If there is a perfection
of the hidden self
then self hidden is perfect
and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection.
For self to be self
which is to come to its perfection
self must yet be turned out into the world.
Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller.
It is said that the self will re-shod your horse.
Leave it by the smithy overnight
just an appropriate gift.
Self to self giving.
Self to self given over
the wandering, turning self out
from the hidden to the open
road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect,
tattered paths of the simply sought.
The perfection of the hidden self
which is hidden therefore perfect
cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.
The wreckage of destabilised tribes.
Stones in the dell.
These stubborn dreams still trip us up.
The self in the world is ever an imperfection;
the scruffy re-run
the back and forth vulnerable
made available, made safe, made and unmade.
From a ceaseless wandering
until an ornament of demise
being prepared to go with the shrug of freedom,
being prepared to take the scrying and fill in the detail.
The curlicues and corners of culture
am I reflected there, in this environment
made so much the human.
So much I am
I am also reflected there but barely,
And in the throws of distortion I also
push in my image. Pushed in, despite,
creating the line and loop
this ceaseless wandering.
Mental conditions for freedom
under-gird the material.
Conditions for the material conditions of culture may be continued
in and out of division
in and out of prison
on and on.
To act freely is not taking freedom from another,
therefore freedom is always an exploration of relatedness,
a ceaseless wandering relationship with the ornament of demise.
I stand in this built environment which is designed and
ordained so much to reflect
who imagine they always own
therefore I am excluded
except for my ownership,
for which there is none,
therefore it is in the excluded I am.
This made-so-much-the-human is a temporary fake
a human imposition on an inhuman profusion
of nature always grander
of nature always pressing
of nature which will inevitably reclaim
and is rigorously excluded, now, of this
in the curves and curlicues of of the pressing
in the fluids and in pollen and there dispersed.
Vividly here, I also vanish
is not resting
on the rock.
The mermaid is not serenading from the rock.
The mermaid is chained to the rock. She is chained and she is lamenting for the depths which are now lost to her.
The mermaid combs her hair. She is searching for the pin. In amongst the thick tumble of these locks there is a pin, and with this she intends to pick the lock and loose the chain.
Even so, eventually, it is not her determined worrying at the lock but a great storm which breaks the chain. She is able to swim free and deep.
Her freedom is weighed down by the residue of this long captivity. The chain was affixed to her being, pierced through her flesh. It is a persistent, rusting wound in her tail, and it drags behind her to the length of one metre. It keeps her down deep, it catches on rock. Her freedom is difficult, the swimming is hard, and she has not swam in the full liberty of a current for many years. Aggressive eels come out of hiding specifically to mock. After the initial exhilaration, all that seems to be left to her is exhaustion.
The dead weight, wrapped into her very muscle, pulls and pulls and pulls, and eventually the mermaid slips over a precipice, falling into a dim and alien world. The eels she meets now are all blind. They do not mock, they simply try to eat. Thrashing this way and that with the last dregs of her energy, the mermaid falls into the influence of a volcanic forest. A fierce array of burning trees. White eyeless crustaceans hurry from between the sulphuric slurry and attach themselves to her body. From head to tail she is now smothered in armoured shrimps.
As the ravaging heat makes the waters flow in violent circles, so is the mermaid buffeted. The albino crustaceans form a thermal armour around her body and, although they are beginning to devour her, as she slips into the volcano mouth, they also save her. She is pulled through the earth’s broken mantle, trapped in vortices, and tumbles deeper and deeper, beyond anything she ever imagined possible.
Now she is splashing around in a new sea, a sea of magma. The mermaid dressed in white slips through molten rock. Her chain dissolves.
As the ways
so the current ways of doing commerce will one day be arcane. The mysteries of the round table were also the tabulations of exchange. And in days to come, should those days arrive, then the mysterious manner of knighthood may be at least as distant and at least as impenetrable as the current urgency of exploitation and electronic usury and the leverage of false scarcity.
Yet the troubadour sung trail of the chivalrous is a dream which still marks our trail. The city is mustered around heraldic banners and its names are heaped atop of old stories, and those squeezed out, paled, redrawn, elaborated and once more forgotten memorials still run their course within our consciousness.
Maybe these stories, sunk just below that which can be approached in the presumptions of rationality, are actually those forms around which the new myths of finance and banking take shape?
It all comes down to a moment when the red knight, the green knight, the white knight, and black knight commingle in a quantum affray. The white sheep are black sheep, the black sheep are white, they cross the river and reverse, they cross the river and reverse: the black sheep are white sheep, the white sheep are black.
I stand at the Cripple Gate, a solitary beggar awaiting sustenance from trade. Elusive trade of the city, my rags speak me as a poor traveller, a stranger. My manners are alien.
Grand towers arise, sparkle and glory, the king-in-deed. The architecture is sovereign in expression, and its role is to make beggars stand at a gate through which royalty will never pass.
As a dog returns to its own vomit
so I return to the infinite.
As a dog will try to eat its dinner
several times over
so I am sure that there is taste in here
a food of goodness and divine savour
except the meat has fallen off the platter
this gross overspill of stuff
matter and the awkward rhyme of splatter.
