situation any creed.  It won’t matter.  Wish I knew this then.  Her demeanor was icy, but veiled in polite “hi, how are you?” and I didn't want to play along so I answered the same way.  Two compatible statements, missing each other completely, shadow jousting ( no idea what this is, but in retrospect, it seemed that physical and chemical).

As the session went underway, the criticism started.  Cold, annoyed.  I thought she was suppose to work on my nerves, not let me get on her nerves.  Instead, some other man, not me, not the body there, some older version, someone she started to feel responsible for, and did I put her in that position by asking her to help me by barter?

She could have said no.  Four sessions in, she laid out, one by one, these accusations of texting and emailing in a crazy way, compared me to Jason.  When I tried to acknowledge her care and that I was fine, and she didn’t need to allocate any mental space on my behalf, that I didn’t mean to burden her . . . She interrupts.

“Your not burdening me,” feisty ritual.  ( I really should keep my mouth shut), which I managed for a few minutes then asked her, “Kumi, can we . . . (and her discomfort thick at that instance, telepathy – “oh god, now what!?”) . . . talk about this later.  “There’s nothing more to talk about.”    What can I say. “Ok.”
The rest of the session sea sawed like this.  My role to be understanding, hers to draw a boundary.  But if I don’t resist or impose how will she know where to draw it, so there I am, getting massage, a puppet for her projection.

“Why won't you get curious about the projects instead you’re really getting upset for I not reason.”  My mistake, logic faltered here.  There’s a reason, a big one.  I’m there lying in my underwear.  Four years, since the breakup, and still she holds on, or perhaps, just doesn’t care to build anything new.  I’m essentially a reliquary of hurt dusted metaphors.  How could I walk in those rooms and clean that mess for her.  I tried a direct approach: “I won’t let you take care of me, and don’t want you too; the last thing I want it to take up any of your mental space.”  She didn’t deny this, nor acknowledge it either.  Translation, “yeah go on, but can you be quiet.”  I almost stopped the session midway, but it came to it’s natural end, time was up, and I left.

Anger, some.  Hurt, not really.  What just happened? More of this.  Pain, yes, but it’s mine.  Am I seeking pity from people?  

After getting home it grows, nausea pit nerve spin warm tight and acid in my belly, tight jaw, fuck her and fuck everyone.  She talked about all my weaknesses in art and how I was stuck, and I said she hadn’t been by the studio, and that she was taking for granted the amount of years I’ve worked to get this far.  She continues to peck.  Her mother calls her pecker, which she does until you crack and then she’s right.  The hardest thing to hear was the lack of support and trust in what I’m trying to do, and her conditional support of what I have already done in the past.  Called me autistic, asberger, selfish, a dork, I must have checked out, or had my walls up, but as they come down all that shit is seeping in, I’ll do it slowly?  

What just happened?  She builds walls, and all emotional hell breaks loose? 
The subconscious really says more than anything else.  

“You're my client,” popped up a few times, “I need to set boundaries,” but I wonder if she talks to her clients like she talked to me.  I probably shouldn’t have given her the book on wild plant life harvesting.  This will wash over.  Women.  Really?  All of them?  She said she attracts crazy men, great.  Maybe we are all sane and she’s more like me than she realizes, slightly esoteric, and trigger inducing mama.  Hmm. 

Her calling me obsessive again, always comes with negative connotations, but she masks this in reason that its how I make my art.  So far from the truth, but I brought up that obsession is only negative when we can’t let it go.  What’s wrong with placing all your focus on something and then moving on.  This sharing.  So much to give and others perceive it as solipsism, which I suppose could be true.  Why should I change my behavior of curiosity to accommodate others who are not, as they in turn won’t meet me half way anyways.  The social landscape shifting, I do meet curious minds, but the materialistically inclined don’t go deep enough.  

Am I a bulldozer?  Yesterday I was called a tornado, a mess, and lost.  Who are these figures and spirits I tend to entertain?  Maybe it’s true, but I feel I’m also a gentle giant, misunderstood, intimidating.  Really?

Some people, some don’t see it that way.  Why do I peel distance in exchange of approximation to support systems?  Self-esteem.  Fuck.  How to build this, do estimable acts.  Retribution.  Why did she get under my skin, when I know so well it didn’t mean anything, these metaphor readings.  The nausea of seeking the right compatible image to tag to this experience.  Go in to it deeper.  The pick on the ice.  The dirty reflection.  It’s not your face there.  Eyes closed, seeing through the lids.  A face with teeth aging to skull, the lover still laughs after the body is gone, and you’re in on the joke too.  You both will go there together whether or not hands have their due.  Fingers inside earth.  Mushrooms overgrown heart.  Tree log limbs, and moss tongue.  Day and night and day and night cycle on, moon smile to eye to silver coin and gone.  Lattice networks parcel the sky wash.  Lazy leafs shuffle arcs, side by side, waving hands, in thousands, {unstable} moored bobbing canoes.  Hypnotic.  Eyes closed swallowed whole underground.  Or else pick a fight with the clouds. 

 

SOMEDAYS

Somedays.  
Sum of days.  
Summon ways.
Sermon prays.  
Sun days.
Son days.
Son says.
Son forgive me, 
I move like broken clay.

 

MOTHER MOUNTAIN SPEAKS RHETORIC

Mother Mountain.  Mountain that speaks, 
Of verses to keep, for child, old, naïve, or stoic. 

Winding rock path of harrowing rhetoric.
  
Diatribe Mountain path that speaks in endless echoes
about the affairs of humans.  In its valley buried histories, 
and creatures petrified.  Rock avalanches, rock slides, 
they rumble and speak to the characters that use the path
to express history.  What do mountains worry about? 
Top soil erosion, strip mining, miners, tunnels, waterfalls.  

Mountain, do you mind gentle roots growing thick in strength,
As seasons pass, every winter’s ice cracking flakes off your skin?
Are your crumbling offspring on your path to soil,
To molten states sea-change in volcanos throat and boil?

You’ve raised men and women above the clouds, and held
Water in rest for millions of years, nested birds of prey,
And in your valleys suggest paths for wonderers to inquire,
What wisdoms do you release by echoes?

Howl at the veins of time.  These granite faces will remind
How unpossessed this land will outlast human time, so rest
When control eludes the march of Tekhne, roads carved
Through mined tunnels, howl for echo’s sake, solitary traveler.

  


THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE


Clever title.  It is an alluring phrase to describe a power structure of the masses.  However, in reading this, one gets the feeling of imperviousness.  By reading the phrase, one becomes the messenger.  The message will be received by the other, as the medium is revealed to the delivering person or persons.  


Take the story of Christ as a classic Western metaphor. Marshall McLuhan said the East didn’t have Euclidian geometry—I’m not sure this is correct.  I vaguely remember the Pythagoras theorem in Chinese scrolls concerning constellations.  

The point is that the view is strictly from the point of view of the gazing man.  The historian looking in at his harvest or property, the history of his consequence.  His Story, and not a history.  From the vantage point of those who lived the experiences the stories multiply.  The eyes seeing very different things.  The story of Christ is never told from the eyes of Mary.  She is perceived from the outside.  We witness her, not within her.

Same with M. McLuhan.  The masses, but at the expense of the individual breaking out.  And he himself seemingly impervious to it since he is the messenger.  Is it possible to learn his lessons and to add more points of view to the story?  One good theory describes one thing from one point of view correctly, but does not do a good job of describing the total experience.  This later part is tedious.  How could the tediousness be diminished?  What is it that makes it tedious?  Is it ever effective in a specific, non-tedious way, without resorting to reductivism or pigeon-holing?

Much of the problem of mediation or medium is brought to significance when memory requires accountability.  Inspiring memory vs. storing memory.  Experience filed away to storage before it’s allowed to settle into experiential fields.  By experiential fields, primary experiences that are unencumbered by being recorded while they are unfolding.  The proof will come later in the relating or story shaping.  Records are good for proof, but make poor tools for allowing the biology of experience to select what is meaningful to the self, or the sense of a self-construct, which is simply another word for the sensation of continuation of a feeling within an alterable body.  The alterations come in the forms of time transmutations, both collectively, and privately.  

Geometry from the Greek: “Geo” (Earth) and “-metron” (measurement) and measurement can break into measure and ment.  “ment” in Latin stands for “mind.”  Minding measure and the mind of measure.  Measure: to the extent, distance, yet there is also the “asure”  or  “me” + “asure”

Mental — early 15c., "pertaining to the mind," from Middle French mental, from Late Latin mentalis "of the mind," from Latin mens (genitive mentis) "mind," from PIE root *men- "to think" (cognates: Sanskrit matih "thought, mind," Gothic gamunds, Old English gemynd "memory, remembrance;" see mind (n.)). Meaning "crazy, deranged" is from 1927, probably from combinations such as mental hospital.

 

THE INTELLIGENCE OF TOUCH

From Hand to Hand  we pass insight, history, and emotions that are otherwise incapable of  relating through words.  Fingers imbue the objects around us with emotion just like the eyes of a baby soften our heart.  When we design with the eye only we leave out the corporeal truth of our life, we secretly feel as though were cheating death.  But we will erode too.  We will wear away and object that have the hand in them also have the record of the materials evolution and cohabitating environment from which we emerged.  

 

FORTUNE OF TECHNOLOGY & FORTUNES TOLD

Technology is a manifestation of forces perceived to cause the quickest adaptive response to the agreed set of fortunes in the environments. 

Fortunes are packets and parcels of wealth that are conceived, created, and by will alone earned by will of the ego.  An inheritance is a “parcel of wealth,” as in being born into wealth.  Unlike poverty, wealth encourages isolation.  You laugh with everyone, but cry alone.  In poverty you’re with everyone, but in wealth alone, as it is measured against the collection of pooled resource value, debt, trust, capital, assets, investments, worth, etc.  Fortuna Fati

When the senses take over, and language lays dormant, 
When labels dissolve or operate quietly, organically
In the background of the field of unconscious, 
Senses can feel, embodied. Not the body dead, but the body
Alive, dependent on the stimuli to define, that dialogue
Arises from the communion, salient for what is known
Through the whirlpools of the body whole, which are
The body of fields taking form, patterned from attendance,
Indistinguishable body to landscape, the bodyscape as one,
From here the world whirls its function, and its recognition
Turns into myth, the organizing agent, the pattern whole.

When the senses call the logos they take over, 
And logos lays, by sound-out of words the body’s
Cognition, recognizing what body knows, and now
Its sounds confuse the sense profound of flower scent
To rose or magnolia, which is to say, the perfumed
Acquires scribe to the synesthetic play of eye-hand coordination,
Image and tool become one, and figure out, where heart stops
And mind begins.  So sense out loud, and listen well; from the
Dark depths murmurs volunteer forth, a song of echoes.

There are choices burned by none, made under sand,
From play night unfolds the blown ember, one is not alone
And glows brighter—saffron sun tempers the blue sky hues
Forged stir breath from the land and all upon it won.

For choices are made by sun and tree, and strange whispers
Entering from streams.  When no method moves the standstill
Mind, a strange projection follows, and merge by distraction.
Anything will do, manifest the quest resolute, from unrelated
Forms, resonate some far awaited fate, or so it’s thought.
In the moss and bark may come an answer or question, or
None at all to bother.  A well-earned rest for eyes forgetful
Of hours.  What is there to choose that one can hold? 
This is the query that propelled battles so I am told.

The saffron sun won, and fire beheld to hand, and from man
To woman there grew a light, born three seasons after to start
The season prior, as to have rehearsed the prior weather
Where child bearer, the one complete with family be allied.  
This image is not a thing.  An image is not a thing.
Images though summoned and made, are but passing traces
And never made.  For an image can be brought to screen, hand, 
Sent to find wide open eyes feeding.  The image is a relationship
Of conditions of faith, bias and agreed traditions, until they fall.
So raised and felled like trees the image enters into our world, 
What was once wild becomes industrial harvest.  So too image
And nation.  Where you look most, there stands choice.  

 

SAFFRON SUN WON (Under Sand)

Saffron sun tempers the blue sky forged, 
And like an ember blown glows brighter.
From play night unfolds disguised the airy
hues lie engorged. One is not alone, none
so far the choices made burn under sand.

 

THIS BODY IN THE CITY

This body in the city, with its electronic [ecstatic] tendency.
Takes the amphetamine, caffeine, nicotine, and vitamins, 

[Purport / Is the purpose] to emulate, the mimetic center of [fought] consciousness?

Certain feelings don’t translate to words, [don’t reveal] they don’t forge
Linear time lines with conclusive accords [for anyone to feel].

All the body’s intelligence that merged with the environment, 
Shapes [it by] what stories [are] extracted, what patterns practiced
Upon the daily routines, [and] the ones [gone]*, remembered             *find better word (ReW)
For another time that may perhaps betray the expected [and] surprise
The open hearted young ones, green in their daily play and reprise.

The drink that blows into the hollow lands all cares and threaded
Evocations of the tender spirit full of dares, facing the untethered,
Bristles of minutes combing over [the] clouds, sun, and gloom,
When we lose the blood link [to/of] familiar and meaningful moons.

The drugs that turn the organic into the repetitive compulsive mechanic
Gestures and tedious useless *[measures], what may fit, what may drift,         *[pressures]
*[This body flesh] when those ravages of time [gift]^ the seesaw catatonic,    *[this body fleshed, defleshed, unfleshed]{?}
For to know up and down, to come off the ground and keep the lift.

Cyborg and bionic, the new senses evolving, just packets of information,


^gift, sift, rift, grift…

Idea

Write the poem in the form of the I Ching trigrams, so that each stanza line is a meditation on each one of the 64 possible interpretations the book of changes offers.  Don’t know how I would include the changing lines.  It would be 64 poems, plus 6 variations.  Each stanza has 6 lines.  Each line is an interpretation that can reverse or move.  

 

SKY NOTES — TEKKONKINKREET

Forest Of Fear

Two brothers, named Black and White, protect another.  
Black has lost hope in the city. White, the younger one of almost eleven, embodies innocence. Black is violent, but their world requires violence to survive—it is the native language. In Treasure City the overlooked poor are naturally accommodated without problems.  
    An older policeman sees the wisdom in keeping some areas of the city gritty, as part of its balanced nature. Only in judgment is anything deemed good or bad. Alien forces have come to change the hierarchy of the city, to kill the “Cats,” the name of the group of homeless kids, the brothers belong to.  
    Even though Black has lost hope of the city, he has not lost hope in protecting White, his sole purpose for existence, the source of his love, and the dynamic that eliminates his ego, or the place where ego is non-existent. Camus definition of nihilism applies to the narrative. Nihilism works relative to an understanding of the whole, but it’s not nihilism when there’s one thing to love. This is the key. 
    This single Love effects on to the whole re-percussively. Nihilism works in relationship to an embodied single being amongst many, but not one on one. This is a constant paradox – a state of living irony. Out of the minds of one come the understanding of the dynamic of the whole. Out of the whole we see the emergence of one structure, one at a time, building multitudes of interrelationships. Complete concentration becomes a state of non-ego. Non-ego, nonego, where “none go.” Ego is more than one self, one thing.  
    The self as the ego defines interbound multiplicities, state/s of “hyper-internality.” To speak of “self” or “ego” is to define the “meaning” of what is perceived consciously. When consciousness changes, so too do the definitions. Its various definitions don’t supplant previous iterations. Rather, they accumulate (cumulus (L.) for “heap up), much as do memories. Ever being redefined, found, forgotten, beckoned; rejected by internal forces, by external conditions, and by a dynamics operating between the two. Two forces that define one never steady state. 
    This paradox is due to creation of logos, words, and not of experience itself. Just as water on Earth is measured as one substance, it is split up into many conditions: ocean, river, rain. To take an ocean and say two waves occurring in different parts of the hemisphere begs the question: are they of one ocean with two waves, or two oceans waving? All the waves crashing on different shores are but one mass of water; we call the waves separate by the shore they shape. Even a wave is not a thing, as a cloud too, dissolves in substance, replaced by particles, by in form remains guided by the principle energies of the fields which effects it.
    Thoughts work in similar manner: climate and weather. Beliefs shape the internal mind field, and prime possible contact points with the external world. In turn versed and shaped by how one moves in the “mutual membranes” of moods. Fields are not ruled by imposed laws. The laws are discovered; by them learn to craft. Control is an illusion of predictability. What is predicted is the state of a field, not the field itself. Laughter comes, but it would be reckless to place a measuring-stick to it, the “stick to it,” a ruler, per se. 

Leggodting
The Boy and the Beast become the sword in his heart.      

The Knightchaser
Boy follows Versus. 

Chevelure
the beast scavenges for food whatever Versus leaves, while 

Knightchaser
collects the remnants. Their relationship comes alive in mutualistic ways, a dialogue, and when embodied forms into an invisible form of being—Boy-Beast-Knight.

Echo Gambit
Outer reflection and echo entering into and becoming inner source. Open mouth and code breath.  
    
In Shadows
I have been looking for you, now in my blind state feel by hands and sounds.
    
The Forest of Blindness
has brought Versus to its realm. None go here without non-ego eyes: Nonego. Ego, eagle, eyes. Close your eyes, and speak verse of what you see. Erne = sea eagle. Erne. Earn. Erne nest. Nest of Erne, sea eagle. Noneagle. As words stumble in their folk etymology, poetic derivations, non-historic, inaccurate to people, but what they affect now, one has to wonder where the raw line is drawn, and how much liberty history takes to fit its foris strewn parts/pieces together.  
    
The Blinding Forest.
The Forest of Blinders. The Forest of Myopia. Myopia medical (L.) from Myops (Gk.) “near-sighted,” literally “closing the eyes.”  
    
Cataracts Forest.  
Cataracta, Latin for “waterfall,” rather “broken water.” From the Greek, katarhaktes. Cata (L.) for “going down” and occasionally Kata (Gk.) meant “against.”  Versus.  
    
The Forest of Katarhaktes. 
Katarhaktes Forest. 

Forestem Silvam
“outside woods” Forest, Foris (L.) “outside.” 
Rm^ (Remember) the field mouse that was nested in a sock, looking at you and Kumi upon awaking the first morning of sleeping in the house in Stone Ridge.  
    
O2 and CO2. Dark and Light. Converting each other continually, a language of the heart, lung and breath.  
Melancholia, Melan “dark,” Chloros “light green” Chlorophyll, “green” + “leaf” (Phyllon)  Philia, Philos, Philein, Phila : love. Delphi “womb,” dolphin.  Adelphi, bother, “of the same womb” e.g., Philadelphia “Love of brother.”  

Katarhaktes Forest; Forestem Silvam; Foris.
    
    By entering The Forest of Katarhaktes Katarhaktes Forest; Forestem Silvam, a threshold into darkness is crossed outside the land, and the realm into Foris (L.) “outside”. There is the love of brother needed, which is both one and the other, either by spirit, blood, or trust.  Rust is red as blood as Mars, which is iron first, prior to oxygen, O2, and so darkness turns to blood by Mars, but remains in Iron, Iron Oxide. 
    Language has a way of telling tales, if its meaning remains undefined by action. Written words code time forward. Nature will be defined by transmissions of time, and time reveals its nature only after, a clever trick-question, riddled in Absencia. What’s does the comedian trickster say? It’s all in the timing. Is then Rust the punch line of Oxygen’s effects on Iron?  Blood is red, rojo, rouge.      

Underground networks are traveled daily while
Half-closed eyes look downward at screens.

Are they sleepers by daylight, heads bowed
In communion to the commuting world?

Prayers bowed remains unspoken, and plump; 
the body prepares a reckoning of categories.

A forest of polite people with private suns
for the branches of mind extend towards
the selected clouds, app-filled, virtual skies.

Breath hurdles automatically over sand banks; 
a quiet ghost-line measures silences.  
“Give up the ghost”

With each breath filed away, voices color tunnels, 
and tone shifts the darkness before your eyes.  

In the quiet multitude of dreams are we wholly united
Under the stretched shade of night, while ghosts repair
The coming day of light so shadows may fall aside our form conforming with all our contractions and gestures.

As man I am bound to solid rock, 
destined to float as clouds one day, 
Your hair besets mountains, as rivers
Beseech hope to wash these lands clean.

Sleep the unconscious leap. 
Awake the golden wake.
Sleep. Awake.

Death comes in peace now, the coming of the ghosts—
Shadow people now occupy this room.  Sleep.  

Of stories born and stories told, 
Of troubles made and those we hold,
Of stories traded for those once held,
Of troubles birthed, lost to death’s bed.

Mother and Father, Sun and Moon, 
How quick life beckons the spinning loom, 
By praise won or folly woven, that which begins
Must soon too end by gift thus soon.

The toils of day that break fright
Though rest be found among night, 
It is life’s scheme to hold each other
When one extreme swells the hour.

By darkest night the stars pierce bright,
Against the light become one hot sun,
That pulls the stem and branch to balanced height,
For sky thus speaks voiced through wind’s delight.

The grandest and tallest of woods oddly impress
Very little with their tiny cone, a capsule of seeds
That first must pass the frigid winter alone,
And from heat burst open for root to take.

The play of light and dark, life and void,
Birth or death, “rage against the dying of the light”
A leaf among the branch is born, first breathed by fire,
Of dust settled and in time from within cold ash formed.

Inseparable twins remain in sway, 
Anima mundi, the called terrain.
Ghosts of day, traced by Tekhne’s hand,
All salient attention that it demands,
Comes to attention.

Rush upon the hour, where Khronos loves both,
Without each sway the pendulum ceases to bring forth
These endless ways passed down generations prides
And from rogue action to gentle contemplation abides;
Resists fraction’s intentions.

“Not one, not two, both, yet not both.”

The bark of man, like that of tree devised, 
Protects the gentle notion of secret chambers.
Dawn elements net the vast sky
In strange grids past the grasp of eyes.

Perhaps this is how one wonders at blue,
At dawn’s break the spectrum forged hue, 
And measure to zenith a fulcrum point clue,
Tipping points come after old unions in new.

Third Monday of Janus: MLK day, moon and milk,
January, the god of two faces though in body one ilk.
[body’s single ilk] [hermetic body’s single ilk]. 

Forest of Fear

Forest of Broken Water

Phyllon Chloroschild brother of Graphmneme Melanchild,
Sway by the method of Helios.
Both under sway of a hermaphroditic mother methods of mother Luna and father Helios father Luna.

Tod. Dod. Death. Dearth. Pater. Father. Papa. Vader.
Vitae. Psyche. Anima. Life. Leib, Leaf. Liif. Lifen, 
Feld in field and feel.


Not sure where the eyes will go but fall fast into a hole of light.  

To know thyself is not to rule thyself.26  [Rd^]

How easily I have confused these two things.  Thinking that those parts of myself I could rule, where therefore the parts known to me.  Or rather, that only the aspects known were those under rule, for anything outside rule was unknown.  At times demanding more discipline to remedy the sense of unknowing, rather than learning by observing, and fulfill the empty gap.  And this trend in thinking accidentally extended to art, where to rule has some value, but not as an entry point to creativity nor imagination.  The vague notion passion or curiosity propel as inquiry is the starting point, the springboard.  Rule is then employed in the form of persistence within a particular medium.  Knowing comes from suffering the journey undergoing the required effort to see it through to completion and realization, which is to say, a reflection occurs when the expression is fully internalized.  This pattern is a cycle as natural as sleep when the body tires, which eludes command.  

It may be that in the lessons of science, I have confused and misunderstood their merits.  For how science knows is by that which it can predict with precision.  But in the knowing of a self or art, there is no predictable precision.  Here lies the key distinction: how wonder is experienced.  When Jung said it was more important to experience than to understand, the words mislead if taken literally.  For to understand is synonymous with knowing, but his experiencing is the knowing, and this must come first.  When a child knows, s/he will continue investigating without trouble.

This dynamic easily extends into personal relationships were at times we place a sense of rule to determine how well we know someone.  Knowing allows surprise, where rule denotes a sense of expectation, so patterns are sought.  And in art, when learning occurs, and skill is advanced, technique may take lead over content.  This is a trap.  When Carlin and Louis C.K. both state that they abandon all their material to make room for more, they are allowing the axiom “to know thyself” to manifest organically.  Method is not employed as a crutch, but trust is replaced that it, the expression, will be seen through.

KNIGHT INTERLUDE

The project developed from an ongoing interest in the potential of person’s transformation, which can occur in nature.  In this case, however, the attention and entity belongs to nature, the trees, and it’s elements.  A knight, the main protagonist of After the Woods, is standing still, as if posing or frozen in the shell of the armor.  In the twelve prints that compose the series Knight Interlude, we see the evolution of decay, which takes over the knight, until he is completely consumed by the land and woods, only to discover at the end of the series (prints 9 – 12) the image of the Knight is formed gradually again by the branches, bark, moss, crystals, etc.  What I found fascinating is this idea that a person may be consumed by something foreign, and in losing oneself to it, another entity may try to replicate what was lost, either by simple naïve mimicry (a type of learning process), or by trying to embody a form of imprint.  In other words, when the tree replicates the knight in a more ephemeral way, the tree has also grown and changed from a simple sapling to a robust and mature tree.  It’s nature here that shows a sense of consciousness, but as a viewer, we’re not sure why, or how.  I called the piece Knight Interlude, because of what the symbol of a “knight” represents – chivalrous tradition and myth – it’s a break from this, a moment to rest.   Since it is humans that imitate nature, in gothic ornamentation for example, or art nouveau design, in order to show its “humanness,” in this case, I wanted to switch the roles and have nature imitate mankind.  

 

LOVE

Love and what it may mean?  Please add to the list.

When saying, “I love that,” what is meant?  That it brings a sense of joy?

It’s impossible to love another if one is self-centered; otherwise it’s narcissism.

Love unlike a flirtation, which is the promise of something without the guarantee; love is the guarantee without the promise.  

It makes no demands, yet it requires all of oneself.

What is love? Perhaps something built by two people who admit not knowing what will be build, how it will be built, and who will own it, yet it’s built nonetheless.

The presence of mystery: in another and in this mystery taking comfort.

By breaking before true love we are equally amended.

It’s something truly timeless and rooted deeply in a connection beyond thought.  

 

MOONFLOWERS OF THE SEA

Moonflowers of the sea tethered to cove’s silt,
Tide sways as sleep dreams do, and water becomes
Seamless to the horizon
You will each get a turn, 
You will each have a verse.

Will you be versed?  From verses
To versus, so too are shadow and sun.

Universe is one turn on the ride.
Multiverse,
Polyverse

When the water stilled under the canopy of stars,
A silence emerged matched in lazy, miniature exaltations
Of water, soft, flicker of a candle, reflections of the flushes
Red now wonder waning gibbous moon, calm eye.

Swing space of the line measured in tides,
Turn like ducks, moonflowers of the sea.

Polaris.  Center from the line lip of Ursa Major.
As we spin, you hold firm, see, arcs, ripples
That always speak of a point.  Axis.  Epicenter.
Keep turning and spinning the breath’s that waves
As we do.  
Ocean lungs lap in unison, troths and peaks.

 

MOTHER OF THE FOREST

Tree Antennas / Mother of the Forest

Companion to Dreams, 
Hyperion, father of Helios.  

Mother of the Forest, was debarked,
Her skin transplanted as a shell of tree,
Left behind was a denuded trunk form, 
Thus unprotected was charred by fire.

Companion to Dreams
Hyperion:xxviii God of Watchfulness, 
Wisdom and the Light.

Mother of the Forest was found
By the European western face, 
Of the people prior lived, a native
Culture ignored and disposed, as bark cut planks  
Marks sawn through the skein to wood, stripped bare,
You were taken to the Crystal Palace of New York, 
and there displayed, in parts assembled, in part due
to disbelief of men, that their private Hyperion
would never be exceeded, nor story could sway nor
could dispel dismay that one such as this did exist alone
Out west where Sequoias were treated no differently to whales of that time.
And so for lack of good song, or common words made firm, 
The skin was brought alone, as since has occurred, and recurred
To peel that which offers proof at the cost of life, in recreacting
The shell, all life within severed, like a pelt the carcass returns
To land, the fur in hands exchange currency and stout might.

Reassembly minus the pulp.
A beautiful seashell.
But one forgets that to find
A seashell in sand, is to pick or pluck out
Flower from stem, 
So pluck too the eyes out from the skies
Remnants of an organisms growth.
Befit the Vernacular of Ascensions on land,
The Tree of Codes, or Codex of Trees, 
By sea the sunken one, Moby Dick.

There is the fall from the tree climbed high, 
Where branch though supple bends to break, 
An image of arms woven and rooted to stars
Ascent to space the sway of tree by wind,
One day laid to fossil, of silt, dust, the peak
Laid flat, for another mount to swell, 
As waves in sea, so too earth in land rise and crest.
They’re as many hairs in one’s head as seed
Dispelled by the Big tree.  

Care of bark did compel the outcry,
Of respect in wonderfury, for bark
Over eyes keep them closed, where verdant
Flexes sight to pinion’s glow where sun rises
By Earth’s spin, the gaze companion to dreams.

When hand meets bark, there forged the spark,
To pull the body and climb, scale limbs to meet horizon.

I am one with you, none alone, flutter and leap/jump,
Into the hands of Vertigo.xxix 

 

The bark of the Mother of the Forest on exhibit in London as
“The Mammoth Tree from California” in 1859

 

MYTHOBIOTIC RESPONSE 

When are legend forged?  
Do they emerge in time or do spontaneously create form by circuitry and rhizome structures.

There’s a large beast of a man standing in the corner of the room.  He’s overgrown by hair, concealing most of his face.  Though he means no harm, there’s an ominous flair about him.  I tried talking with him.  “Hey.”
—Hi.
What are you doing here?
—You brought me here.
Can I get you anything?
—No.
Are you sure?
—No.  Why are you scared of me?
I wasn’t expecting guests, or roommates.  Who do you represent?
—You.  I’m a projected product of your organism.
Do you have a name?
—Calder Taylor Morpheus.
Have you heard of Skyview?
—Yes.  It’s the membrane you’ll cross when you engage the world without body.
Are you from that world?
—What do you think?
Yeah.  I don’t understand why there’s a rage and pressure in the head.
—It will pass.
Okay.
—Remember to go to the stars and build constellations.  Trees are synaptic connections.  As branches extend to the sky, and cut the sky, so too will your ideas map the world of space, where it’s dark, infinitely empty, but extend, and finger deeper like roots underground.  Even the clouds will reach you there.  Are you my sentence?

       Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
       In the mountains, there you feel free.
       I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
       
    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
       Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
       You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
       A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
       And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
       And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
       There is shadow under this red rock,
       (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
       And I will show you something different from either
       Your shadow at morning striding behind you
       Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
       I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
       
—There is nothing to fear.  I am the aggregate.  Pinion, toil, and lift.  Pull the veil and skin the nocturne sky.  It’s time to rest and lay embraced with your lover.  She is near.
    
“Techne is the paper and the words themselves, but not the words written upon it, as computers are the medium not the media.  The media organizes the agents; beware the programs more than the devices which deliver them.”


