WORD.

  Frequencies and Connections  (2005)

The  shoemaker’s daughter and I in wide-eyed admiration made our ascent along the woodland path lit bit by bit by lovely little lanterns of paper, candle and flame. We made our ascent into what has no name, amongst the drummers on their astral plane.

            Spiraling embers aspire at such great heights to attain stardom; like orange dreamy fireflies they rise to touch the sky and extinguished their ashes dwindle down to touch the flame and re-incharnate. From within a moth-like trance I in wonder wished to dance in the fire, around which every body danced, like Earths around the sun. I’d decided it was safer to let desire run and let the fire dance in me in stead. I open my mouth and my song is drawn from me magnetically; time is no longer an escape from the past, but drawn in by the future, beyond time. My mind is caught up, and I fall silent. Now faint beyond the tribal drums I sensed a telepathic hummm as of clarity it sung like a female human soul evacuated by voice.

     There are certain tones that, like looped lassos slung around the mountain, present themselves choirlike in hyper-delirious repetition. Just as they, this sound betrayed no source. The air cleared a path for it and it traversed like light in between people, illuminating the spaces between them.

     So I asked her if she was humming...   

     "In my head," she said.

     So, with psychic circuits seemingly activated, I leaned my head in closer and placed my forehead at her temple and took in every subtle sensation till a synapse sparked uncorked a universe: a snowflake-shaped cathedral of crystal that fountains infinity and expands geometrically like nothing else matters.

     My fingers, minds of their own, trickle down her spine and move along it according to their whims. I close my eyes and sense so subtly overlain a neurotic motherboard of glitching blipping colored lights like trailing worms and decide to follow and mimic their motion with my hands along her back, until she gasps ecstatically, as if some great burden has been lifted from her.

     I open my eyes: the same worms and dots are happening clandestinely in front of me,

where humans traversing under moonlight worship a symbol of the sun.

     She says, "Are you doing that on purpose?"

     Am I doing what on purpose?

     "I don’t know what to call that," she says with mortal, portal eyes that lead like moons into the sun.

  

I lead her, together with her sister named of season and few willing others, on a quest for the Holy Grail. When, finally, after brief meaningful exchanges with strangers in passing, we ended up inside a building that contained no mirrors, seemingly regressed to a pre-­reflective era, we danced.

     We had entered into Hesse’s psychedelic Magic Theater (Price of admission: your mind). We were in a space jungle with shape-shifting and dance-molding others of our tribe. The prehistoric ether so crisp with bliss. God! What an end of the world party! How blessed we were to share space with each other, confidently pouring over the edge. Tried out a new camouflage to fit in with the stars, nights in shining armored cars. As Star­-spangled rainbow tigers we stalked the dance floor flow.

     All but one of us, whose eyes full of despair called me from my oceans of blissful orbital oblivion. I gravitated toward him.

     What’s the matter, I asked the kid to whom the matter seemed dull and uninspired.

     "I feel we have become sidetracked and distracted by this chaos," he gestured into the melodic space where everything was happening. (Her eyes... I’ve seen them painted in dust on a moth’s wings...)

     "Have you forgotten about the quest?" he says, young militant spiritualist. "Weren’t we looking for the grail?"

     "We found it already."

     "We’re not sidetracked?"

     No, we’re not sidetracked in the least. This is the grail; we found it. We weren’t really looking to find but to lose the idea of finding... won’t you join us?

     His eyes touching mine shift fractally, attempting to maintain order, and behind them a fearful objection trembles. "I’m trying to maintain my sanity," he says, and the price of admission is your mind. He’s right but...

            Sanity, I say, is like the woods; it is no one’s possession and needs little maintenance.

            Here our souls hum together harmoniously enticed by and tied to the same sound that soothes you and sends you towards higher sanity, the sanity of spheres. HEAR? Here, ecstasy encased in flesh, is freed in interaction.

 

 

Notes about the 6-6-6 party (2006)

 

"And on the third day God shat. And it was blessed, holy shit. And that ball of excrement he called Earth, and we are the fun guys and fun gals that sprouted from that orbital shitheap....."  entheogenesis, 6:6:6


4 fungal gr.  ground finely into chocolate  
Body sorts, tensegrally, through natural tai chi  poses, genetic muscle memory,
closed-eyes, little beaded Shivaic energies mirror movements....  

