i "hear" something but do not know what gives it voice. something not so different from a rustling of leaves, the pages of every library's books blowing through the palace of memory. maybe, instead, winds from an alien atmosphere blowing through caves and pillars of sculpted rock like a planetary harmonica, an unseen mouth playing across the many fluted openings. is it many voices, or just one resonating?
i am swallowed by a swelling sensation of liquid language, roiling, boiling, sublimating inside. i feel saturated, the words/ideas/symbols waiting for the right seed, the key to crystallization. electrolytic currents in a circuit waiting for just the right epiphanic connections. it is an ALIVE thing, and i cannot express it whole. bits and pieces come out like cross-sections, views from oblique perspectives and skewed angles... a body with unknown organs... an architectural masterpiece with no sensible floorplan... whatever it is, it fossilizes on contact with air. there is no time. it is dead before i am done. a surreal tableau, like coming upon the site of an ancient battleground where the corpses petrified where they had fallen, long ago. what i have come to write about was dead and gone before i even got there.
i'm finding these media increasingly limited
i want to have "reality conversations"
i can't "express" fast enough
i can't "broadcast" far enough
i want to wave my hands and have EVERYONE understand
or UNDERSTAND everyone. i don't even know.
am i having conversations in reality?
can i say what i think?
shifting indistinguishably between
juxtaposed monologues and consciousless dialogue
whatever it is
i hope we all remember we're telepathic soon
the deja view is great from here
i live with several visual artists, and over the last few months i've been watching what they "do." bee's brother dan-man's is talented to the point of being a damn-near artistic phenomenon
, a force of inner nature. spectating the act, i can actually SEE his pen amplify his unconscious cogniscape. scribbles and lines crosshatch; worlds and strange creatures grow in the interlaced spaces of his self-described "tree roots"... likewise with bibble
-at-a-distance, watching on my friends page as the mutating sigils and hypnota of the visual realm bubbles to the surface...
these lessons are not constrained to drawing... the words come when they're ready to... not so different than narrating an experience of drugs, of dreams. what works for me, then? transformative substitutions (transubstantiation?
). replace the "drawing" part of "automatic drawing" with "writing". AUTOMATIC WRITING. not just the body/content but the handwriting itself... left-handed? cursive? backwards writing? upside-down? as if through a mirror? what is my unconscious stylism? mazes with a hidden labyrinth at the centre? hoar-frost crystal cities written on a window pane? what would it be like to write in TREE ROOTS?
all sentences reaching back to their source? everything written in a backwords epistemology? intertwined, certainly. dendritic, yes... and the tree is the also like a maze, a dead-end at each of the tips... except the tips are NOT DEAD! living tendrils, tunnelling through the layers, any path an inquest for water and beginnings to eyeless realms in the deepest delvings... the roots of the world tree see sealed caves; the branches reach into the stars... or maybe lines of texts are RIVERS, flowing between worlds, across landscapes, beneath zeugma-bridges... an inifinitely tall mountain RANGE scraping the sky, peaks and valleys like an extremely complex (and large) 3-D model of soundscapes... the mumblings of a strange man living in a box in an alley whose words ring with a crazy wisdom that unites all things... or a RELAYswitching-station where trainscars and hoversubways rumble under subsonic tunnels and arc through the sky on tracks of many colours... the undulating pattern in the folds of a cloak woven from an eldritch fabric...
as i "observe," everything is mutating as modalities blur. out-of-focus, it is almost easier to make out the shapes that sharpen intution, hinting at a direct perception of the universe through empathy and through imagination just as easily as any of the physical senses (note: that's seven now!
). but it's just a hint, mind you. that part of me is still slumbering deeply. one cannot rush the process. liken it to a series of contrasts between strip mining, tunnel mining, the action of earthworms, the slow percolation of water through soil. the substrata is delicate. i do not want to frighten away the ecology of my deep self, the creatures/entites that live only to inform the surface, flora and fauna forgotten by all but a few.
i must step lightly now. and carry a big pen.