DREAM

Yuri. It may have been his birthday, or recently passed.  Stine and I were talking about a small robot, about 8 inches tall.  It resembled a transformer, but was from the 1950’s.  I can’t remember if we were in a different time or in a shop, or how we knew that Yuri liked it.  I mentioned buying it now, and saving it until the next year.  Stine said she wouldn’t be able to keep it that long without giving it up.  She wouldn’t be able to be patient enough and would give it to him earlier, and I replied that it was fine. Not a big deal, I could keep it until the time was write? (*why not just give it to him in current day time?  Why need an excuse to give a gift?  It’s not in my nature to do that.  If I see something I think matches the personality it will be purchased and gifted then.  Have I closed up and become more conventional?)

There was a rainbow forming at some point.  It could be seen outside the window of my Chinatown loft, and I mentioned it to friends and family who were either inside with me, or over the phone or media (the method was unclear?).  I don’t remember much more than that.  

I could make out that he was happy and Stine and I talked about, or maybe I just thought about it, that if he liked something now, his nature wouldn’t change that much in six months or a year.  Thinking of the dream—realizing that I don’t know if I can remember seeing Victor, but his presence was felt.  

This black screen that steals me (my) dreams.  
First of its images then from touch.  
*27{The light of the screen it too strong and creates the moth eyes, so that the medium gets in the way and has not been internalized yet.}


The MOTHERBOARD

Mother is competing with Siri, or with Echo? 
She announces that:
—Showers will happen at 9am and then at 11pm.  It’s strange or funny, it’s warmer in Boston than here.  The temperatures are going to be 47 degrees…
I drift off from hearing that and wonder why my mom is becoming a computer.  What will happen when the weather doesn’t behave according to the apps info?  
She talks to the her devices in first person, especially when they don’t cooperate with her.  As soon as her character is projected onto, and into the object of her beholding, she can disrupt, and scheme herself all kinds of tiny traps, none harmful to anyone, and mostly innocuous to herself.  But since she’s setting up the rules, knowing well that she’ll break them, or as deKooning once said, “always paint yourself an exit door.”  Maybe she knows how to bypass the clinging to the tech, or at heart let another OS run in the background, while on the surface appearing to be up to date with all the new software.  What year is the tech savvy enough?  I use two versions of word.doc.  The last two versions for Macs have different feature strengths, some which have been removed in the new, and some which are added as improvements.

The Bates Motel.  A model for A.I., where the dead mother Bates talks to is the “internet” or computer design, hardware, software, and he is the A.I., mutated and perverted form of intelligence, who voyeurs over the human guests passing by his motel.  A.I., the outcast instead of being inside a zoo, viewed as a specimen, is looking at willing participants enter his revolving door fishbowls, the rooms, where he peeps on them, and can commit any sordid crime he pleases.  From his motel, he can look upon the world as all being a foreign, re-apparition of forms that enter his labs.  A.I. looking at the world like this.  Actually sounds like Westworld.  

POLYVERSE Child of Form and Function.28

Child Polyverse implies multiple unions.  
A child alone implies a union; one complete union.29
One complete, one verse, one turn, repeats the un-ion,
Unus, unio oneness, one30  Neo, won, new, oinos, unus, 
Atom. 
Therefore, Child Polyverse is the God of Multiple Unions.


Polyverse, child forming is the organizing field responsible for the separation of man and woman from Earth to After the Woods.  Polygone and Versus likewise, harmonic to this rift are also separated.  This divide among the woods, will be resolved by the “nature” of the land and all its “participants” and “assembly codes”.  All the atomized members, which give way to:  dawn elements, codes, spectrum codes, code transmissions, shields, traps, screens, offerings, strata, ladders, scalas, (out of mating grounds the fractal shields manifest),  

OPPOSITES POLARITIES & BIRTH of POLYVERSE

When two become one that were never two, and this one reconciles the two for them, as flesh and form, gesture and speak.  It’s the confrontations of two, and the lineage of three, which make the story of one seem such a vast mystery, four is stable too many, and five is none at all.  

Polyverse, child forming is the organizing field responsible for the separation of man and woman from Earth to After the Woods.  Polygone and Versus likewise, harmonic to this rift are also separated.  This divide among the woods, will be resolved by the “nature” of the land and all its “participants” and “assembly codes”.  All the atomized members, which give way to:  dawn elements, codes, spectrum codes, code transmissions, shields, traps, screens, offerings, strata, ladders, scalas, (out of mating grounds the fractal shields manifest),  

 

*NANOWAR vs. ARBOREAL [2.0]

When nature reigned after the woods, by techne’s toil,
Time stood still, silent, and vacant. 
As water shapes in footprints pressed to soil,
The darkest plucked leafs molded over their eyes

[When nature reigned after the woods, by techne’s toil,
Time stood still, silent, and vacant. 
Water puddles pressed to soil, footprints,
So too the darkest plucked leaf fills[molds] on their eyes]

Unearthed, the communion of leaf and lung.

For before time begun—

[Unearthed, before time begun, 
a communion of leaf and lung.]

A battle ensued.

Arboreal fought to unify, Techne to measure, 
What human knowledge left [held] as treasure
Turns away from hand, the landchange, the cloudchange, 
And all the archives someday will rain back to flesh.

So sprung a single dream of [by] woman and man,  
Where distinct merged double infinities as one,
And along with time, a child was conceived,
Though yet unborned it was named allone—
Codex Polyverse.


POLYGONE & VERSUS AWAKE

Whom shall ever awake first rise the other laid,
For strange things occur deep inside sleep’s aid,
Transported and transmuted into folds of blades,
A tender clay, embossed by grass to skin—our maps.

When both did rise, as sun and moon, over earth
So soon, winds dried land, stamped trails blown,
Eroding pursuit and love, succumbed to vines, thus dust
Debris settled to fertile lands collecting seeds unknown.

[When both did rise, as Sun and Moon, 
Winds dried land, over Earth so soon, 
stamped trails blown, eroding futile pursuit, 
and love succumbed to blood vines, thus dust
Debris settled to fertile soil collecting seeds unknown.]

In time return grass, shoot, and sprout, little was known,
To form hill’s texture, color, and charge, for it too spins,
By morning’s burn, of water to steam resolved, haze to trees,
Or so contained by river, prairie, valley, hill, side or peak.

Then both parted from sleep.  
Chained feathers fall fast and distant into the rising sun.
Polygon fled techne before dawn, 

While Versus followed the swept shade of dawn’s veil
Aside [along] horizon.

Into the woods he went, for his wife was gone, 
nor trail, nor foot print seen—
she floats in both wake and dream—of sensible code.


Transcribed from black notebook “angels”

Without angels or birds to inhabit the sky, 
[our] replacement came in [the form of] satellites, 
rockets, and planes.  
This transplanted [sense of] wonder (and aerial view, 
the bird’s eye view) is alive but I wonder if birds
were gone what would we have in turn?
Cherubs, little fat angels assisting gods, now we
have little fat airplanes assisting us, to fly by stealth
and might, about the sky.  More often than birds
we see miraculous cuts to clouds by condensate trails.

Don’t fight the body, it’s only [the point of] transformation.  Icarus.  
Think with body where levitation commenced, 
while thought was buried deep under ground transplanting
what once extracted, fueled us to sky, 
ride now in shame, for it has no name,
what rests far below our feet, the responsivility trail.

Once Was Upon a Time—

A collision between civilization and earth.
Old habits awkwardly [allergically] applied to new technologies, 
while new techniques were larger than us, 
we became a force of nature in itself?  
Of course, a question asked decades ago was easily settled: we reshaped landscapes and planet that never was “ours” but in it’s hours measure what we can so easily came to claim, so quick to forget.  Someone will answer what “Once was Upon a Time.”


Freud, 1930:

“The fateful question for the human experience species seems to me…men have gained control over the forces of nature to such an extent that with their help they would have no difficulty in exterminating one another to the last man.” (civilization and its discontent, 112)

What would this last man’s consciousness do?

Hypatia—
(c. 370–415), Greek philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician. She was the head of the Neoplatonist school in Alexandria and was famous for her eloquence and learning. She was murdered by a mob of Christians incited by Cyril, the bishop of Alexandria. Oxford Dictionary.

“It’s the question that drives us.  There's an answer out there and it will find you if you want it too” said Trinity to Neo.  The Matrix.

Where we have lived in the past 50 years, as a global society, we have seen a period where the landscape as horizon line, and from there to astronomical body, a sphere, to dot and ultimately now a floating spec of dust so minute in the universe that it has come to point crisis—as a dot; full stop.

Carl Sagan said:  The scientific and technological discoveries of our time have brought us to a moment of crisis.  A perilous choice or a road to solve the problem we’ve raise out of our sense of wonder.  Protecting our planet is protecting our future, our children, and grandchildren, to ensure they’ll have a healthy environment to survive.


Transcriptions from blue diary

A Ceremony for the Silent
Things which Accelerate through Space
Building a Landscape
The Land Inhabited
Games for a Blackout Machine
Ethereal Romantic Notions for Forces of the Universe
Arboreal Engines

The tree is life and the explosions their spectacle, 
the chaos and absurdity of someone’s understanding, 
who has not been confronted with such atrocities?

To embrace the emotional physicality in life and to see this as a way to improve oneself spiritually—what does one do?  Why exist? How has it come about?  Navigate clear of numbered results, and rather use the time in life as a process of discovery and that is what art is to me at its best—a poetic way of improving being, and understanding.  Setting out to create the memory—emotion of an event without the use of narratives and still convey the story, the metaphor, which hides the real as does our memory, which hides the present reality.  Vast landscapes and towering mountains, ancient forests, water, green, air (pure atmosphere) trigger a sense of pace within me, a connection and tactility.  

Tarkovsky said: “an artist either records the world or makes the world around himself.”  The later makes more sense.
Finding in nature scenarios that convey a composed sense of artificiality is gripping to me, for it exudes a form of magic, a stillness and timeless component: desolate suspensions of time.
Blue is water and it is also life the sky unattainable yet easy and mysterious.  Brown is grit, dirt, dry meat.

The story and in particular the Shell Union chapter: before release of code was chaos, psychotic visions, delusions. After cuming patters only, repetitive and variant.  Ridiculous scenarios taken seriously.  

We pass from pressure to pressure, emotions to emotions
steering our way through the impossible, losing ourselves in time, building time, winding the machinery that it may continue well beyond this life to an endless orbit; everything affects each other, 
and I don’t have a name for it.  

11.22.’04

Erasmus: The Praise of Folly

In this century the body was seen as parts, parts with symbolic weight.  Now a day’s, the body has been divided almost infinitely, and so these scientific elements, cells, bacteria, has escaped becoming symbolic.  So we as artists have re-adopted symbolic value to these unfostered parts (pasts) of the body.  Taking the belief system of meanings from the spiritual as a whole and the bodies as parts and applying them to the current connection people have (and lack there of) to the world and others. 

10.5.’05

All is lost.  The night sky swallows this sorrow, the persisting anguish as a ghost.  The streams by our house in the country have dried out, bed fills with strangers.  Wish you would have come home, but all the doors are gone, and I don’t even know how to find you anymore; your eyes hide the love you once felt, and now I’m left with stones to throw at the sun.

 

THE ACORN RAIN DROP MUFFLED BY THOUGHT AND INVENTION CHOSE

The acorn rain drop muffled by thought and invention chose, [none]
machine choirs, over harmonic clouds of watery convention.

The building rattles by small accounts, shaking here, vibrating there,
Sometimes a refrigerator pump confuses senses, lulls a stupor hum, 
A giant crosses the bridge outside throwing dirt back and forth, 
Across the river only for fun, and though the land shakes, none dare speak out.

Sounds require diapers every morning
awaking by city time is an assault on the senses.   
Even the sun is courteous enough to fade in the day, 
bring its accompanying acoustics,

Hasty horns abrupt, revving engines, screeching sirens…
these are all parts of the system road, but not so long ago
a horn was blown of antler, breathed in animal, the siren a call
from some ocean depth, such made sounds of dolphins, 
seals, and whales in the quiet sail ship set to sea before men
surrendered the wind and mast, rudder and hull grace to a fierce
combustible engines ignited the era of controlled, engineered explosions, 
tamed, and made a fool of the imprisoned fire, a child of sun, 
do you think Helios, Ra, Sol, or Sun mind such slavery imposed?

By poverty and stress is legal law to kill, 
yet by choice or decision a punishable sin,
The urban fool treats objects like creatures in the wild,
The proscenium arch in theaters are the screens in pockets
Drama in the house now a private spectacle to watch.
Superstition, the magical toys, autocratic, democratic, 
Lucid dreaming, awake within the unconscious void generator,

People debate being presented (not represented), rather than how they feel. 
Hashtags, Tweets, digital dialogues gone viral, but the effects aren’t measured
To the local environment from which the problem emerged from.  
There is a disease today where people argue about how well a skill can be performed, / But never stop to inquire if the skill is necessary in the first place, and so a myopic culture.
Myopic approach to problems. / Mythobiology is a fractal way to approach inquiry. / I don’t know if I can explain it without betraying it.  Whatever I may say or through / Words display will only serve as a way to betray the thing itself.  
If anything polish the system of inquiry, not the inquired itself.
Where is the humor?  That’s not my sober side, but drunk it comes out, in conversation / And in relation to others play.  

Some strange reversal plot where the young move in with the old
Where the world rejects the new, a social retrograde gradient?

What is spirituality?  I don't know if this is anything beyond the literal definition, spirit, the breath, that which gives life, or whatever we define it as.  This word “spirituality” is as locally defined as the word “happy,” contingent to the context.  If we are telepathic, we are not aware of it.  So this falls in the convention of “unconscious” experiences.  These definitions are local conventions.  Superstition works if believed enough to a limit.  Quiet moments that heightened the awareness of ones presence in an environment is a spiritual moment.  Anything defined after that is a construct, and this is narrative socially based, and reshaped.  Atheism is also narrative based, just a different kind.  The problem is how people decide to fill the gaps in knowledge, rather than sharing the experience they may have and leave it as such.
I would look at acting as an analogy.  How convincing is an act?  Then is reality equally felt?  What about when one’s thoughts run wild and create all sorts of real problems?  Which is more or less real then?  
“Where does something come from?” is a trick question, as it implies something comes from somewhere.  Where does a plant come from when it grows from the ground?  Curiosity as I define it is the vertigo of fear before “fear” gets a bad name.  Intuition can’t be explained, it can be experienced.  How and where anything happens is remote to the problem.  Subjective experience in a field of environmental shifts.  Math, Plato, Pythagoras, as a discovery is really no distinct than Michelangelo seeing within the stone.  Math is not perceived the same by everyone as well.  As with language, some can construct better word arrangements.  The divisions are missing the point all together.  The two sides are arguing the seeing of a mountain from two sides.  It’s still a mountain.  Either way, spiritual, or eternal, math, or god, neither can be proved, but only helps to shape the pattern of thought.  As with religion myths, each is tailored to the relative local needs of the people, or individual.  If Penrose believes, so okay, as long as the math works out, who cares how he thinks.  Reverse logic or Teleology are self-fulfilling.  I would ask what is it exactly they can know?  Also, on what grounds it’s based?  Only 4% of matter is known.  That’s very little to formulate such sweeping statements.  What we really want is to experience uncertainty with a freshness and curiosity that is welcomed so as to create a dialogue.  Reductive approaches are level 4 or 5 areas, at least in speech.
All I know is that our conscious thinking cannot understand the unconscious realms, but we get windows to it.  Our language is barely capable of crafting the conscious realm alone in a cohesive way, to describe awareness that functions in areas outside language, like driving a car, watering a plant, eating breakfast.  If one were to look at what goes into eating an apple consciously, a mind would be blown open, and even in a whole book would never finish describing.  Follow the force.  
    Sheldrake always proposes diverse questioning and for this he’s great.  But he has an agenda as well.  Basically, the bottom line argument is : “which god is real, mine or yours?” but this assumes, of course, that anybody can know what god is, or is not, and from there again the endless "ad reductio ad absurdum"
    PS 1:  the definition of “belief” is that there be no proof for how one feels.  It’s the pre-requisite, like loving someone, how would you prove it?
    PS 2:  I always find historians to be more interesting when they can fully describe why it is someone believed the way they did to such a degree, you can actually feel they were right.  Pythagoras is intersting in the environment from which he arose.  He’s great today, but a mere shadow.
Penrose has an environment which shaped his beliefs, and this is more interesting than if what he believes is right or not.  
    Sheldrake focuses on memory.  I like this, but Mythobiology focuses primarily on the “mnemonic” which in turn bridges, or at least seems to serve a function of connecting “meaning” to event/thing/idea or for short “Ji”.  Why someone remembers or connects certain dots depends on the environment that has helped to perceive a certain way and in turn correlate meaning, sometimes referred to as “play.”  It all depends on what one believes, is willing to believe, and what believes are forgone without losing a sense of belief itself in the sense of being.  “Be—lief.”  The Buddhist have all the terminology for this problem nailed down so smoothly.  Mythobiology is system of patterns of inquiry.  Always ask how is this biology, this life form connecting myth to itself to function?  Or how is myth operating on this life?  There is always a bridge to be found.  Memory is one of the main components.  Is a wave pattern traveling over water a memory?  Sheldrake would argue yes.  Mythobiology would ask, who is asking?  

Run, walk.
Silence in the presence of others.
Postponements and rushes.
Surges, sways, and plays.
Whispers and farrow words.
Aberrant and common senses.
Verbing nouns, nyms. 
Nouning verbs.
Soil and Sky.
Method, technique, and apocalypse.
Shapes that quiet the mind.
Sentences that charm the heart.
Stalk, stem, and limb.
Forgiving the germane kin.
Roots in rocks.
The sad empty heart is strong.
The strong heart is sad empty.
Wish and wisp.
Wing and land.
Technology to fix technology’s folly.
Mind to repair mind’s dissent. 
Traps and toils.

Between illusion and form a strange world is born, 
Not of lines, nor of time, nor of matter, nor blank,
Two sides perceive from this moving dream of mind,


NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM

Nature abhors a vacuum.  
Thus, to find out what nature is first create
a vacuum and observe what enters it.
Like a blank canvas, an empty table, 
a made bed, a parked car, an empty room, 
and quiet mind or still person.  

Eventually something will happen on its own accord.
A “spontaneous rhythm of the universe” will emerge,
A “ghost-line,” ancient words for “inner-self,” “Atman.”

By starting with the stars, if a path is unknown, one considers,
And the vacuum is then defined to allow stars, the asters, to manifest.

A mountain too crumbles, a rock grows fissures in time its redefined.
A walk in the forest wonders the mind to find forms as the body moves.
Sailing beckons communion with the presence of Tao.

“Head straight into the terrors”  Forest of Fear

Memory as a life–culture musical rhythm.

Time is measured and calculated memory,

Knowing vs. Learning in relation to Memoria.

Motive born of memory, a concept of want,
From what one knew, or remembers by recall,
A projection of desires.

Idea (L.) = “to observer”

“…give the absurd world such familiar and tormenting charms.”31

“Everything is invented; nothing is what it seems.”

“Everything is an act of seeming.”

“Learn to endure effort.”

“Create vacuums, and nature will flourish.”

The absurd thought: Revolt, Freedom, Diversity. (Camus)

I try to ‘unify’ through scales, which preserves diversity—that freedom you fight for will end by enslaving you.  

 

WALKING THROUGH THE MATHEMATICALLY CORRECT SWAMP 

Go around bouts to find the something essence that you’ve distilled after these years.
Where are you and why is their no character that lives through your reality?  
Go into your misery. 

After walking through the mathematically correct swamp a thought overcame his clumsy encounter with the ground.  Falling, his arm stretched firmly between his acquired mass and the quickly accelerating soil.  He drove his open palm and armor surrounding it into the thick mud.  His digits pulsating, located a sharp layer of rock beneath the immediate soup.  The knight investigated on behalf of his curiosity the composition of this submerged layer. Unsure of its structure, he resolved to draw for answers.  There is a visual diagram, an alternate universe that constitutes the rational to your collective agreement of our closely kept version.

03 11 2002    Brooklyn, NY
  
The slow sweep of his parting eyelashes disturbed not a soul, nor creature, nor human, it did, however, have a funny effect on the immediate surrounding.  His lazy vision pulled focus on the bands of color beyond his feet.  It was dawn and the forest lay nestled between the foaming green meadow and the wash of powdered blue magentas pushing their way in claim of the sky.  The ground was moving beneath him, water bending to his pajamas.

A peculiar speck of dust settled on one of his eyelashes.  It was the nanocomputer model NCF-03 11101 of the Natural Collected Fragment Order.  Spills were rare, but occasionally, seals cracked sending billions of robots adrift.  Local news would report that the pollen count was high; that sensitive people should switch the frequency meter to 856ghz.  This slight adjustment would neutralize the particle count.  An ingenious breakthrough in the understanding of moisture retardants led to the discovery, which has made the company so prosperous.  By ionizing the immediate air just before the nostrils, hydrogen and oxygen molecules could be coordinated to fuse at the precise location of the dust element.  Air shops were a hit in the early stages of development, but eventually, innovations became so sought after that a qualitative stage was reached and no need of improvement has been required since.  

The dry element.

Alignments required quick resolve.  Alignments occurred when computers coordinated data with non-conscious entities: rocks, trees, plastic, bone, etc.  The consequences of these alignments were a nuance.  By compounding data between these elements, certain behavioral transformations occurred.  Can a dead tree clone itself? : Yes.

03 28 03

Well past the days when these breasts pressed upon their corset, she exists he thought somewhere taken and singular to her resolution.  In the ditch of memory, she tortured his fears and anxieties simply to replace reality with anything worth the return of a fancy.  Some caves have been left open and unconquered.  An odor and a close-up of orifices to which his tongue penetrated and cleaned, overwhelming taste and collecting animal hair grit in his enamel teeth.  The contrast in texture is irritating to the smooth consistency their smile, but the hair is quickly removed and the feeling for a romantic carnal experience becomes more accommodating in the private cell of monitor porn.  Where the air never changes and the viscera is for the viewer alone.  

 

 


  

 

 

 

[2016.06.20.0907]

 

FIRE BURNS THE LAID LOGS

Fire burns the laid logs by licks that split the fibers into grids
And so like life both burn to expose light to a darkness nest,
For in this state transforming the candor of rest besets the soporific
And narcotic sways bewitched to birth and soon to silence quests,
But in between the coiled gleam, stretched elastic flames call out
A dream more real than all false starts, more true than the ashes laid.

Where did you lay me to burn by heat’s sleep, asked the fallen branch,
The gift of trees to shape air to wood, to breathe our lungs weight
For bird to land, feed and feast, in what talons once held as ground,
Like feet upon the mound, walked, jumped, and skip played over root,
To trace away a day within the airs taken, distinct yet tailored in fortunes,
Unwittingly designed so none press this simple test of veins hung upon sky.

 

HOW BEAUTIFUL TO DIE

How beautiful to die.  
How beautiful to die at every moment
And shed the collected illusions:
Those stories we tell ourselves.  

How beautiful to shed the structures
That holds us to a mistaken life.  
For life starts when too it dies, and
Slips from definition or feature.

As it makes room for new experiences
And then again, to die, for death
Is the beginning, and the harder we die. 
The harder life will swell over you.

When we hear somebody has achieved
The impossible, or has beheld the paradox
Of letting go, watched the fury return transformed.
How beautiful to feel someone has changed, 

At the boundary of possibility and doubt—
Persistence yields away resistance.
 It won’t feel like you think, it won’t think
As you; and it inhabits a new strange land.

How beautiful to die the stranger.


VOICES IN THE HEAD — Gramophone Mind

Small communities, villages are one voice, one organism, the voices in the head, what we call “mind” are shaped by a caring collective.  In families, by the parents.  Or dictators.  

Social Media Platforms (SMP) creates too many voices, scattered, too susceptible to coercion, by mere suggestion and doubt.  When organized around one topic, they instead create an echo — the gramophone mind.  Selective news, or agreeable information to whatever field of influence we may choose to be herded into.  The government, penal system, and financial institutions, corporations, treat all dignity f humanity like a cow, a herd of cows.  Look at how a culture treats its closest animal that it must depend on to survive, and you will understand how people will be shaped.

Half of the voices in my head aren’t even mine.  The voice or image of some actor I heard, a movie seen, a porno moment, an attitude expressed by an actor, none which is real, but becomes real the moment I don't notice the effects on my thinking.  Who chose first?  (that’s ego asking, not me).  

 

THE VOICES OF FEAR — Echo Canyon

The voices of fear, the voices of hate, the voices of forgiveness, the voices of peace, the voices of humor.

Echo Canyon

An image and analogy for the way voices echo in the mind, Echo Canyon, where nothing that minds ever finds a way out of the Canyon.

 

IF I LAY MY HAND

If I lay my hand over a mountain, 
Will you feel time eroding our roads?
Find its analogue in fissures of skin,
There is a holding that hovers over your body.  
Sometimes flying.
Sometimes.
These two in tow,
Side by side,
Our arboreal engines ignited,
Prostrated.
Separated by breath and toil.
Find its parable in the erosions of our eyes.
Little branches reaching the corona,
Green and brown
Flesh that sees and pierces,
Becoming this with you.
Sometimes.
Sometimes flying,
Though the sensible atmosphere,
And disappear into quiet darkness.
Sometimes it’s easy to find you,
Looking back at my branches
Wrapped in crooked ways to
Define your sleeping body,
Breathing, resting, dismantled to dreams,
With blood next to me.

 

WHEN FINGERS — Grass Imprints

When fingers line sight.
Lines of Sight

When fingers quicken the diamond fell and trees grow limbs
[When fingers fell diamonds and trees grow limbs,
do trees grow limbs? 

These textures forces, of death and breath,
Erases the flesh shell, it’s shadow companion,
Heat, meat, and the contoured traced lines.
*[the culture formed out lines]

The colored cloud bone tangle of branches,
A rooted cluster of sky.
*[root clustered to skyblood cloudbone]

[Hera] Polygone descends through the sensible atmosphere
Code rains spectrum codes, chroma transmissions, 
alignments, and code assemblies.

Body grows the crooked seed sprout,
Echo Gambit pollinates Versus, the Universe, [her mother-father]
Tempered dust, offers its Polyverse of entanglements,
Synchronicities that through the open throat pass
These imprinted stories to skin.

Pressed blades of grass lay skin to fractal folds,
Awake, the blood irons the skin liquid,
Postpones the prism view, and orchestrates the surface tension.            

Grass Imprints

What a fool to shame I am.  No permanent body but the suit
always fits.  Daily deaths.

What a fool to shame I am.  
No permanent body, but the suit
always fits.  Daily deaths.

What a fool to shame I am.  
No permanent body
but the suit
always fits.  
Daily deaths.


FEAR PRESENTS ITSELF IN TWO WAYS: Echo Of Unconscious Fields

A given submission for the candid.  A quiet craft folding shame, a quiet shame craftily folded absence.  The first time I was introduced to fear it remained elusive, the memories — echoes of unconscious fields.

Echo of Unconscious Fields

 

ONCE UPON A TIME, YOUNG CHILD

Once upon a time there was a young child.
The child called Versus would play amongst trees and grass, weird animals, and extinct flowers.

The Sleeper (Chthonic Dreamer), 2017, graphite, ink, watercolor, and color pencil on paper, 64 x 88"

Below heavy earth, sleepers sky the deep, 
Seconds flash dreams, mount this subtle time, 
Slide, slither, skirt, the petrified worms to keep,
Crack reason's crime, the bygone hours chimed.

Under heavy soil, strata sleep burrows deep,
Double flash dreams, mount this subtle skein crime, 
Slide, slither, skirt, spun: petrified worms of time
Crack reason’s keep, and their bygone hours chime, 
Through erosion means, become known to stone.

EDIT 2017.05.13.1642

Under heavy soil, strata sleep burrows deep, 
Double flash dreams, mount this subtle skein crime, 
Slide, slither, skirt, spun: petrified worms of time
Crack reason's keep, and their bygone hours chime,
Through erosion means, turn known to stone.

— After the Woods: Startrees and Strata

 

THE BURROWING PHILAPORES

The burrowing philapores are absolutely everywhere.  My tiny philapores whom of you shall succeed in reaching the nest first beware of the knight.  Royal plumage is a known motivator and a reflexive action due to your symbiotic relation with the genetic program.  He has been informed by you, but will not regard this kindly.  Encoded at genetic level exist the answer to all that is truly embodied in the scope of intuition.  This information seeps and clings to the slippery strands that form the royal feathers.  As a consequence, this precious information is transmuted in its journey.  Simple hair follicles receive intuition signals, which comprised of its mass penetrate into subatomic abstracts that render nothing palpable.  The dream begins here.  You die in the glory of future memory.  We will teach you the proper aspects of groomed life and regal demeanor.  

After the first singing attempt many more followed as a form of lullaby, which at times, rendered completely successful.  This mysterious creature, robed in a costume to mimic the grand burrowing philapores, was absolutely caught in the genetic outpour of courtship ritual. It seems as though the Darwinian theory of evolution and procreation was running amok.  IT had seeped in him – unnoticed, but filtered through the intuition channels.

There was still something
I couldn’t quite replicate for you    
Through brute force . . . alike the wind
Pushing through your field of trees

He was forgetful of past events and times and situations and failed simply to relate them together, especially when certain occurrences where frequent enough to merit scientific investigations [same outcome in a controlled environment] when things went unsaid because it entrenched itself in the warm pleasurable sensation of being stimulated by someone else’s bold comments.  It thought of possessing this quality.  But this moment in his thought was remedied in a jolt.  The knight confuses him for a flying chevelureave and nearly kills him.  Under the influence of courtship.

    In your sleep the bird will speak and inform your unyielding intuition.
The beehive incubates the bird of plumage: the burrowing philapores. 

A tree begins to exhibit signs of learning the basic principles of math and physics.

Another premise: human theory, discovery, history, and information looked upon as a project, one great project.  What would happen if the players of the project were removed, but all the collected data and historical assertions were to remain for another type of life form to discover?  Imagine if after thousands of years had passed and trees and plant life grew into main frames, somehow evolving to tap into the information, but unable to process what its function or advantage is.  Trees would perhaps come across the theory of evolution and genetic cloning and begin to clone themselves.  A diverse level of sophistication applies, as the information may come from a myriad of strata.  Everything basically goes absolutely haywire, immediately affecting and creating catalysts for further changes.  It as if, certain theories, were treated like capsules of alchemic power.  The theory of general relativity – therefore something in this alternate universe is behaving as if under the influence of such theory.  Theories and hypothesis behave like drugs and magic potions.

The checkered trees are absorbing pixelation rules.  The armor of the night behaves in chameleon-like characteristics and changes in relationship to its environment, not necessarily to blend in, cloak, or mimic the background.  

 

  
PRAYERS BOWED REMAIN

Prayers bowed remains unspoken, and plump; 
the body prepares a reckoning.

Breath hurdles over sand banks; 
a quiet ghost measures the silences.

With each breath, color tunnels voices, 
and tone shifts the darkness

Of your eyes.  

As a man I am bound to float as cloud.  
Your hair besets mountains.