When Mindfields move towards tendencies to clutter
Insert another bliss token into the consciousness deposit box

There, in the meadow of beauty, by the gelatenous tree-anenomes (pulsing like gecko toes in the liquids of space) Eli spoke, a butterfly energy unfolding in front of her face (she didn't know about it), folding out into a VR hyperspacial navigational map from which she seemed to recite, an astral temple/template that houses her influencial gurus. It extended into the stars.

In trying to word the phenomenon, the casting of conceptual webbing seperated me from the visible energy and caused the hallucinatory revelry of trans-linguism to recede, leaving me in linguistic trance.... (If my brain were an hourglass, one might imagine the shimmering magenta grains of my right hemisphere pouring onto the grey beaches of the left....)

       "... a map that you... uh... uh.... raad plegen?.... "

      [Oh no, not this bilingual schizm trip again....]

The sound of the Dutch word raadplegen toiled through my head like meaningless ballbearings... treating it like an object I turned it this way and that, attempting to figure out its function. What an alien artifact. I shook it, flipped it over, and heard something rattle inside. Was it broken?

      I had been exiled into the word, a box, isolated outside of meaning, meaningless - could I get it meaningmore? No. I had forgotten the context I was trying to apply it to... how far I had fallen from grace in such short space.

       "Isn't this stuff supposed to aid in expression?" 

Literally the word means to comit counsel -- to consult....   but, banished, I could not escape the limited confines of the word to decribe the limitless forms...  Ironically, I was trying to act out in my mind the meaning of the word, consultation. My mind, linguistic outlaw rather than lawyer, would not have it.

 

       So often wishfully assume people can read my mind...

 

Refering to a distant, lit bush I ask her, "does that look like a hedgehog to you?"

"No," she answers.

 

Enchantment and clarity of psychedelic (psyche-deloun) nature under a dome of woven firs. The moon smiles rainbow refractive through the sinewy webbings and cuts its reflections on the branches like luminous shard-fingers reaching for something (perhaps it dropped a crater) in hard-to-reach places... the mind made clear, all around, me.

 

      "What does humanity need most?" I ask, my psychic tentacles extended beyond the stars, a fleet of extraterrestrial/extradimensional life on hold, waiting for me to motion them in. "Is it extra-terrestrial contact? Cuz that can be arranged"
      "The best way to aid humanity is to know the Self," Eli answers.

      I call off the troops.

 

Venus rising in the morning, the stars fade in morning glory. A bruised sunrise of smudged magenta washes the stars from the sky, burrowing them back into their sidereal sockets. A shift change takes place: birdsong replaces starlight; sonic reminders spending all day calling the celesteal sparklers back to mind. 

      Birdsouls may be fallen morning stars.

 

Suffering, that's for other people

 

 


 A chameleon crawls onto a pepsi can and turns on its camouflage, assuming on its body the pepsi logo    googly eyed it crawls away   still carrying the corrupt corporate message   of sirupy sugery jittery distraction


Freakish delight overpours me at this future vision  in which advertizing becomes the true religion that overthrows the natural order of the soul, or simply turned it inside out, imagination covering a (w)hole, patching the soul like hobo-like clothes.... the earth is a sacred whore... themes of advertizing arise    in its core    in these chaotic times we despise  (wanting more) - false advertizing - this is a characteristic of the earth! - illusion from truth - misrepresented since birth (unborn)....  As the likes of Calvin Klein effortlessly continues to spread his scent and mark his name in the hearts and minds of the distracted, the homeless are paid small sums of money to replace their idiosyncratic will-work-for-food signs with corporate advertizements and they are given clean clothes to wear with logos s'porting colas and burger chains, singing songs over the railroad (doing time on a -burgerchain gang)... the homeless become walking billboards.... but what then of hobo glory, cooking down canned heat under bridges dressed in rags with that charlie chaplin charm?  That style will be adapted and brought into mainstream fashion, like ironed thug shirts on glorified gangstas came into style for awhile, fubu madness, straight pimp; now, classy rags in baby blue and pink with neatly stitched patches and thoughtfully placed massproduced wears  and tears  - tight - but loose fit -- you see that's just it  --  a leather satchel tied to the end of a hand-carved stick, slung over shoulders of youth aspiring hobo life.... pimped out: hobo style - yeah....       and at this time what is to become of the billboard of billboards -- the moon?                        The moon shall fall victim to projections of red and blue pepsi reflections, which as the moon turns becomes like a natural rotating billboard shifting to the golden arches the big Mac... Disney will adorn it with mouse ears.... names of seasons and months will change according to these wonderful whims - they'll say, "we are in the month of WalMart", or "I was born on the cusp of Starbucks and Macys".... what sign are you? "I am a Pespi".... consciousness invaded, our metaphor-generated model of the world poluted by the virus of language - deified consumerism.  we mere fleas on the back of the dreaming earth, using up USING UP^ to further down  these dry leaves that fell to the ground   the earth scratching those hard to reach places with water overflowing in furious waves that curl into fingers that seldom behave... mountains with hair-like trees on their backs will rise, like great hunched giants or Dark Crystal mystics with dry, sleepy-earth eyes, and shift the planes on wonderous walks, sharing wonderful talks, mythologies of mountains with circling hawks which they wont swat away like flies because theyve hibernated so long  they're too tired to try....

