“CAN I NOT GET OUT OF HERE?”
Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary
I gather
around me, a veritable wall
a grand array
of cheese variations.
The feast is atomised but available; stacked high, and yet hand sized, mouth sized, fist to bite size; this rotovation is the mighty mastication of plenty.
Cream cone crenellations are erected and all too soon digested. This immaculate defence is thus internalised.
Although some have asked if I am pregnant, in fact it is that I, by steady accretion of adipose tissue, become impregnable.
To carry this much weight is to be the greatness of a visible and confident storehouse. My barns are the brag. My feasting is bravado. Surely one must be royalty in order to drag along the street so vast a weight; I do not need to run away. I cannot run. My societal wealth is immersed in this fatty connective tissue, my vast round is on show and certain.
Tradition demands that such bounty be returned.
My uncanny stature must, in due course, be returned to the ground.
Instead of my wobbly royalty it is suggested that we gladly sacrifice obese children; other children. The future is only ever a threat, after all. So to sustain my stature hereby welcome the suggestion of how the cheapened excess of neglect can be squashed under a shopping stampede.
In the central person, properly defended, this great breadth of person, who is after all an entire system, the sovereignty of fat is a candle. This corpulent burning cannot today be extinguished. Too big to fail; such is my belly. In this long night one must not snuff out the individual largess, which we have now agreed to call light, for otherwise it will prove difficult to raise the bowl to one’s mouth.
Home becomes not home.
It is never to be recalled.
It is never safe.
Our home is the impossible, it is never the destination.
That great love, that want to act, that which once stood here in equanimity, this place where humbly all was possible.
The wall equally positioned, all around.
Home becomes memory.
Before our nakedness and this insufferable need
there is a desolation wherein no clothing and no satisfaction will ever be possible.
Memory becomes not memory.
Memory becomes refuge.
The world ending is ever capable of generating approximate desolations.
Refuge becomes not refuge.
Refuge becomes path.
The world ending ever generates new worlds, ever ending. The incomplete completion, the succour of devastation.
Path never ceases.
Path becomes home.
That wall equally around all.
Path becomes memory.
Path becomes refuge
Refuge dissolves into the possible.
The abysmal bleeds its own abyss. Between walls of nothing and nothingness of wall, the equal touch, an energetic vastness.
This is possibly our home. Ever ever does that great love need to act.
Our home is the impossible, a trembling memory, a tumbling path, an open refuge;
it is never safe,
it is never the destination,
it is never here to be recalled.
To give back
rending consciousness.
To give back
consciousness to consciousness
rendering life unto life
and really no one likes to do this.
Really, we are very uncomfortable with most expressions of life. Experiences which call life; life must be ushered into another category. Even disguising life as consciousness is on occasion preferable to simply listening to breath, following the pulse, processing spit, excreta, and other such extremes of attention.
The improbable liveliness of living, this is an extreme activity. It can be disguised behind perilous sports or transformed into a fitness regime. It can be sunk into jigsaw and card games, made monomania or hobby; even so, it remains difficult to like. We tend not to befriend living, and this not because of morbidity but precisely because death is an intimate and necessary aspect of life. Consciousness is easier. Consciousness can be risen, trained, focussed, farmed, warped or expanded and, as such, it is subject to treatment. Consciousness becomes a thing.
Become conscious of consciousness and it begins to belong in that separate slot, this other groove, the thing that runs along-side and helps to frame your identity. Indeed, identity without the sidekick consciousness might be deemed frivolous or fly-by.
Awareness partakes of all these games, and many others. If there is no awareness then there are barely any games.
Also there is a must. There is life, there must be. Life must be, despite our flight from it.
Our shapely and eloquent perceptual apparatus partakes of life-must-be and life in game and life in its ending.
Life in its ending is beginning, elsewhere, of loquacious sensing and lush inward rushing patterns of being.
Cohabiting and collaborating with these spacious patterns, awareness in its “must” partakes of the giving away; it continually gives itself away. It is rendered unto fear.
Fear is rendered unto life in the moment.
The moment is a rent in the perceptual field.
Rendering covers, flows over, and adorns the perceptual field.
Consciousness is ornamentation.
The ornamental can be found as irruptions of deathly life and as rosy living, these symbol lives forced into the not yet lived life. The ornamental simultaneously soothes a consciousness into mediated unawareness and renders it naked before its own symbolic fecundity.
We give back the ornament to the symbol. We give back the symbol to the awareness. We give back the awareness to its living root. We give back the root of our being to the greater self. We disappear. This disappeared appearance is given back. No loss of freedom there, but perhaps a decimation of identity; the fat of ego is ten times reduced, and should the entire process be repeated then the fat of ego may fully depart from fleshy participation.
Consciousness consciously rendering consciousness is as if a melody drawn from out its own song, the unease of living easily alive.