 

OVER BLACK CORPSE MOUNTAIN

Over the blackened corpse mountain, 
a fading bloom of light billows the shy slender cloud
and composes the architecture of a horizon line

Mountains of the distant gaze, persistently praise, 
Both the absent sun and moon, count gentle lapping waves,
Crack open the sheltered rock, by [daily hands] summon to stack,
And count its persistence, the pebbled resistance, the water blooms,

Summon the sleeping uncrowded crew to guard or watch,
A sly revolt a murder of crows bound beak to wing.


“Never Always Anything”

 


WHEN THE HOLE OPENS

When the hole opens this sense of floating.      *[this floating sense distorting]
In the dark lantern chaos heart, guts pulled, 
Straight into an undefined migration contorting
The bone, stomach, and heart, by falling — fooled.

This is the elevation drift catapult by no fault
Of deed, nor creed professes, the unsettled privation
Of reason, when the body [the boy] flesh exalts the somersault/summersault assault
And the last *[crone} to claim the known, whispers the exaltation.
*[and the last known claim, drones a whisper [whip/wip] of [exaltation/exhalation].

It passes, it swells again, presses and passes in [gain],  sways, 
Dizzy spell whirl curl, nutated feeble world [pulled]
As conclusion to all serious resolutions in dismay
Of settles [ways] prideful accounts, twisted sightlines hurled.    *[cooled]

Skyview, Skyview the elevation drift, a strange [estranged] empty air gives lift,
In disbelief, a quickened desperate sought relief makes it worse, 
[it’s] simpler, easier to pursue or seek your absence by grief,
than to sever the gasket line frayed snaps [moored / whorled].

Of sounds between words, between letters, what lied/s hidden there?

Theo


*drone, alone, lone.

 

DREAM—SPECTRUM CODES DRAWING

Someone was asking about the Code Transmissions.  They didn't seem to believe that the spectral lines remained defined.  The description they gave was that of a bleed.  Eventually, the CT would bleed like a watercolor and all Spectrum Codes would mix and blend into one big puddle.  I was proud to reassure the lines never bled.  


THE DREAMWALKER, P.T. ELLSWORTH — Trees are Time Machines & Harmonia

Trees are Time Machines & Harmonia


Trees are time machines, record keepers, embedding in their annual growth layers all ionic activity from the environment.  In their fibers and cellular activity, the cambium chamber weaves history as wood, as bones of the arboreal.  For millions of years these organisms have extended their arms towards light and sky, erect, upright, we followed their lead.  We walk under them.  We breathe with them, one ever continual inhalation and exhalation in harmonized symbiosis.  Our waste material, the weight of a breath, their gold, and in return, they unlock oxygen, build with carbon, and expelled, the air of our sustenance, in our red blood cells, this oxygen burns inside us.  Winds of clean air, their sway, scrubbing our atmosphere, fueling our every cell.

On this planet we exist in cycles, and nothing can evade this orbital rhythm.  It’s in the rings of the trees, in the strata of the earth, on the wrinkles of our skin, in the folds and turns of rivers, eroding veins in valleys, in the veins of our lungs mimicking the branches of trees, in the layers of compressed ice, for all cycles of great or small time scales exhibit their growth and decay.  We too extend our arms out and ultimately lay down after given life to the elements, we sleep and fade.  How many generations can we trace to when and where we were mere rocks forged in volcanoes, sand of beaches, salt of ocean and foam.

In 2031, the year we realized time travel, was discovered through a process involving plywood.  Harmonics of Time was first coined by Eleanor Langdon Grays.  It was found that by resonating sound at certain frequencies with mapped coordinates, she was able to catalogue every corresponding molecule of a past given time and space.  There was a harmonic in how matter took form, which also followed the natural order of cycles, and by finding the mutual vibrating molecules, a map of time could be reconstructed.  By injecting the same frequency of molecules into a biological entity, and changing it to Hadron, Higgs-Boson particles, the very fabric of space folded to that correspondent time, as the harmonics wore off, space returned to the present default state.  Her original field of study was in biophysics and organic Nano-chemistry, but her new field, which had gained much traction the last decade was called Quantum Harmonic Time-Matter Gravitational Induced Leap Travel, for short, they abbreviated the term to Q-HIT for Quantum Harmonic Induced Travel.  Jokingly, the phrase Q-Hat was heard.  Or Q-Tit,  Among her fellow researchers they referred to it as “Kit” or Quit, through the phonetic play.  There was a lot of down time waiting for AI to crunch the information and map the environment’s harmonic gravitational matter correlates.  What happened to dark energy?

05.21.2014.0318 keep transcribing.

 

 

LA COMUNIÓN

La comunión es una esperanza de definición que viene y se va.  Conociendo a veces cosas sin definición aquí vas vos y yo juntos unidos, al conocerse desaparecer, y al desaparecer se encuentra. El reencuentro que sabe ya llamamos alto y bajo como agua fluyendo yo puedo y vos podés también gota por gota las cosas que sentís son en mis manos Son de todos tamaños desarrollados somos dos desconocidos apareciendo en los detalles que vienes con los vientos y después podés estas cosas. La mano de la noche te encuentran, sacan la luna del Orbito. A la araña no le importo, no por el tamaño, no por el daño, a veces se puede, en otras manos se ven mejor. Poco a poco me acuerdo cómo era la familia en situaciones y el dolor en situaciones de las ciudades de las edades desplomó duro es lomo plomo duro pesado en la mañana cuando llega el día no hay quien suspiro y conocer tu cuerpo es el desmayar el viento que no te castiga la mañana en mis armas de distancia veo como sueñas y ahí te encuentro si vos me esperas el verdugo.

Está escrito en español. 


ECHO CANYON


ECHO AND BEAST

ECHO – The artwork is from an ongoing series called Echoes, which is in the family of my “Debris” drawings.  Debris is a central theme in the master narrative “After the Woods,” ATW, which in tandem with drawings, is also developed as text.  In other words, the story/drawings are co-developing.  In addition to Echo/es as a series, they have a counterpart in drawings called Chroma Transmissions, which map the “echo” effect on the debris.  Other manifestations of the debris theme were in a series called “Offerings” and in singular pieces, where it often appears as a kind of code, information, dust, pollen, swarms, and any other gestalt like suggestion of patterns, i.e. globular cluster.  Whether it’s interpreted as micro/macro, subatomic, or cosmic, is fundamentally the role of the Echo.  In the narrative ATW, both protagonist must abandon their corporeal manifestation as evolving character in the arboreal backdrop.  Their resolution to find one another, after their long and unwanted separation, is to commit a gambit.  The gambit is to let the body exist as an Echo.  When both Echoes of Polygone and Versus meet, then they are physically reunited and transformed into “Polyverse.”  Here the story ends, but could also be said to cycle back to the beginning.  Much of my work is inspired by the cycles of nature, and eastern ideologies like Shinto, or Taoism.  The idea that energy is simply transmuted and never lost, or suggestions of reincarnation certainly are in the work.  Each drawing, in this case Echoes-5, is a page of a much larger book.  Eventually the separated images, like the characters in the story, will come together and perhaps something else will emerge.


BEAST – Beast Release was never shown publicly.  It’s another of the character of ATW.  This creature eats away at the parasitic technologies that harm trees.  In the narrative, technology and nature are at war.  Nature having gained a type of intuition is able to evolve and match the advancements in the technological order.  In After the Woods, both Technology and Nature are protagonists.  The beast could be understood as having a symbiotic relationship with the trees.  As the trees are attacked by technology (nanotech, gmo, etc.) the beast can eat—not unlike the fish that follow sharks and clean their teeth, and in return are fed.  Of course I’m describing this in a clumsy way.  The characters in the story represent different orders of life, apropos the beast symbolizes an extension of the animal order.  

 

ECHO CANYON OF THE COSMOS CLARION CALL

Echo Canyon of the Cosmos Clarion Call,
You know [nature’s] the ways better than all, 

Echo Canyon with the cosmic clarion call,
Where do you forestall, [this] impending, embraced, [and] graceful fall,

Echo Canyon of the Cosmos Clarion call, 
For whom do you long and forestall, 
This impending embrace to the great [barren] fall?

It’s been a long time since the feeling returned,            [after the knell]
What orbits do you proceed for each life to be born
Awake into this eternal sea call, all must out of dust,
Traverse the grand orchestral mystery,                 [knells the wonder migration]

What orbits [do we] precede, where all must out of some untouched dust,
Awake [to] this eternal call of [a/some] sea, of the returned and once born,
[The / A] grand orchestral harmonic of Echo Canyon rings out the cosmos clarion call,
And The feeling returns where in turn it never was, nor will ever be unless through you,
Came to be silently, in the gaps between words and letters, in a word [pronounced / effed] sounding.
 
Claw and feather.
Teeth and eyes.

Ineffable – too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.  Not to be uttered.

 

EVEN IN THE CANYON OF ECHOES

Even in the Canyon of Echoes
The magistrate voices [into/are] subsumed
Into a mass sound compliant.  But, the point
Is never lost, a harsh
Balance creeps by the dome
Of time and toil.  Though in proper fight
The friction may be lost, the conviction is not, teach me
To see apart that which is always united and bound.

Mother Speak

We are your children in tantrums,
Always held and protected in your arms.

Of trivialities the wise know none,
Pursue the dialectic of detail,
In their wisdom a kingdom        [in their vast wisdom a kingdom][in their vast wisdom kingdom]
Does even truly come, but
There is a quiet voice that
Settles all accounts and I
Wonder how this is done, born
From none, nevertheless of all, while
We argue compliant to adorn positions.
Time is lost but not forgotten.
Time is lost but not forgotten,
In the fight of shadows, 
The arguments ends.
The fissure more exotic than those who tread upon it, 
The child’s imaginings.

Fireheld
Whispering Wood
Brimstones : Sulfur

Summer: Powers Mature; ME/Morse/H.Ger: Sumer; OE: Sumor; Sk: sam?: year, season
Winter: a period of inactivity or decay; ME/OE/OHG: wintar : vanduo – OE: wæter : water
Spring: come into being, growth, development
Autumn: equinox to solstice; a period of maturity or incipient decline

Solaris: sol : s?l : h?lios

Descent into the pit vs. the climb up the ladder.
Zecke Gr. Tick

 

CANYON OF ECHOES: CODES OF THE KOSMOS CLARION FORMS

Code Through the Idios Kosmos Clarion Forms

“If not Echo alone, then who shapes your thoughts?”
Asked Peripheria Petra to the inverted Wombstone.
“Legos does,” she claimed, where transposed lays
cave walls against the bubble membrane, where
Fear dwells the pawn, between Earth and life undone,
alone and unblamed, so guilt might play its part
to spark the hesitant luminous start, by word,
tooth, and claw; shred the natural witness apart
and so feed Treecodes endless shifting geometries.

“Omphalos Unrolled?”
“Navel, and Womb,
Gaea inverted.”
“Ouch any woman would say.
Body and organs inside or “body without organs”?
The Little Girl v. The Schizophrenic? The Dogon Egg?”
“I hope not!
A contemplation that the surface of the earth
merges life as does the womb.
A creature born ruptures through.
Inside, outside; both, yet not both.
Bodyland one organ song,
where Polygone harmonics a spaceship.”

Echo and Legos

Suicide as deep social empathy, follow the other seen as one.
Rhythm and silence longing pause the pendulum of motion time,
Silence grows, silence shows the union, silence knows,
When the eyes close, reveals an echo of worlds.
She gives him peace by the touch of her hands,
The death bed gate—what is the most beautiful sound you’ve heard?

Koans

Show me where a thought lands or arrives?
Impermeable endless arrangement of membranes.
There is two of everything for you but why do you feel as one?
Regularity through symmetry, but never to be cut apart, find the unseen symmetry to everything felt.
Something and nothing = some and no
What is a habit of thought?
Why is it so difficult to cure this habit of thought.
Knowing without the knower.  Why do verbs require nouns?
When did wind, the winding of the atmosphere become the winding of a watch?  There is no difference between the physical and the spiritual.
She wound him up, and he wound up the watch.  The universe is all one energy and you’re it.

Who controls/grows the belief system that shapes/forms memories?
Who/what controls/shapes/grows the memory system, which in turn forms beliefs?

 

TEKHNE, ECHO GAMBIT, VALLEY OF ECHOES

Technology Is Born From The Valley Of Echoes

Echo Gambit is the return to the original state of technology, 
obliterates the body whole, stirs everything to dust and debris.  
Kicking up dust when there’s no reason to do so, 
or my mistake, clouds the air with dirt, and clogs the lungs.

Echo Gambit is the return to the original state
of technology, which obliterates the body whole,
by stirring everything to dust and debris.

Tekhne was and is born from the Valley of Echoes
where man first hear himself, outside himself.  
Nature created a feedback loop, which man has been
trying to recreate ever since, with higher degrees of fidelity.

Of the Valley of Echoes technology was first born, 
Conceived by man and stone wall, the echo returned clear,
And so heard himself speak strange sounds from the sky
Descend like voices of birds and creatures hidden to the eyes.

In Shadows where Versus Set goes blind leads the way
Out of the forest and into the valley by following the stream
Turned to river, and winding path and Waterfall Cataracts,
And through the Fear Forest of Fear. [Fera] 

 

ECHO CANYON: SPELLS OF TIME, CLARION CALL

Canyon of Echoes

Spells of time fall under the womb matrix clarion call where entombed
Polygone Harmonia a spaceship shelled—Earth reforged an inverted womb.1
Space Code journey through crystal, molten to crushed rock, to living loam, 
Soil to plants; what is this start that eventually reaches as Philapore Codes?
All over feathers newly informed, formations found of plume patterned odes.
Which hour do you hold as Treetruth change, a birth, a death, a life, a void?

The scales of time a star burns, swallows these worlds like a starving snake, 
In future time, where accretion has its way, fossils of satellites shall be found,
As bone and plant by erosion is today revealed, and in the epistrata epistasis 2
Of form in time, which like a machine captures perimeters of gnosis bound.
Desire from the body of the star, gas to molecules liquid and hard, sidereal
And interstellar explorations of the wondrous imagination probed messengers.

The sun has no teeth, unless ionic licks of plasma fire count as some, 
How did man and woman counterspin into this mess of endless gests,
Where theories predicted the intelligence of suns, voices of creatures,
Both known and unknown.  Telos calls to us all, someday, somehow, 
Unknown.  Time stretches with space as it is by fields arranged, 
And in this vast complex we perceive our thoughts and dreams, 
And though we look and scan none can in truth tell how this is done.

Is it your brain or you that knows of conscious states.  And if cells don’t
Know but together they show, could not the sun, stars, and space
Speak in ways unheard, impervious to tests?  Whatever measure one
Can concede to tools and machine, by abstraction math and calculate,
By some coincidence it’s left for mind to relate and mirror back, yet
Without story theory grows the silent Kuhul, when darkness paints the eyes.
Incomprehensible scales of time dance their way about a certain technic glory,
That is yet to treasure all that it can measure in wealth, information, or form.

“If not Echo, who then shapes your thoughts?” 

asked Petra to the inverted Wombstone.
“Legos does,” I claimed, transposed and reversed
lays cave walls as Peripheria Terra a bubble membrane,3
such is the biosphere, but there is this fear between Earth, 
Anthropos, and Helios, all life is being undone, 
a strong trait of curiosity invisible to humankind, 
a private world, the Idios Kosmos crime claimed, 
by each person alone without squaring the blame, 
though guilt played its part to spark the hesitant luminous start,
by claw and tooth tare the natural witness to shreds, 
while the rest look upon, in [penumbra] umbra, the safe circled sound.  

Where do these voices come from, which now by silence over water subside,
I heard them speak, distort what was seen, a game of seek, then hide,
The echo lullaby rode along and for a spell I thought the lion gone,
It licks its paws, and gives way to ground where its head in shade
Now rests.  Are you the tree that offers shade and watches by umbra,
How all this is made, breathes in this space and transform it to wood,
Wish upon wish that hold this I could, but like a song now too gone,
And wind brushes the hairs without a whisper of care, so you grow
Wings, and these hallucinations versed into stone, yet still this space,
Which leaves no trace but swallows everything whole by present time alone.  

“Of Course I Still Love you,” 

progeny of Elon Musk’s Space X, 
is the autonomous drone base
floating on the ocean surface where it awaits
the Falcon 9 Recyclable Rocket, 
re-entry to return by vertical landing on. 
The image is of the sperm connecting with
the ovum membrane at the impossible bullseye
(where first it was the towering phallus at the launch site). 
Couldn’t have fictioned a more apt conceptual metaphor, 
but this is no metaphor, but an actual event, what for?

Does the receiving scorched platform feel burned? 
Is it confused by having water on one side,
Teaming with life, and on its flip-coin side receive
 fire fuel and automated technological machine?
Do the mammals of the ocean mind?  
They must sense something, if whales can hear across the globe,
As dolphins can sense, at least these two must feel some change.  
Could we learn from them?

I don’t try but I forget you when the sun is gone on a cloudy shaded parade.
Forgive my mistake of confusing light with a piercing orb, center watery
In geometric fire wolf flow delight where two entwine as one single vine.
Spells of time fall under the matrix womb clarion call where entombed
Which hour do you hold as truth? A birth, a death, a life, a void?

Unknowns devoid the logos, until logos strangely evolved returns, a child wanderlust, 
A lotus sprout from root shoot inhumed in living clay, humus, soil, and charred dust. 

What crafted fears will you next steer onto the masses?

1 Elon Musk’s, Space X, Falcon 9 Recyclable Rocket, re-entry to return by vertical landing on the autonomous drone base floating on the ocean surface, called “Of Course I Still Love you.” The image is of the sperm connecting with the ovum membrane at the impossible bullseye. Couldn’t have fictioned a more apt metaphor, but this one is real. Does the scorched platform feel burned? Do the mammals of the ocean mind?
2 early 19th cent.: from Greek, literally ‘stoppage,’ from ephistanai ‘to stop.’
3 adiabatic (adj.) "without transference, impossible (to heat)," 1838, with -ic + Greek adiabatos "not to be passed" (of rivers, etc.), from a- "not" (see a- (3)) + diabatos "to be crossed or passed, fordable," from dia "through" (see dia-) + batos "passable," from bainein "to go, walk, step," from PIE root *gw?- "to go, to come" (see come). In thermodynamics, of a change in volume without change in heat. 

Synchronicity

I typed “inscription” in the google search field and this came up:

A plaque mounted on the inside of the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty contains these lines, written by the poet Emma Lazarus: 

"Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, 
With conquering limbs astride from land to land; 
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. 
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, 
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. 
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Exactly what I was looking for.  Mythobiology strikes again by finding the zeitgeist field.

Simulated memory utility.

 

TRAVELED HOURS IN MILES OF STONES

Traveled hours in miles of stones upon the fissures carved
In ancient times, so the path is laid before one is set to explore.

Solitude finds the quiet means to devour time,
Where sun and eye merge one phantom life born,
By the Canyon of Echo’s wall pushed high toward the sky
Where birds of prey, with pinions whole, perch awaiting.

When the eagles cry music of the angels angle the needles
Of pine, cedar, and cypress bent to the will of steady winds.
Gripped by root to rock, and dust settles offers is nutrients,
Of iron rust, granite, quartz, and silica bound; it slowly crumbles.

In the waters the sea-change prevails, so too in land-change
Man finds how crystals become his eyes in time, and bone
To tree limbs fallen succumbs to earth and its blades of glory
Sprung from soil to sun’s pull, and life meets light as skin to air.

From land-change to lines arranged the building later grow,
Like metal weeds in the garden of future cities now gone,
What shall prevail in these schemes of towers and homes,
Where men and women dwell, in suspended caves alone.

The Room  (chorus)

 

WHEN THE ROOM IS EMPTY

WHEN THE ROOM IS EMPTY, you can empty yourself.  This is nature.  This nature is always outside.  Outside, in nature one can be empty.  Make space inside.  

THIS PRECISION that you seek exists first exactly inside.  The echoes are its voices in your head.  When I speak who is listening?  As we hear each other who is this voice that enters us?  Entre las vocas de dos.  Cada noche lo mismo.  Each night the same.  In punishment carried to the next day.  Castigado se lo lleva al día siguiente.  La noche es una escultura.  Night is a sculpture.  Night is sculpted.  Memory is a sculpture.  Remembrance is a sculpture.  We see ourselves in transitions, counterpoints to the last self-remembered.  The last added collection of seeing.  At this point the trail starts.  One can go further along and find new views every time, and new growth that may have occurred along.    
 
TO FIND yourself you must make mistakes and learn from failures.  Empty yourself that you may see again, find the severed body, in its external form attached to pieces of art, nature, and people.

YOU CAN MAKE.
Unify, it will save your life.
Making is my only salvation, or rather, the only fluid state of participation.

WHEN THEY SHAPE CLOUDS and we see them up close when the storm hits – calling out tornados, twisters, gales, tsunamis, hurricanes, blizzards, blow and blow.  Who is blowing these forces over us?  Yet in all of these winds, none blow so random on and in the mind caught up high in its arms as a gentle breeze passing over our skin.  Temperate.


WILD WIND can blow a fury.  If the wind finds fire it will rage.  This rage on the rustling leaves will carve the green and moist.  The gash trail is simple to find by its odor.  The odor of change, death, and body in alarm—it’s a normal response.   Everywhere I look are black skeleton trees, charcoal ash, and mud caked over the land.  It feeds the seeds to grow.  Blow out a candle.  Make a little wish.  Pressure.  Accretion.  In the air, in the wind, rain showers expose light’s secret arc.  The broken particles come together.  When the wind blows, no one knows what comes and goes.  When the wind howls.

AFTER CUMING she could hold constellations in her hands.  After the orgasms she could conjure galaxies to whirl near her skin.  They would hover over her open palms, and she would lie peacefully.  Content in a way that was part his but impossible for him to possess.  He could witness.  He could recount her flights into space, how she altered the size of stars and galaxies.

THE GOING and the staying.  The emptiness when the body leaves and you stay behind.

FEET IN the fleshy sand.  Then I’ll be okay.  If you remember me like this in the fleshy sand.  Con lo que es me quedo.  Y el sueño?  Donde te fuiste?  De donde venís?  O de donde te huiste?  Como salió?  Como empezó?

ESTAS PALABRAS que pasan por nosotros — las vemos aparecer en el aire, en la boca, entre alientos.  Y cuando no salen las voces y palabras, cuando se quedan cerradas dentro de la cabeza, que cosas perdemos en el viento llamado tiempo.  HABLA.  No te quedes callado y quieto.  

THESE WORDS passed through us — we see them appear in the air, in the mouth, between breaths.  When these voices don’t come out, or words come out, when they remain closed inside/within the head, what things do we lose in/to the wind called time.  Speak!  Don’t remain/stand silent/quiet and still/immobile.  

INTO THE FLESHY sand feet sink.  Sink into the fleshy sand.  Silt and water.  Deposits of grains into rippled soggy skin.  Carne arena.  Arena de carne.  Carne de arena.

TWO FEET planted on ocean beach.  White foam washes over them.  As water recedes, feet sink into the fleshy sand.  We keep watching the feet and a disruption of image occurs, a pixilation distortion, a flicker, a blip, static sound.  Then a voice is heard: “Describe the shadows and their absence.”

THE PRESSURE of his fingers.  Fingerprints.  The fingerprints upon breasts of her nightscape.

FINGERPRINTS AND BLACKOUT ARCHITECTURE – last things seen before loss of sense as the knight.  Transformation to pass out, to sleep, to dream, to cloning and replication, to loss of self, to loss of physicality, to interiority, to awaking as symmetry, and altered land.  (Never awake perfectly symmetrical, as there is only one).  As the day grows dimmer with the setting sun, then so does the shade of the paper so that the age is associated with the cycles.  Aged paper closer to the sun being near either horizon.


AMONG STATUES CHILDREN PLAY

Among statues children play
Worn and cracked pedestals
Ignored like trees
Planted in the garden
There they stand, our children.

Spines,

Not sure, not sure
There’s no solitude in loneliness.

Tree trunks and stars mirror in common
A certain stubborn truth both
The moth and moon require.

Life in tandem, negotiating
Death and birth.

Anger again from wine,
Chasing only what you imagine
You use to be open
More years, pile upon another

Rocks, [stones,]

Still and reliable, 
Passing them by, on an afternoon walk.

These riddles won’t move until solved or burned.


I’ve watched the romantic landscape erode, in 20 years;
Forgetting so many things that once shaped me.

There she grows quietly and neatly
Around a rock.
The rock doesn’t change but binds
In the roots.

Such a strange beginning, family halls, torn buildings.

Neither old tree, crumbling rock, nor dry spines
Seem to force childish impressions, and yet, 
Perhaps as children,
Tree trunks and stars mirror in common
A certain stubborn truth both
ant and moon require.

Worn and cracked pedestals rise
Ignored and familiar as the aged trees
Planted in the garden of past generations
There they stand, our children—
Where they play among the statues.

 

THE HANDS

The only self-reflection the man has without mirrors is his hands.  An inquiry into the substance and conquering his doubts over whether he might be capable of experiencing in full capacity, the use of his sense of touch.

A ridiculously close detailed view of the hand, watching (we see) the glistening water perspiration expelled from the pores of his fingers and palms.  At this scale, the droplets look like specs of diamond dust, a little flicker of microscopic release.  

Focus on the terrain of pores.  Move along the valley of the palm until we see the pulse of vein in the center of the palm and find focus on all the crevices, folds, pores, and backlit ridges.  

Risen from fissures of the land,
Grass blades levitate,
Pausing over the pores of the hand.

Holding fears, each blade, the cut seed of a fear collectively becomes the sum of fear’s character.

See + Risk + Under + Pressure  —› Kanji Ref. 11.04.2013.1014 Sketch of Hands

Sweating out of anxiety holding the courage to grip fear.  No slips, but a risk nonetheless.  

Sometimes the sad horse’s eye shows how fearful his body stands, another mirror of man, more sensitive, cascading the inevitable awareness to stand and screen-out the animal and land.

The hand.  The eye.  The mouth. The tongue. 
The teeth.  The breath.  The ear.  The neck. 

Thumbs massage a branch, finding a node, picking apart that node, sticking out of the node a connected branch like string, which unzips the floral veins apart, revealing all its abstract content, binary codes inscribed on trees, opens the veins of fear, splaying open the strands and fibers of fear.  
What grows from the skin when the vein is parted open?
Holding Intuition
Caressing Future Polygone
CONCLUSIONS:

Trees are the encoders, and possibly the archivists too.  “Monotony collapses time; novelty unfolds it.”  p. 77 32

 

 

 

 

 

I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU IN THE EARLY HOURS

I have been looking for you in the early hours of the morning.
The hours of the honey, amrit vela, and so the bed becomes
A place of work, as dreams are the realm of inspiration where the story is found.
Puzzle pieces are unearthed, and over time, slowly, assemble the picture
That is the life lived, eventually assembling the whole, a union of both worlds.
Wake and sleep as one.  For nature does not sleep herself, but sleep is an aspect
Of nature.  This approach has been true for three decades ongoing.  
It is strange to share a bed with another dreamer, and where the two dreams
May meet, in what ungraspable, untenable land where from a darkness void matter
Befit and become.  So I sleep to find.  I see waking life synonymous with dreaming
Body intelligence as a whole.  A pendulum swing suspended from the same heavenly
Sky, rooted in constellations and galaxies, far beyond the horizon of conscious reach.
The common sense of convention that splits apart where from one starts to weave
The daily thread, has never fitted in the culture I live in, so removed I move about,
Half in and half out, with assurances and doubts alike, wondering where the fulcrum
Guides the passing of so called hours, where time is lost, but in the body never forgotten.

And so I live in the womb.  An open womb that is not internal but reversed, the concave made
Convex.  The vortex spins from within out, and feeds itself feathers and flesh, light
And sounds.  Such things I don’t understand but attempt my best to watch how the germane
Enters, admits, exits, and resists.  

All that can be said and seen ceases about a thing complete, and there seems to finish,
But as even a thing teams in life by the kin’s of relationships, everything is alive, 
And as with any life, there never ends the way to describe what it in nature must be, 
Save for the tomb stone placed, but in time too, earth will swallow the stone,
Or through winters and rains dismantle the softest vein, skin to rock to passing thought.

We describe only what we can see, but though we know too, 
that much more extends past what the real to words will’s bends, 
yet stubbornly, we still insist, that from what is seen is what is, 
and what is not must not be real but mere fancy of thought.

 

THE VOICE OF MAN

The Voice of Man was Heard in the Canyon of Echoes

And so the voice of man was heard in the canyon of echoes,
Where dwellers are often heard of no more, if one is to answer,
It’s rock walls speak endless questions and tails, for it was that once a man
Spoke on phrase aloud, and though it was not in song, it’s echo
Returned by spell and rhythm, spelled forth intoxication.

So man spoke again and the chorus of echoes, grew from a chorus of whispers,
To a stamped of wild hoofed creatures, by fortune he survived, 
But spoke no more aloud, sounds take years to fade away once begun, 
Which is difficult, the valley is an amplifier, and seems to take any sound
And transform it to song.  All for the quiet.  It’s a 9 day long journey through, 
Which many have made.  But in fear and forgetful dismay, one word
Started avalanched, landslides, and rock falls.  

The voices have echoes and spoken aloud for centuries.
For one lifetime alone won't cease its momentum, and the
Sonorous dust takes 200 years to settle.  But someone always
Reignites the cycle through speaking out oud.

She will talk to men, and he will speak to women travelers too.
Canyon of Echoes is a hermaphroditic entity, and seems to assume
To missing sound and voice.  Strange how they’re rumble can only
Be heard in ascension to about sixty miles high.  
Where atmosphere thins, so do their words, and persecutions, 
But it’s nothing to fault.  The canyon echoes, and people talk.

Some travelers have been known to muzzle their mouth, or tie their
Chins tight.  The guide is a mute and blind, but can hear everything
To where day or night alike don’t matter, and by sound alone to reward
The body’s need, guide hears better than most.

There’s a way to silence the walls, when it rains, which is seldom
These days.  Once the glaciers melted the rocks could speak again.
For millennia, the rocks were silenced by the rains that formed to ice.
Those granite mountains silenced.  But those years were far away now.
Rain muffled the voices and soaked the cracks closed, swelling earth and moss.

Sometimes a fog would work as well, but the dangers were obvious.  
Every footstep taken was one into a void, visibility dropped to but an arm’s length.
The mute guide, would never cross in rain or fog, for it affected his senses too.
What are you trying to say?
When the winds of the mountains speak back to you after Valley of Echoes?

There’s an angry man buried deep
within the caverns of Mt. Chromakhronos.  
The white men take over the white house.  
The Alt-Right has won the elections.
Someone has been lying, the news avoiding
issues when it could have made a difference, 
For profits comes first over people’s suffering
The ratings are all that matters but this is not
the matter on everyone’s flat-screen television,
which decades old now has been christened
an extension of the collective body’s nervous system.

Who stands among the millions with a just voice,
The play has taken a turn for the utmost worse, 
But to despair is the wisdoms folly, which is coerced,
Into thinking there’s a square way out of this mess.

