Most Unusual

Decided to do some braiding this morning on the walk in.

Mist had lifted everywhere apart from the inlet, carpet shadows on the mountains, ascii raining down from heavan on the Blackberry, it just seemed so appropriate.

There will always be the naysayers, of course. They seem to be everywhere as I dream of braiding or any other ascent into the world unfolded from this one. *Seem* to be because often their resistance to the joy that I see through slicing through this reality's fabric is, of course, nothing more than projection on my part.

So Jerry minus (apparent naysayers minus actual naysayers) would be pretty low.

On days like today, however, even a groundswell of naysayers would not have much of an effect.

I'm off the train and already blocks ahead from where I am 'actually' walking and synesthesia is running amok. It's words that are taking shape for me. The naysayers are a humpback swell breaking through the cement in the center of the road, Baristas and Baristers are butterflies watching the event and then there's *me*

Walking, leaning, running, sprinting onto the humpback and then flying off

Remembering all the recurring dreams of flight that disappear in morning's gossamer light

Taking those memories and pulling them taught over two rectgangles and attaching them to my arms and flying, literally flying, off the humpback and through the butterflies and arching up like a giant skijumper in reverse

Back supple, ears washed in whitenoise of the wind and then

Nothing

Butterflies have stopped mid flight

I have stopped midflight and I toggle the sight

And I see their trajectories - where them came from, where they're going (or are likely to go); it's a million pickup sticks neon fleshlights burning into the sky - which is a starlight October afternoon sunlight miasma and I reach out to one and pull it to my chest and let go and am thrust towards the canyon wall of building and the braiding

begins.

Fingers plunged chest deep and cotton candy Peter Parker web like strand is connected to the window on the twenty first flower and is flown over to its sister building on the 19th and back and forth until we have heartstrings going from top to bottom

And the music starts
The great dance

As the workers leave the husks at their desks and slide down the light

And I braid upwards

Around and around them till be we have hearts wrapped in heartstring

and when all the lines are full I start to wind and roll all into a big ball

which, Atlas-like, I raise to the heavens and implore deification

Which is, of course, denied

How can something become what it already is

So I push it and it begins it's long roll down to the sea

Perched in a moment with a million sparks of light holding it in the air over the end of the pier

Then exploding in flesh and heart and notes and words and humming into the great

Aum

that is

Everything.