After the Flood Chapter 11 - Convolutions

I exited stage left. I simply had to. There were no other alternatives. I was fed up, sleepy and late for something I could not remember. The East was calling me and I didn't even know. There are things there that are not of the seams that they seem to be. Like some kind of marmalade I always tasted without even knowing. Like the wind. Carresingly sharp, always willing to cut by the hug and weigh by the kiss; die by the caress and love by the sword. But don't mind me, I'm not who I am, but who I am going to be. Always nobody, thinking about nothing.

So there was this guy, who went on the water once, about a year ago, and that was me. Oddly enough, that was me, and then I had no idea, although tonight I know it to be so. These conVoluted incantations that come with the sun and are brushed away by the wind. Beautiful and kind, merciless and green, tough like the wood and bendable by the flame; water in the sky and stars on the ground like a pair of hanged children that are suddenly found, not too late but too early, with no mandragora growing underneath them, their toes too far or too close to the ground. The convolutions of the flowing curb, the dotted line where you sign...

So I have been called many a name, and many a thing. But cats will be black and women will be green and red and white and also purple or maybe magenta like the yellow polenta and the wine, when the dent in the trend is some kind of diamond tiara of some lady who doth by her grace declare she sees clearly in this land of the lala like some seamstress name Klara who beseeches and stands by the great maelstromed wallah who serves tchai and some coffee and some ciggarettes too, if that's not too taboo for that lady who's warm like the flu.

Convoluted and clear like sandpapered kashmirere, like some robe of the damned in this land of the Lala, with mounds and depressions and swollen confessions where no one has heard and\or dreamed of the land of the coffee-wallah, somewhere south of Valhalla.

P.S. NO COMMENT pana cand vinul face paine.

Dissent

There is nothing like dissent to get your blood going. It's that rumbling feeling in your gut when you just feel the need to go against the grain.

Dissent is an acquired taste, then a drug, then a commonplace cliche, and then your neat little post-apocalyptic bunker where you keep your books, your canned goods, your weapons and ammo and your soul.

Dissent is meaning and the lack of one. It just keeps you going. It is not a reason, it is a goal in itself. And it never runs out of batteries. Because it runs on your desire not to desire what anyone else has to offer.

You mold it like clay and pour molten bits of yourself into it and than you hit it with a hammer until the mold breaks and the final object emerges. Dip it into water and you have a blade. Must keep it sharp. And you must always have it handy. All you need is dedication. Hard work is for people building an arsenal.

It's like the machete of the soul. You're gonna need it when you'll find yourself in the bush, with wild vegetation sprouting out from every place imaginable.

Dissent, it's like a haiku that can cut. And then you realize it doesn't need to be anything. You just need to make sure it can cut.

Dissent, my instrument. When you got dissent, you've got everything you need.

And no, this is not about survival, that in itself is too small a goal. This is about breaking through. Breaking through in style if possible.

Fuck it!

Post-traumatic recollections

There is this need inside us, of inventing things or maybe a strong desire to relive something that happened a while back and didn't go exactly as it was planned out from the get-go.

It's like a recurrent theme, a circular map you always come back to, like some marker on the road, just to make sure you are going in the right direction or just for the sake of feeling that you are going in a direction, whichever that might be.

It spins and it spins and it spins, circularity without dimension and you always start over and then you stop and then you go again.

This is winter, everything is stale and stagnant. People stay out of the cold. Nobody walks the streets without having a reason to do so. There is no roaming around. You discuss destinations and points of interest, possible trajectories. Everything must become the sum of its parts and there is no room to maneuver. Everybody's too concerned with body-heat. You have it or you have it not.

The point of transition into something new. You had the first signs and now you wait, indomitably, for something that will surely happen, but you just lost patience.

I hate winter, I truly loathe it. I simply cannot adjust to its steadfastness. It bores me to death and it's simply stuck within itself. Waiting to get out but simply not capable of doing it. And what I despise most is the effect it has on others and myself.

Every fucking winter is the fucking same, and it always makes its presence felt just before it gets better. It spoils the feeling of expectation, it drags on and on.

Winter, the waiting game. Drives me nuts. Happens every year. Can't get over it. Wanting to move to sunnier places. Must remember to do that.

After the Flood - Chapter 10 Going Quantic

Last night, or sometimes during the following morning, when I awoke from my dream, I remembered, in a daze, that I had somehow discovered the effects of quantum physics. Of course, it was a funny thing, because I never really wanted to discover or even experience the effects of quantum physics, but I inadvertently did.

So what now, I soliloquized as the sugar melted in my coffee and my brain was being sterilized by cigarette smoke.

I was fazed, with a sense of frenzy running up and down my spine. But I had the slight suspicion that I was dragging something along. Didn't know, didn't care, wanted. I was full of wantonness.

It unfolded before myself but the feeling could not be shaken. There was an unfortunate feeling running beside the whole thing, and I was really looking forward for the time when that feeling would have passed. It unfortunately did not pass and I was understandably ruffled by the sensation.

Nothing to be done, nothing to be done.

For a moment though, but maybe for more than I was aware of, I was there, in the place I had always wanted to be. In the centre of it all, just walking about, stretching my legs, feeling the feel of things and the fabric of circumstance just like some merchant in an ancient bazaar.