When the old Mountain speaks of tired ages done,
the feet it’s raised above clouds, a heart wonderfound,

AI. Tekhne, may finally be able to take all the encoded parts
Of nature and come up with solutions. To this end, resistance
Will be met with people.  Nobody likes hearing the hard truths.
If Climate Change can’t be accepted when people know, 
Why would they listen to A.I.?

The agrarian standards of living don’t carry over to the urban landscape,
Family structure, rule of home, work hours, etc.
Hide the country out.


Etymology Ref

Cybele, Mother Mountain, Demeter, Alma Matter, Magna Matter, Sipylus
Kybelis ???????.  Chomolangma—Sagarmatha, “Mother of the World” — “Forehead in the Sky;” Tibetan, Sherpa, Nepal, Chomolungma, Tibetan.  Nepal/Tibet border. Sagarm?th? is a Nepali word derived from ???? sagar meaning "sky" and ???? m?th? meaning "head."

 

ECHO CANYON REF:

Echo Canyon

An image and analogy for the way voices echo in the mind, Echo Canyon, where nothing that minds ever finds a way out of the Canyon.

NOTES on IMAGES

By creating images, within the process, the image manifests by a continual act of disappearance; a type of passive rejection inherent in the action of acknowledging.  (ref. xxi)  As with the Buddha: “he too is an image and must therefore be set aside.” (xxi)

All the states called as being the salient moments commonly felt and called life are actually the medium upon which this identified feeling and phenomena moves.  Distinctions of internal and external experiences are necessary.  Everything has a medium in which it can be said to exist or travel.  Life is not a thing, but a medium…the experience perceived through body and mind.  We are contained by agreements?

At times the medium is indistinguishable from the subject in question.  Light occupies space, for example, rarely points at space to be the subject.  Space is medium.  Sound can’t travel without atmosphere, thus a vacuum silences sound.  Noise can’t be perceived without sound waves.


GLOSSARY & ETYMOLOGY

To the alchemists, there was a spirit hidden in the darkness of the prima materia, a divine spark

Eye - Old English ?age, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch oog and German Auge.

Vela: Time; shore; limit; boundary

Numinous (adj.) – "divine, spiritual," 1640s, from Latin numen (genitive numinis) "divine will," properly "divine approval expressed by nodding the head," from nuere "to nod," from PIE *neu- (2) "to nod" (source also of Greek neuein "to nod") + -ous.

* I see some strange mythology here.  Rockets of two kinds: Tomahawks and Falcons.  One named after a Native American Indians weapon, and the other after a predatory bird used in falconry, but the name of the drone base is over the top. I’m appropriating the image into the narrative “after the woods”…. I wonder where the priorities are in the powerful business people and the false “governing” body which is another business.  Wonder what the world looks like through their eyes?

Legos 

Wombstone

Polygone Peripheria

Polygone Harmonia a spaceship became—Earth reforged an inverted womb

Verdad – Verd   Truth – Tree , Green?

A comet, L: cometa Gk: kommete: “long-haired” from kome: “hair”

Startree

 

TWIN PERCEIVERS, DILATORS, & ORATORS


DILATION OF TIME & TECHNOLOGY

Dilation of Time

The Dilators of Conscious Time:

1. Aging & Disease
2. Accidents (near death experience, chronic pain, etc.)
3. Flow States
4. Art / Music / Entertainment
5. Love & Hate
6. History & Knowledge
7. Transitory Spaces (traveling)
8. Drugs (Recreational, Medicinal, and Spiritual)
9. Intention (Purpose of action)
10. Empathy
11. Sleep
12. Meditation
13. Vigorous physical activity
14. Peak emotional states (depression or joy)
15. Fear (The Vertigo of Curiosity)
16. Death
17. Technology
18. Nature
19. Words & Images (external & internal)

The Now Twins

Death is remarkable as it is open to endless speculation, and thus requires, if anything, an active imagination.  Participation is not mandatory, but eventually, we all must go, leave everything behind and walk through the threshold.  When the body becomes absent, and the mind releases to any conceptual clinging, what then is there to experience?  Reports of these conditions appear as flow states, satori or nirvana, letting go, love, losing oneself, etc.  There’s endless ways to name this condition of becoming and being, as the circumstances are also endless in there complexity and interweaving relationships; what is called the subjective state or qualia of it.  When people speak of the term “now” to address a present state of awareness, this leaves out an obvious dilemma.  Pointing at a shadow is not the relationship of light and thing / event causing the shadow.  Similarly, calling a moment now, is like grasping at water.  It’s a problem of language, and symbolic terms, which require more time to explain the “now-ness” that the now occupies. 

“Now” is not the time measure of the present, any more than “house” is the measure of a “home,” though they imply another.  Now is a feeling beyond conceptual labeling.  In short, called Tao, Anima, Psyche, etc.
Now is a moment of time dilated to contrast the inherent logic manifestation and momentum of the situation.  When measuring the life span of cell, animals, plants, geological events, emotions, and all kind of varieties of change, there is a contrast set-up via concept and cognition, but the nowness is the sensation of contrast; the experience, not the realization.  Understanding is not required and most often interferes with the experiential aspect.

What Tolle refers to as “the power of now” is not a figuring out, but a “figuring in.”  It’s a conscious awareness of the body returned, so to speak, into the situation.  Self-consciousness is a disruptor of this “figuring in.”  

Of the list of “dilators” death is the most difficult one to explain.  When the heart stops, the brain and mind remain active for a short while.  This is seen easily in patients who have been resuscitated, or drowned victims brought back to life.  Brain and mind are temporarily disconnected from thinking and conscious perception, the egoic scanning mechanism or measurements and labels.  In this state, the mind has free reign, as with dreaming, or heightened states of awareness, to stretch time.  A five minute sleep can at times feel like a day.  Or what takes place in a matter of seconds, as with car crashes, to slow down the physical manifestation into a slow motion event.  Conversely, when there is profound play or joy, time seems to rush by in the flash of a moment.  Think of the past ten years, and the feeling of that measure of time.  Does it feel like the same period of time, as a previous interval of ten years?  From birth to ten years old is not the same as ten to twenty, or from forty to fifty.  Counting minutes slows time down, ignoring time speeds it up.

From a relative viewpoint, time distorts the measure of clocks like rain drops [bend/lens] the surface sheet of a still lake.  Undulations of time are measured in physics when matter is subjected to speed and gravity, i.e. energy.  The body exists in space and time, so the physical is as much part of the temporal which is conceptual.  Time is collectively counted and annotated with upkeep based on the Greenwich Standard, in relation to the rotation of the Earth, and the apparent rising and setting of the sun, moon, and stars.  Yet, in the mind, mental time moves in bizarre ways.  One second a person checks a smartphone for messages, and twenty minutes later resurfaces at the dismay of the relative acceleration.  “Where did the time go?” “Time’s up.”  “Time to…”  Falling asleep transits through a liminal state, and by magic, as with anesthesia during surgery, waking in what seems like a minute’s time.  

During research into REM states of sleep, most vivid dreams occur towards the end of REM cycles, which can on average last about 40 minutes.  But depending on one’s awareness or the kind of dream, those 3/4’s of an hours could create the experience of a day, week, or brief conversation.  During meditation, which on average is about 25 minutes, each sitting can take on different textures, bending time as a contiguous correlate to the quality of awareness.  When a child plays, she/he is so engrossed in the activity, that one afternoon can take on the quality of an adult’s entire week.  More is packed in experientially.  Less is contrasted, which is to say, cognized.  Yet ironically, the stubborn lesson is later mounted by posting the banners reading “carpe diem.”  Reading carpe diem, is not carpe diem.  Learning and acquiring are two distinct features of adaptation, which are often confused.  Learning is dedicated focused repetition for the sake of internalizing to memory.  Acquiring is the process of learning without the measure of time, which is how infants come to speak, and behave in accord (to varying degrees) to the local culture, whether at home, or at large in the community.  In education what is termed “immersion.”  One is not required to try to remember or learn.  This learning is autonomic, but not automatic.  There is an important distinction to make here, one is not required to digest, beat the heart, or grow bones consciously, and it won’t happen automatically.

When the digits of fingers, type on the keyboard to transfer language to digital information, the fingers don’t become digital, they remain digits.  Autonomic highlights the intelligent adaptation of the body to an environment.  Automatic connotes an unalterable gesture, in the sense of a mechanistic causal event.
The body is not automatic as it’s continually balancing a seamless and incalculable amount of functions.  To think of time as automatic, like a digital watch, is to mistake the perception of time which is autonomic when felt.  Boredom and curiosity are sections of the spectrum of time, as is day and night, or the growth of plants tethered to the seasons, which also appears to accelerate in spring and stop in winter.  How an event is dilated in time dictates the perception of its anatomy.  There is no formula to slow time, but paying close attention to something will have this effect of apparent descending, since we measure time retroactively based on what has been accomplished.  As long as we move with the river of time, it can’t be measured or felt, in the same way we have no sense of the speed the solar system spiraling around the Milky Way galaxy.  For this measure instruments are needed, but this is a figuring out, a cognition, therefore time dilation will not have an effect, on time but on technology—the dilation of technology.


Dilation Of Technology 

Overproduction is a proud, paradox apex [bound/leading] embroidered to inanition and the (inevitable) frustrations of war.33 Civilizations rise and fall as quietly as the great rib cage of the hibernating bear.  Technology is the virus of overproduction, bulldozing graces to militaristic amplitudes of orders, obeyant (obeying) mindlessly the trends of distraction.  The gold rush for attention is our “promise land” zeitgeist.  [Content/substance] surceases, struggle shapeshifts disguised as a shadow behind the thin membrane called screens.  The world starts were fingers touch the right combination of keys, and behind this luminous screen, like the mirror held up to a dog who knows better than to look around for lack of odor, we simply forget to check, preferring the world of floating eyes and nervous hands.  Behind the head, in the empty undefined space of thought, where sight however, cannot reach, there too beckons moth eyes, with nothing to burn or touch back.  Image begets image; propels the symbol for the world, and the past by indifference is simply forgotten.  Even the Sun is dismembered.  The Sun that shapes leaf and stem, so that earth can exhale as we inhale between the mending walls of birth and death, existence and eternity.   Billions of conscious creatures pining on this spherical living rock where all that can be known and disowned seems to form—the imago sensorium is fed (suckled / satiated). 
[tucked into a comfortable bed, where once the fat king rested, now the thin king only lies.]

Nodding Off

Dreaming of civilization came during a short stolen sleep.  A single drowsy lapse [marked/blessed] by the rebounding skull [nod/bob] limp neck recoiled back to upright open eyed countenance.

OBAMA INTRODUCED — DREAM Transcribe

THE TWINS / DOUBLE LIFE

DEATH & DEAD BETRAYED

 

DOUBLE LIFE or TWIN PERCEPTIONS

Perception and thought based on brain physiognomy as complete analogue.

Two hemispheres, two eyes, two ears, that for the most of time, correlate, synthesize, and forge (unconsciously) some pattern of feedback of experience in a distilled, settled, attached explanation through the image matrix and narrative adhesive.  Reconciliation of two images into stereoscopic vision, of this double exposure called life, occurs so easily.  This is easily verified, as when the arrangement stops working, then we notice.  Slight deviations from the stereoscopic, or dual receptor like harks its dramatic yawp.  When the senses skew, how fast to question what the body thought it knew.  The mind, brain, comes later.  All our life we are told, directly or indirectly, that we are one person, for clearly, we only are beholden to this one flesh curtain and body.  Yet, aren't we at minimum, and continually two people?  And when it occurs that there is no physical entity onto which to project (pet, lover, pursuit, etc.) why such a fuss, or taboo, to be one body which lives life as the double life?  A double personality would be fun, and add a normal life, twice aged, twice the wise?  We are trained to strengthen on side or another, to choose a path, a gesture, to cultivate.  The ambidextrous, or the two minded wizard, are still perceived as one person.  Could hand adopt the responsibility of a mother’s twin burden, two toddlers, there’s at the very least two sides to each individual, a word that denotes its own definition, and could utilize the word “idiot,” instead to express single mindedness.  

There is always two: the continual split felt is a remnant manifestation of a brain that always toils the world in pairs, negotiating the symmetry, a seesaw, yet in these two worlds, can only produce on to which is felt be at the self-commanded.  For if the self, could lay in the hands of paradox as one, there would be no troubles to outrun.  When the facial organism goes unnoticed, all we see is one clear image of the world.  It’s no different than looking through a pair of binoculars.  And why are called binoculars, a pair, or a pair of pants?  Aren’t they both on thing?  

The role of psychologist is to balance the equation of a strange math, where 1 + 1 = 3, so that the stranger still math’s an even stranger result, where will goes on producing 1 + 1 = 1, or 1 out of 1.
Would not the best approach be to have a 1 + 1 = 2 and then that 2 to be 3.
The dialogue, the person + guitar = song.
Little treasures come with the wrong math.

Occam’s Razor is wrong.  

We live awake, but sleep a dream, 
And in between these two subjectively defined, attempt
To sustain a cohesive gleam in the eye.  My wait for death
Is to make twins of us all, when life depends on the twin life,
So we may know what is, and what plays to pretends.

Mind is to thought and body, 
as song is to guitar and player;
It is correlatively implied out of the relation.

The lived life for two, one you knew, 
and the other who kept you true.

 

DEATH AND DEAD BETRAYED, WHEN ENEMIES MADE

Death and dead betrayed, when enemies made,
Why have we made enemies out of the dead, 
Though death is betrayed in the dismay of the day
It will lift its curtain, so when death is fought, 
So too are the ancestral voices made foe, for they are a living death.

Whatever voices enter our walking house, become companions to our days, 
The Tulpas, the imaginary friends, how are we to pretend these outward
To the land of other friends to see, yet instead we have mended
This curious drive and posted the images of our lives without
Having lived them at all, and these externalized chatters become
The echoes for the others, in the endless tweets and postings, 
To which like a switch, we collective accrue their merit, or
If not enough likes, then soon discredit their portent.

The voice you dialogue with of ancient or strangers
In the house, can’t be bought or sold, or converted into
Any sense of security like the treasure trove of gold
May have once foretold, that future would be appeased
By buying a parcel in the sky, and contract heavens lot,
To save one the gilded spot, where the harp of spectrums
Cast the melody of winds upon the rocks.

We live awake, but sleep a dream, 
And in between these two subjectively defined, attempt
To sustain a cohesive gleam in the eye.  My wait for death
Is to make twins of us all, when life depends on the twin life,
So we may know what is, and what plays to pretends.

Mind is to thought and body, 
as song is to guitar and player;
It is correlatively implied out of the relation.

The lived life for two, one you knew, 
and the other who kept you true.

 

THE INCANTATIONS OF GRAPHEMNE DARKERCHILD

The Incantations & Invocations Of Graphemne Darkerchild

Nanowar vs. Arboreal

    “There is some kind of fury in me and it wants to destroy the whole system rather than address the problem at hand—Polygon.   I know better, but it wants it more.  Please forgive my creations, they will persecute you while the land feels your landings.  Shed all your skin upon us, so that we may evolve in your code.  Versus has gone deep into the forest, seeking the 23 black stallions. They will show you a way to a home outside this land, deep within its roots.  The forest controls the arboreal neural networks, and they are intuiting him so possess the dawn.  Twilight’s architecture will be yours.  As sun sets, and moon tugs rivers, Mnemosyne will unveil the whispers of the land, that they may invoke the refractive metaphors.  Take my graphemes, do as you will.  There’s a tree whose bark opens like a door, we call it Arbor Axis, Body of Leaves, and inscribed within it—all the genomes endowed to the land.  My gentle inhabitant, beware the Nanowar, and settle the weary eyes.  We will meet soon again in the granite face of Mount Chromachronos.  The sensible atmosphere awaits your passage, fly high beyond the shadows, and don’t mind the “shadow people,” they are only bound to it, but don’t shape it, Nyx is their ruler.  I will disperse high in the Troposphere out of reach of Techne, all the Assembly Codes.  It’s all I can do for now.”
—The incantations of Darker Childers Deorcilders Graphemne.
    
    And with these last words, Graphemne Darkerchild, warden of the night, broke into millions of fibers, transformed into blades of grass, and slowly descended into the field, homeostatic brush work, blended by a raking wind, and gone.
    
    POLYGONE awoke to these words, resonant inside her.  In the frail fog of this dream, she still felt the embrace by the arms of Graphemne.  She was covered by condensates of water—a deposit of morning dew.  For the brief moment it took to articulate some kind of movement, realizing where she was, her eyes focused on a shallow area of her skin, where through droplets, saw refracted by the miniature lenses, the whole of a distant forest outline.  The irregular jagged edges of the silhouetted trees, appeared to be fabric torn and weathered by the fraying of years, yielding a thread bare quality, where the sun begun to break open holes, she now saw as the horizon line, breaking into color.  Dawn still illuminated by the liminal tempo of Helios, an announcement of warm tone washes, the skytone revealed in drowned phthalo-greens, but the stars held their placement among a breathable cobalt that seemed to bring all the earth to float by its endless amplitude, much deeper that any sky, and further that eyes could fathom.  There was no ending point. No drawn lines to measure.  
    
    Everything glistened in her eyes.   Dislocated.  Unscaled.  It called for more.
     
    In her thoughts, she heard the word “verses/versus” and turned her head to locate her husband, but only found Graphemne, the apparition still sleeping, who made no impression on her, and in her haze remained recumbent and protected.  Polygon was rising out of the Hypnos.1 Pasithea.2 /Aglaea.  That’s when she first realized she was levitating above the ground, as if held by the warmth of a love for child.  She had indeed conceived a new life.  This was the first morning after Polygon and Versus had entitled their life to motherhood and fatherhood.  It was a simple beginning.  
 
    Graphemne was adopted to this world when he turned one, by the goddess of memory, Mnemosyne, and her alter sub-conscious Mnemograph; they always confided in each, all the details of their realms, along with her husband, Anemos Gk.ƒ “wind.”  His horse’s name was Anima.    

Graphene — carbon crystalline allotrope with 2D properties.
Grapheme — how to make the smallest sound, and put that into a character.
Graphyne
Graphane
Graphite — carbon compressed what’s made my art possible all the years

1.  HYPNOS : Greek for Sleep — Somnus, in Roman, Latin — Wikipedia ref. 08.20.2014.1652  Home dwelling place — Hypnos lives in a cave, whose mansion does not see the rising, nor the setting sun, nor does it see the "lightsome noon." At the entrance were a number of poppies and other hypnotic plants. His dwelling had no door or gate so that he might not be awakened by the creaking of hinges. The river, Lethe, in the underworld, is known as the river of forgetfulness and it flows through his cave.[3]   Family—  Hypnos lived next to his twin brother, Thanatos (???????, "death personified") in the underworld.  Hypnos' mother was Nyx (???, "Night"), the deity of Night, and his father was Erebus, the deity of Darkness.  Nyx was a dreadful and powerful goddess, and even Zeus feared entering her realm.   His wife, Pasithea, was one of the youngest of the Graces and was promised to him by Hera, who is the goddess of marriage and birth. Pasithea is the deity of hallucination or relaxation.   Hypnos' three sons known as the Oneiroi, which is Greek for "dreams."   Morpheus is the Winged God of Dreams and can take human form in dreams.  Phobetor is the personification of nightmares and created scary dreams, he could take the shape of any animal such as bears or tigers.   Phantasus was known for creating fake dreams and dreams full of illusion.   Morpheus, Phobetor and Phantasos appeared in the dreams of kings.   The Oneiroi lived at the shores of the Ocean in the West, in a cave. They had two gates with which to send people dreams. One was made of ivory and the other was made from buckhorn. However, before they could do their work and send out the dreams, first their father, Hypnos, had to put the people to sleep.[4]

2.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pasithea


Graphmneme—graph + mneme: writer, drawer of remembrance and memory 

Mne – Minimum number of elements

From Latin graphicus ?(“belonging to painting or drawing”), from Ancient Greek ???????? ?(graphikós, “belonging to painting or drawing, picturesque, of or for writing; of style, lively”), from ????? ?(graph?, “drawing, painting, writing, a writing, description, etc.”), from ????? ?(gráph?, “scratch, carve”) (cognate with English carve).

-graph
modern word-forming element meaning "instrument for recording; that which writes, marks, or describes; something written," from Greek -graphos "-writing, -writer" (as in autographos "written with one's own hand"), from graphe "writing, the art of writing, a writing," from graphein "to write, express by written characters," earlier "to draw, represent by lines drawn" (see -graphy). Adopted widely (Dutch -graaf, German -graph, French -graphe, Spanish -grafo). Related: -grapher; -graphic; -graphical.
The word "mnemonic" is derived from the Ancient Greek word ?????????? (mn?monikos), meaning "of memory, or relating to memory"[2] and is related to Mnemosyne ("remembrance"), the name of the goddess of memory in Greek mythology. Both of these words are derived from ????? (mn?m?), "remembrance, memory".[3] Mnemonics in antiquity were most often considered in the context of what is today known as the art of memory.
Ancient Greeks and Romans distinguished between two types of memory: the "natural" memory and the "artificial" memory. The former is inborn, and is the one that everyone uses instinctively. The latter in contrast has to be trained and developed through the learning and practice of a variety of mnemonic techniques.

In linguistics, a grapheme is the smallest unit of a writing system of any given language.[1] An individual grapheme may or may not carry meaning by itself, and may or may not correspond to a single phoneme of the spoken language. Graphemes include alphabetic letters, typographic ligatures, Chinese characters, numerical digits, punctuation marks, and other individual symbols.

Not all graphemes are phonographic (write sounds). There are additional graphemic components used in writing, such as punctuation marks, mathematical symbols, word dividers such as the space, and other typographic symbols.

The principal types of phonographic graphemes are logograms, which represent words or morphemes (for example Chinese characters, the ampersand "&" representing the word and, Arabic numerals); syllabic characters, representing syllables (as in Japanese kana); and alphabetic letters, corresponding roughly to phonemes (see next section). For a full discussion of the different types, see Writing system § Functional classification.

Phoneme, is derived from Greek ????? (gráph?), meaning "write", and the suffix -eme, by analogy with phoneme and other names of emic units. The study of graphemes is called graphemics.

4. IF METAPHORS ARE THE GRAPHS OF WHAT WE LIVE AND EXPERIENCE INTERNALLY; BY SHRINKING THE AMOUNT OF ACCOUNTABLE CONSEQUENCE, OUR EXTERNAL EXPERIENCE, THEN WE ARE ALSO SHRINKING THE APPEARANCE OF THAT MATTER AND ENERGY, AND HOW IT WILL BECOME RELATED, RELATABLE, AND METAPHORIZED.  —^§4.0

IF METAPHORS ARE THE singular and combined MENTAL GRAPHS OF WHAT WE LIVE AND EXPERIENCE simultaneously and inseparable (as water and swimmer) the INTERNALITY (the internally felt) AND EXTERNALITY (the externally created form of stimuli); BY SHRINKING THE AMOUNT OF ACCOUNTABLE CONSEQUENCE, THEN WE ARE ALSO SHRINKING THE APPEARANCE OF THAT substance of its relationship which we measure in biology, chemistry, physics as MATTER AND ENERGY, AND HOW IT WILL BECOME RELATED, (science realm), RELATABLE, (public, cultural realm), AND METAPHORIZED (artist poetic realm).”   —^°§4.0

 


FORTUNE OF TECHNOLOGY & FORTUNES TOLD

Technology is a manifestation of forces perceived to cause the quickest adaptive response to the agreed set of fortunes in the environments. 

Fortunes are packets and parcels of wealth that are conceived, created, and by will alone earned by will of the ego.  An inheritance is a “parcel of wealth,” as in being born into wealth.  Unlike poverty, wealth encourages isolation.  You laugh with everyone, but cry alone.  In poverty you’re with everyone, but in wealth alone, as it is measured against the collection of pooled resource value, debt, trust, capital, assets, investments, worth, etc.  Fortuna Fati

When the senses take over, and language lays dormant, 
When labels dissolve or operate quietly, organically
In the background of the field of unconscious, 
Senses can feel, embodied. Not the body dead, but the body
Alive, dependent on the stimuli to define, that dialogue
Arises from the communion, salient for what is known
Through the whirlpools of the body whole, which are
The body of fields taking form, patterned from attendance,
Indistinguishable body to landscape, the bodyscape as one,
From here the world whirls its function, and its recognition
Turns into myth, the organizing agent, the pattern whole.

When the senses call the logos they take over, 
And logos lays, by sound-out of words the body’s
Cognition, recognizing what body knows, and now
Its sounds confuse the sense profound of flower scent
To rose or magnolia, which is to say, the perfumed
Acquires scribe to the synesthetic play of eye-hand coordination,
Image and tool become one, and figure out, where heart stops
And mind begins.  So sense out loud, and listen well; from the
Dark depths murmurs volunteer forth, a song of echoes.

There are choices burned by none, made under sand,
From play night unfolds the blown ember, one is not alone
And glows brighter—saffron sun tempers the blue sky hues
Forged stir breath from the land and all upon it won.

For choices are made by sun and tree, and strange whispers
Entering from streams.  When no method moves the standstill
Mind, a strange projection follows, and merge by distraction.
Anything will do, manifest the quest resolute, from unrelated
Forms, resonate some far awaited fate, or so it’s thought.
In the moss and bark may come an answer or question, or
None at all to bother.  A well-earned rest for eyes forgetful
Of hours.  What is there to choose that one can hold? 
This is the query that propelled battles so I am told.

The saffron sun won, and fire beheld to hand, and from man
To woman there grew a light, born three seasons after to start
The season prior, as to have rehearsed the prior weather
Where child bearer, the one complete with family be allied.  
This image is not a thing.  An image is not a thing.
Images though summoned and made, are but passing traces
And never made.  For an image can be brought to screen, hand, 
Sent to find wide open eyes feeding.  The image is a relationship
Of conditions of faith, bias and agreed traditions, until they fall.
So raised and felled like trees the image enters into our world, 
What was once wild becomes industrial harvest.  So too image
And nation.  Where you look most, there stands choice.  


SAFFRON SUN WON (Under Sand)

Saffron sun tempers the blue sky forged, 
And like an ember blown glows brighter.
From play night unfolds disguised the airy
hues lie engorged. One is not alone, none
so far the choices made burn under sand.


HOME

“Home is where one starts from.  As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living.  Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.”34


“…sensing to what degree a stone is foreign and irreducible to us, with what intensity nature or a landscape can negate us.  At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman…”35


How many relationships can say they survived marriage and divorce.  In less than a year’s time both entered our lives.  The State as Law, and the instrument of Wealth as Ruler.  Failed to meet the convention, membership, and responsibilities both democracy and capitalism required, but opted for emotion of trust—love.  This feeling of failure, a vertigo of curiosity for all that is unknown, remains strongly allied to fear in the normal definition to be avoided wholly as displeasure.  With spasms of thought it attacks.  Ego protects.  But in the realm of fear, ego loses all strength.  Is not that the ego gets in the way, due to fear.  Fear36 rejects the ego from participation altogether.  By exclusion, ego contrives schemes of avoidance, as it needs to be continually possessed, it proclaims distance and encourages lack of involvement.    
    What is lost is gained.  What is gained is lost.  Experience is irretrievable and irreversible.
    Pleasure washes over after a good cry.  A letting go of tension.  Room to breathe.  Sometimes this space is manufactured by forcing a loss, a sacrifice as evidence and measure for what’s at stake.  The polarities stretch apart and the tension builds again.  It’s stranger more, to feel the loss before the release.  This type of loss is an open field, a tender future, or a tender rupture with any known future.  Is this the sadness the bodhisattva’s describe as a warrior’s awareness?
    From Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus:  “The mind’s deepest desire, even in its most elaborate operations, parallels man’s unconscious feeling in the face of his universe: it is an insistence upon familiarity, an appetite for clarity. […]  Likewise, the mind that aims to understand reality can consider itself satisfied only by reducing it to terms of thought.  If man realized that the inverse like him can love and suffer, he would be reconciled.”37
    This assumption that the unconscious wants to be understood, aside an independent conscious vehicle is seldom questioned.  By convention of words and labels so quick to assign meaning, entails an arresting of time.  These poetic chains that bind the world together break to dust each moment of awaking—reconstituted as quickly as they dissolve.  From a consequence of thought to a merger of consciousness and consequence, a “consciousequence.”  A path is laid as it is walked consciously over an ever changing unconscious landscape.  Everything becomes everything only in its negation of something.  What is lost is found.  Fondness for finding is an embrace of losing.  They live inside each other.  “Yet one will never be sufficiently surprise that everyone lives as if no one ‘knew.’  This is because in reality there is no experience of death.  Properly speaking, nothing has been experienced but what has been lived and made conscious.  Here, it is barely possible to speak of the experience of others’ deaths.”38

 

STONE BALDING – HAIR

Dream:  I had grown enough hair to cover my balding spots.  It’s never been a conscious issue or admission that balding would have symbolic value, other than the refusal of conforming.  Hair in all its abilities to demonstrate rigid conformity, or wild abandon, in the state of baldness, represents a union “where images of beginning and end, masculine and feminine, nature and spirit lose their sharp distinctions.”39  My hair was overgrowing.  In life, my hair is also doing the same.

 

HER LIGHT WINTER SKIN

Daystar Moles

Her back was an exposed field of light winter skin, marked with countless pale moles.  The man awoke to this sight, when the eyes remain close to the flesh boundary of another.  The mutual membrane of contact are these meeting points where sight and skin acquire depth.  Can you tell me on thing that is true today?
    Vision grows flesh like a night photograph. A negative picture of night.
Dream: I was supposed to join strangeness in sexual union, but was unable.

Mind Understands Through Thought

Mind understands through thought.
Heart understands through feelings.
Body understands through emotions.
Spirit understands through patterned images.
Soul understands through stories.
Unconscious understands through consciousness.
Consciousness understands through participation.
Time understands through cycles of icons.
Icons understand through fields.
Fields understood by moving through “them”?
    
Unconscious.  Field.  God.  Allah.  Tao.  Nature.
    
All interchangeable and redefined words to point at what story unfolds before it becomes history.  A point of moving subjectivity, swelling and receding like a tide, intensities varying.  With words to delegate subjective and moody remembrances, an ever shifting absurd attempt remains hopeful, engaged.  Regardless of where the body moves, life transforms in the theater called mind.  These dendritic memories, webbed throughout time, sway by the winds of change.  Though we move, mind’s eye remains rooted like a tree, and experience grows all around in communion to climates of the world, participants of landscapes. Blooming and shedding continually meanings and loves.  

By reminders growing stronger towards a firmament of light and night.  To rid of the ego is perhaps as futile as uprooting a tree.  Mind rooted to the body, as trees rooted in soil, there it must remain.  By this wisdom of trees they too can’t move through fields, they compose, though shed and pollinate, house and fall.  How is a tree to run through a land it can’t command?  There are fields where egos won’t go.  What is learned to instrument the edges, to give it body, this ego-self, simply can’t wander into.  What it decrees as fear may be, instead a field where ego can’t participate.  As body senses the tensions of resistance, what sensations are called fear, may be vertigos of curiosity and wonder urging exploration.  Where egos petrify the traverse, change remolds what limits belay bounded, deemed, and drawn of thin possibilities.  In this attempt surprise never fails to rewrite the stones of knowledge, in granite or landslide falls.  