So an infinity can be located in materiality.These innumerable grains of sand, the shy stand of number which will forever evade the count.
Infinite number as material presence must yet be held.
Infinity rests within that which can hold it.
Only the eternal might bracket and cup an infinite.
If such materiality which is infinitely going on is not held, even in miasma or mist, then such infinite matter as we apprehend
a bootstrapped reality pulled up by its own become.
Then it is nothing. Infinity is materiality encountered through nothing and that nothing through which the infinite falls is eternal.
Presence of nothingness, the infinite partakes thereof.
And infinitely that which is nothing shares its own lack of substance, materially and presently, and thus the eternal moves thought within the potent of here and this.
By material expression
awareness and substance
can be found as an infinite operation within the present tense.
The given, given even of nothing, becomes something. Something is now nested within its own fecund void, which is eternal.
The eternal is greater than the infinite, even as it may only be detected within the infinite movement of substance.
Here and this snares thought and perception. Awareness is entangled with the infinite materiality of finitude.
This entanglement is connection made via regard, such connection as modelled in the neural pathways. Entanglement evokes consciousness.
Consciousness is not necessarily made, not necessarily called forth, and consciousness does not necessarily pre-exist the regard by which it is noted. Even so, consciousness does appear to be necessary. It is the entangling agent.
The agency of the woven.
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.
The ardent knot
well ordered linkage which may be remedied.This arduous knot is never undone, yet in its reality resonant loops are found.
By gently tapping here, over time, the conversation of the real continues. Over time, the resonance begins to shake down walls.
Dreams awaken one convincingly and, in this moment, convinced.
One awakens with urgent conviction or a question, and even as the image seems to fade or lose focus, still one must continue in order to find out the form that must be.
A reality was implemented as a dream. The knotted bedsheets remind us.
To dream and to awaken alongside the discovery of an array of planted evidence, thus is life conceived as realism.
You have truly read a certain book, you may think this, you may be convinced. Actually, the entire story line as you remember it is a fabrication of your subconscious.
Books in dreams.
These form a special category of reality.
Books in dreams were once scrolls and parchments. Once books in dreams could only manifest themselves as clay, therefore runes dreamt of alphabets and alphabets dreamt of paper manufacture and paper dreamt of pens. That was a terrifying dream.
looking into the special example
of gold leaf rolled onto the wall
and up into the ceiling
and on the statues one could find it
wrapped over the naked stone feet
and gold smeared down their arms
and gold rubbed over the heart.
But all matter reflects.
Everything reflects and the extension of this is that reflection is a special form of division.
All light is divided all ways.
In this manner the spectrum of colours and the colours called wavelengths, the patterns and the electromagnetic forces; these perceptions are facilitated by division.
Division is a special form of reflection.
Perception is an analysis of reflection; division further divided.
All perceiving is a daily participation in the infinite.
By reflection the world is infinitely, minutely, and exquisitely constructed. The core of this construction is an infinitely divided light. This unending division is a reflection of a source pouring out which is yet greater than the infinitude of its own division.
Reflection is our manner of infinite and exquisite perception; the more our division of the divided the greater the entanglement in all that this perception was divided from.
Our reflection is enmeshed with spectra.
Consciousness knots together each reflection with each source and shape. We in perceiving are forever shaving off and reducing the source and the object, and yet these beginnings always remain and in their remaining there is an action.
The action of being capably linked to division; the beginning of infinite reflection. The beginning for to be perceived must yet be already reflected. Each start point is also a division.
If reflection is division, light divided by light, then consciousness becomes multiplication. Consciousness is that reversal of reflection by which the infinitely divided perception becomes infinitely multiplied.
The shine of the scintillating is reflected (divided) consciousness. Divided consciousness seeing its own reflection is a light multiplied infinitely.
How is it that the eternal becomes perceivable?
Infinite division is sparkling in reflection, becoming the sovereign and rock-like shine of infinite multiplication.
Such division returning to the multiple may be called consciousness. To call such an infinite process consciousness is in and of itself a reflection. Consciousness is a rock. The rock reflected is thus divided. Consciousness is divided and thus infinite division again initiates a reflection upon its own rock-like (yet evasive) centre.
The initiation of division entangled with an initiation of light consciously multiplying light, and on occasion perceived as such, becomes a special form of reflection. It may be termed an aeroplane trap.
Garden airplane trap. Max Ernst. 1935
Premiss of the infinite is an eternal source. The nature of infinitude is reflection and consciousness moving in a single entangled relationship. This entanglement of division and multiplication precludes direct perception of the eternal. The precluding relationship, in its very infinity, nonetheless intimates an eternal up-welling of which all infinitude is able to abundantly and continually reflect. Such is the gold light we stare into.
We stare not into gold, nor particularly do we dwell open the fascination of light infinitely at play. Instead we are, on occasion, able to step into a non-reflecting moment called stillness, this is between division and multiplication but we cannot properly assign it to either reduction or increase. (Here we are able to scribble the form of an aeroplane trap.) As the blooms in this garden grow a word is also realised.