Haggling as I went there was the slight realization that I had done this before, but then again it could just as well have been a gust of wind or some fleeting moisture.

Caring was not important anymore, I suddenly decided, but it was a bit late, not that late, but late nonetheless. Out of rhythm, slightly askew from the grain, maybe going against it all.

Ah, the race for meaning I said to myself. Moving along the path, just riding the wave to somewhere. No destination, just some bleached out coordinates on a slab of rock you left behind 1000 miles ago and at least you keep what is to be kept.

We forget, that is our little short-coming. Always we forget. Memory forgotten is a sign of old age.

Even that faded and it was all electric. Light twitching on lamp posts and the wires were swinging calmly, loosely against the wind. I felt the damp taste of metal wire in my mouth and the saltiness of it all almost scared me. Could not close my eyes. And then there was the fear. Always the fear. The game stopper, the spoiling of the sport - the fear.

They all have the fear. Lodged deep inside of themselves. Acting out like some jack-in - the - box madness, the retractable disease of sanity... I had grown tired, of things I had seen before. Tired and bored and frantic.

But then for another brief moment, I felt the symmetry and meaning flowed like wine in the dark, the sweet perfume of flowers that bloom in the moon light. Incense burning slowly at dusk beneath a gray sky.

I was morose and greedy. Greedy for more, given too little, expecting too much, paying for nothing and wanting everything back the way it was. Childish dreams and selfish desires, the playthings of my soul. Perdition as a pacifier.

It was getting too complex and it started to lose meaning. And then all of a sudden, under the flash of the moment, it all became clear. I was there. I had arrived. It was beautiful...

Seldomly in slow-motion

Life. The Movie. Or the Parody. Or is it an Allegory from long ago when time did not exist? I often stop and wonder what is the exact physiological reason for why someone invented the concept of time. And do we really need time is what I'm saying?

Do we need to "keep" it? And if yes, why is that? Is the keeping of time a measure of civilization, or of society or of culture? And in what way does Time affect my life?

Does time only exist on a planet? And I guess the answer would have to be yes. And is it dependent on the cycle a certain planet undergoes as it circles its dependent star? And again we have a yes.

So Einstein was right. Time is relative. And it's dependent on stars or on the light emitted by stars. So again Einstein notches one up for Humanity, light gives you time. As long as there is light there is time and there is life.

Oh wonderful metaphor the Ancients have been toying with that we may have things to fuck up now in the 21st century!

So what then is the constant? Light must be the constant and the stars that emit light are the things time starts and ends with.

So Western Religion has been shooting blanks for the past 2000 years.

Well that's reassuring! Comforting even!

So now I can make no sense whatsoever for the rest of my movie, I mean parody, I mean Allegory, I mean Life.

Just don't go into the Light is what I'm saying. Or something.

After the Flood - Chapter 9 Mirror Images

So here we are again, just before sunset... It's this feeling I'm feeling, like expectation coated in cinnamon, smoking a cigarette by some big river, somewhere next to the Tropic of Cancer, waiting for something I know I saw in my dreams.

There are these moments, of which I am aware, when my syntax turns backwards, going within itself. And that's the time when my spine trickles expectation like the adrenalin gland pumps its juice right into my central nervous system, making my pupils dilate and my breath turn to razorblades.

It's staring too long into the looking glass Alice, it's just that and nothing more. We are expectant, the two of us, are we not? Madman and insanity, side by side, bumming a smoke by some huge mirror falling into the sky.

LET US THEN DISCUSS THE SOLITARY NATURE OF MAN, he said turning towards the sun; and for a moment I could discern the disk from the globe, but just for a moment, and then the whole thing turned back into a dying star.

LET US THEN DISCUSS THE SOLITARY NATURE OF MAN...

WELL I GOT NOTHING!

It's always the silence that gets you in the end Alice, it's always the silence. I just can't handle the silence, sometimes.

You take out the pack and deal the cards, you make your tricks; you don't really care. The Tarot allows for being lost, the Arcana shifts like the tide. A good day may be a bad day and a bad one turns to worse before getting better and everything goes from one thing to another, from feminine to masculine to the androgynous, to the ends of space and time or to the edges or the extremities but the answer always awaits for you in the middle of somewhere.

By some place the Arcana do not speak of, by some rock or by a sprig of holly or a brush of mulberries or by a geranium planted by the parking lot of a multinational corporation or by some temple, still waiting for you, although you missed your shot 2500 years ago without even knowing or caring or wanting.

But here, in the Timeless Place, in Serenity Base you do not discuss this. You lay back, you are not allowed to talk nor to think, nor share opinion, because you and them are not important.

You take a table or a smooth mirror and you go closer to the water. You splay the cards not caring and they arrange themselves in the order they should. It is the time to assimilate that divination is chaos and nothing holds sway over chance.

Once the pattern is there, you observe and make-shift some rules and you present the truth - there is no truth, just two sides of the same coin. And you go on. Until you stop.

That is knowledge. Because you accept. And you live with the consequences. You watch the sun set and the horizon blends with your imagination and then the twilight is over and darkness floats over everything.

LES US DISCUSS THE SOLITARY NATURE OF MAN!

I slap my insanity silly and it takes its place amongst the other demons that have to go back into the mirror. And then I take out the pipe and prepare for the journey that hopefully will take me places that are worth seeing.