curvature
Page 7
She is something wondrous.
Garden of Pomegranates
Morpheus opens onto the paper stage that lay before him, his book now carrying this stream-of-consciousness. Soft wind flatters, wrapping a banded flow around this transit, echoed through tolling bells. This evening’s hue is enhancing this creative birth, its gentle-hearted refraction split apart from the curvature of a planet in a revolution of constant creative exposure.
He knows little of definition at these moments. Outspread, he falls into an opening of soft liquid. Entering only with his thought point, he hangs motionless within, until an indefinable indistinct shape appears, broken light exposing thousand-fold voices strung to their depths within. Only the rarified glance is his, and from his point of focus reflecting he picks up this refracted light ricochet, leaving the impression in the mirror.
A certain absolute thing.
Now its means of journey this electromagnetic current of mind to arm to hand to tips of fingers and perpetual loop back, Morpheus watches outward the flow and twist and turn of the pen…
“…Within this stage, this motion, this union, within this swimming, this under, this drowning - we conceive, we exist, we bear witness, held fast by being.
At each instant all is being born and dying, a flickering of light. This flicker, this flame, this pyre, this is the undertaking. In constant resurrection, to the point of unconditional creativity, Life is a breath, and the song of the space between.
‘If the dead could speak…’. I have heard their song. It is the song of being and becoming…”
Morpheus now sees the words that create.
Cantor dust
Atop the rock, Argent watches Alice and Dog, carried on a salt wave.
He understands this harmony, these opposites, this middle, this creation of creating. He has carried shadow beyond light, and wonders at its unseen far-reaching outcome in effect. This dialogue of active feedback spirals out into the universe.
He now distinguishes the soul before any marked eminence, the luster of each reflected nuance and projected tone sings symphonies from this radiant nucleus.
Time unoccupied, Space emptied,
He is weightless…
Caerunibua
Harry keeps thinking it must be getting round about suppertime, or breakfast, or snack time, or something. He has no way of telling which, as he can’t quite grasp when and whereabouts he is exactly. But he keeps feeling as if he’s hungry. Just that eating feeling, without the eating. Could just be his brain though, playing tricks on him, but he can’t quite even tell exactly where his brain is these days, let alone the body to hold it in. Once awhile back he saw his body on a hospital bed, but then forgot all about it with all this other something.
Some kind of remarkably singular thought keeps poking him in his stream, but he just can’t seem to pinpoint it...
He keeps passing by reasoning thoughts now like the blurring meridians going down the highway…
That sense of floating on down the turnpike is fine…
He knows this. This breath down the road....
All he really wants to do is get in his truck and drive away.
Rapidly a sense of focus forms concentrating into a single point of convergence...
Below his butt is the soft feel of the finest lamb’s wool…he is in the most beautiful, roomy truck beyond any he’s ever seen… he runs his hands along its interior, feeling the thick wood and lustered sparkling chrome… packed lunches line the dash, the plumpest tomatoes, and warm sweet breads… before him the most beautiful country he has ever seen, emerald-lit green grass sloping up each side of the road, rolling hills, trees arching up to the blue-lit sky… and everything sparked with light…
a road he’s never driven before… premium truck stops waiting, with the best meals and deepest cups of coffee and friendliest waitresses…
A smile stretches across his face… He turns and opens the sleeper… within dance and float the most beautiful parade of rainbow colors, all blending into a million more… He turns back around… and looks at himself …
he is naked…and just a boy.
He suddenly has the extravagant feeling that he could do this forever.
Harry pulls out down the road…
Algorithm
I sit in my prison cell. These long-dragged last moments are now awkward and clumsy. I’m inclined to sleep. Something burns away in sleep.
A swallowed deep comfortable coma.
Everything is very quiet around me now, sort of carefully packaged and passed over. I’ve become a conclusion.
They lead me down the hall now.
They’re strapping me on the gurney.
The curtains are being drawn open….
They’re looking at me.
they look like shadows…
I’m being asked if I have anything to say. I don’t know what it is… I haven’t been able to figure out what it is…it’s got to be there,
do any of you know?????…do any of you people know what it is????… somebody… CAN SOMEBODY TELL ME…
something warm is filling me now, into my vein, someone please… me… my vein … my…
vein …
I see it … floating up there… it’s
That
Something.
if…I can…just…get…my…hands…free..
i can reach it…
Limit cycle
The woman screams agony in the pain of death within birth. The baby arrives,
It’s arms stretched up…
reaching…
Breathe in…. breathe out….
Breathe in…
Breathe
Out…
THE END
“In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the Looking-Glass room.”
Ever drifting down the stream—
Lingering in the golden gleam—
Life, what is it but a dream?