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.
Showing posts with label kosmos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kosmos. Show all posts
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Kosmos Exhales
Long slow hike through waist high bloodgrass. Weimerammer-grey sheen lighting everything up in the closest you can get to light-shadow; that is, shadow made up of light.
Sun is constantly at 1:00 pm, up and behind my head. Turning up and around to try to trick it into an ocular appearance is fruitless.
Shimmer in the air; clearly summer.
Yet as soon as I make the mental pronouncement, snow falls from the cloudless sky. And as soon as THAT observation is made, the sky is an object without boundaries; solid...but not solid and
shit, too much.
I stop labelling and simply look, and this psychic sudoku stabilizes enough to give me a couple of choices. Three, as it turns out - in the form of handles coming out of the ground - one straight ahead, one to the left, one to the right.
No thought; that's important here; as soon as I gain focus, the world loses its, handles become more of the weimerammer grey and all mists up, ready to collapse into...
First lever down.
Aha, this is interesting.
Scene is there, but the Boundaries are gone. Like a giant canvas, where everything is reachable by the observer, but the observer has somehow been pulled into the canvas itself. Without boundaries, there is no subject and object. Without subject and object, there is no here and there. Without here and there there is no distance, and without distance, there is no time.
Lever up. That was fucked up. Beautiful, but fucked up.
Second lever.
Scene is there, boundaries are gone, but I'm outside the scene. I can see the no-time, no-space, no-boundary paradox splashed oil on cloth, but I'm separate from it. The inhabitants are trying to lookup, but there is no up. They consider reaching out, but there is no out. Nothing to do, nowhere to be. No experience, just Is, and me.
Third lever.
One more mirror in the mirror, there's a transition ~ where the 'space' that contains I watching Is in the canvas shimmers and dissolves
nothing left to say or do. No experience, no I, no Is, no no.
Collapsed into a pointless center that is everywhere; not finite
whisper sigh
throughout the Kosmos.
Sun is constantly at 1:00 pm, up and behind my head. Turning up and around to try to trick it into an ocular appearance is fruitless.
Shimmer in the air; clearly summer.
Yet as soon as I make the mental pronouncement, snow falls from the cloudless sky. And as soon as THAT observation is made, the sky is an object without boundaries; solid...but not solid and
shit, too much.
I stop labelling and simply look, and this psychic sudoku stabilizes enough to give me a couple of choices. Three, as it turns out - in the form of handles coming out of the ground - one straight ahead, one to the left, one to the right.
No thought; that's important here; as soon as I gain focus, the world loses its, handles become more of the weimerammer grey and all mists up, ready to collapse into...
First lever down.
Aha, this is interesting.
Scene is there, but the Boundaries are gone. Like a giant canvas, where everything is reachable by the observer, but the observer has somehow been pulled into the canvas itself. Without boundaries, there is no subject and object. Without subject and object, there is no here and there. Without here and there there is no distance, and without distance, there is no time.
Lever up. That was fucked up. Beautiful, but fucked up.
Second lever.
Scene is there, boundaries are gone, but I'm outside the scene. I can see the no-time, no-space, no-boundary paradox splashed oil on cloth, but I'm separate from it. The inhabitants are trying to lookup, but there is no up. They consider reaching out, but there is no out. Nothing to do, nowhere to be. No experience, just Is, and me.
Third lever.
One more mirror in the mirror, there's a transition ~ where the 'space' that contains I watching Is in the canvas shimmers and dissolves
nothing left to say or do. No experience, no I, no Is, no no.
Collapsed into a pointless center that is everywhere; not finite
whisper sigh
throughout the Kosmos.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Context
A dream of flying.
Silver body crescented in the moonlight, dimpling the night sky like water. Concentric circles ensconcing planets and stars; I smile and tremble and
Look for direction, and there is relation of here, of me to dimples, dimples to planets, planets to stars; but there is no relation between, and that's what is perplexing.
So I slow and sit, back lit up by comets and dowsed in the infinity of space. Hands around knees, skin blue and white and silver in an exquisite pastel that could never be recreated because it only exists second to second and time
..time needs 'between' too, doesn't it. So there is a feeling of relation, of a slight pull that would suggest time, but I can't have time without space, can't have space without distance, can't have distance if I don't have between.