Wandering monkey seed

We are the unborn potential of sperm cells in god's goo of space,
enveloped by dream, dreaming through the goddess and the rubble of father's thought

 

I am young and old
unborn, untold
an egg unhatched,
painted decoratively from the inside
so no one sees what hides in me
my mystery my history

I was raised by flowers, stung by bees
and raised a wall in front of me
to shield me from the sunlight rays
and keep the insect souls at bay
but in the darkness all was still
and stifled growth subdued my will
in trying to tear down my wall
I found I could not make it fall
and trapped I sat in shadow's sea
a frame of mind a space in time
the urge to leave took hold of me

on patterned thought I climbed up high
and reached for stars that caught my eye
twinkling in red and blue
and colors that I never knew
and when I reached the top
where the wall met with the sky
I balanced walking on the edge
the moonlight caught my I
the brightness tried to blind my sight
my being swallowed by the night
and in the heavens I did dwell
my mind ablaze
I slipped and fell
and all the king's horses
and all the king's men
could not put me back together again

and from the ashes and the rubble
of broken eggshell shards
I rose a clutter
the fetus of a phoenix
yet unable to fly
or put myself together
and unable to try
strange thoughts and picture puzzles lay spread about myself

Unborn I lay before you
outside the wall I built
to keep you at a distance
so forth my soul has spilled

naked now before the world
I await re-generation
Isolated
Outside my isolation


 


Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Pilgrimage, part One

A Sighting at The Chirping Chapel

 

We spent an evening at the Linville Gorge, sighting the mysterious phenomenon of the Brown Mountain Lights, which to this day remains unexplained. Like distant mirages of ephemeral earthbound stars, they light up and die out in different locations in the dark canyon and along the mountain's peripheries, hung with misty veils of ionic aura.




 

     Unpredictable, one never knows where the lights may show up next. They may suddenly split in two, or dance along the mountain's edge; they may form constellations with each other and light up in different colors of the spectrum. Now red, now yellow, white, green. They are bioluminescent like fireflies, but far too faraway to actually be lighting bugs. Sometimes I've seen them like a fluorescent, puddle-like organism moving around the vegetation in the gorge below; only visible in peripheral vision, as direct focus causes it to recede from sight, as if it were canceled out, blocked—as if the lens of focus were the very thing we were observing. Optical illusion-like, their location seems to have its origin in the brain as much as in the external reality of the gorge.

     It's hard to imagine that one ever grows tired of the phenomenon, but somewhere along the conclusionless line of spatialized time there came a point when one of us decided it was time to turn back. Gathered around the cars in the parking lot, members of my tribe converse. I decide to step back into the night-time reverie of inner enchanted forest one last time, by myself. Eli's quote, that we're always at the black church, rings truer than ever there.