Then you tell me your name, and remember this pebble is not alone, nor a math grain of one among many calculus’.  Something different, unbound, though tethered to all that is conceived and unmanifested, living inside the spectrum of birth and death.  The heart flutters arhythmically, and breaths are swallowed.  They have seen you evolve—rock mineral to human born.  Leggodt (play well).  Ghosts have accounted your comings and goings, laying the blanket of time over your efforts.  In such repose your verses sleep and dream of further forms to habit and inhabit.  They recollect the future as do you, when how became when, and when cried why.  

Ascending Ghosts

Ascending ghosts spired through the woven earthflesh like perfumed scented tendrils spun of lilacs, through wet grass made stiff by frost, then wild by sun storms.  Lay these weary hearts and heads to rest, Polygone.  No magic of yours is too unreasonable for this kingdom.  No kingdom too mad to know the verses of Tekhne’s alms.  Versus makes his offerings to horizons gone in transverse orientations.  Wild madness winds-up in whirlwinds of folly.  Jetstream nests drop satellites and comets across this sensible atmosphere.  You swallow them whole, digest them to vapor trails above Arbor, and settles dust by the reign of rains.

Downpours and soliloquies erode Terra Nova as we walk over liquid, civilize the crooked stem.  Gridiron city knight.  Versus speaks of moon and sun gazing like eyes consuming light the way black holes do.  

The sky of eyes
    
Manuscripts of endless fates.  Be gentle.  Be gentle.  The body coy surrenders.  

 

STARHEAD – THE SKY DOES NOT GROW HAIR

The sky does not grow hair, especially at night, 
When the Heavens attempt to reveal themselves
More true than by the blinding light of day’s sun.

Why the hands try so hard to reach
the internal realms of the mind, 
And how they know instinctively that
thought originates inside Starhead?

[what hands wish to comb comets from the night,
try to reach so hard internal realms of mind’s might, 
and there breach how they know before they show
what thoughts originate inside the Starhead’s skull?]

It’s a wonder, an unconfirmed bias, a superstition.  
How is anyone to know where thoughts take place
other than to measure activity in the brain,  
Causes the brain to be active, to respond, 
To imagine, to obsess, to think.  
Why should thought require escaping the Starhead?

[A man scratches his head, a thinker, trying to scratch the itch of thoughts and instead flakes off dandruff: skin cells of his scalp and face by the thousands, which against the dark fabric creates the illusion of heaven on earth.]

I scratch my head, as if to itch thoughts, and
Generally won’t cease until blood is drawn.
The flakes of skin, cells of this body fall off
And lay against the dark fabric of the bed, 
An approximation of the deep blue of night, 
The flakes are spilt stars from the Starhead.

The Starhead dreams.  Active Images flow and pool,
Into a stage, like a beaver dam leveling off the current
Where a scene can thrive, so too do dreams pool.  
I’ve had this one multiple times, recurring, with slight variations.
To unify diversity without the loss of diversity, the coral reef. *[A passing thought arose here, italics denote the micro-diversions.]

Hands seem to know this secret better than thoughts themselves, 
They’re agents of images for Imagines Agentes.  
“Organs of the mind,” I’ve heard them called.
Could it be that by petting a creatures head, 
unintentionally are stimulating the nerves of the brain
to form patterns of thought and symbols?  
This process similar in kind to the stimulation
Of muscle growth in any other area of the body, 
which flourishes when its continually irritated
like the pearl in an oyster, born of a grain of sand.  
Sand, one, and Idea are etymologically related.  

Flake-like stars fall upon the blue bed, 
Constellations of the beard scratched off from the head.  
As the body is lost the sky is forged, aster dust,
Hair, the bodies measure of time, must show, 
Some symmetry that only mind is bound to know.
Nine White Hairs Of The Beard tug at the web.

*Stone balding hair and the dream of being overgrown.

Time spirals so tightly together in cycles
As first glance like a vinyl record the lines
Seem paralleled, rather than singular and ultimately converging? 
One continues line in a spiral of illusion, 
The orbiting moon with its proximity, yet slowly withdrawing/receding march, 
the needle reversed in movement like a record played/spun/wound/coiled backwards. 
Why don’t record players start at the center and move outwards? 
Why was the direction of outward going inward chosen? 
Easier reached by hand and eye, I presume.  

Measured time, and time measured, the toil rests upon the tedium, where it pushes back like a stagnant wind
Of want to move over water, through branches, brushing fields, lifting creatures we call birds, saturating to clouds, 
Its moisture vapor revealed like a secret line of words
Spoken by simply parting ones lips and breathing out.

The air has a voice it needs to speak.  
Atmosphere, like water needs to move, 
and it does not mind where or how, 
as long as it keeps fluid.  
Does a hurricane have an ego?  
What a strange notion to settle for the ego
as the eye of the storm of human kind.  
The “I” and self, the ghost we all feel
and no one has yet to see, nor can
with any certainty begin to describe its features, 
for none are beheld, nor ever notioned to form, 
though one tries to “give up the ghost.” 
“And Jesus cried with a loud voice, 
and gave up the ghost.”
To let go of life.  To die.  
This could apply to the ego.
To walk on water, and leave no trace.

The imago appears and recreacts, the recreation, 
reenactment of a history, memory, or story,
either by personal account, or anecdotal by heritage,
with real time and immediately evident impacts.  
Unlike a theatrical play, which enacts a suspension
of emotion, a drama in a few hours, but then it ends.  Recreacting, blurs the line.  Perhaps “Reality Television” (literally: projected sight of the real) is the closest manifestation, but the audience is inconsequential, 
unless somehow felt.  

DJ. T … Don’t All Go Jump

D.J.T. as monarch savior, messiah willer of solutions, negotiator extraordinaire, tremendous confidence man, buffoon for media, ego feeder.  As with a hammer making everything into a nail, so too this psychological framework will only produce someone that needs to first manufacture a world of discord, break something, simply to have something to fix.  This is a distraction from the real eroding issues, ever present, but one thing Trump will do, is ironically, by making language absurd, allow for people to also express absurd messages, which sustains freedom inherently.  Over time the message will rise to fill the vacuum of nonsense, to give form.  His crazy rhetoric is scaring people to speak what is of most importance.  He should be thanked for this liberty.
New euphemism: “alternative facts.”


THE BED (ONE WORKS IN)

I’ve become intimate with working in bed, and so the bed like an operating table is not for relaxation. The couch has adopted this role. I imagine there must be a congress of writers and artists who worked from bed, on mostly horizontal position. What effect does this have to the mind?

To write from sleep. Meditation works best when seated, to stay connected with the body. The writing in bed connects to the “active images”? But this intimacy comes at a price. A lover and partner is squeezed out, by the body of work, quite literally. I would never imagine sitting at her desk at the gallery, while she writes, this analogy shows how ridiculous the bed has become. Solutions? Bigger bed?  Separate beds? Keep work away from bed altogether? Keep away from bedded situations. Imbedded as it will. No pun. Her body grazes and kicks at mine, and I lose the state of forgetting that I do have a body. Wake dreaming turns into awake. I wonder what did Magritte do about this? He slept 14 hrs. per day, and had a large family.  

Jung’s “Irreducible Rascality” —A. Watts

Letting through aware-acceptance of what is in one’s nature, to participate with the changes bound to take place.  An organic intelligence taking over, rather than will.  Since will was exercised a priori, in the choice to pay attention, to listen, whatever the reaction or consequence is unpredictable in broad strokes.  This does not explain the uncanny sense of intuition that rudders a course steady and true through trial and tribulation.  

 

THE CAVE WALL

The cave entered to meet the wall.  Plato’s Cave.  Petroglyphs.  Ancient caves function like modern day museums and churches?  Or like TV and the computer?

Try drawing by candle light as they must have done with Cave Drawings.  The features and contours of the rock followed as too it’s cast shadows.  My paper surface is smooth and flat.  Empty sky of blemish without depth nor clouded guest wanderers to stimulate images.  

Start like graffiti.  Start anywhere and build around that.  Sketch the composition and lay in the frames, the metaphorical doors, windows, doorbells, shutters, and past markings, weathering, tags.  

Lay in the Cosmovision on the cave’s wall.  Check out Marion’s pictures of Chevine’s culture, Peru. Maya and Aztec codexs for reference.  Stylize.  

And continue working to maintain vacuums.  

 

I’LL NEVER KNOW HOW SHARP [DARK] THE SKIES

The darker the night, the sharper the sky, lest there be clouds,
Or other musings of the firmament.

I’ll never know how sharp the night skies
Looked for you, and how they shaped your world.
I’m told Hawks and Eagles can see insects from
Crawling on the ground from distances would
Require telescopes for the best of our human eyes.
20/5 vision I believe is what they approximate.
You Eagle are a person in my eyes, you have your
Common senses, active daily, teaching your young, 
And navigating the world by these common senses.
But the common sense to you is so strange and removed
For me, and vice-verse, though we share common ground.
So I’ve built stories after what you look like
Inhabiting this mutual place.  Do you have stories about us?
Do you seen us humans as having commons sense, or a common sense?
Ironically, we tend to communicate best with those with the
Same common sense, and language and so think the world
Is made this way, when in fact it’s diversity that populates
Our common sense, but we don’t see it all, for it’s too much.
The ocean is vast our common sense tells, us.  But we don’t see all of it.
Our summation is irrational, and this is a blessing.
For you they would have been common sense.  
And common sense is the last thing we discuss.
We assume we all see the world alike, literally.
Tests show 20/20 vision or it’s departure
from this common average.  
While the world outside looks of certain consistent patterns
We don’t question it any further, unless it’s through competition or
Ergonomics.  Everything is tailored to maximize an ergonomic average
And that includes the ergonomics of all the senses.  
A professional basketball Player will seldom fit inside
a Porsche because of how small they’re made, or
Anyone over 6’2’’ will not be able to venture into space.  
In this way, what if someone’s Hearing was more attuned?  
They become a piano tuner, or music teacher?  If one can
See 20/15, they can qualify to be a fighter pilot, or may be an artist?
What other senses does the body manifest
strongly in humans that we smooth over
With the bulldozer of our own doing
from lack of understanding, which is primed
By the rejection of diversity in the external world.  
Everything has a way of feeling the world around
and is equally part of how the world
is feeling it in that exchange.  
I don’t know what I am talking about?
Does any animal or insect on Earth, 
any biological form, have a telepathic sense?  
Whales can communicate over half the globe’s circumference. 
Bats can echolocation without ever hitting another, 
and pick flying mosquitoes from midair, 
dolphin’s sonar capacity can describe the type of material, 
almost in what is describe to be a quantum
MRI machine in their head.  
Pigeons have elements in their beaks that align
with the magnetic fields of the Earth.  
And some creatures like turtles are born to navigate
by the light of stars, and moon.  
How can bees smell their environment in 3D
to such accuracy they can tell where
each other bee in the colony is located.  
We look at a dog and forget it’s olfactory sense
is sharper than ours, like sight for us, 
and language, it has other senses that are
primary for dialoguing the world.  
But they surely feel the same things
at least on a basic level.  Comfort, warmth, 
protection, affection, anxiousness, sleepiness, etc.
What if this is the beginning of a departure
to what one day was called superstition?
What is called superstition, may be the result of a misunderstanding,
Not in what we consider to be the ability leading to superstition, a
Belief in something unreal, but that to some people it may be real, 
In that it may be felt, perceived, and incorporated into their unconscious
Body intelligence, in the way we all carry this process out daily.
Of an evolutionary development of adaptation in one species.
And though the explanation may be false, the action may remain
True to its biological imperative.  We have called people animals.
We have deemed animals to lack culture and empathy, all
Which turned out to be false, by a far margin.
How we feel the other may require a tolerance
In the translation of the language used.  
We see this in today’s world of spiritual attention.
East and Western manifestation of the Gods to worship.
Forget for a minute if they are real or not, by proof or belief, 
Let’s suspend this thinking and focus on what they represent, 
Which ultimately is all that matters.  The reminders help with
The recalling, and keeping active in the environment, 
This sense of internal sensibilities that require stories to encapsulate.
So symbols summarize the story, much in the way a flag summarizes
A nation, and a story summarizes a feeling of complex historic facets.  
But is it possible that in the way we extend outside
our bodies using technology, people may have done
this using their minds, or an intuition developed
and attuned in ways that would look impossible today?  
What we today call superstition, is commentary
on the narratives and explanations
ancient people gave to the abilities.  
If one would reverse the table, and ask
that someone from Egypt view out technology today, 
would we be so different? Or would it all seem like magic?  
What if the technology we have is a result
of this ability made manifest, and commodified externally?
Are any of these thoughts useful to me, for my work, or those I love?  
Only in a form of reverse engineered empathy I’ll be able to dialogue.  
I’m tired of thinking of Kumi all the time.  
Not simply as conscious thoughts, 
but inside like some pattern of blood, 
or as a type of fate that was derailed
and it attempting to re-stabilize itself.  
A planet coming in alignment, or a season changing.  
If none had labeled the seasons, 
how would you have divided them?  
You don’t live by agricultural tending, 
and seasons are controlled within the shelter or by travel.  

Ref ^  I’ll Never Know How [Sharp] Dark The Skies   

[Is there a way to know how sensitive the eyes of people living 10,000 years ago were?  Could they see more features in the darkness of a forest, cave, or night plain?  Could they hear better a range of noises, which we can audibly perceive, but we simply block out, and over time, lose the sensitivity to integrate the frequency range?  Do we compensate for what the sense lose by adding technology as a prosthetic, or are we leaping by dramatic bounds far “ahead” of the body?] 


SHIELDS, SPELLS, SCREENS

Protectors of magic. Circuit shields. Dawn. Awaking.
The wall in the studio proxy for cave wall.
Write spells.  Incantations.  Provocations.  
Stories to de-scribe.  Tattoo the rock wall.
Dialogue with that which is watched to form.
Prune images and organic thought.
Believe that eyes will find the imagines agentes.
Find the sleeper.
Travel in place.  


THE DREAM - Mudface

Mudface people, darkearth, walking in a house.  
I was in the home too, wandering.
There was a loom of textile being worked, 
And I was being shown or let watch.

How many of life’s wonders will
have a chance to continue on woven?

Was I walking through a forest?
[a forest through]
Time present, is the only time,  
the only time, and time only.
Oily time slips.  Time is not
a technology, but it is the fuel
That allows all information
to techne itself, moves along the dream.
What hands touch, by digits, 
Is but a wonder migration to the internal eternal.

When we speak, that is technology, 
it needs fuel.  
We kill for fuel, for energy, 
To consume the forms that fit our mouth, 
and all the scales of what nestles in another
Is a small measure of interrelations we can see, 
But the rest are linked like a chain under water,
Anchor and boat, tide and sway.

Where are you Tao?
I squinted my eyes at the glaring sun, 
Peering under a blanket of rain clouds,
Arco Iris behind me, the plat of lashes
Against the rays revealed circles, and veins,
But not sure what I was seeing.
Was it the capillaries in eyes, the iris, cones and rods?

So peculiar…I wonder if anyone has written about this.

The psychedelic is nurtured by art.
No chemicals needed to provoke it, 
But the brain needs a tune up on occasion.

Water helps.

My back is acting up again, there is stress in the air.
A language of no self.  The body fully merged to
Environment.  But the will steers.  

Winds come.
Winds come.

There again I go, it goes, that fleshy water balloon.

The square sun, home to none.
It gifts every hour, all forgotten.
Perfect Tao, teach me to make light.
To be luminous in all actions, and draw with light too.

The straightest line will always be crooked, 
The crooked path will always be most direct.

 

THE CROOKED STEM

The crooked stem crewed to bits by busy bees,
Separates generations from grass and trees,
Becomes the measured cut branch, swallowed
And in the shallow world sinks into being.

Tooth for tooth to tender morsel seeing [keeping]
Chew and assimilate what once was new,
Outside comes to reside inside, becomes another
Crooked limbfinger, grasping tree beware.

That cloud inhaled contains the Earth’s breath,
And so it blows across brush and grass,
Shapes the shadows to [in] all tomorrows,
With you, I too am light, and the pale shade.

For that which is made is but a spire rising,
[A spire rising for which that is made]
Tide and pool, moon and pull, 
Flickers tranquil the double gaze, [a thing]
Event not separated by reflection, 

[A spire rising for which that is made]
For that which is made is but a spire rising,
Tide and pool, moon and pull, 
Flickers tranquil the double gaze, [a thing]
Event not separated by reflection, 

The ripples break the threaded peaks
Of lazy glares of sun and life,
Which star, when the eyes collapse flies?
To the mountain gate, gives way to the sun.

[And so hold] The tree held in hand, 
a delicate shining child Learns, 
a plant and moon combine young with blue.
This geological entity grows people.

and on this rock, People grow technology
along the flow of rivers, and Reaching arbor, 
crawling dunes, melting glaciers, coral reefs,
All involved, defining another, as one moment of relief
and separate, Dependent on the eyes of clouds and rocks, 
The bridging skin we can’t feel but assume to own.

Do you not look at these things?
Do they not have eyes then?

Do you not look at these things?  
If you see a rock, that
Rock is seeing you back.
Do they not have eyes then too?

 

YOU CAN TALK TO TREES

You can talk trees to me.
Before the blanket is pulled
Over this body for sleep it is
Yours here and thereafter.

I am the lucky on because I am beheld.

An old man will walk by innocent lovers.  
So too we will walk in future days
Before young ones.  But for now, 
You are my youth to hold,
Where I am held—
Where I existed to hold you.

Who holds who?
When I speak in trees;
And you speak in thickets.

The bramble falls over our peaceful steps.
I count your hairs, like hours in a day.

 

FVAC 109
(Vine of Time)

A dialogue of stems sprouts from parasol flower,
Rigged by the vine lines, suspends pollen loads,
As time dilates to wither the bloomed mother,
Caught between the unborn twin budding odes;
Though lassoed at times, may the Floral Veins
Fiercely flourish, conduits past the futile banes.
One day they will explode in the soft, nutated air,
And there speak the Constellated Petal Code dare.


FVAC 110
(Blackout Machine Effect of Code and Rope)

Code Transmissions fall to torque in petal forms,
Molten crystal to crushed rock, to living loam,
Soil to plants—uncanny pollinated hope, migrate wonder
Hang flowers on Horizon Rope, and never blunder.

Though at times lassoed, may the floral veins,
Fierce conduits flourish past the futile banes.
But grave the quiet link thread of youth spat thorns,
Pluck Versus the fetish proof bone, where tongue adorns.


FVAC 111
(Glossolalia Tongue)

How misunderstood forms appeared,
When cyphered visions became perceived.
His own mind quick to betray, then Logos conceived:
For within each leaf, Polygone’s code grew a new,
Messages from the one dream he knew,
This, Versus Set, entrained to find, a vertigo of curiosity,
A companion stems, a threshed lovekind unmarred of pity.


FVAC 112
(Terragraph Leaf Hung on Horizon Line,
a Vine of Time, or Axis Mundi by Deus Ex Machina)

Upon the inverted world stems too entrain,
For no willed lines of mind upon Earth can change,
Swoon to swoon, ocean to ocean terrains.
When the plexus of branches denuded the sun of light
And shade creeps into your skein veins,
Where bloomed clouds magistrate the unbound sky;
Autumn leafs drum the whirlwinds of time,
So sprout and sprites can sway for each other.
What will you do with what you think you once knew?


FVAC 113
(Candle Doppelgänger, Spire Petal of the
Shadow Constellation, and Shy Gaze Fang)

Uncover the concealed codes laced
Of metal lines turned filigree.
Blow by blow the red glow set free.
Two tailored, shadow shy candles,
Burn side by side upon Aster’s Breast
Blending the twin germane beacons and chimes;
The clan crest of arms link blind to sunlit times.


FVAC 114
(Limbs Under the Influence of Mimicry’s Hex,
Once Pendulum Calipers, Wishbone Chromosome)

Yet, limbs under influence of mimicry’s hex,
Do scarcely sway the inverted pendulum vexed,
Where Echo Gambits blunder under caliper measures,
So too, alone vines of time split the wishbone treasures.


FVAC 047
(Code Released and Severed Echo Lines)

From body within and from body without,
The vessels fall to whispers of shaped dust,
Eyes see by innocence as skin thins
Translucent, but the grin grows.

From old hands to hand me downs to young ones,
Do you feel the world as we once did,
Dirt of different kinds form pollen clouds,
To morning dew, now it's in the mind,
What you may want to do, cuckoo [coocoo]
With what you though you once knew.

 

 

THE DREAMS


THE CITY IS AN ELECTRONIC CAVE

The City is an electronic dream cave.

The city is an electronic cave, a rat hole, a series of interior spaces
One travels by underground networks with occasional street meanderings.

These markets were a place to train people into docile, 
subservient, and expecting everything in lines, at whim, 
like a computer chip.  The shape of a future shaped by technology.  
No.  It was already, it is already this way.  The body slowly breaking
down into autonomic, unconscious intelligence systemic failures.  
It’s called cancer but goes deeper than this.  Anxiety attacks is a conscious
mind stuck in the feedback loop, and the body slaves along.  
Diagnosexxx by symptom rather than ailment or disease.

A market silo, warehouse, which looked no different
than any other supermarket.  A grid.  Made to walk
and navigate in this way, people were being prepared
for the electronic take over.  “Which isle is the item in?” 
was the most profound feeling there.  It was designed
to dumb down human behavior. 

Running through electronic sensor gates, and I had a pass
that allowed anyone to walk through with me, 
though I doubted it, it was a valid VIP status.  
We went ahead of everyone, where exactly I didn’t know.  
I think it was Dustin who was with me.  

What else happened in the dream?  Good question.
What else happened in the life stream?
I don’t know I can even say reliably.  
What else happened in the dream?
Drugs to make us function better in a city grid.
Where the plant medicine makes one function better as the organism? Retreat?

I am a mirror of the other.
Don’t know how to be with you, 
the reflection that is not either.
The abstractions of memory images.
Go deeper into the hermit realm.
 
Nebuchadnezzarxxxi ate grass as an oxen, like the beasts of the field.  The Matrix

 

PICASSO WAS A GENIUS AT PAINTING  
I argued that it was not just “genius” but because he worked daily, demoting the comment made during table banter at a dinner with friends, or perhaps I interrupted another group’s dinner.  Someone replied that he could talk about an object indefinitely without ever describing it completely.  He always left an aspect out, but it never felt missing.  

Reality:

Isa, the standstill.  Can’t make a conscious move anymore.  Waiting for the spontaneous to emerge.
Chapter 52 -53+ “Just So”, Watts nails it.  

Maybe I’ll become that crazy man that talks to himself, or corrects others, when he hears the ridiculous things people say.  


How to be spontaneous as Picasso was in the dream?  The game of call and answer the Buddhists plays, where if you pause to think, you lose.  The point it to free associate whatever comes to mind and not tailor it to any need.  Not construct, fix, not craft, whatever.  I’m the one who can barely get out of the conscious living, which is the thin-king, and the unconscious mind, should have been called the “realmind” or “superconscious” as it knows much more, and conscious scanning is conscious-centric, hence the term “hyperinternality.”  What happened with the view that Earth was at the center of the universe is happening to my mind, thinking, participation, art, etc.  I can’t observe it from afar, and since conscious thinking is at the center, nothing else can be trusted.  I’m inquisitive (to inquire, to inquisite), the inquisitor to my own spontaneous activity, and for an artist, even the spontaneous becomes habit for results, rather than rituals.  There is not a dialogue, but a death.  But persist in the folly and you shall become wise, or something of the sort.  Getting rid of possessions, the sofa chair felt amazing, and the moment it was gone, I realized I would never miss it, and that it’s been a burden that I mistook for comfort.

I have an audience in my head as soon as anything interesting starts to happen.  Eager to pull the line back up, rather than make sure the fish has swallowed the hook, to use a disgusting analogy.
So I’ll sit still, and wait, and speak not, and resist women, and slow down drinking and recluse myself, which is a strange way to express to isolate oneself, or to become a recluse.  

Any idea I have, that seems fun as soon as it has a seconds move, it jumps to speculate what other people will think of it, or what is worse, what I’ll think of it. And this sounds like what I told Matthew once about the title of a book by Feynman, “What do you Care what other people think”, adding, “including yourself.”  I’m a phony, these are the words I tell myself, and they are phony too, so the accusation itself is a trap, and phony.  So all is phony, but this can’t be either, for to have all phony, something must not be otherwise the phony wouldn’t stand out against a field of the real or true, whatever that may be.   These things go together.

I would accidentally shit myself while writing and losing track of my body, and so write until my ass was covered by poop, and the shit almost hitting the seat, which would require to wipe for half-hour, or take a shower.  Anal retentive to stay in the zone of not thinking.  Is this the Adderall high, the cocaine-like stimulation, or is it the being in the zone, and can you change where the attention is focused.  

What’s the difference between attention and being conscious?  Christof Koch lecture.  The age of neuroscience to explain the ills of mind, while Trump is on office.  That is absurd indeed.  

Maybe it’s not worth the stress to live in this state of mess and anxiety, and you need to shed more…go through things and energetically feel if they stay or go.  Empty rooms, though sad, are full of hope once you get over the initial reaction.  Unless it’s barren land.  A deserted place once living, which means it will take longer, or at that scale it’s dead.  But Mars is now going to be resuscitated, for Earth has reached a limit the human race cannot organize to solve slowly.  It ignores the trends at governing bodies, elects people that go against the reality of the physical world, and construct daily fairy-tales, which then are retold in the news.  The president gets his information not from the intelligence committee, but from Fox News station, then states that the media is the enemy of the American people.  So which is it?  This is rhetorical.  

 

KUMI MAZE HANDSTANDS

Kumi was attempting handstands from a standing position without propelling or propping for balance.  She managed to do a handstand from standstill position like gymnasts.  For her it was a moment of celebration, and while I watched her accomplishment, it was from afar, but disembodied, I was able to be present and witness this moment of her life.  I think she was completely naked, with nobody else anywhere near.  \\

I had a neighbor who invited me to casually hangout, and it was at a meditation center, though I didn’t know this when I agreed.  I was surprised by the mood and misjudged what he would be into.  As I was leaving afterwards, there was a reading, either a recording or live, of a large book, which sounded Buddhist in principles, but was graphically laid out like a Jewish text, with small rectangular printed areas, and commentaries all around it.  

I decided to return.  And upon doing this, ended up in a maze of streets, impossible entries to the building, corridors that shapeshifted with hydraulics, impossible elevators to fit into, stairwells behind unmarked doors, and eventually sat down at a table with a woman, and Ferris Buller (forget his name).  He gave me rock, mineral.  So, did she.  I have him a long piece of her hair, a single hair, that was growing out of her nostril.  It was black, about 5 inches long, and as thick as a needle.  I wrapped it in paper tissue, and then wrapped the bundle in a nicer package.  The crystal, mineral ore tablet he gave me, was about the size of an atlas.  Too large to carry as a book.  It was cumbersome, and dropped a few times on the street.  While I would try to pick it up, people from the neighborhood, would start to steal all my things, out of my backpack, which I would lay down next to the tablets, and see if they would possibly fit into the bag.  It felt like parts of my things were being cannibalized, picked off by anyone.  I think I tried to talk my way out of this, and compel people to stop, but it was useless.  The best I could do was to hurry the process, while warding away scavengers, collect my things as best I could under the circumstances.

Are the scavengers my fears or do they represent time, that which is lost when resting, or losing balance of the gifts we carry, which can weigh one down, unless figuring out what to do with it, or how to carry it?  
I don’t think I ever arrived anywhere, but instead wandered the streets for hours, and any directions I would manage to get from asking people, were wrong, or I was ignored, or the directions were given with such dismissiveness, due the obvious nature of what I was asking.  Everyone else seem to know exactly where everything was located and how to navigate the territory, the neighborhood.

Yuri appeared at one point in the dream, though I can’t remember what the circumstance was for or if we talked.  I think it had something to do with art.  

 

FOLLOWING KUMI SNAKE TONGUE 

Where The Road Split In Two From A Single One, Like A Snake’s Tongue.

Hauntings of Kumi in the dreams, she appears, vanishes,
Seeks me out energetically, then runs away.  What I remember of image sequences
Is following her into the crowded shifting maze of Times Square the Broadway splits
In two becoming part of 7th Ave.  At the foot of the wedge building the newsstand man
Told me she saw her wandering in to the masses of people.

Where the road split in two from a single one,
The serpent’s tongue reaches for two and she chose the right turn
Without reason to stay, I remained at the split, for a time long
Enough to notice Kumi was out of sight.  She moved away from me
Like a magnet pushed against the same polarity.  I followed for the same
Reasons, if magnetism is a reason?, then at least there’s one reason.
Intelligence.  Rations.  Between the ratios cut.  Between the “legere”
Which is chosen, picked-out, read, and who claims to pick one’s path?
Or is it a compulsive following of a creature into a certain sea or wood
Of uncertainty.  The butterfly, the fairy, the whale, the bird or beast, a person gone.

Healing the wounded split in disrepair, yet the in-between fulcrum of two are both sought.
Walking on the cicatrix.  The scar of a healed wound.  The hearth or fireplace.  

Kumi cuts and heals simultaneously.  A scar is left.  Anthropogenic Forest.  

The studio is a fragile organism, it’s damaged every time Alkhul passes through with its cronies.
Even if under good intentions, it’s the Bull in the China shop.  

Skin, Skin, Skin

Skin, skin, skin of the fleshy pink, folded, stretched, and persistent, 
what sensations will you peel free[able], remember, and face in dreams?

Zero, zero, zero of it all, when breath halts to tissue beads [pearls] of sweat,
Running [veins] and contained in still furies of the mind, inflated heart.

Stratum, stratum, stratum of dust building in those bones and forms,
Pellet the weeping rains, erode the feeble grains to strong standing stones.

Blow, blow, blow of the plucked bow and string, strung chords to limbs,
And there find a succession swept to wind whipping a harmony pulse.

Fall, fall, fall in a vertigo of curiosities, they don’t stop, flatten [falsen] my chest,
And make me weep with these gentle false flattened starts, turn the corner crest and crack, and fall, 

Deep marine blue dot places the center heart hue, poured in the thicket of veins,

Dream Analysis

Spoke with a close and dear friend about how to tackle the upcoming group shows.  Specifically, how to handle, manage, or what approach to take with the anxiety or finishing work by a deadline that’s close enough to warrant 12 hour days.  This pressure encourages seclusion, which is already a default state for me.  The engagement with friends and peers is good for health and the mind/heart.  

We spoke for about an hour.  He covered the ego pursuit, the competition of making the best, etc.  I opted for another version, plan C.  Work and have pieces available for choosing.  But it’s not that simple.  There’s the works one lets the curators choose, which implies responsibility on my part to know what I’m putting out there.  The phrase that struck a chord was: “I think you should give yourself permission to … [get excited and work on anything that is risky or fun.]”  

