'I am fascinated by the fact that the same person is simultaneously a mass of atoms, a physiology, a mind, an object with a shape that can be painted, a cog in the economic machine, a voter, a lover..'
I am beginning to understandwhat the Romanticist poets felt in regards to nature, that a higher understanding can be found in everything, in the molecular structure of all things belonging to our pantheistic universe. Everything is so shamelessly entangled, so helplessly erotic, so inevitably complex and essential to the harmonious ebb and flow of the universe. And yet we simplify it, mimic it with our technology, producing only two-dimensional versions. After decades of evolution we remain estranged from that which birthed us, forging a deep ravine between the inescapable connectedness of man and nature. Governments can not supply the air we breath and yet they question why people turn to the environment for thanks, question why we exchange in an intimate dialogue between nature and the Self by means of altered conscious states induced by psilocybin: natures lucid little jewel. Man's incessant need for division, for detachment, for disenchantment will be his ultimate demise. Meanwhile she (mother nature) will wait patiently at the doors of perception for him to knock so that she may open him up to the infinite.
Ever have one of those moments when you feel like your inside a descending elevator? You look up to get a different perspective and see the buildings around you flicker like white noise on a television set. There's someone watching, flicking your channels so you don't know what to feel, comedy or tragedy? Shakespeare used both - are you at the theater? You read the lines but the volume is muted and now your shouting into a sky that can't hear you. Your chest clicks like the destined arms of a wristwatch. Something falls and you hear the smash, you know it is real, that you are awake, alive, moved. That is what brings you back to a point of serenity; the echo of a million splintered pieces.
I come to a fork in the road and wonder which way I will be pulled, like I'm a flimsy piece of metal waiting to be magnetized. And what even, is that magnetism? Have my footsteps walked this path before and will they walk it again in my lifetime of eternal-recurrence? Am I spinning round like a mouse on its wheel, waiting for the next experiment to be conducted. Who is the scientist? Am I the experimenter or experimentee? Before the thought snowballs I swill the ice around in my coffee, suck on the straw and feel the sugar syrup find my tongue. A sweet sensation. Is that all life is? An elaborate fun-house, a sweet sensation. Does the mind use the experience of sensations as a drug that gets the imagination so high that it has manifested a material world? All the textures, black holes, planetary systems, pleasures, language devices, love, war, all reduced to a bud on the side of my tongue and a sweet sensation deep in my throat. They say we live in a Fools Paradise, well, if I'm a fool and this is my paradise - it tastes sweet.
First Impressions, I trust mine. Quick to dissect. Places (and people), have a way of opening up, unfolding like the creases of a hypercube. The longer you spend in a place (or person) the more dense the layers get. In a country that does not speak your native tongue you learn quick the fine art of body language, actions always speak louder. Its a beautiful image - writing pictures in the air, communicating by way of charades, performing some kind of universally comprehensive dance with your hands. My appointment with Japan was an awakening, as most experiences that stray from your normal reality are. Even the flight, the perpetual waiting at airports and stations and intersections I enjoyed. Those half way places, that feeling of limbo always puts me into a deeper state of meditation about everything around and inside of me.
Sometimes when I'm trying to sleep my body wakes me up in tiny electric shocks. zap! Minor convulsions snapping me back into my body after a journey elsewhere. The electric shocks come every night for weeks at a time then leave me all of a sudden. This time I wake up remembering someone telling me that these little shocks are your spirit snapping back into your body. I imagine myself lying there, swallowed up in silk sheets like a black whole, while my spirit-body (slightly transparent with a pearly lustre) stands up and wanders away. And then I start thinking about how this happens to me a lot in my imagination in waking life. Like when I'm standing next to someone and collapse into a day dream. I pull them close, sink into them like a hot waxed seal on the tip of a forbidden letter. Then snap back into my waking, non-transparent body, disenchanted and now quivering with pearly (lust)re.
'The ordinary waking conscious is a very useful, and on most occasions, an indispensable state of mind; but it is by no means the only form of consciousness, nor in all circumstances the best.' - Aldous Huxley
I'm living in at least 12 different worlds at once. It's good and bad, bad in the way like when you're trying to multitask, when teeth brushing and typing becomes counter-productive because you need your mind to be synchronized otherwise you loose your rhythm. I'll be reading with headphones on, subconscious listening, feeding my head with subliminal sound while my eyes - hungry and conscious, walk over the words, devour the page and while all this is happening I'm thinking about someone. Not one of the fictional characters of the novel but one from my life (also questionably fictional depending on your ontological view of reality). So I'm feeding the brain sound, pouring words into my eyes while my thoughts of You are hovering above my body like dark angels or devils or both. This is when I flip over from my back to front and scribble with a fiendish compulsion because I need a solid medium to merge sound, fiction, words, ideas in one place and it all comes out. Implosion - explosion and all the sub-atomic shards come falling over top of me like fireworks and I'm covered in hot sparkles.
“Every once in a while, but not often, you can sit down and write a thing that you know is going to stand people’s hair on end for the rest of their lives- a perfect memory of some kind, like a vision, and you can see the words rolling out of your fingers and bouncing around for a while like wild little jewels before they finally roll into place & line up just exactly like you wanted them to…” - Hunter.S.Thompson