     I surrender my ears to the unequivocally alien dimensions of infinite insect choirs, shrilling; the Insect Overlords' earth-devoted gospel, like chirping sprinklers sowing sonic seeds of light, showering the soil, feeding its devotion back into itself. The cicada's subterranean cycle, ongoing through the ages, manifests within the sound. After mating, the females use their ovipositors to cut slits in tree twigs and insert up to six-hundred eggs each. The wingless young, called nymphs, hatch about three fortnights later, drop to the ground and burrow themselves a few centimeters into the soil, where they nurse on arboreal roots, extracting sap, while they slowly mature. Upon emergence they ascend tree-trunks by the ten-thousands and securely latch on. Then they molt, leaving behind the translucent cast of their nymphal form and emerge as adults, mate, and feed on plants until they perish about a month later. To me, they are invisible, spread throughout the trees; they stridulate on a massive scale, their mysterious mating calls surrounding and resounding for many kilometers. I somehow imagine their exoskeleton armor to be like that of the Samurai, for I consider them to be the last guardians; without them an ecosystem of fifteen-million-plus years would collapse.

     The cicadidae's shrill rasping, rattling call-and-response, rocking omni-directionally back and forth in luminous zigzag cello clusters, remind me of Philip Glass' compositions of seemingly monotonous, undetected evolution—changes beheld by an encompassing, unchanging source—I am speaking of the moving imagine of eternity that he was able to convey with his music in the Qattsi trilogy (Powaqqatsi, Koyaanisqatsi, Naqoyqatsi)—the beckoning call of fate—the magical, humbling helplessness of surrender to "evolution within what boundaries, toward what goals?"

     I surrender to their mystery. The sounds remind me of our own devotional rituals by which we appease those higher powers in whose handless hands our destiny is cradled—especially the full moon drum circles come to mind—the way a repetitive percussive foundation is laid down, over which the more skillful insect MC intermittently cascades a drum rap that shimmies the surface of sound like a stone skipped over a pond. I find Holy Communion in the sound, allow it to inform me, to loosen the space between O and I, and reconfigure my cellular make-up.

     When I return to the parking lot, I attempt to relay some of my experience to a friend. I expand by mentioning the influence the insect entelechy has exerted over the human soul—I mention the suppression of dream in our culture, the depersonalizing effects of the hive-mentality and the hostility it breeds, not to mention the anthill towers we've built or the exoskeletons we drive that cause our level of interaction to steep to that of car-horn communication. And in the middle of expressing that thought, my friend points to the sylvan borderline that walls the parking lot and asks me, "is that a city light or is that one of the mountain lights?"

     I turn to look and catch a glimpse of the light of which he speaks, orange through the trees. I move closer and shift back and forth some until I've pinpointed the light and locked focus on it.

     At first I assume it's Venus, so bright on the horizon, but someone calls to attention that it is rising, and it is—it is rising faster than the earth is turning… it heaves itself up over the trees with the whimsicality of a helium balloon—a radiant orange orb, glowing, ascending.

     By now we are all, all seven of us, captivated by it, exchanging speculations and descriptions of its chimerical nature.

     "It is definitely rising," one of us says.

     "And it's coming this way," interjects another.

     It is well over the treetops now transmitting flairs from its luminous body, but I have trouble concentrating on its trans-linguistic substantial resonance with the distracting small-mouth noises of my others and I suggest, "let's stop talking about it and start listening to it," and just then, when all fall silent—woof! It's dispersed and in its wake, two distant airplanes approached. One veered to the left, the other passed right over us, stealthy like a silent stranger passing through our conversing midst.                               

 

 

                                                                                                                                            click to open Part 2

 


 

 Ancient Egypt, This One Horus Town

A dream, this summer. A sphinx in the desert at night. A gentle sandstorm is going on. The sphinx corrodes in the breeze of eons, soundlessly; sound's only suggested or sound suggesting all. A sphinx in the breeze of eons soundlessly corroding and turning into sand. From the mist of sand steps a tall Egyptian god, shark-eyed, insect-eyed, undreaming, but powerful, unconscious enlightened. A long robe flows behind him. He enters a golden spacecraft that glows in the dark of night. At center of the spacecraft, in a chamber beneath, sit rows of men doing their version of the Vikings' communal rowing ritual, but psychically, not physically. All these men are held captive, in their minds and their hearts, to the will of this divine alien... Now the scenery shifts from the transpersonal into a space inhabited by humans, including myself, a sort of ancient tomb tourism. A tomb in Egypt, but Egypt before its conception, the dream before it was built into existence, the dream before it was realized, but there are tourists, Hawaiian shirted, with obnoxious colored baseball caps and sunglasses on ropes and cameras around their necks-those kinds of tourists-subtly exaggerated tourists, roaming through this Egyptian eternity. I can read the intricate hieroglyphics that are carved into the alabaster walls... Thirsty now, I reach my cup into the river, now walking along the Nile, and the singing of the currents drowses me to dream and the mud on the river banks slides beneath my feet and I find myself sinking into the waters and a submarine force with sharp shark teeth or nails like nails or predator jaws is slicing into the flesh of my arm. When I regain awareness and balance back on shore the letter H is carved into my forearm.