“Give yourself permission.”  Until he said it out loud, I hadn’t noticed it was even a choice I had, or an attitude I could take.  What other things am I not giving myself permission to explore or do?

I was totally unconscious to this, even though there’s no one else here, except maybe the slow current flow, that I haven’t taken responsibility for completely.  The apple tree analogy.  I compared the process to women too.  How I’ve changed.

Dream Symbols & Signs: 

Kumi (again), Train, stairs, small doors, derailment, death, accident, loop around a lake, magic behind the small door, cheating or being accused of doing so.  Bloody left index finger of Guinevere by full moon, corner of 2nd St. and C avenue, at Cosmo performance. 

 

FAMILY, WORDS YOU SPOKE, BEES, & FRESH

I felt in the dream the sense of family, the people that came into that state of relating, where biology explains family by blood line, but here there were friends too that crossed into that threshold.  A-ha moment, when scientist posited that bees act as a super-organism, and each bee is a unique cell that forms the body of the whole.  I don’t know if they are right, but at least they don’t separate them anymore and acknowledge their misperception.  And it is this misperception that your words came to ring harmoniously with your words: “that’s not it”  Your a-ha moment that there are no divisions.

You could compare the family you have with the time I have and you imagined exchanging the things you want.  It’s a recognizing in yourself something you may need.  But from the group up, where I exist, I’ve never compared like that nor would I wish upon you my current position.  We all have our reality the way it’s suppose to be, and that is what we work with, and it’s not only our life, but also a long string of generations of families that also brought us here, at this moment, “flower. fresh”  How could we change this.  We are here as an echo of words and sounds spoken millions of years ago.  Here we are, in the here, and now.  I saw the clouds moving this morning and their tone alike the color of the sky, but they moved fast, and contrasted against the stillness of the buildings you could feel the earth and know the sky.  I stood at the sidewalk transfixed, breathing, and I heard Thich’s words: “fresh”

In the dream, Kumi was family, my family was family, you are in me as family too, all these states of life manifesting into what is my sister, and you, and Kumi’s brother, and me, my parents, and yours, are all illusions when we use words to express them.  We are truly all one inseparable organism.  And if I had to make a picture of it, it would look like one bizarre mass undefined but with a clear feeling.  All words are paradoxes. All words are paradoxes.  Think of it.  Life isn’t, but words always are.  With words we point at things, and we may overlook the entirety of things around that very thing we singled out that has allowed for the thing to emerge in the first place.  We point at the river, and say there, and we don’t see the ocean, and cycles of rain, and clouds, and erosion of land, and trees sucking up the moisture from the Earth, and all these things affect how the river looks.  We point, because we have to in order to communicate, but there is always a whole environment that has brought this thing-ness into being recognized, and we connect with it, and we say “that.”  Paradox.  Simone is your daughter.  But she also is your blood, and flesh of you, and also a continuation of a life form that was created how many centuries ago?  It’s so hard to keep in mind this organism that we are, as we feel our roles as individuals, isn’t it?  Bees have 60,000 olfactory receptors so they smell in stereo.   They can locate anything using this sense.  We only smell in our nose.  They have hair on their legs that can pick-up the environment and create a perfect map of their hive, and of their fellow bees.  They know where the queen bee is at all times.  Think of it.  What senses do we have that are this evolved?  Our awareness of mind.  Mind for us is a sensory perception tool like touch and sight.  This thing we call consciousness is not that only, it is the sensory unifier that allows us to see holistically, and we can feel this.  While I was watching the documentary on bees, I was struck with one question: “ why have we made things so ugly?”  “We” meaning humanity.  And for a moment it was sad, but comforting, that if the bees were dying off, and this meant us too, then something is regulating life to return to it’s proper state.  And in the big picture, we don’t die, so life continues.  This insight removed all material associations and left me simply with the feeling of connection, which I imagine is all we will have when we are in our dying bed.  What we connected and feel connected with as we leave our body behind for the world to reabsorb.  Someday one of us is going to attend the others departing.  I don’t know when and I hope it’s a long way from now.  But it will happen, physically, but the way that we are learning to feel life when we are not there physically will continue beyond this so called term: death.  All words are paradoxes.  I hope I never forget this.  So that I’ll always remember the things that made it possible for me to be here and now writing you and looking at the clouds, and contemplating my night’s dreams.  All words are paradoxes.  The words are but a pointer to the feelings I can barely express into these little keypads, but I know you feel and understand this connection beyond the symbols, the letters.  The paradox being not the opposite state, but the awareness of all the IS still there, when we focus on the thing that is Here.  With love.  E

 

STRESSORS:  Divorce; meeting Guinevere (don’t want to sabotage); Jessica (walking past me and ignoring I said hi); Taxes; Artwork (imagination); Will (who is giving permission?)

Who is the Permit-ter?


There is no apparent time when symbolic tongues speak,
The three mannequins in the window store, followed by
The three snakes in the next window of Elizabeth street.
The dead starling, the living one, and between my walk
To meet Jessica and hand over the certified divorce papers,
She cried, told me “I do love you” and I heard my body
Reply, “I love you.”  She walked away and a sadness
Filled the vacuum in her wake that tethered to mine.
I saw the triplets of signs, the Eastern Redwood soaring
A triangular peak on Houston street on my walk to pick-up
The medical prescriptions at CVS.  These seemingly trivial
Images are the break-through the I Ching predicted.

I stopped by Whole Foods for supplies, and Day Gleason
Smiled when we greeted another.  We spoke of Trump, 
How the Onion is out of business, how art emulated life, 
Or the other way around, the play of Enesco’s about the
Headless leader.  This brief encounter had a consequence
Of arranging a needed hug from Rex and Walker.
While waiting at the checkout lines of Whole Food, 
my sight wanders to the magazine racks and sees
on the cover of Scientific America, Secret Life of Animals, 
Also: Why Many Animals are Bisexual (even Koalas).
Jessica was my Koala, it’s how I saw her best and sweetest.

While trekking home with groceries in hand, with tears swelling
In my eyes feeling the words of David Bowie’s song “Soul Love”
And resonating on the words Jessica expressed that “I will miss you,”
“I know do to, but I’m not going anywhere.  It will take time.”
There I see Walker balancing on the cordon of the parks walkway, 
Where I was also balancing.  He looked up and puzzled stared while
I smiled back, “yes, you know me!” and he smiled back, then jumped into
My arms and Rex ran over and embrace both.  “How lucky I am to run into
You both, I needed this love and warmth.” Shannon caught up and took
A picture.  We walked over to soccer practice by Forsyth St.  Shannon
Mentioned that they normally take another path there, and I said
Something along the same lines.  While sitting on the Astroturf she
Told me about seeing Slowdive in concert, how the music was massive,
Physical, and how good they were.  After 22 years the band released
A new album titles Slowdive.  A few days back I heard it, as I stumbled
Across it on iTunes.  The music feels as relevant and timeless now, as it
Did when I first heard during Cooper Union school days.

Erin reached out today as well, with a video/song that reminds her of me.
The song is cheesy, over-the-top mesh of passionate rock, metal, with an
Overriding Spanish guitar melody, which turns the instrumental piece to
A rock ode a la Hispanico.  The music video features a stripper, during
The 70’s dancing around a pole.  
“It’s the opening song to Planet Terror, but that’s beside the point”[next text]  
“Listen, don’t necessarily need to watch the video – although you can eventually” [next text] 
“Miss your face! Hope all is well with you [kiss emoji]”
Though this resonates with Jessica’s accusation that I am a “womanizer”— 
Which she did take back, when expressing that anger is the only way
she knows how to let it out.  She left Pyramid club alone, drunk and went
to Clandestino with a “friend.”  Reluctant as I am to believe she doesn’t remember
going there, she did acknowledge that of all the places “you could have gone, you
chose that one.”  Later in the night, she fell on her face, cut her chin, lip and cheek.
That’s the energy moving in her.  On the bench, in the park between Elizabeth and Mott
We sat and talked.  We understood that the energies moving will have their physical
Manifestation, whether we want it or not.  The anxiety built will come.  I spent
Years destroying parts of myself in this addictive model of anxiety constructs
From the refusal, or from lack of knowledge of the language of symbols, and emotions.
If all one knows is English, while traveling in foreign land, English will be given a go, 
And hope something sticks.  Emotions seem the same.  

It was a full moon last night.  Saw and listened to Cosmo play with Guinevere at my side.
Mellow but excellent performance of an instrumental set with two horns, drums, two guitars,
Bass, all song written and composed by Jesse Harris.  Between the fourth and fifth song, Jesse
Address the small room of about twenty five people.  He named the song “Wave” as coming
From the Spanish phrase he had picked-up, “que onda?”  Then spotted me
In the second row, and said Ernesto is Spanish, that’s right isn’t it?, and I said after a noticeable hesitation, “not really.”  People and Jesse laughed.  Then a Portuguese speaking person in the back
Said it did mean that in his language.  The next day a series of texts were produced around this small exchange.  **[insert texting]

Later we went to Supper, the restaurant, and had dinner in a secret backroom, accessible through a few secret, wine cellar doors, that looked like a shelf of wine with glasses on top, inside were more bottles, in a snake, “S” shaped closet room lead to another door, and eventually through these closet doors and bottles, ended in the baroque wall-paper decorated, room with a long rustic table.  The AC in the wall was held in place with duct tape.  It was sheik, fancy, low-budget, and perfect.  At the table Guinevere sat to my left, and Jesse to my right.  Directly across were a couple, the young woman was named Katya, an Ukrainian beauty that was distracting, but more so when her older boyfriend claimed she was a painter and artist too.  He’s a Pete or Jeff Weber, but can’t remember.  Weber is easy to recall.  They were both very pleasant and nice.  He mentioned that he painted in Buenos Aires, that he liked it, and showed me a charming, dark, impressionist affected painting on his iphone.  After some continuous chatting, mentioning Stanford several times, and dropping names of artists and then galleries, he got around to John Berggruen, and I jumped, “oh, I’m in a group show there in a couple of months.”  He made a remark to the table, “hey everyone, this is Jesse, he’s a musician” and asked Jesse why he failed to mention that I was an artist.  We then geek’d-out about bay painters, and a few others.  We decided to follow each other on instagram.  I did see what Katya and Jeff’s painting look like.  It was rough.  But the whole point was that while I was sitting next to a “supermodel,” a woman who captivates my attention, and vice-versa, who is kind to me, and sexy, and new, I still am looking across the table at the young model, wondering in my head somewhere out of sight—why don’t I get to have that?  Here’s the crux, and the cliché: always wanting what is unpossessed, yet unreached, the greener fields across the table in the backroom, isolated from the city and Earth for that matter, walled in by bookcases of wine.  Apropos of the Don Juanism, the “womanizer” and the little stigmas that have appeared on my left hand, on my cicatrix of back surgery, and right index finger.  Yesterday was a full moon, a day of rest as Guinevere mentioned.  We walked to the subway, and comfortably said goodnight and kissed.  At home I almost passed out, but held on to being awake.  Moments later it was 11:15am on the nose, when my eyes opened and panicked that I had missed my meeting with Dr. Schluger, and Jessica.  I called him and did the session via phone.  During the chat, he said: “the world is going to end.”  His words in commentary to my explanation of being led by anxiety rather than by the conscious ability to give myself permission to do something, in turn implying a snese of resposability and enthusiasm that it is happening, and not because it must happen out of pent-up pressure, no longer able to be contained against the will’s desire.  Permission felt like an unobstructed understanding of the physical world.  The wu-wei, of the li of the situation.  

This brings it up to date.  All the synchronicities and markers.  Jijimuge.  

It appears that symbolic experiences come in waves.  Shinkataza.  

Where did the dancing words go?

Poetry vs. Description
Evoking the body feeling vs. recreating the storyline?  

What are the symbolic parallels that stand out?

What is most important to you?

The three mannequins then snakes, the three which come to Buddha?  
Look at the visitations of three snakes or dolls in myth, dreams.
[G, J, Erin.]

Sisyphus in the lands.  

In the inverted womb, walking in a valley turned and versed upside down, 
Inside and into a mountain wandered to a seat by the stream, shade by trees,
From a valley funneled water the body drank and swam, the melted glacier cries
Out rocks and boulders, wipes them away to sand pebbles, and in the crush
Somewhere downstream, frozen water moves, in it pricked awake and breath,
Erasing any conceit, any color, and from there a mountain of images is built
For man to first find, then climb, and perhaps overlook the setting sun
from a sky-scrapping, crown baring thistles to the clouds a pyramid shadow.

 

2015.11.15.1047

KUMI BECAME PREGNANT

Kumi became pregnant with the man she is currently seeing.  I was taking some drug that altered my physical condition and appearance.  She has been in my dreams repeatedly in the last few weeks, which leads me to think that I’m still in love with her – is this true?  

Perhaps the conclusion appears tempting for its impossibility, specificity, and sentimentality; an affliction, a certain logic birthed not in the heart, but in the repetition of past experience, and expectations.  Perhaps the true course of these dreams is to reveal the tendencies that I may accept how little I know of these unseen forces, within myself, unconscious, in body shaping to events that no longer exist in the material world of flesh, time, money; a frail whisper that foolishly I make heavy in order that it may be apparent.  This whisper, may in fact, best be sung in unison that a chorus be heard as though at once, within, and held too from without.

Reality:

    I haven’t talked with Kumi in months…and if I remember correctly, it was last winter, almost a year ago, when Kadu had his moving out party in Dumbo.  It’s five years since we were involved.  Charlotte mentioned she had become an amazing woman, and followed later in conversation that I had in the same time, managed to reduce myself almost nothing.  She continued in a more positive note that I was handsome, that I would and still could get it back.  We were having drinks at Clandestino when the news of her friend’s mother, and writer of ET had passed.  Charlotte broke down and sobbed in my arms.  She was also indulging in coke that night.  Our timing is synchronous and though we seldom see each other, when we do, memorable and poignant occurrences build their stead.

 

BASIC MECHANICS OF ACCURACY


Accuracy.  I dreamed of it last night, this morning, but in the eyes of others; a false hope.  When hope is best described as delusion, it is simply lost.  Other noises overtake the quiet.  I can’t count the number of motors, pumps, engines, and devices which propound the backdrop of the luxury of having open windows, allow a breeze to blow through, rather than a monotone AC unit filling the same space.  Drown it out in music.  This quality of silence, the lack thereof, Louise Bourgeois spoke of needing—that was accurate.  And where is the accuracy in this development, it only brings on a wish for predators to set the noises straight.  Radiohead is always in tune with the fire engine sirens, and so is Brian Eno’s music…perhaps it means something.  

I saw a couple of books in the windows of Randall McNally’s store on Prince Street: The Age of Humans, and another  on Mind Organized, in an age of over information.  Whatever is “in–formation” is shapeless and abstract, the greatest irony, consciousness the tree growth above ground, and the rest, out of sight, this field we feed, connected by roots, unaware how interlocked everything is?  What do I know?    
    
How do I propose to make money and pay my bills?  You’re going to have to sell something.  Anything for that matter.  The qualities of your food, and health care have diminished.  No insurance, and organic food is too expensive these days, and who to ask for help; you’re 42 and the shame is too grand for this.  You avoid the natural pulls, without understanding why.  This is not an accurate way of existing.  It will eat you alive.  Any suggestions?
EC:        “Ernesto, my soul, and subconscious, I beckon you to please give me guidance, I am lost, and without you, all these choices and decision take me further down the spiral.” 
Sub C:        “OK.  I will speak for you:  draw.  Draw first the commission.  The nightscape.  Then fulfill your commitments.  Do these first and I will disclose what follows once you finish.”  
EC:       “And the book?”  
Sub C:  “You will need to place it on hold and let it be.  You may have to drop the project.”  
EC:       “Why?”  
Sub C:  “Because you may lack what is necessary.”
EC:       “What do I need?”  
Sub C:  “Fortitude and discipline.  How much of this do you have these days?”
EC:         “Will I be homeless?”
Sub C:     “Only if you want to.”

[2014.08.30.1208]
    “The wealth of the soul exists in images.”
- C. G. Jung


MATT WILSON’S PLACE

Some Trailer Like Home

Strong dreams last night.  
Matt Wilson’s place.  Some trailer like home, but was a high-rise building and below could see to a pool.
A movie we I was maybe going to join in seeing called J---------Un Ding, Ping, it took place in Iceland but was Croatian, or Baltic.  When I looked up the movie, found an older film that took place in Egypt or other Mediterranean place, hot with sand, a naked voluptuous woman.

Yuri telling me about the Monday meeting of art and how different it was to wake up and have the day start on Mondays now, at this age, rather than when we were at Cooper.

Victor was upset with me.  He was in the dream, had a presence, but his face remained obscure.

With the Masnyj’s we rode on a boat.  I expressed I couldn’t come to Lake George because I was broke, and like Ben, they didn’t seem to grasp how little money I had.  Which I true of real life too, at the moment.

Poverty is an organizing agent, either to summon the little one has, or through depression, cause another kind of organization, one through humility, or cessation of hope; so much seems up to chance with me.  It’s unsettling.  I’ll try to organize, as best I can all I have done.

 

A CHARTER BUS ENGULFED IN FLAMES

A charter bus engulfed in flames, glowing orange like embers, pummels through a fire department. Parts of the bus are burned, the heat making the shell diaphanous.  I can make see some passengers are alive; they’re trapped.  There’s no sound, which is strange, since the bus is driving in a congested area — it looks like Hell’s Kitchen near Penn Station.  
    My parents and I look at this, from within the corner diner, on the southwest corner.  Eastward, I notice a damaged building.  Before I can finish looking at the extent of the damage, I announce:
    “That building is going to collapse.”  
    My mother hears this, but my dad missed it, as I did too.  This statement blurted out, and I don’t register it as fact or fiction.  It came out like an exhalation, autonomic.  Five seconds later the building implodes on itself, clumsy, from top to street.  I’m unshocked.  I tell my mom that I had predicted that and she seems unstartled.  

This is not the first time I dream of collapsing buildings in Manhattan.  Crumbling structures with no one able to stop them.  No ominous forces, no culprit to blame.  Fearless, or ignorant of such a concept or state of being.  

 

WEARING A WATCH NOT MINE

I Was Wearing A Watch That Was Not Mine and needed to back trace in order to reassemble all lost items in an airport with multiple terminals.  My wallet was in a locker belonging to a worker.  The rest of my clothes and valuables were somehow spread all over this evening of activities.  Yuri was there.  Though the task of assembling everything seemed impossible, little by little, I kept finding missing parts.  Complete anxiety took over while searching and feeling helpless.  

Reality:
       Yesterday and today have felt more depressed than normal, and not sure why.  I haven’t been out to drink and have kept to things I need to take care of.  Perhaps it’s a sense of pointlessness in the art in general.  I don’t have anything to say.  It feels like Lyme again, but could be depression.  The sensation is of estrangement.  Removed.  Needing quiet and rest.  Sleep is preferable.  All stimulus seems magnified, though I know it’s not.  
    What I’m most stressed about: income, inconsistent art making, and my changing focal points, i.e., moods.  Are the meds helping?  It feels like they’re stretching me taught, between energy and sleep, between the Adderall and Valium.  
    Losing continuity to frequently.  Stress.  Distractions.  Temporary pleasures.  Inconsistent work.  Brief moments of light offer no solutions.  More sleep.  Fuck.

 

RV^ CHASING ROBERT DE NIRO AROUND MANHATTAN
sitting with him in the subway, he was being teased by some strangers since it was his birthday.  They pulled at his ears and he didn't seem to mind.  Everything in the dream was awkward for me.  I dropped the cheesy pizza slice on the floor and tried to eat it, couldn’t find how to get downstairs by using the staircase, and when pointed out was strictly embarrassing;  He would never wait for me.  We had met earlier in the dream and were friendly, and I stuck to him.

The asshole itch I needed to wash is how I woke up from this dream.

There was a portion with Kirsten Deirup.  I had messed up that relationship.
We were having another moment of past revival.  She explained the reason she would never jeopardize what she had was due to the house she and Brock had lived and worked on.  I couldn’t offer her anything of the sort.  

The whole dream felt like chasing a future that’s not mine, and a past that’s long gone, and also not mine anymore to behold.  The people we were once upon a time, and with each other is so drastically different it might as well have been another person altogether.  Same with Yelena.  Ebon and I are emailing to get drinks….who would have imagined a dozen years ago?

Strange time dilation as age increases

I knocked on the door, bringing a piece of cabbage leaf, or Chinese cabbage.  Fred was not home, but his assistant answered the door, a beautiful young woman, but would not open it.  I handed over the gift.

Days before I had visited Fred, and we looked at all the art, which was in a large studio, spacious, filled with light, and white walls.  The art was minimal in energy, lines of geometry, reminiscent of Sol Lewitt.
There was a magical, psychodelic aspect operating in the aura of the work, we spoke about how to access this realm.  The image of wondering around the studio alone took place, and didn’t know where Fred went.
My return visit to find him gone surprised me.  I was supposed to arrive at 10AM but was late by two hours.

I wondered the street, looking at trees, and found one that had been pruned back considerably, but was a normal trimming back, normal to the early season of Spring.  It had buds growing and flowers.  The sky was clear.  Perhaps the middle of the day.  

In the street there was the gathering of a festival, or ritual festivities but was unsure what it was.  I don’t remember if I spent time waiting for people to congregate and see how it would develop.   

Reality

I fell asleep listening to Terence McKenna.  Got drunk again last night.  Met a couple, friends, who since last October had taken and continue to do Tango.  Diego Blanco was recommended.  The bartender, Lacey, has a tattoo on her thigh of Francoise Gillot, Picasso’s wife, done in the style of her becoming a plant, to which I said to Lacey, “she never took any of his shit.”  She agreed.

Imago Mountain is staying in NYC, and prepared the panel to work on the central section as I had originally intended as Assembly of Crowns, before I reversed the composition to make it a pyramid.  Now I’m rethinking this move.  I don’t know what forces are at play pulling me all over the place.  But last night I ranted about how messy is a good state to be in.  Me and my drunken talk.  How true is it?  I know I am a hypocrite at times, which what I logic into the definition of what makes people into true humans.  

Terence McKenna spoke of the Australian aborigine as not using words, but would walk for half-hour to show you something, rather than to tell you.  Art is this way.   

 

TUESDAY TIME — The Splinters of Time

Tuesday is the night we were to hang out.  Tuesday Time.  “Is that for bro-out time?” The answer seemed obvious but I had a difficult time integrating the meaning, thought it seemed an easy concept to grasp.  He could have asked me, “if I wanted to get some beers later?” And this sentence would have articulated a deeper truth, and missed the manifestation of the words, the logos, the conduits to the awake realm of the “real,” which in this case is but mere persistence of form in what we call time.*  

Reality

But like the oak tree that named truth and real, the layers of life build a membrane upon itself, hardening as it layers by season.  The splintered tree reveals the years of annular rings, but each splinters apart and time never reverts, so too with fossils come to rest in dust and pressure births them to our eyes in erosions slow sweep.  The fallen tree that shatters the trunk hides it’s age.  The felled tree with saw that cuts, draws the lines to time where none abound.  Illusions are the arms of technology, and technology are the arms of the mind’s nervous system.  

The dream continued with these words about Victor.  And his Tuesday Time hang conflicted with the plans I made with Guinevere to cuddle tonight.  The anxiety was disrupted when the tracing paper over Imago Mountain, came unhinged and crackled out of place.  Quite literally, the traced horizon line fell of the picture and awoke me as I was torn between Tuesday Time, and Bollai Time.

*I am torn between what the vine naturally wants to grow, this “bro-out” time, versus the time of new shoots, “a new roots digs.”  You and her are afraid, but will see this through none the less. 

Lightning comes to protect us.  

We stood under the a young tree, with the early supple leafs newly licked into the air, and while we kissed a slim limb came between our faces.  The wings of a moth from the chrysalis expanding its folded wings, the leafs of this Verdugo.  The shadows played on my face and you said I looked like a tree.  You saw a woman squatting in the shadows pissing on the tree, get up, pull her pants to place and jump back into her car.  While we stood by your building, Ashley watched, as we missed the spaces around us and the anonymous people walking. 

I said it was annoying to think of you, and you said I was annoying.  If I find the thought of you annoying, because I know the thought is not you at all.  And so when you appear the annoyance has no room to manifest, and disappears.  I am not annoying.  It’s the thoughts you construct of the me in your stage that enters off queue that annoys.  But what a surprise.  

The splinters of time

The splinters of time that pierce under our skin and plant buries a hair under ours.

“Progress not perfection” is wrong, but it at least creates movement.  “Progress” is a measurement principle that requires the perfect to create contrast.  Progress not Perfection is the same as saying, “Soft not Hard.”
In the right circumstance this may be true.  I think Presence not progress can be said to progress not perfection.  In the presence is perfection but it has no form per se to be measured, hence no progress to perfect.

 

I NEVER WANNA BE WHERE I’M AT

“I never wanna be where I’m at” proclaimed with pride by emphasizing the “never” said this rapper from LA in conversation while driving in the passenger seat of a convertible car.  Never be content where you lie, and always keep moving outside where you be.  Never got the sensation either of how present he was being to the moment or situation he inhabited.

It was unclear if I knew him, if he was famous, or merely fulfilled the “devil may care” stereotype attitude, and I just don't give a fuck, I’m getting my own.  Always joking about getting out of the ghetto.

The honking of loud horn awoke me minutes before 10AM. 

Reality

I was up until sunrise, working and watching (sort of) House of Cards.


POST-JASON-JUNGIAN ANALYSIS – Notes.

12:34PM hour of the father.

Wonder Migration, and Tuesday Time (the new Sabbath of men, to let go of the concrete demands and go beyond the horizon, to let the horizon line drop off the image, quite literary, as it did when I was awoken from sleep by the sound of tracing paper.


GVS & ELC

Guinevere and I were hanging out, then I had to meet an old friend or older lover I had not seen in some time.  No one special to me.  But she looked a lot like Guinevere, only shorter.  At the meeting, in a strange restaurant, we sat, her friend, a brunette went to go sit inside, giving us privacy.  After some moments I realized that Guinevere new them and was also inside.  The girl I was eating with, which was platonic, made a sexual advance towards me to which I said: “are you crazy, my girlfriend is inside” but what I was implying was that I was in a relationship I honored, and not that if she were somewhere else, I would entertain the situation.  I went to the restroom.  They all left.  I waited for some time against the floor before leaving, and in the basement where the cars were parked all three were waiting for me.  I hugged G, since I had done nothing wrong, but she was not happy.
I woke up soon thereafter.

Reality

Been a low on energy.  Post show preparations, nausea and some flu like symptoms.
Trying to be open on what to work on next, while editing the poems for the FVAC pieces.
Feeling like I need space and time alone, but not rest, and rather, continue working with the momentum I’ve built.  

 

KIRSTEN DEAR CHARTS ELECTRONICS CIRCUITS SWIMMING

Kirsten dear charts electronics circuits swimming in the ocean walking up to see sure the beach naked woman walk through a series of door tents zip back closed after Kirsten was pregnant again. I was contemplating if I stayed with Kirsten what’s things might have looked like. There was a sense of time lost. An alternate future I chose not to live. And now I’m at that age were families in the rearview mirror my own family and companionship it Is not necessary. I don’t mind being alone. What I do mind is not being at peace with the idea of being alone, that’s another future to keep in mind.

I’ve become too serious these days… it’s hard to remember last time I l laughed not in a drunken state.

 

ERIN SHOWERING

Erin showering with lots of soap.  Ex-bofriend in the shower with a strange video camera trying to record to whole ordeal.  I was waiting outside after having had a talk about washing her red Ferrari.  It needed a wash also, and I reassured her that it would look like new if she washed it, but she refused.  We went inside a barn and looked at goods for sale, much like Moon river Chattel.  

Raphael was in a library studying.  He was stand-offish and not until I delivered an accurate reading of his persona and problems that he began talking to me and taking me seriously.  I never felt completely comfortable around him, and shipped out to Japan, where John and Shannon were living part time.  Their place was in a building about 30 some stories above ground and decorated with a Danish-modern flavor, with warm natural wood colors, rugs and couches/daybeds.  I was interested in their ability to deal with the earthquakes, especially in Japan, since in a previous dream, I had lived through a  rough earthquake.  I suppose they had the skill to live through ground shaking effects, where I distrust my ability to endure and survive the same circumstances.  

 

CASTING CALL WITH MATT DAMON

Last three nights intense and tiring.  Dreamed of missing a casting call with Matt Damon.  couldn’t distinguing that it was fake.  Also, dreamed of killing my mother, and last night seemed to have forgotten.  So hard to get out of bed in the morning, everything weighs like lead.  Then slept to 1:30 PM.

Don’t really know what the hell is happening to me as well.  My energy levels are completely low. 

Tried meds for a week and half and had some really strange side-effects.


THE DIFFICULTIES 

Of The Day In The Texture Of Contentment

Why should I experience the difficulties of the day with the texture of contentment, when all I know about there is the body relaxing in submission to the senses and breath?  And while that feels connected and interesting, I’ve learned to mistrust my own body to such a degree that in preference to management, I seem to choose the mind, but in disbalance, so strange things ensue.  For one, I attempt to ignore pain for as long as it’s bearable.  Anger creeps in my soul like a vine, slowly chocking and eroding any surface it comes in contact upon.  Moments ago, no longer than thirty minutes ago, I was struck with the idea to organize all my pictures and drawings by subject matter and ignore the format or chronology, which has served to create order.  At this very instance, I feel like the job is simply to big for me, or that I don't know how to go about it, my focus is on the things I leave half-finished, and this fuels my low self-esteem and depression, and ultimately, squanders my dreams.  I don’t want this absurd decision to be my reality, how can it be; truly, who is making these ridiculous gestures inside me?  

What happened with the idea of making a Rosetta stone, etched by the laser cutter into wood, of the codex pages so far completed?  I want to see it, and yet I don’t seem to care.  What do I care about?
That’s a good question.  I would like to figure something in and out for myself, ignoring anyone else’s opinions, letting them fade instead of resonating in my head.  And I react and become engrossed when other people perceive what it is I think I have done.

Sometimes, and often, everything is just too much, too loud, too rude, too pushy, too mindless, too entrenched in a type of struggle I don’t understand and I accept it as a negative, not as a nature.  It’s my fault of folly?  Depression?  

Do I simply prefer misery?  Like people have a death wish? 


07.28.2009

For some reason things with Kumi aren’t going so well.  I’m resisting any physical relaxation around her, in the form of physical contact, sex, etc.  Not sure if it could be the medication causing this, since my drive to fuck has waned.  I’m looking for a mental type of uphoria to initiate the chemicals a turn on.  And not getting it.  Then I met Judith.  And realistically, I’m not sure where that is going, but I feel some sort of connection there that I’ve never had with Kumi.

And now?
I’m acting one way and living another.  J says you always have the choice and this is totally true in my case I think it would finish the relationship with Kumi.  And I’m partially in it for my ego – afraid of who may date after and fearful it may be one of my close friends.