Confessed library dreamer
the earth is struck from above and below simultaneously. The shelves bulge as if a rubber mask suddenly and grossly inflated. Manuscripts and sheaves of paper and reports cascade upon us. As we burrow through this academic rubble we exchange further reports of our language clogged reverie, explaining in detail how, when dreaming of books, those books are always wanted. Books violently desired. Books hoarded and piled high and of impossible reach.
A fearful droom. The human resource department have a token system by which to reward good uniform, although no one outside of the department is aware of this.
An anxious dream. The head of department is collecting brightly coloured tokens in a very large bowl.
An overwrought fantasia. Students remove an entire bay of shelving, taking even the brackets off the wall, and begin to fill this disrupted space with their own artistic creations. The bowl of tokens is tipped over but the rebellious learners are brazen and casual about the anarchy thus far inspired.
An instructive musing on a series of concentric constrictions.
We dig a labyrinthine set of tunnels and pits and then watch it fill up with our own projections.
In this mesh of hallucination the first person is also the observer and the observer is also the observed. Those who disrupt are also I. Those who need space for great creations and all the contents of all the books, also I. Those determined to control and hoard, these also must be I.
Bureau is from burra, a shaggy cloth used for covering desks and tables. Bureau is the covered writing place; bureaucracy is to set in order by a covered form of writing. If a root is not rested upon then it will not be squashed, it will not become scratched nor in any manner disfigured.
The written surface is always disfigured.
Veils are pulled over an essentially uncontrollable situation. Once a fine collation of layers settle, then the layers may be controlled.
Language is immaterial and material simultaneously. Language is in the same moment layered and controlled, revealed and uncontrollable. Emptying and approaching; the gift I have hidden is the gift I also wish to reveal.
From its inner glow
come
the pleasure and euphoria of chocolate.
The gods on high had a monopoly on the thick elixir, and we humans were condemned to live in ignorance. Ignorance of euphoria is an equivalence of reality without fire. The fire inward and the fire of cooking and light. The fire needed to cook chocolate; the pragmatics of releasing an inner glow.
Quetzalcoatl stole chocolate’s secrets for the Toltecs. Is this an equivalence to the story of Prometheus? While the rest of the gods slept, Q. took a few seeds and hid them in his beard, skiddering to earth on the long thread of a spider’s web in order to present these to the city of Tula.
Q’s offering was usurped by the princes, the priests, and the warrior chiefs.
Their palates alone were deemed worthy of glowing inner euphoria.
As the owners of heaven forbade chocolate to mortals, so the owners of the earth forbade it to commoners.
The mythology of gift plays in the presence of possibility. One such possibility is that of extinction.
The gift’s tendency to abundance is in swift politic turned to the rule of scarcity (the rule through scarcity). Thereafter it appears that the given (and the desire to give) is steadily warped toward Scrooge-like tendencies. Presence (prior to the pedagogy of a haunting) will be transmuted into absence.
Extinction is an anxious term. There is an ache of a presence not properly attended to (and therefore the learning must be discovered in ghosts).
A great culture consisting of art and astronomy, of mathematics and alphabet, of architecture and politic; imagine power and prowess corralled around in confidence. All of this ceased.
Historic pollen counts trace rainfall; drought is implicated, disease is pondered; what was the catastrophe?
Gift not given.
These wonder-full evocative images of sudden absence and of dramatic exit are motifs, evocations and laments.
Gift not given.
It is in this context that mass events are depicted as if a form of charm which one weaves around our hope of survival. Tropes of city and state evacuation become popular with large budget cinema because they are apotropaic.
We depict global disaster near superstitiously, for reasons of fear we try to out-fear our fear. There may be little which is overtly conscious about this; the terrible lure of the spectacular hides itself from self in its splutter and glitter. The stirrings of freedom become caught in the ungifted trap of our entertaining unawareness.
Awareness was a warm euphoria awakening to the gift of consciousness. Abundance is still hidden within awareness, the “in plain sight” haunting of chocolate and fire.
That a civil order changed does not indicate that the people of that order ceased. The gift will continue to be smuggled out.
The gift is not yet given.
Vanity is a blindness pushed against desperation to become a trap baited with pride and walled around by fear. Vanity is a built folly that the narcissistic would choose to live in.
It was written in black using a medium thick felt marker pen on the wood of the picnic site: Have sex with my wife or watch us have sex – 100% genuine.
a frozen lake skated upon. Around its edge, the mind has a regular pattern of grooves.
In the middle it is empty.
Empty apart from a gradually freezing over hole. The crack opened briefly for an adventurous child, and then shut.
And as driving is an ability to miss things so is the daily lyrical, a spray of glitter, pillow stuffing for a prison existence (made a prison because one repeatedly misses the walls).