a Prelude to Spacewhales

 

A reality show, or maybe it’s a newscast. It’s a beach scene. The ocean is shark infested waters, fins cut the surface, stirring through the waves. In the distance whales breach the surface triumphantly; you can tell they are killer whales—orcas. One orca swims to shore. Its remarkable, and the animal strands on the beach. You know it’s an orca because they look like polished white whales in full body ski masks. A crowd has gathered around the beached whale. On the white of the animal’s lower belly there is what seems like an advertisement for Krishna, or maybe Rama, either way, a blue Hindu god adorned with jewels and gold, romantically portrayed with dark eyelashes lining the dreamy eyes of blissful worship, love and holiness. It strikes Delmar then that it seems the whale has a human upper torso. He is intrigued. No, it only seems that way—what he is seeing is in fact an emaciated  man, bare-chested, tied to the nose of the whale, tied to it, confined in fetal pose in a sort of duffel-bag harness or straight jacket that disables the use of his arms and legs. How peculiar. A reporter shoves a microphone in the man’s face and asks him who he is and what business he has being tied to the front of a whale like this.      “I’m a whale rider,” the man answers below his breath, couching seawater. There is this aura around the words that seem to imply he controls the whale’s mind when riding it. He really looks in bad shape, washed out and beat up, in shock. A weathered and leathery pail of skin stretched around his skelleton; his sunken eyes bulge from their sockets, his teeth are yellow and spaced out. It looks more like the whale has been riding him.      “Do you think the whale minds,” the reporter asks him. “That you ride it?”

     “Well,” the man replies, gasping for air like a goldfish out of water. “That’s… what… I’m… afraid of… he’s been… holding me… under… water… quite-a-bit.”

     How does the guy breathe underwater? He doesn’t seem to have an oxygen tank or even a snorkel to sustain him.


Sensational Spacewhales Abound (Songs for a Mirage Band)

you are a poet's pandora
                        drawing aurora
                                 in dawning suggestion
    of arborealis growth and shimmer
  light the dark then growing dimmer
miragelike dancing tree-horizon
in waving hands of branching fingers
or flipping birds when twilight lingers
longer living luminescence
in the light of living levels
holographic flesh magnetic
shadow streching words pathetic
close the box enshrine the cat
Schrodinger's square cenotaph
the forms escaped and overflow now
no word contains the passing day
the shifting night steals thoughts away
and hangs them in sparkling star reminders
                 overhead
to help you find her
when the sunrise
                saucerlike
                         stalks the icy planes
                                    not melting
filtered through a crystal shelter
penguinsouls fly underwater
                           swiftly under mirrored ice
spacewhales loop the moon and call
in sonar waves of southern drawl
and map the stars to bring us thus
our cosmology and exodus

"what needs to be addressed here (urgently) is the state of affairs with those sensational spacewhales that shoot sonar somniloquis through the waters of space to map the stars -- it is THEY who gave us our cosmology, and perhaps even they who through their whalesongs dreamt the world to waking, have you seen them loop the moon at night perfectly in-formed in-flight..... ??"


For the Time Being:

in cities very few people have time to be in the Nao, ever rushing to get to the future. No time for eternity.

Last night 3:24, 3:25, 3:26, and 3:27 ended up rolled into a spliff. (The rotation was clockwise, but the only timetelling device we had was digital.) When I finally hit it I tasted distinctly 3:23, but this could not be confirmed.

Repeatedly I consulted the clock in the kitchen, but it kept changing its story.

How are those markings accurate measurements of our experience? When I look at the clock, I want to see a vision in it of the scene I am experiencing.

Some people say Time is a manmade concept, but I think man might be a time made concept.

So here,
            for the Time Being.

© Artwork Michael Jacobs | Web Implementation - Ben Goliwas