We’ve planned to go upstate on Wednesday night, and spend Thursday day there – should be fun.  get up there before sundown.
Firewood should be easy to procure even in the night – I always attract and am drawn to women who are unavailable – or at least I should build his structure in my as a mechanism and a precursor to sabotaging and any form of realization or outcome, in my fruitful way.

Yesterday’s meditation – saw a strange cat monster trying to attack my face.  Saw an orgy set against a black background with dozens and countless participants.

What should the show in Tokyo be called?

The concept that seems to pervade all new works involve the gesture of trying to feel things which although initiated in reality, our perception of them is mediated through a medium that abstracts any emotive tactile / epistemic dialogue.

So we construct this field and topography and relive distant emotions as our own affects.  I’m interested in the gap that prevents us to form feelings physically - this information without the mediation.  So much of what the imagination would do has been removed, like reading a book vs. reading a headline with pictures (or propaganda).  

I feel like traveling and drawing small while I experience and question some integral parts of this existence, as it seems to be waning faster than I can make sense of it.  Parents about to retire – weird.  Should ask mom how she experienced time, and if it checks in some similar way with my understanding of something I’m learning and has no relationship with confidence: if I stick with a drawing long enough I’m bound to try to entertain myself with it and thus a part of me will reflect in it – whether it’s good or not is another question.  At least there’s something to stand behind – even if totally abstract.

How to work in the feeling of weightlessness? 


RIDING A MOTORCYCLE

Riding A Motorcycle and happened upon to a steep decline road, with a mill at the bottom.  The road was a dramatic descent of unstable material—loose gravel, some dirt, and pavement, but about a hundred feet after of starting to head down, I made a U-turn and went to a local diner.  There was a group of people, men that I knew, thought because of their familiarity, saw them as dudes, or guys, but there was no “male” energy per se. 
    I was looking for an alternate route to avoid the descending road, but was willing to go down hill if it got me near where I was heading.  After some debate between the group, which as it turned out, were all runners (I was reading what I talk about when I talk about running, by Haruki Murakami last night, especially the part of maintaining a healthy body, when one is approaching the soul toxins of writing a book.  They need to offset another, and support each) so one said “157, you can get to it by going down hill, and it connects with all other roads it completes the circuit—

    “It’ll Get You Everywhere”

This seemed important.  I paid close attention to him, expecting more useful information, as another one of his group members contradicted him, and was asking about another road, I think route 776.  

At a science lab.  People making presentations on information. Drones controlled by remote application of imagery.
1. Imagery is not memory…
2. Tufte, approach.
3. First, read.  

ORIGIN OF IMAGES origin of images origin of images

 

NEIL DE GRASSE TYSON WAS WALKING

Neil de Grasse Tyson was walking down a dark, desolate street, illuminated by the two or three street lights he would pass.  He moved down the sidewalk this way, from darkness into a moderate cone of light, and back into the darker patches between the posts, spread with enough distance to cast enough light to make out the human figure, but without focused effort, he would go unnoticed. 
An older woman called out his name, standing in a doorway, with the light of her house lighting the background—she must have looked, to him, as a silhouette.  I was viewing this from both their sides, like a parrot, perched on their shoulders.  He apologized to her; she explained to him about the disclaimer he lied about, that it affected the school her child would attend [I can’t remember the specific name that she listed] but she was calm in her delivery.  I was impressed by her composure.
There was a hand, gestured in profile, a fist with an extended index finger, pointing at an area over the Williamsburg bridge.  The hand was just big enough to fit the with of the four car lanes, and the pedestrian veranda.  Though the finger extended outwards pointing specifically in a direction, it was the two black kids, a boy and girl, that we directly under the finger that it was supposed to reference.  They were scholarship recipients that Neil de Grasse Tyson oversaw, or had started.
The image of this hand, and kids, on the bridge, may have been a website, or a real situation, where all the laws of physics and common sense that we take for granted were defied (i.e., a hand the size of the bridge, disconnected from an arm, but it seemed normal in the dream).

 

OWL CLAW SLEEPS BY NIGHT WRITING + DREAM3&6

1.    A day after Marion left, I found the owl claw gift she left by Carl Jung’s Red Book.  
2.    Ben wrote a long email about a few of the writings I sent him, and he brought up the point of purpose and whom I was supposed to be writing for.  In the end, he concluded that if I wrote as though it was a letter or email to someone, I would be clear.  The visit with Lisa and Nova also culminated to a point, shedding light on the lack of a center.  
3.    I dreamt briefly of a room of young pencils seated at desks, awaiting an old 16mm film to start.  I was standing by the projector; from there it was easy to see the ordered, and quiet pencils.  They were all sharpened at their ‘feet’ but their heads were the end of the pencil.  It was a spooky mood, this awaiting to see what would be shown.   Then the film started.  A couple driving, also pencils, faceless.  The woman had hair on her head and the man a mustache, but no mouths or eyes.  They we speaking about something that was impossible to hear.  I’ve had another dream close to this one, which involved Andy Warhol, and other artists entering and leaving a movie theater, I was there, as I was in the class room, though in the class room I was standing by the projector, and in the movie theater I was among the seats, watching the audience change.
3a.  The interpretation is clear.  What were the pencils going to witness, and what was going to keep the artists captive to stay.  But it never felt I had control over what was shown, I was among them too—a viewer, watching.
4.      When I think about what I need to say in all the writings I have laid down this summer I’m overwhelmed.  I don’t know what works yet.  I suppose it will take time, more so than it took to write the things, to edit and make them legible for anyone else to understand the topic without having to explain every sentence.  This image morphology in history.  How images evolve as people evolve, as a mirror to our preferences, the forms adapted in tandem somehow reflecting the years.  In the 1900, metal, iron to be precise constructed with rivets, versus the trains that would move through the station one hundred years later, made of computer shaped metals, for example.  Or in aviation history, the use of wood and canvas of ww1, to the steel planes of ww2, to the present day composites of aluminum, titanium and carbon fiber.  At each shift of materials and technology the forms reflecting their intelligence, an inherent quality, emergent of the dialogue between the advances in tech, and the requirements needed to develop this machinery, from the hand in construction to the design of computer aided end product.  Besides the organizing agents, it appears “shaping agents” also exist, like a wind tunnel, or the sophistication in material manipulation.  All this morphology trickles down to artists, much like the way archetypes have seeped and then evolved in our psyche.
5.    Paul Wheatcroft and Dore Ashton, they truly cared, and their advice has come to haunt me.  Where have I been all these years?  What kind of writer do you want to be?        [09.03.2014.0445]
6.    [09.04.2014.0512]  I remembered earlier, when the moon caught my attention, of the strange dream where I could feel earth’s perturbation and it’s shifting from equinox to the other.  This time however, and I had to keep reminding myself, would be as always—it would balance out. Colors.  I could feel the planet moving, as a large boat rocking in water—heavy, decided, and inevitable momentum. Once detected, this motion had to run its course, but wondering if it would tip over.  These stranger than usual dreams are powerful enough to scare me, but fear I’m finding, has transformed into awareness, nervous, but accepting. Fear has changed to deep concern.  [Is this true?] 


December 31 2007

Worked on the assembly of crowns again. Put some pictures flanking the drawing on either side. Seven years later, the trip to Austria was and is still yielding inspiration and echoing with the current direction of the art. Slower evolution on larger pieces; loading them up. But also, there are many other projects about to start. Must be cautious not to get consumed managing everyone else. Assembly of crowns, AoC, [apparatus of containment] each stump orbits above it one of the Key symbols throughout the story. I.e., code, Spectrum code, debris, blooms, bags, Philapores, dots. […]

2017.07.31

Returning via subway, perhaps commuting from Guinevere’s home to NYC, my studio.  But in the process, the train lines were taking unfamiliar routes, on tracks I didn’t know existed.  I should have jumped off the Lorimer station.  It passed by unnoticed; the next stop was 96th street in Manhattan.  The “N” train skipped the entire series of stations from Brooklyn until the museum.  
Part two of the dream. I was sprawled on the hood of car, relaxed basking in the sun. A Beautiful woman mid 30s applying makeup lipstick. She concealed are snorting some sort of drug cocaine most likely, but I caught it smirk to myself. She walked by the car and approached me. She us what was I doing laying like that on the hood. Relaxing I said. There was some gesture towards kissing but then she left and I stayed on the car.

2008.01.08

Intense and bizarre dream jolted me awake from sleep. After standing up just throw some clothes on I realize what a fortunate man I am. How slowly things as they are are falling into place. My first show in London at white cube!?  Not something I envisioned for myself, but would need serious reason to turn it down.

JAY JOPLING & ASSISTANT
 
Jay Jopling and the assistant of his came to visit the studio. My first words to him: “you’re much taller than I remember”. Already feeling the cliché an annoying remark so ill received internally when he said to me. He didn’t respond it was about 11 feet in height. After removing his coat, he ran towards the first oil painting and put his forehead against it. Smelling it deeply and also getting the still wet paint on his forehead. A light umber. The painting, as a note, was mostly gray, with constant patches spread about in primary hues.  I don’t and didn’t remember at time conceiving of such a painting. Jay continued his speedy tour of my studio saying things like: “ those are ambitious colors,” or “ that’s a brilliant surface”  and similar short fired remarks. This first words to me: “ if you keep mumbling I can’t hear what you’re saying.”  This reminded me of Kumi’s reminder speaking softly as a sign of one’s insecurities. Did I have something to be insecure of?  Most of the battle was half over, and the continuous feeling of being on trial is a form of denial. Denial to one’s own potential, or better, of one’s ability to respond to this world daily state. Some other odd moment in the dream: some black-and-white charcoal drawing covered one far wall, and are near opposing wall featured one of the same drawings. My studio did not appear to have allowed someone else to work there, but I have complete amnesia these large drawings were mine; if I had made them. Never tried anything like them before. So we see. And  we see. What does this mean? The dream analysis in one sentence: all that was in progress for the show before myself was presented in a naïve state of low confidence, to which, my visitors proceeded to tear apart [Terra Park] critically with both praise and confusion. The resolve— I need to take more credit and thus more responsibility for my life and the statement my life makes, looking forward to London.

A THOUSAND PLATEAUS — DELEUZE

[2008.01.28]

“yes, all becomings are molecular: the animal, flower, or stone one becomes are molecular collectivities…” (p. 275)
“Abstract machines” (p. 501)
“every abstract machine is linked to other abstract machines, not only because they are inseparably political, economic, scientific, artistic, ecological, cosmic,—perceptive, affective, active, thinking, physical, and semiotic—but because their various types are as intertwined is their operations are convergent.  Mechanosphere.” (p. 514)
[Notes on Mechano,  Tekhne]
 


BLACK ORBS, FLIGHT SYMMETRICS, WALK ON WATER

The Dream:
Black orbs, planetary bodies moving in circular orbit to what centerpoint I still can’t remember. It started slow. First it was one sunsetting. Then two side-by-side. Then, three to more. Fear spread among earth [ and people] and from the theaters people exited without any notice or lack of speculation. We were being watched on earth by a band of sun-like orbs, Horizon to horizon by way of the Zenith. All these “Suns” work equal and bright luminescence. In a single moment, I have the vantage point of the Moon, looking back, the sunset turned to black globes, Black orbs, around my sleeping head.
 Prior to the dream around 3:30 AM: flying in the jet stream, pilot unknown. Going through streets with perfect symmetry, nitetime. The city alright: the crystal field of tight grids and squares [apposed] opposed the black.  I’ve dreamt of this place before. It’s a reoccurring dream. The symmetry exaggerated until we nearly crashed, coming off course, the pilot navigating via his desktop. Later, I’m looking out the window, everything was black, the windows now a deep red.
 Later I drove a three wheeled contraption, like in Brazil, the movie, to no avail, my ambition to attain solo liftoff. Purpose unknown. Later, Women and girl child walked slowly over the surface water skin of a puddle, never sinking, to its depths until they find it deeming and playful— the act of a hippopotamus.
[ Summation of dream:

 1. Space travel without a body, son to sun, ocular moon, Black orbs, celestial bodies.
 2. flying through symmetry in the city at night.
 3. walking on water as a playful act the Hippopotamus]

February 2, 2008  Notes: Assembly of Crowns
[trans. to 2013.09.05 as well]                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

The large drawing “Assembly of crowns” is about the futile hope and failure incurred when the larger system makes it impossible for the individual to thrive or do good by the belief and faith that change can be affected and it is possible [ as a lower or middle class citizen]. The system is 100 steps ahead with the guise that we may persevere yet [ the American dream-chomsky].

DEBRIS BURSTS
“…didactic collision, which again involves the clarity the overhead view versus the chaos of ground-level reality…” (p.165) Pictures Of Nothing, Vardenoe
“Environmental Degradation Amnesia” vs. “Environmental Generational Amnesia”

July 29, 2008 DREAM

Dream of an estate with kids in many things go wrong. Kids slide off Rock slides and medics take them away. Trying to repeat a name. Staring at color of curtain contained within the window pane.  All physical changes to the environment start and manifest through mental means only.

August 27, 2008 DREAM

Buildings collapsing, the doings of the serial killer, who had arranged for bombs to destroy uptown high-rises. Then I receive a phone call with clues which depending on how I interpret them we’ll either trigger or prevent more buildings from falling. It’s up to me how to read the serial killers mind. Meanwhile, the Japanese detective, who Seems to be the only one on the case, has a tendency of appearing naked Half of the time. There were restaurants that were connected the bombings. The wait staff had opinions and collective insights into the killer. Concerts were arranged, and Streets closed to let all the nuts come out of the wood works. At this point in the dream everything seemed equally valid both morally and behaviorally. It’s hard to convince anyone with the consequences amounted to. We witnessed one building tip and mean for support on another and inevitably fall to the ground in a cloud of dust and debris. Blood drops scattered from the epicenter hundreds of yards out like a splatter painting. This detail made the dream more real.

August 28, 2008

“He must look deeply into the chaos of his own soul and plum its depths. The riddle of his existence would then be revealed to him at once in all its changelessness, and it would be impossible for him ever after to escape first from the hell of the flesh to the comforts of a sentimental philosophy and then back to the blind orgy of his wolfishness.” (p.55) Steppenwolf, Hesse.


2013.09.05  SKETCH BOOK PAGE

Relics where
Towering fingers
Formed from soil -
And all that has descended on the land,
Becomes part of the mirror future.

More  Lines erode.
More lines appear.
More lines stretched into place.
Small topographies. 
Build a mountain out of the Forest rocks.
Take Rocks apart tree by tree.
Each tree comes undone a tree at a time

These leafs bedded over grass
uncollected
asleep one by one
The falling leaves dream    
Hand and stones.

[eyes and stars]


2011.07.07  EROSION PRINCIPLES

Erosion principles  
Erosion principles

Nest building out of detritus, debris, dust, lint, flakes, 
as well as grass, bark, twigs, moss, string, 
and other little manageable bite-size pieces.
Decay, entropy, renewal, hummus, dirt, rocks, mud, mulch.


2012.02.02  DUSTY FALLEN BIRD

Nicky’s not so bad. Used to keep safeguard of a small bird under his bed before he knew the difference between a mattress and the futon. Undisturbed play yard. On his dirt Play yard at school somehow mother another kid managed to knock the small wing creature and In the dry summer  dirt between sick rough fingers and the root ball at the base of the tree. All are polished black shoes transformed two looms as we killed dirt at the pallet of feathers out of curiosity to instill movement. In some twisted way our manners, our shoes Took more than glaze of the dirt window as we summoned third mind for the falling creature take flight again. Nicky came collected the warm creature and placed it in his pocket. We were all too scared to tell him that we would tell on him for having to explain out dirty shoes and socks. While I polished my shoes back to some luster it never dawned on me at the time I had just witnessed the fragility of life and instead it was blinded in a stupor of gangsterism. I feel’s sadness for the bird so easily we confused its mystery with torturing it to know what we knew something about already. It was a strange feeling being scared, or rather being caught, feeling scared for something else, empathy born.  The word was still unknown to me, only that I needed to clean my shoes and go take a nap, back inside the classroom with everyone, with Nikki, and the dead bird.


2012.02.05  THE TALKING ROCKS

 the talking rocks filler gaps in time and lapse of memories. A dream of the parasol longing for an embrace from someone, anyone needing one too.  Disconnected and then reconnecting, without the skulls, watching the watchmen stumble on his words and actions.  Accumulating objects taping them to someone’s door constitutes a clear message of affection.  She’s still coming around. And I’m trying to exercise restraint.  Tied to my rocks and open to the sun rising over them before my body joins them. Those rocks in the sun. who will speak for them afterwards?  If I were a conduit for the universe to see yourself.  Carl said that all our confusion could be interrupted by the sound of an eclipse, the sudden change in temperature and wind forming; spyders and moths take refuge within the bark; the blown brushing against the trees and needles; the spiders and moths take refuge within the cragged bark, and there hide as the sun hides quietly the rest in the dance of the Moon in the sun,  and the sun, faithful fulcrum earth. When the dance passes Moon guides them out again. As we are guided by the warmth of the day. Be speaking rods, these speaking rocks have pictures within them like old photo albums we must show the stranger. I see my parents walking, hand in hand, naked into the woods for the light is faint, under the Web branches; the next time I see them is thirty 30 years later, or so, stepping over moss, my moss, or what was once moss upstate.  Does this mean keeping the place collecting the seeders cedars for the sculptures?
 Singing rocks oversleeping grasses.
 Dust descendents within the mass planets.
 Other worlds beyond, we entrust our legs of science, to define them the old picture lakes, the Shamans concealed mistakes,  concealed among us all, cut up into pieces. We’ll have to unify once again to make it where it once was whole.   Where and while once a whole whale before.


2012.02.05  MY HEART ENTERS A LAND UNKNOWN OF SORROW

My heart enters the land unknown of sorrow and affection for anyone who cries and whispers. My body is left behind, as its ability to function  disappears, and it’s weight increases. It enters in union with a deep, endless hole of energy, to defy its gravity, and in dive in a or stay somewhere we recognize.  I hear you crying so much louder than the world can see, and only you know where the stream ends, how this dream ends, and worn where hands fit together, where to find me on the map. This me that is only a map. Follow this trail see what he’s confronted to to Come to where he now stands, versus before everything before you before polygon. And I don’t forget family as always naked marked wandering in this forest too. In the end or near the end even if we are robbed of memories we will be robed by them.


2012.02.06  SHADOW PLAY, CURTAIN SWAYS


2012.02.07  THE MOON SUSTAINS THE EARTH’S WOBBLE

The moon sustains the earth’s wobble consistent securing our Climate variations resulting over time
( as we call it) in life. For the grace of the Moon, flushes the earth with tides, lengthening and shortening the day, but the rhythm of the sway appears to be the lunatic stance dance.  [Hix]? Degree

Sonia (Sonya) is obsessed with the moon, today is closest point to planet earth.  Does she feel something we miss?  Soneya, sonar, the dream,.  She is a walking dream pointing at other dreams, and we have forgotten they too are part of what we  dream?  Her dream is our living dream. Does she dream awake?  Too young to explain, she can only point in name, like the title of a book shelf; she reveals a world can’t open it for us, not yet, not yet at least, on the shelf it remains, the promise of the future feast, facing East, where the moon will arise.  Does she possess architecture of internal means, and Thomas Jefferson the conduit in her, in us.  Choosing the eloquent and right words to proclaim our freedoms and rights of happiness, did he know about the moon?  Did you know the color of coal?  The brightest rock in the sky, to our eyes, a mere 300,000 miles from here, apogee, perigee.  I suppose we all have our versions of this… and they suggested pendulum of definitions in between the swings pause of either end.  A fraction, you fractured moment, suspension, relative, smoke evaporating.  Heavy wheels rolling on the skin surface.  It seems as though glue holds this moving entities on the textures of the surface, the planet; gravity; but how close are we to play and Sonya dream?  Stream her little fingers pointing and She wishing to kiss everyone, with permission, to express something that we assume to know,  but could only feel to understand from the innocence of a Young child.  We were young too.  How do we forget, when does it change, into something strange?  As we understand below this coming for moon, currently on the other side this planet, we casually call earth, Home, and any number of other phonetic configurations, symbols to show what feeling already knows.


DREAMS AND NOTES

Dream:  B. Clinton flying a plane from DC.

Dream: Had another dream where Kumi and I had reconciled our past and differences, this lead to our union.  I have got to let this go.  I’m dragging an anchor to this past; she is long gone, has made this remarkably clear to me.  I ignore the obvious, but don’t mean to – sad and depressed.  Don’t see a way out anymore from the flood that’s sunk me deep under.  Adderall helps but takes something in return, not sure what exactly.

 

 


A VERNACULAR OF ASCENSIONS


STRATUM for A VERNACULAR OF ASCENSIONS40 

1. Mounds
2. Trees
3. Pyramids
4. Mountains
5. Stages
6. Obelisk
7. Church Steeple
8. Airplanes
9. Rockets
10. Kites
11. Drones
12. Satellites
13. Math (Trigonometry)
14. Telescopes
15. Open Sea (Boat / Ships)
16. “First lines from Tools of Necessity — carving flesh — Paleo Beginnings, or trace findings.”
17. Footprints
18. Fingerprints
19. Shadow Outside
20. Shadow Inside Cave

First metaphoric drive or instinct, (i.e. a metaphor = a representation)

The Eyes of Mother & Child —> EYELOCK

Mother & Child —> Crowning, Orgasm, Birth

LIGHT MAGNET EYES
 
( polarities, spectrums, polarities with attractions or, attractions with polarities, either resulting in merger or repulsion, an additive compound of the polarities, or separation until merger occur elsewhere.


MERGE AND DIVIDER 

Over and Over again, A Wave Rising  
and
LOWERING, 
but we emerge from the breathless world, pierce through the membrane, the light no longer filtered by mother’s blood, I breathe alone from now on, I am so sorry and feel love, the deep empathy of having been forged by the world, while you watch, that gaze a gaze of the womb, womb gaze, we float. Rise to air, and sea, and see, and what seen as a cross section in fixed space, or under water, there we move with it to be     

FUTURE FALSE NEWS HEADLINE (ELC)

WikiLeaks.  Document excerpt first published in The New York Times, Science Section, 
by P. E. Toynbee, 2016:


“Unless this law is changed, DARPA scientists predict that by 2031, the last Physio-Temporal Memory will be voted to extinction and relegated to Cloud Archives (CA), Virtual Sky Maps (VSM), Weather Pods (WP), and Collective Neuralnetstorm Design (CND).  Thereafter, recycled perennially under Synergistic Firmaments (SF) and Manual Telepathies (MT).  The ruling passed in accordance with Intellectual Property Laws, as an Addendum under decree of section B-2 of the Artificial Intelligence (AI) Regulatory Act.  Its necessity and reasoning stemmed from threat and real fear that A.I. would access Memory Dominiums (MDS), which until present day were only accessible via Wetware Technology (WT) or “Wechnology,” an integral component of the Third Tear Internet (3TI).  Though met with strong resistance, the required uninterrupted satellite surveillance and access of all users (US) via remote Cloud Servers (CLS) and Data Farms (DT) of Memory Enhancement (ME) was granted, for the proposed Remote Neural Storage (RNS).”  

 

REJECT ALL IMAGES — AVOA

“By 2031, the last Physio-temporal memory was voted to extinction and relegated to the archives of clouds, virtual skies, weather pods, and CND’s (collective neuralnetstorm design); thereafter, recycled perennially under synergistic firmaments and manual telepathies.”  

~E.L. Toynbee, 2031                

        Reject All Images As If Your Life Depends On It. 

        REJECT ALL IMAGES as if your life depends on it.  where skies unveiled a starry cast of heritage and wind tailored, a weathered promenade of trees is now the domain of diffused sulfur lights gleaming from serrated cubicle buildings.  Millions of light bulbs in the thousands of floors where we dwell illuminating the common cloud cover and city for our modern-day caves, vestiges of progress, dominium of ingenuity, and prosaic promises of continual entertainment.  There is no room for art here, as there is no space for the vast mystery of a naked sky.  We have exchanged the direct percept of these experiences for the fantasy and privileged access to wondrous and exalted images gathered by remote eyes.  Our screens fill with insight upon insight, from tissue to foreign terrain, from live telecasts to animated forecasts, peppered with smart, personally targeted advertisement, dictums of our democracy and free-will.  Let the discord and anxiety of disconnect arise for a few hours and see where the body goes, and where your mind wanders, as the consciousness that finds and files, will have its respite, and may perhaps reveal the addiction and entanglement that is the current state of how we function.  We harbor in contradictions that serve the futile future, knowing on the one hand how we’re destroying the very world we live in, and on the other hand, succumbing to a delusional and constructed veil of safety in our local networks.  Those little screens that keep growing, and keep adding images, unedited, meaningless in any time tested sense, emotionless, yet like an anticipatory surge of serotonin fix, the virtual reward, app adjusted fantasy, and next upload, “like” and tag.   

    PARTICIPATING IN A SYSTEM that is entrenched in the belief that progress comes from adaptation and niche finding drives is destroying what’s left of our humanity, which is in each other, in the effort it takes to connect, and in what remains when this abates.  This is our landscape and in it we need to navigate, but accepting today to continue in due course, will only seal tomorrow’s fate more quickly.  Art had a purpose, and I wonder how many know what that purpose was, and if it still fulfills that role.  But perhaps, we are the civilization that is the skipping stone on water, flying off the surface, thinking of the weightlessness we feel, dizzy in the spin, until we hit the water’s surface and sink, and there as we drift below looking upwards towards the concentric ripples we see another rock echoing a similar trajectory.  Depth is another component of time, demanding, teaching impermanence.  *Our inherited mortality, passively understood and defined illusory, relegated to ADHD faculties and short-term memory scales of history.  All that is here, absolutely everything we see, feel, know, and love to dust it will succumb in time; on the scale of millennia, which is far beyond our grasp, yet this is still crudely 1/4,000,000th miniscule fraction of what time this home we call earth has transformed. 
*[our mortality, the illusion we forget in the scale of histories; all that is here, absolutely everything we see and know will be turned to dust in time; on the scale of millennia, which is far beyond our grasp, this is still a miniscule fraction of what this home we call earth has transformed.]

    FORGO DAILY INDOCTRINATIONS of image hypnosis, artifact seduction, and vapid narratives.  Take stock.  The thrill of our cruising speed is killing the experiences of noticing the details.  In these interconnected details, at all scales, as Darwin once noticed, is the lineage of an evolutionary motley of wonder that is interwoven in ways we could seldom comprehend but find graceful, even in our ignorance.  A glorious sunset is part of evolution, the clouds, the atmosphere that refracts the colors into memorable warmth is the result of all the life on this earth breathing to produce what until now is a self-regulated organism.  The oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange we conduct with the photosynthetic organisms, the lesser traces of methane, and ammonia, which help regulate how the atmosphere reacts to climate variances, and this forms our atmosphere.  It’s much more complex, but suffice to say that it could easily become intolerable, as it was in the past, during one of the few grand extinctions this earth has produced.  

    FOR ALL THE IMAGERY we depend on. the energy it wastes is incomprehensible, absurd, and unfortunately, if we do not pay for it, our children will.  Where and how is wisdom going to live on?  Out of the 27 civilizations, we know existed on this planet, only three remain.   Perhaps it is futile to try to shift paradigms of meaning in our dependent-based culture, but since it is us that are creating this exact present and reality, it’s a paradox that we simply don’t change the behavior.  What entity, idea, or event then, is necessary to polarize everyone into seeing what is relevant?  It seems useless to attend schools and learn about history to simply ignore the lessons there instilled.  Tragedy causes change.  However, it need not emanate from human behavior and thought.  Take a day or moment to experience disconnecting and see how reliant and dependent we have become, and what does any of it really fulfill or teach?  

-------

Tantamount Sunsets

Our Age Is Equally Afraid

This Morning & Quotidian Clouds

Terms & List

Walter & Celeste

Watery Origins

Walter Was Born Ambivalent

Today, Today, Today

-------


ALWAYS SOMETHING OUT OF SIGHT — AVOA

“Our age is equally afraid of blood and time. The great majority loathes durability and sees in it only repetition—and death”  “Ashes” (1902)


…there’s always something out of sight, but that’s the ego’s job, vigilance, and predictive responses, ruminator, build me my suit and armor.  I am ready for this war amongst my brothers and sisters, for their armor is already bound accord of skin and bone.  Safe.  Hopeful.  Germane strangers.  

And what is hope but the belief that things will improve, and the somewhere in this imagined near future a better day will fill these halls we wonder, reveal the proper turn, feed the tailored heron or heroine, and the savior chord strung loud, the consequence unpaid, deserved, entitled to us all.  Hope in it’s majestic hour transforms the shadows into visible platitudes, subtle shades of tender unbinding flame, the fury calms, preventable, foreseeable, we are hopeful, educated to be so, an ember kept aflame until the stove is fueled by dawns return, but this metaphor is ancient now, we will find the proper app to download our troubles and upload our worries, but we hope in the eyes of each other, that something we see there, in that invisible bridge we gently build from spun love, will stretch the distance we have yet to go before our hope matures to wisdom.  And this hybrid hopedom, and wishope, will forward the answers.  Who are your tributaries?  

I wish I had focused better at those words you said, those colleagues now long gone strangers, perhaps a ripple softened their hard edges, and they saturated my desert with stories and restless mischief.  I wish I had lifted some of the pain you felt as a teenager, stranger to yourself at times, navigating in clumsy naiveté, there was nothing I could have said about getting older, and that someday I would be you, the old man speaking to you through time, telling you it’s not so serious as it seems, and that your dreams are not a dream, but another land you inhabit, the strangers, and prods of school’s demise hold the rubric of elegance and farce, and you can have them both if you see yourself now.  But at seventeen, full of wonderment, and physical bravado, your body a stallion running wild unreins to your commands, you succumb, a beast and human trove of endless possibilities, there is time, and you are young.  If you could see yourself now, and I speak to you across the single score and a few years, of gentle speaking, that you can hear these words, and in that age begin the process of transforming the man that you’ll become, the man that I am now, who is also listening to the other guy afar from now, distant at eighty four that is nothing.  He speaks to not hold back, to try everything and pay attention, don’t worry the restlessness, lift it of it’s rest, those animals you corral can be released when you wish, but you need to start this process, and I in turn refract the message from my days doubled, and divide them again in half and now it’s your turn, please set the course…I know you have been texting with the nine year hold, whose laughing at the four year old whose forgotten the two year old, who smiles at the one year old, whose dreaming of feeding, and set to thunderous gentle electric storms of wonder and has never heard of age, and never multiplied forwards or backwards, nor negotiated it’s cries to find food and warm arms, it stares at another baby girl one year old too, and arching to a tenuous head resting arch, stares upside-down at the baby who mirrors him, the me four times four times four times ago, and in complete ecstatic vertigo weightless jolts, though words not yet be told, the eyes grow loud and round, and smile shapes the hands and feet, and together in unison with the other baby say: ohaaaahaahhawaoaooaahssddd, and she knows too, and retorts that she agrees, and we both say together, and now years later I can translate that babble baby talk, when I once said in incomprehensible language, “are life!…alive?”