Which is their problem too. Zoom down or in or just din, into that corner downtown. Keep it upper right. Now that room upstairs, second story, end of the hall. Keep it lower left. Got it?
You can feel the pull yah? Which suggests a between but we don't know what it is yet, just a hint, a wisp, a suggestion that there is a connection, a between.
Corner downtown, you can see her gathering her stuff together for the night. Tarp over the shopping cart, two empty coffee cups with some spare change and some candle wax, cart rattling with empty cans; slightly muffled by the one piece of security she has in the world - her sleeping bag. She's down-alley now, off the corner and a little out of the wind, but the rain is starting and it's time to pull out the plastic tarp and settle in for the night and that's exactly what she does when an available space-beside-a-bin comes up.
Upstairs room, hot words under hot tears being written so hard on the journal paper that she breaks through the top page and bleeds into the pages below. Pain so pure, pulled by the writers spindle across the pages, hundreds and hundreds of words which, in retrospect are really only two ... fuck you fuck you fuck you. Feelings don't need to be validated, but let's be clear ... even the vitriol here is reasonable.
So what is the between ? Upper right, lower left. Their ages repel rather than pull together betweens; their lifestations and paths are not comparable, until we mine the undercurrent that put HER on the corner and HER in her own corner, rocking herself, nails digging so hard into her hand that she's drawing tiny beads of blood.
The between is the unspeakable that was foisted on both of them when they were too young and innocent to prevent it.
The between is IT; and now it's clear that IT is both the act as well as the label for what he is. His cannot be actions of a person; too amoral and destructive and without conscience for that.
Unless I look for IT's context; which I don't have the appetite to do.
Much better to stretch out from my dimple in the stars and continue my skipping along the surface of the Kosmos, and leave
context
for another day.
Silver body crescented in the moonlight, dimpling the night sky like water. Concentric circles ensconcing planets and stars; I smile and tremble and
Look for direction, and there is relation of here, of me to dimples, dimples to planets, planets to stars; but there is no relation between, and that's what is perplexing.
So I slow and sit, back lit up by comets and dowsed in the infinity of space. Hands around knees, skin blue and white and silver in an exquisite pastel that could never be recreated because it only exists second to second and time
..time needs 'between' too, doesn't it. So there is a feeling of relation, of a slight pull that would suggest time, but I can't have time without space, can't have space without distance, can't have distance if I don't have between.
Which is their problem too. Zoom down or in or just din, into that corner downtown. Keep it upper right. Now that room upstairs, second story, end of the hall. Keep it lower left. Got it?
You can feel the pull yah? Which suggests a between but we don't know what it is yet, just a hint, a wisp, a suggestion that there is a connection, a between.
Corner downtown, you can see her gathering her stuff together for the night. Tarp over the shopping cart, two empty coffee cups with some spare change and some candle wax, cart rattling with empty cans; slightly muffled by the one piece of security she has in the world - her sleeping bag. She's down-alley now, off the corner and a little out of the wind, but the rain is starting and it's time to pull out the plastic tarp and settle in for the night and that's exactly what she does when an available space-beside-a-bin comes up.
Upstairs room, hot words under hot tears being written so hard on the journal paper that she breaks through the top page and bleeds into the pages below. Pain so pure, pulled by the writers spindle across the pages, hundreds and hundreds of words which, in retrospect are really only two ... fuck you fuck you fuck you. Feelings don't need to be validated, but let's be clear ... even the vitriol here is reasonable.
So what is the between ? Upper right, lower left. Their ages repel rather than pull together betweens; their lifestations and paths are not comparable, until we mine the undercurrent that put HER on the corner and HER in her own corner, rocking herself, nails digging so hard into her hand that she's drawing tiny beads of blood.
The between is the unspeakable that was foisted on both of them when they were too young and innocent to prevent it.
The between is IT; and now it's clear that IT is both the act as well as the label for what he is. His cannot be actions of a person; too amoral and destructive and without conscience for that.
Unless I look for IT's context; which I don't have the appetite to do.
Much better to stretch out from my dimple in the stars and continue my skipping along the surface of the Kosmos, and leave
context
for another day.
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