Thursday, 25 February 2016


1.Neon primaries. Ivory inlays. The mat, candles and objects are inarguably the jewelled axis of the universe. Centering. Thickening of the air as if we suddenly have audience expectation. Black-lodge grazing past. I've got idea, man. Why so voodoo? Faceless entities abound. Colour scheme illuminated.
2. Hello blues. Fools rush in, and I'd have been glad to be counted among them. Perhaps they're my transdimensional brethren. Perhaps they're the drawing I did of the world personified. No expression, calmness emanates, palms out hands up because nothing can be held.
3. Humming, such humming. BOC 5D, Twin Peaks antenna sound, Radigue, potentials of all possible noise. Sounds like DNA.
4. Ladies and gentlemen, gasp in wonder. Ontology never felt so far away. So lucid, so very very perplexed by the biblical torrent of hyperdimensional codices. Ladies and gentlemen, here comes everybody. Jesus fucking christ. Sat upright feeling my socks, mouth agape and smiling, head shaking in disbelief and rhythm.
5. Enter the semi-mythical significance of L as image-smith and quiet purveyor of symbol. Dose that man up. If Solaris has a TV channel this would be it.
6. Coming close to the sense of death, feeling myself disintegrate. Raised a few questions and a few hopes, one being that I could speak to R before leaving the coil. Why R? Because he's a gardener of mind and if that flower blooms it'd be good to give it back. A solace vault. True communication is a rarity, and that channel seems to be open, however garbled the content I send down it. Didn't want to die without telling him how far out and peaceful it seemed.
7. Ladies and gentlemen, the snake eateth his tail. There is a coming and there is a going. Oxygen up, water down. Thought down, feeling up. The turning of the hourglass. A midnight bargain on some quiet street corner. Who profits? Dealer, client or city? This is the one from Touba who came just to see you leave. I can't describe the node and the sense of translation that this feeling has. It is perhaps the 'religious' sense of life after death, or the idea that we leave through transposition, which is never really leaving. Euphoric and transient at the memory of it. Thumbs are a misleading adaptation, you can't grab anything for too long. Probably just made for hitching. Drifting the fuck out of that net. Sitting on the fulcrums all at once.

Will I die? Y/N
Do I believe I might? Y/N
Does that matter? Y/N
Is this a good story? Y/N
I felt myself being coaxed closer and closer to peace as if it were the olive-branched tongue of an angler fish, only to discover it was my own tail. Odd feeling.
8. Following on from the realisation that I wasn't dying came an hour of calm followed by 4 hours of sleep. I had a dream that broke my concept of dream. A memory so tangible I saw why people described them as time travel. Just standing in my parent's bedroom waiting to leave the house. Three years old, a domestic platitude, nothing much to it.
Blake saying 'Nothing is lost' is how I describe that one to myself.
9.Following sleep, awaking to a revived and fresh body, and a singular headspace. Rather than help me decide anything, all the experience had done was tattoo the fulcrum on my retinas like the viewfinder of a camera. Choice is always there, you can't avoid it, or at least not forever. Whack up an umbrella of tradition, belief, confidence, gnosis, but don't pretend the rain will never get you.
Choices, doubts and questions are all coming down, and if they didn't how would anything grow.

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