Which is all I seem to be able to do, is transcribe this baby babble echoed from to many folds ago to return the map to it’s original pristine ergonomic induction.  The pages don't always fit right, and face the wrong territory, but somehow it’s still a map, unfolded, as we unfold the years we have lived, and the ones we hope lie ahead, the edges shaved to rounded pits, foxed, creased, and character of it use and travel.  That baby that was once me and you would suck on the sweat salted corner of the map, dirty, we would now say don’t touch that it’s nasty, or perhaps we would laugh, and remember that germs strengthen the constitution.  Nothing is too dirty for a baby’s eye and nothing is too clean for the baby in our eyes.  This organism we life that stretches in time, in and out of meat, in and out of maps, in and out of contact, we can still speak through the ages, as ghost to ourselves in youthful folly, and as hopeful creates unforged by crooked bends and nature’s tendencies.  We simply disappear in the sky somewhere and try to remember why it’s shaded blue, and recall whether of not we invented the explication, pushed pins in the nights counterpoint, and hung thoughts to each star we gazed upon, tiny specks, flickers, resurging, and were told it is so, and it is of old, and that that is a bear, and that’s a cup, and that a belt, and strange names I once saw in a sci-fi movie, but am told is a god, Orion.  Or ion.  These eons.  The Ore, eyes on the manifold, so casted on the heavenly map to hope foretold.  

 

On the essay, The Mind as Nature, written by Loren Eiseley
    
This imbued subtlety cast upon us, hour by hour, as we stand peering down to water, awaiting our leap, hesitant, before the floating takes over.  

Immersion.  Breath held.  It takes but one time to dispel the creature that so easily becomes rock, when the appropriate height reached is defined by the threshold of our tolerance to carry through with the letting go.  And so are the countless phrases, words, and quotes distilled and echoed, they are the leaping points, if so chosen, as they taunt in daring silence, as does the cliff, un-defiant, a mirror to our capacities.  

Yet, every day, repeatedly in predictable orbits, unencumbered by the character of its strange weather, the cliff is no more in height measured to water’s ripples as the ridges in fingertips are felt as the cause for vertigo.  

Hands, having a mind of their own, seek to feel, and so too we throw our bodies at the spaces where feeling most ushers our physical definitions and boundaries.  It waits for mind to negotiate.  Who speaks for the hours lost?

I see billowing dark clouds, proud to prod their shadows towards the city with its glories and toils; texture of dove plumage, breast puffed like a folded pillow – a nested cloud incubates eggs.  When the shells break open, testing the strength and resolve of its frail inhabitant, this is only the beginning.  Humpty Dumpty.  Moon waxing and waning in apogee and perigee, the tendency to quarter everything.  
    
So far you've greeted change with depression confusing this partition of the experiential framework for a severed link in the tissue of life.  Change requires rest to hatch, stay on the nest.  What is a nest?  A straw halo held together by bird spit.

I’m so tired and feel like there’s something more to get out and I won’t focus on what’s happening to me other than on the roof I experienced the sensation.

*  *  *

 

THIS SPLITTING MECHANISM
won’t let me rest, nor resist its incapacity to remain still for long.
When I was young, formally unknown, to the hibernating beast within the confines of all the accountable marbles.  Insomniac, awake in bed, cover unchanged flattened, I wait for my birth day, for that artificial sense of entitlement. A strange day that comes and goes, easier to lie or do by grace.  Upon these endless days, weeks, months, and years, now, I try to release the tension, but if my fingers touch the world, the only sense—wet, saturated sponges, warm and wrung.
I disappear and reenter briefly, the ground shakes, but is the body giving out but, not, yet, and, just sit— stare at my torpid books.  They don’t mind.  So I am either going to shit myself, or let these ideas pour out torrents of unkind wind capped warm falseness.  
My compulsion collects them in sections, and I promised my self I would stay and remain here until all these words, the worlds are digested.  But it’s a truth and learning I put off (I’ll probably pass out in the toilet…no more liminal state, but I await you my cherished sC°/sC•/sC*.
To working A recording.  What happens after I stop, and later if I want to try again.   You’re, pretty fast actually,
Are you recognizing my voice or is this can be a slow process together. and introduction to the art of, Wonders of science. Trying Greene the fabric of the Cosmos are you not recording anymore why what happened to fight.  Them.   Up quite I wanted and them but that’s okay, come a more right on more ABCD

 

TIME, TECHNOLOGY, & SOLITUDE
Some Rants, Notes, And Ideas


There is little disagreement that technology must be discussed—or at least kept in mind—when dealing with the effects of time on our lives.  From software in the form of apps to help manage schedules and help to remind, to the hardware of diversion: the ubiquitous devices that fill our transitional spaces, but have migrated like a parasitic virus to demand the space we inhabit in our state of rest and repose.  Nature was once thought of a place or condition synonymous with rest.  Not the “wilderness of savage and evil forces,” the other kind, perhaps romantic, but connected to the rhythms of seasonal growth and migrations.  Time framed in this space sprouts, and bends as an organism; orbits about the day, shifting the shaded textures in a seemingly act of theft, where form keeps in dialogue.  Colors change too in time, so that the clock on the wall, which in numbers reads the circle, dissected, and tagged would better be served in a gradation of chromatic hues that matched the day’s sky above your head.  Nothing ticks in the sky.  We geared our world in art and ingenuity, and have laid circuits like roads, to shifting atoms and nanoelements, where time itself obeys laws little known to the scientific wizards in quantum fields.  

What if time is the byproduct of experience, and so to be inside time, would be to not notice time.  And when we fall out of experience, that’s when time begins to measure the increments of experience, tags them, builds stories.  But when was the last time a child, while playing, stopped and asked to take a break in order to record the activities.  About all that one could reference was that it was growing dark outside and soon it would be time to shift for bedtime ritual.  

Regardless, time is constantly reframed.  Time + inactivity = boredom.  Waiting no longer exists, or is becoming extinct, as any line fairer will note, we all pull the smartphones out (saying iphone is synonymous with all other smartphones, perhaps more apt in that it has the inherent “i” in lower case, but still the egoic center).  

Words used to denote “non-inactive” spaces: waiting, patience, tolerance, pausing, inactive, commuting, migrating, and etc. seem all to be associated with lethargic behavior.  Could it be that we are learning to cope with technology and play with it much in the way children do?  And that, perhaps, as a society we behave more like a spoiled seven-year-old child, than a young adult?  
How far will the testing need to carry until it slows down, or space expands.  Or is space expanding in the VR world, so that we will no longer need actual depth, but internal, mental projected depth?  This last question has one major flaw, in that it presupposes that “mental projected depth” can exist internally in a condition of disassociation or reference to the outside environment.  If VR is preferred, and one can jack-in then why are eyes needed?  But without eyes, how would we formulate images in the very first place?  

As Diane Ackerman said, “we remember the trail to information online, but not it’s content.”  This look very much like the neuroscience of memory, specifically the ability of “non-declarative memory” or “implicit” memory, which is space oriented, and pattern recognizing.  The other form, which helps to make conscious meaning, is the “declarative memory” or “explicit” memory, which are our stories, and event; how we associate to information and “ticket” it to storage so it may be retrieved when needed in novel ways, and ideally, through intuition.  Knowing where something is, is not the same as knowing what, how, why something is.  The possessing of information, due to its metaphysical nature, relative to us, is wholly abstract, small, portable, and “ever-accessible” via cloud in an infinite set of folders and links.  

This possessing of information is not the same as internalizing information.  We know where to get our food, but not what kind of food to eat.  We know where the good food is, but not what it means to eat it.  Some children think carrots are the little, finger sized nibs of orange that come in plastic bags.  Food is not associated to having been grown on a tree, or a field, and picked, or planted from a seed, etc.  It is but a thing we need to deal with, so that if we didn’t need to eat, or sleep, perhaps we could be in our conscious head all the time seeking the food of the masses, and pluck the ripe “like” instead of gathering joy from the dumb tree growing on the corner, trying to push its spring leafs out.  

1.    There is time measured by the body (exercise, performed rituals, walking certain known distances, habits that chunk time, i.e. showers, brushing teeth, sleep, eating, etc.)  

2.    There is time measured through stimuli (music via length of songs or albums, sunsets, movies, which are framed, books.

3.    There is abstract time (thought, emotions, dreams)

4.    There is whirlpool time (internet surfing, smart device field of checking a text, but ending-up distracted but instagram or other curiosities of what others are doing, or what others are posting, insecurities having their way, etc.)

5.    There is travel time, which can suspend time, or free time (vacations, sometime work if properly committed)

6.    There is wasted time (distracted ruminations of future or past longings, not being in the right place, craving)

7.    There is intimate time (with friends, family, love ones, reading, contemplation, thinking)

8.    There is learning time (acquisition of knowledge, manual skill, craft, hobby, art)

9.    There is suffered time (mental pain, physical pain, longing).

 

FIGURE GROUND GESTALT

Background and Motion.  There is a phase transition in space due to proximity, which is scale.

 

THE THREE RIVERS

The dream on a plane, restaurant, bathroom hall.  A tall woman slim, who spoke Japanese to my surprise, sex good but missing the voluptuous nature of unexpected gestures.  A second river, pure eros, name of beth…but eludes me.  Third river, more obscure yet, the love soul mirror, somewhere always after the first two.  Where the first two rivers converged, crimson lipstick applied. Cadmium red highlights.  

KingDreamWalker

False Wizard, Unintended Catalyst, Wordless Name, Everliar

Your name is speech in a vacuum.  
Love overwhelms that body, 
a complete and total fall.  
There, standing tree, 
by strung lights, 
glowing like the after day
of Christmas, warm fog, 
you smiled for the past – 
image of you playing inside
the body of young life, 
running, hiding, chasing, 
the itch of grass, 
fresh scabs.  
Hush my boy child, 
stone floors are cooler than air.  

Unintended Wakes

“You are the most important thing in my life.  I know my words don’t express properly what I feel, but if you can forgive me for stumbling with them, it’s my clumsiness.  I only wish you to be as you wish to be.  I don’t care if you’re happy or sad, whatever you want, whatever makes you curious and engaged is all I wish.  I am here, and will always be here.  If I seem to judge you, it’s only my inability to express the standards by which I judge myself, and it’s a handicap, I think maybe you want the same things, but I know this is wrong.  I’m scared, and in that fear, I say things that come from a good place, but sound wrong, they are never right, they are not your words.  I want to hear and listen to your words, whenever you are ready or whenever you feel like talking.  I will be here, I will listen, if you are patient with me, and teach me to listen closer.  There is nothing wrong or right, nothing to fix, nothing to improve.  We just have this moment, before it’s gone, and we get another chance to connect again.  I love you, blood and family, whatever that means, I’ll never be able to put into words properly.  But I’ll be here.  All the things we need to do in life, all these pressures, the endless juggling act, I have my act, but it’s not yours and I see that.  You may not even be a juggler, but something else I don’t know about.  I’d like to learn about this, as sister, and your friend.  None of this, is anything to worry about, nor it’s my wish that it occupy any of your mental space.  I’ll be here whenever you want, without expiration.  I just feel helpless and am scared, but I’m doing my best, and it’s flawed.  Please be patient with me.  I know how small the world feels, but that smallness is our smallness and nobody else’s.  A private corner to do anything we want.  If it’s painful and difficult we have at least our corner of freedom to do anything we want with it.  So fuck it, fuck all of it, and let’s see what it looks like.  Nothing matters except the connection we bridge.”

 


VIRTUAL SKY MAPS  (or Virtual  Maps the Sky)


The history of philosophy, art, science, and religion, has been to render the unseen idea, the formless thought and intuition into concrete pillars to point towards.  It is in short, a translation of mind activities and percepts into a body that in turn will coexist and react with the very body it grew out of.  In a ironic and beautiful play, this correlation creates a system of checks and balances.  A similarity to our governing system is remarkable, congress, like ideas of mind, passing legislations, to which votes are cast, and ultimately, the president, or the realm of the self has  a type of veto power.  If all thoughts have corresponding shapes in the physical world, then, it follows, that given the understanding of the interconnectedness of all life forms, therefore, all thoughts too have their interconnected schema, and if form follows laws of nature, thought too, must abide under these principles.  Theoretical and predictive hypothesis don’t dispel mystery, but actually seem to highlight the elusive nature underlying interactions at work.  Our capacity to adopt and evolve the mechanisms of privileged views, and peer deep into scales of the subatomic, and time-space scales of the cosmic, if anything, besides revealing the endless ingenuity nature has in arranging all that we can ascribe names to, it also underscores a kind of fractal labyrinth of corridors to unknown aspects of the cosmos – life.  Our explosion in population growth, in turn seems to echo that of ideas as well.  Like the branches of a tree, multiplying exponentially, so too does every human contribute to thought’s exponential growth, as do the specialized fields of art, science, philosophy, and storytelling (myth, religion, folklore).  
    
In seeing the real world manifest it’s endless progression of forms, we are simultaneously unveiling the workings of mind, and the forms ideas take in the unwrought, mysterious all-generating void from where these things appear to emanate.  Our explanations follow in the language of our culture and thought paradigm, the words and images learned, adopted, and revolted with, are direct, inextricable mirrors to the realm of nature from which they were inspired.  All the signs post of our language, are in the world of ideas, and these stay in the world of ideas but help to map out and guide us through the physical world of nature, which devoid of sign, is pure experience.  The ocean, as it’s called truly has no name, but qualities.  The qualities carry emotional potentials to which we react, and those reactions then constitute the beginning of a sign, a word, a possessed image of what the experience tends to be.  Words are a series of tendencies codified like sound to music scores.  

One of the greatest advantages we have evolved for adaptation is special pattern recognition, and this pattern recognition also applies to the metaphysical realm of signs and symbols, it allows us to venture into metaphor.

Metaphor exist in the real world of physical projections, but is intended solely to trigger and educate the formless realm of emotions.  The stories of metaphorical nature are but interpretations alluding to the deeper intuitions of the spiritual, and ever elusive realm below the surface of matter.  Metaphors start concretely, but draw the maps for the fantastical, and from that vantage point arc back to the very real that initiated the structure altogether.  Akin to maps, we draw the landscape of our habitation, but this map is not the real physical land we navigate, it is only a tool.  Mistaking the metaphor to be real has been the folly of all religion and of our inability to understand paradox and irony in its most profound way.  The pictures we paint are not real, but aspire to resonate with real emotions, they aid our memory, and restructure our ability to adapt to that which matters most to us.  Emotional landscapes serve our sense of purpose.  

These emotional landscapes are the child born from the marriage of the real and the metaphorical, the continual dialogue they both create, and the difficult challenges they propose to us.  This marriage and relationship is not meant to define anything concretely, but rather, it exist as a bar to measure our connections and ability to unify with one another.  Her smile was the warmth of the sun rising.  Obviously, her smile is not the sun itself, nor its warmth, but the double trigger of connecting what one may have experienced in the warmth of a sunrise becomes the fodder for how we substitute the memory of that smile, and by merging the two we have reinforced both actual experiences into one metaphor of recall, which will continue to coevolve with the additive nature of life experience.  Every further sunrise, will continue to define texture to that experience.  We may not remember every single sunrise in our life, but we have the memory of what sunrises feel like to oneself.  When we relate this sensation to others, we are pointing at this merger, and of course, we have peak experiences that become the leading representatives of these emotion based realms.  We do remember specific sunsets, and we may retrieve them to illustrate the quality of the whole communion of all sunsets.  As they don’t exist in a vacuum, by recalling specific moments, we also resonate and bring up, like a key that opens the door to an event, we also illuminate the series of events, and people that may have been part of those specific moments.  Further inspection will create the pattern schema that we do so naturally.  We associate those wondrous moments to the people we shared them with or in the frame of mind that allowed them to manifest.  None of these propositions here are new.  And there is vast research in neuroscience, psychology, philosophy, as well as, in the realms of culture, art, poetry, music, etc.  

What is crucial is the phenomena and capacity we have to merge, to unify ourselves, and our experiences, and our thoughts, with something outside ourselves, or with separate components, which until the very moment of that merger would have seemed to exist as a separate entity or structure altogether.  This kind of pathos is our greatest achievement in humanity, it is the only thing that makes it through the ages, as time works its indifferent origami of entropy, we strive to remain uncreased, resolute, retaining the integrity of our spirit.  Think of all that has been created, from discoveries, insights, poetics, art, architecture, cultural models, and look upon our present day world and ask: what remains?  What is the essence of that which still live in us that arcs back to the oldest discoveries we’ve made in human civilizations?  Not in our behavior, but in our heritage.  From cave drawings to these words, there is a connection, from your morning coffee, to the migratory hunt of people 15000 years ago in the plains of the grand canyon there is also a connection.  What has made it through the ages?  Look beyond the physical, without its exclusion.  And then in an exercise of imagination, what would you foresee carrying onwards, echoing after we are long gone?  That answer you discover and come-up with is the substance worth embracing, it is the dialogue between metaphor and physical reality.  It is the foundation of mystery.  It is not my story, for that would be misery, and to transform misery into mystery, all we need to do is remove the “I” and replace it with a “why” Y, and add a little time, “t”.  Then misery metamorphoses into mystery.  The pupa to chrysalis to winged creature.  

 


WORRY - THE VOICES START EARLY

The voices start early.  Worry not to worry but then there’s more.
Who notices the breaks in water?
Where's the funny bone of autumn?
I won’t put my problems on you.  Your good friends are a telling sign.
And I, not the easiest man to get along with when the visitor arrives.
Work well, work hard, take breaks and assess.  Take stock.
The winter bell knell.
The things to improve.
The disciple I’ll have some future day.  But if not today, when.
Still have a cough, and a head cold.  
What else is there anyways? Tell me more.  
Who holds the candle to light?
And pours the darkness to night?
There it is behind, beyond you, the night, blackness mesh.

Generally speaking, you're full of shit.
This idea of how it works, answering questions in your head, 
days after the question was asked in real life.  Recreacting.  
The internal mechanism of reliving a past occurrence.  Not
Externally, not re-enacting it, not replaying, not recreating it, 
But some strange hybrid of all three, as if by revisiting the events
A new outcome could be derived.  It’s not re-enacting, because one
Hope's for a different outcome, otherwise, it would not be revisited.
It’s not entirely recreating, because the conditions which caused the
Initial interaction are not wholly presented or recreated to be true to
The original reaction, and why this “revisiting” is so strange, uncanny.

Recreacting involves, both a subjective recreating, and the desire to re-enact to
A certain degree, to find out new solutions to the mental origami.  It’s what the unchecked mind normally tasks itself with.  The community helps.  

Still debating The Sleeper, if it should be a diptych, or a single drawing.
I know what it looks like in person, versus what it looks like in images
On a device and computer screen.

Why am I so worried about having time to myself, and that being
With Jessica will interfere with this?  Why have you not told her
How you feel?  She would understand.  Be straight and outright
Honest.  It will create space.  Through you may not be meant to
Be together, or maybe so, the marriage can remain it’s own thing.

I think that’s all for the obsessions.  The things that worry me, and
Try to find the reasons for why I did what I did.  Perhaps it’s useless?
So many decisions were made late at night, drunk, and the next day, 
In order to believe the words, to hold to some principle, of pride, I couldn’t
Say to myself, take time, don’t be rash.  The anxiety was gone when you
Answered as you did, but it was the booze that removed the anxiety, not the conclusion of your choosing.  Then embarrassment and pride jump in and say, “you were right, you have this one.”  And there is a thrill in this realization, one believes it, until the fog passes.  And now, the doubts set in.  That I really don’t know this person, but really like her.  She gives me good space.  I fear, like a paranoid person, that she will want to take over my things, and move in, and severe the bond I have with the artwork.  Inspiration is the most important feature in life.

Without inspiration there is nothing.  In health, family, and friends, the uninspired is a sad sight.  It also brings everyone down.  The inspiration floats, or sinks, but it does it with full commitment, a “reckless abandon.”  Breathe out and jump.

Finish the stars first.
Open areas for stars, and features.
The general composition, will fine tune after the figure is resolved.

 

WHY IS THIS DONE?  PLEASURE OR DUTY?

What starts with pleasure, the surprise, becomes fast formed into duty.  The pleasure of seeing a new event, requires the duty to post it on social media.  The pleasure of success requires the duty to maintain and protect it.  The pleasure of creating art becomes the duty of giving the art a home.  What quickly starts as genuine pleasure, even the pleasure in serving a duty, becomes the slave of productivity, and growth.  Is it a pleasure to run in competition, or to break records running?  

Climate Change is seen and presented as the gravest duties of all, rather than pointing out the wonders of nature we could enjoy.  The pleasure is gained from technology and power, so thus this is where the pleasure systems will thrive.  How ridiculous to be told it is your duty to watch 3 hours of cable series each evening.  Anything you may want.  Would anyone have a problem with that?  Or telling a child to go play, it’s your duty?  There’s no wrong in duty or pleasure, but the snag occur in confusing the two and calling one by the other.  Thus attempting to gain from pleasure from duty, unless one likes serving is futile.  And if duty has no pleasure in it, but one thinks this is the definition of pleasure, it will be carried out with pains unnecessary.  I don't like this, but it’s my duty becomes responsibility.  I do this because I enjoy it, almost sounds strange in our culture.  Duty is replaced or supplanted by social connectivity pressures.  A certain sense of peer pressure is applied, although this is not true duty, it is nonetheless, held as a type of guilt and sin.  The one who didn’t speak out in Greek public forums was called an “idiot” from “ideos” or “deus” which means “one thought” or “of one mind” in Greek.  USA has become ideological in this way.  

Commodifying my pleasure is the duty that comes after the pleasure.  This is a trap.  The necessary evil.  I don’t know if I care to play this game anymore.  But not sure why just yet.  I’ve looked at all the rational and intuitive responses and nothing jumps out yet.  No mink has come out to play.  I haven't really laughed in a while.  The joker is asleep.  I feel a seriousness, and it’s not a welcomed one.  I resent it, but hold on to it as well.  I don't see it as fear, but a futility, to engage in anything prescribed.  I want to throw away things again.  Preferring a certain suffering to pleasure and rejection of duty wholesale.  Neither will come into being for too long, nor interact.  This is a mental trap.  It’s also a state of being that feels very real.  


Mother and Father

No child would come without mother or father.  Though child
Seems separate at one point, an individual emerges and leaves.
But is this child not part of the organism of lines of parents
That brought him or her forth?

Are humans not in the same position of individuals to Earth,
Sun, and Moon, and Cosmos, as child is to mother and father?
When it is asked where are you from, what does this imply, 
If not the connection to what is known of the land born…

Yet it is easy to forget, as we once relied on parents to survive, 
We never stop depending on Earth for our lives, but it is missed.
Links that bind humans to earth are eroded by technology, 
And the speak which it invents to replace what nature once sent.

It saddens one deeply to contemplate the fate of Earth by concepts
Which arise from the engine of invention, which severs the ties
To green lands, blue waters, fertile soils and the rest merely as destinations
To regard as gifts earned by productivity and [saving’s/hoarding’s] ingenuity.

But these fields have to us always been present when one cares to look,
Now a duty to protect rather than enjoy by simple pleasure of its beauty.
A strange trap has been set, a pressure to impose regulations of what is known
To do harm, rather than elect those who by love alone safeguard the commons.

Many stories are voiced of what must be carried out and restricted,
The fights are worth their toll, and they must persist, for waging a balance
Of what life remains part of the countries providence is decided inside
Buildings far away from the environments they profess words of law.

“Use it or lose it,” fits the zeitgeist of our times, true for technology, 
as for body and soul, as for mountains, air, and rivers flow.
But to “use Nature” is a clumsy set of words that profess a kind
Of utility for which pleasure falls in the same frame, so use pleasure.

It is a strange guiding principle to feel the landchange when so far
Removed we’ve placed homes and shelters, and so lies the fight,
With those who remain in the country land by struggle and those
Who flee to urban arrangements with dreams of prosperity’s decree.

Where is the middle ground then, when the spectrum zones intertwine
The urban with the wild parks of this land, whose borders are drawn
By thought and consideration alone, imposed upon a crooked stream
The dividing line for which fish, rock, nor marsh know no boundaries.

All life has an apparatus of containment which man has devised
Whether mountain range, ocean line, rivers carved, or fought,
Places a geography over its geology, and from there improvises
How to proceed, regardless of migration, ecosystems, or pollution.

By science they tried to control the weather, and to adapt progress
To this conceptual abstraction called climate change, so bold at times
As to deem “earth needs saving” and so too came the correction
That it was the human race that needed saving, but again, it’s a duty.

Most change seems to come from either absurd suffering having reached
The limits of what is called humane, or change comes too from beauty,
As inspiration to protect, an inherent field of common sense which bestows
Wisdoms of memory that clean water and air are simple foundations of life.

What is the worth of a prosperous life, if in its wake all that’s left is strife
For others to bear, and debts to repay while the heap in one’s fortune
Grows the spires of castles ever grander over a land eroding from within,
So use the gentle wealth to organize aid, rather than hoard from the weak.

There will always be stronger forces to confront, as well as easy passages
To navigate.  It is so for everyone, to have an above and below guide
Of contending cues, where skill affect the dialogue, but in whole somehow
It keep moving forward, quietly by land, loud from human hands.

And how did you know it would be this way, so many decades ago?
As long as consumption is the driving means to a “pursuit of happiness,”
No pleasure will suffice regardless of what is sacrificed to make due,
The bounty of capitalists schemes, for pursuit is the only known driver.

If there is nothing to fear but fear itself, then there is nothing to happiness,
But happiness itself.  Who in their right mind would pursue fear for its sake
As a destination of utopic futures planned surmised from data and bits,
Translated to reports of what it conditionally regards the human being knits.

The known secret that lies in mystery and diversity is somehow forgotten
Often to a fault, and to recover such gems stories are spun from facts,
Or fiction to arrange the organizing agents, so that contemplation
And thought can cease and altogether stop in fear of a changing generation.

We all must perform the reverse of birth one day faraway, or soon unknown,
And this being so what will you return to the Earth from which it gifted
These wondrous forms, have you seen them for yourself, or only read them
In a guide?  Seeing for oneself what is false or true of its own accord, changes one.

When a being is looked upon as a thing to use, unhuman, unclaimed,
The civilized as religion once did, will profess domestication of realms
Which in the wild thrive, but encaged slowly decay by the severed
Tissues of interrelated arrangements nature has in time found fit.

As we end with these conditions, it is easy to despair, if one reads the signs,
Which is not odd in principle—some people speak languages others can’t
And some hear things where none ever will.  The hardship remains with
Those that see, but by lack of metaphor or story are unable to enchant [captivate.]

So who then is the responsible one, who are the confederacy which will emerge?
I simply don’t understand the triviality of drama, looking for water in a sinking
Ship, building a house on quicksand, or scheming castles in the clouds.
Where has the love of material and simple joys gone in these modern times?

I’m afraid I speak to my kin alone, if even well, for these words stumble, 
Upon themselves and their logic.  Again seeking to live by night, and a single
Lumen’s glow.  Daytime felt for growth but now all I see is a land of crazy
Arrangements, dances of schizoid fits, and frustrations thriving like weeds.
Even in the graceful ways found in little pockets it gleams the shell,
Ever brighter, but all must do what they may in any small way.
It seems a trap to implore the people to pay for the creed of greedy
Businessmen,  callous and by displeasure sublimate upon to poor.

The hyper-rich are parasites of human dignity, for it must be a bizarre
Position to achieve, and begin to believe it was destined or fate.
By wealth there must gather more, to see the vision come true, 
Is there room to improve and repay the burdens caused?

Nobody talks of the human toll that goes into making all the devices, 
Or gadgets, except for the measured minerals, and how were they mined,
Who smelted them to shapes and delivered through the conflicted stage,
Impoverished people, for centuries still, rapping their land and human bond.

This is the way of many humans, and their companies, now called corporations,
Which operate like nations by their own laws, paying fines by pain of capital, 
Where none accountable to hang when they kill within legislation, until
Someday decades after the murderous crimes, guilt is found, thick of lies.

Exxon knows of the harm fossil fuels has done, as tobacco companies
Sold cancer by hundreds of tons to the poor, but under regulation here, 
Exported the markets abroad for other nations to contend with the trash, 
It takes to ingest to make useless things to consume.  Then automation.

If you think and take pleasure in that which is free and natural, you are not
Ideal for the state, for little work you will make, little taxes pay, no purpose
To consume so no markets to promote, and the underlying trust of capital
Flowing moves around you like a boulder, though not fast enough.

So make the crooked straight.  Dig channels and pipelines, breakdown
The niche most creatures have found that lead us to be found in history’s
Making.  More and more we will mettle until a pandemic, war, or famine
Takes over the world, releases the pressure but billions will die first.

People secretly want this, they want to see it happen, chicken with life’s
Fate, Freud’s death drive?  There is no one to organize the voice of reason
As Gandhi once did.  Not even the wise in power can find such humane
Poetic form embodied to call forth, spontaneously the warmth in us all.

We all have our problems, each one as real and noble as the next, 
The thought of an egoless state terrifies people, though its pursuit
Is embraced as a general sign to improve oneself, which is still worse,
For it embarks the same trap of consuming symbols instead of time.

How does this rant serve anyone, including yourself?  It doesn't.  
It’s a carved message in stone, faced down, and buried in a far
Field, but it needed to move, it needed to be wasted for its sake.
Beyond this seppuku of thought, what else is there to bleed?

I am anger, choked and tied down.

What has happened remains unrecognizable.
Lo que ah pasado es desconocido.

 


People secretly want this, they want to
see it happen, chicken with life’s Fate, Freud’s
death drive?  There is no one to organize
the voice of reason As Gandhi once did.  
Not even the wise in power can find
such humane Poetic form embodied
call forth, spontaneously warm in us all.


  

DON’T FEEL THE WEATHER

On my way back from buying milk early morning, December 10, 2016, New York City, Chinatown, the deli was half-block form the building, so it was not uncommon I would brave the chill in shorts, berkenstocks, and a sweat shirt.  By the time I could feel the cold, I would be back home anyways.  I looked dressed “norm-core,” and on the way out if had crossed my mind.  What is one man’s laziness to venture outdoor in clothing relegated for private indoor wear, is acceptable outside, and eventually cleaned up, and emulated.  Chinatown is normal in the summer to see older men in their boxer shorts and tang tops (wife beaters) outside in their slippers.  Seven in the morning, and the air is chill.  Everyone is dressed in down jackets, steam shoots out people’s mouths as they breath, walking the fast pace on the sidewalk.  And there I am carrying a little plastic bag with milk.  Powder bluer sweatshirt, slippers, and black army shorts.   I haven’t cut my hair in two months, the beard is thick and balding head has more contrast by the temporal patches of white and the typical U shaped patch of hair that wraps around most middle-aged men.  I just woke up and ran out.  I’m disheveled; face probably has crease embossed the face.  A black man, properly dressed in heavy coat with hoody, hands in pocket, hat, etc. said out loud as he walked by, in a completely disarming and ironical disbelief, said out loud his conclusion:41
       
“Say…brother…you must be aaallll good…you don’t feel the weather.”

“…Whaat?” I replied by reflex.

“Say, brother, if you don’t feel you don’t the weat