A word is sometimes said.
The said in this is neither but it is. It is the honey on which the eternal willing lays down, and in this first sweetness first consciousness is immediately sustained.
Several times during the night
I realise that I am the reconfigured ashes of the cosmos.
The King and Queen have given their son a gift of an ornamental lake. When he goes to inspect it the water’s edge of this lake are occupied by workers, day trippers, sun bathers, and lovers. He walks across the stepping stones to the lovers and then returns and the lake is connected to another lake and the other Prince has a lake also. This Prince walks across the water features to his brother’s lake.
Then there is an adventure in another space. It goes like this: a young boy tackles a great foe.
At the end the boy goes to the foe’s birthday party. Back in this space all alien forms realign to the human. The boy is much smaller and he is mocked. He says:
You know I am not afraid anymore.
There is a great conflagration on the fourth and fifth floor of a hotel. This is because of the cosmic battle undergone by the forces represented by the boy and his opponent.
At the party the foe befriends the boy but warns him that his family may still be hostile. They play a game of hugs. The boy gets two very large ladies who take great delight in him, smothering him and falling on top of him. On the ground and squashed below them, one of these ladies describes her tattoo to him.
Before this game he is taken to the kitchen and here he takes ginger wine as a drink. He had been expecting to get milk. His mother and aunt are in the kitchen making vol-au-vents, holes in the wind. They enjoy his company. It turns out he has smuggled back powerful salvage from his victories in another space.
First the birthday boy’s guests get the other boy to play in their virtual reality game. They have vindictively reprogrammed it and yet the boy is not afraid. He calmly outwits and out-fights each situation. It is a gaming disguise of the battles already fought in another space. The boy’s foes takes his side, despite the scorn and ridicule this entails.
The contraband arrives. Games and victory complete, the boy goes back to his house and garden. All the actors are there as people set to enjoy the gathering.
His smuggled goods are powerful and malevolent forces utterly subdued, enriching potentiality, vastly enriching. The boy has them buried in the garden. They have the form of eel like fish, seen with heads stuck down under the ground. Even so, he chooses not to become rich and travels as a hobo. He walks cross country and is seen taking jobs in supermarkets when he can. This allows him to feed the places he goes to with the contraband, these malevolent fish have been turned into seeds of liberation and freedom.
The hotel has reopened. Our hostess also owns the hotel. She tells the story of a great battle that reduced the hotel to three floors. It was a fantastic victory but one in which her lover sacrificed himself. And now she sunbathes above the third floor and no one must ever climb this tower for it is sacred to the memory of her love. In her nakedness however she senses that someone has disobeyed her and she warns them that they will need to leave or be destroyed in battle. Yet it is actually her returned lover, the boy who is now a man, and he is naked also. He is sunbathing. His form flourishes, becomes magnificent, and the hair on his chest is verdant, sprouting green new growth. He is becoming the new earth and she hikes up, becomes the stars in order to copulate with him.
I am reconfigured ashes of the cosmos.
The magnificence of rich becoming form running potent through all matter,
The matter of this earth reaching to and beyond and throughout all spaces.
Dear child, look carefully, listen closely and pay attention to everything I show you. Remember, you have only been brought here for me to show you everything.
Write quickly now
your life will be silence.
And a voice in the dream said: Suppose I open your eyes today? I am teaching you of life. There is no knowing of death. Death is seen as a snarling dog, yet see death and there is nothing but life there.
Life is everywhere singing, what deafness is it then, which cannot join the song? And the dream had a voice even in mute night, a sound breaking through this muffled slumber: What now if I open your ears? Seeing and hearing, there are yet other senses to excavate.
All creation already exists. It cannot come from death as death. Death as death is an absolute ungiving of any energy. To display a flat line is already to be too generous with its information.
Death as absence has already negotiated with life and hence it betrays its non-being.
At every point the absolute is compromised by the tender and the possible and this contingency called life. Creation is the knowable contingency of entanglement. It cannot come from death, or it comes from a death already compromised, therefore it comes from life.
Creation arriving in life must be known. Absence caught within this swathe of sensing becomes relative. Death is our relative and now we are family engaged in a dialectic of sense and nonsense, so the “it” of death is no longer death. It is a form of sharing.
The mutuality of absolutes, life and death engage as communitas, an entangled surrender from which there is a dynamic reeling out of all that can be generated within creation. We are swaddled in a shadow cast by living light.
Creation is also destruction yet all death immaculately is not. The fertility of existence and the irresistibility of life asserts an ongoing communication. O soil do not be afraid, the clay of your nature bursts forth in bloom and although the flower will wither a seed will remain.
I was brought to the shore. The sea was at play. Pebbles were cast upon a boulder: See this shape? Count this number. GUSH. The pebbles were knocked asunder. CRASH. New pebbles, new shapes, new numbers. GUSH. CRASH. The boulder’s glistening back seemed to wink and chuckle. We will play thus until the toys are sand and all will be delighted always.
Beneath the bell of the sky, ringing expanding in struck single song. And when this song has indeed ceased there will be silence, write quickly the notes you now hear for silence also sings.