Incommunicado

I take the down escalator from reading a book or an up escalator from sleep and enter the lobby.

In every direction as far as the eye can see, polished hardwood flooring. In front, behind, side to side. Natural light would indicate that I'm outside, but there's nothing to prove that; just a feeling. The flooring extends in front of me to the horizon, where sky and floor mate and meld into a single horizontal line.

It's...OK...here. I've come up or down from a place of release and freedom, and even though there are some structures here, it's still an overwhelming feeling of openness.

I think Clive Barker, and manifest.

Words take shape and leave my mouth in soft jelly-sacked ambivalence. Different colours, different shapes, different levels of energy.

From nothing to something to electrical activity in the lobes to chemical transmitters down the ganglia to the voicebox and OUT the door, Henry.

Somewhere between the something and nothing and electrical, of course, there are feelings and ghosts and samskara and desire, a spinning archipelago of pre-thought islands, somehow gluing together into drivers for the thought then the word which becomes THE WORD.

And it's OK.

I watch my sires, bouncing and giggling across the floor. Some possessed of a darker energy than others, but none truly repugnant. They scurry around and zip out towards the horizon and back again, there is an invisible leash back to master.

And it's OK,

until.

Shit! On the horizon! Sally forth men, we have a body. It's impersonal, this is good, don't know them but on the other hand that means that they are up for free flowing jugdgemental poppycock from Idworld, and more disturbingly, from closer to the surface from the cognitive centers. Ouch. Can't blame darkness for everything.

The thoughts aren't all mine any more. Mined but not mine. 4 out of 10 of them keep on the leash, but pull hard to sniff and wonder at the stranger. The other 6 are hellbound for glory, they've slipped or broken the leashes all together and are glomming onto the stranger to suck as much as they can out of them and then return.

And return they do, back down the rabbit hole to ganglia to chemical to electrical to ... SOMEWHERE.

And this somewhere is where the trouble lies.

By the time the stranger is up to me and wanting to talk, any purity and openess has been sullied by what's been brought back. And by what I've augMENTED from what's been brought back.

Our words are more like septic ulches now, meeting midpoint in the air and collapsing into a puddle around our feet.

I don't feel so good.

But wait...there's more.

Sally forth men! On the horizon again, more people. That's right - it's plural now and they're gonna gitcha. the words that are still out on the range break leash without much problem - I'm tired now, and resigned. And this time they don't even bother to try to reintegrate into the Somewhere inside. They BRING the Somewhere outside myself, and pull the other's words in as well.

We continue to talk, and the room up behind and above the cortex busies itself with the paradox that the more we talk, the less we communicate.

Sha!