Our Little Corner of the Kosmos

Curtain's pulled round
But the light bleeds out through the thin spots
Savage primal angst
Wearing bedclothes, looking for an audience

But the audience is one:
It's you, your capacity open and yes,
Ministrating to _my_ needs tonite

So I can go back, not take it so seriously again
And stir up the color you so like
In our little corner
of the Kosmos.

Fetching, yes?

Oh yes, dear, quite so.

Not that you asked, or that ever I would tell you that. But that's the thing with this carrion-bag of tricks. It's not in the bag, it's the fact that the bag can be put on, literally covering me head to toe ... that's the trick. OK, I technically I'm not wearing it, it's wearing me. But that's getting into metaphysical gymnastics which is not exactly what I wanted to talk about.

I wanted to talk about what was IN the lively and always slightly decaying bag of tricks. Take no offence dear, but you do not seem the type to call upon highly developed siddhi to see within, so I'll give you the penny tour - just have a sip of this and a nibble of my idbits and

!bang

In through the navel, welcome to my junkyard temple. Some of it's quite nice, but you do have to mind your step.

A map? Well, let's just say its still being worked on, but I can give you the poor-man's tour.

O'er there - see the bright sparks and dark vortexes? That's the entry fabric if you will, psychic flesh towel that houses a lot of the operational work. Take my hand here - ooh! see that reaction? N'er mind, hold on tight, the vortexes get hungry and a little out of hand when there's fresh feeding nearby.

The sparks are nice - don't overdo it, but yes, you can drift your 'hand' through their fields, it actually helps the nite vision a bit.

Now, just to the left there, let me, ok here we are, put this on. I know, might not LOOK that great but it will give you all the protection you need. We'll just do an in and out, but it'll give you the --- whoaaa anxious are we, well, no time like the non-past non-future.

Fade to sludge

Yes, that was me pulling you up. Your certain full of vim and vigor, but you have to remember that this is a muckety mucky place. Freud didn't know the half of it.

Oh yes, there we go, it does get easier once your eyes adjust. Damn, I should have had some sparks myself but it always seems a little close to cannibalism yah?

Ok. Here we go, you'll see a lot of them popping up. The once that look kind of ... digested - you can ignore them for the most part. Look for the mostly developed images - like Polaroids with an identity crisis, and you can usually -- There! See it?

THAT's what I was talking about.

You, a stranger, come waltzing into my field of vision, intimating, if not actually asking the question how do I look? Fetching, yes?

And that's where operations takes over, takes the raw data in - naval, heart, throat in this case, pull it through the sparks, into the vortexes and down the up-ladder into idbit land. From there it's as simple as waiting for the right image and latching on. More developed, better choice. Better choice, better latching. Better latching, stronger response.

what's that? Oh I know, I never said it was refined, but it does show you the inner working doesn't it?

And yes, bring the third eye in and the whole place lights up. A lot less latching and a lot more dissolving, if you get what I mean, nudge nudge, wink wink.

But that will all sound a little Oz like until you've taken a few more trips.

Ok then?

tah.

Yup, sad

Open bag by the check in desk, but not sure she'll want to go into it. Hell, I don't want to go into it and it's MINE. Layer upon layer of black plaque; white around the edges; a necrotic lasagna I scraped together from residue I've been aging in the wild id-spaces like an obsessed oenophile all this years.

I've had a peak before, guessed it was time for another tonite, but it was more like it chose me as opposed to the other way around. I peeled it back, layer by rotting layer, laying them carefully around the bag and looking up for quick eye contact, wondering if she was going to call security. She gave me the look you know. You know, the LOOK. You have a few minutes, but a very few. Better make the right decision.

And I was ready to, thing is, when I got to the final layer, it was terrible beauty.

That's always the way isn't it. Easier to say goodbye and pack this fucker with all it's slimy siblings and inbred cousins together and ship it off somewhere. But that's if it was even a little bit worse than the pasta I've pulled off. Thing is, it's a little beating heart, shimmering in a perfect square of shimmering plasma and highwayed artery lines. And not little in terms of it's an infant heart, no, the littleness is just part of the gelled metaphor, kids. It's a little part of me.

Beating excitedly now, it knows it has my attention. It wants to be fed and nurtured. And I could do that, almost decided to do that, when I heard her shuffling o'er me. Shit, she's brought company too. Both of them have looks of warning on their face ~ you've got a toxic emotional pyschological topspill their waiting to happen cowboy. You're either going to contaminate us or give the little guy (that means you too) a heart attack. Make your call.

And so I do, piling on the rotten blankets on top of it again, knowing that it's the right thing to do but...

As I put it on the conveyor belt, consciously, without a tag or a return address, I feel the desire, the clinging, the sadness and utter aloneness creep up and lodge in my throat.

It descends through the plastic teeth out of site, and I could swear that I hear the little heart break a little bit. Or maybe it's growing, hard to tell.

For now all that's certain is that it's contained and on its way somewhere.

I'm back to one attendant now. She points up to a departure arrival sign, simple message there for me:

"Departure time : now. Arrival time: uncertain.

Ps...you're on your own."

And I wish I could cry.

By the throat children

Strangely emotional. No reason why, just a lump in the throad that decided to come a' visiting. Snow falling outside in a placid cotton lint silkscreen between the balcony and the space and the sky.