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The revolving habit. You go in. It happens. You go out. In between a vector is exchanged, several vectors. You become acutely aware of the distortion. It changes you. You've come to the realization that whatever happens is okay. It's gotten to that point where you just don't care anymore. Sometimes the thought comes that this time it may be different, it'll turn out different. Same old insanity. It fits, though. You've created a whole life out of it, a whole dynamic, like a moving sculpture. Like clay, it doesn't feel. That's a relief. It's best if you don't feel.
Enter words here. A string of words. A certain length. No more no less. Possessing internal consistencies. This is repeated endlessly. You orbit a galaxy of minds doing the same thing, seeking internal consistencies. Connected. You cannot see the connections. You feel them or you don't. The connectivity allows the minds to bleed, feeding each other. Can you handle that? Are you able to let go? Can you let the web you've created with all of humanity to carry all of humanity, or is it too fragile a thing? We have the blood to eat. That's enough, or it's not.
It is determined before ideas manifest. It was curled up inside a potential. Realizing the fledgling from the guts of something undefined we come to see the outcropping, seemingly unrelated to the internal gesture. A call from without was made. It was not a call that could be heard or even felt, but known. Such knowingness grips the muscle of mind. It wrestles it on a table where all the tools have been laid out clearly for the installation. It is a table sacrosanct, unique and possessing the unique quality of being many things at once. Your call was known.
On and on you try. Each time coming close. Each time fueling the volatility growing. From that bristling core you feel the swelling. No failure daunts. It catapults desire, multiplying exponentially the fires. Within a great domed hall you see the fires dance, couple and intensify. What is burnt is necessary. You shed no tears. It is strange to be able to let go of that which you held onto so passionately. The eons have molded this for you within you without you. What remains after all and before all lends grace to a mystery that will never be solved.
Here is everything. Here is nothing. We drift between. How can the elements find their sockets? We parade our machines like prostitutes on a stringer of hate. All the while we hope for restitution. In some mysterious value system, this is a rational path. The roads are strewn with guts and diamonds. I can see how this might be attractive to the aberrant animal looking for a cheap hamburger. In this we have everything. In this we have nothing. The hands pass the goods. The goods are distributed accordingly. They are not to be devalued. We can mock them, though.
Yes, it verged. He reared back to offset the new gearing, but, for reasons totally obscure, spent on the enterprise, he sagged into a slight ennui, made a big deal of being around, barely able to stand on his own two feet with the screens revolving, lights going nuts, and the animals diving into a state of continual coitus. It wasn't long before we all lost sight of him. I knew he'd reappear someday, somewhere. I could feel the drumming. His name could not be said without this telltale drumming. He was surviving in the only way possible, under words.
This new mystery, in a dim dome of hazy minds, became an obstacle none of us could evaluate. We all felt it come alive in our organs. My spleen gained a voice I hadn't heard before. This time it was clear the liver would not tolerate being shouted down by the gall bladder. I felt a weird disquiet in my core. It wasn't unpleasant, though. It felt inevitable. At this point, I wasn't interested in anything mundane. I needed stronger coffee and pure paprika, the real Hungarian deal. Something quite unexpected was about to go down. My gas was rising.
Something scary ventures into the equation. It has a new shape. You don't know where it came from. You'll never know. You haven't the wherewithal to value the prevailing confusion. The mountain and the valley have changed orientation. Up is neither up or down; it is something else. The geometry has changed. You're obliged to go with the change. You'll be different. You'll be seen as different. The mind contains the transformation. Accessing it will be the greatest challenge you'll ever face. If you see what it sees, it may be good; it may be bad. Go with your heart.
Dead on target. Bullseye. You got the knack. A heavy full of a light gearing sets the tone. You can feel the energy from toe to muzzle, feather touch, eye full of clear emptiness. The end is where you start. Simple kind of rapture. You can tell how this seduces. A good shot begs the challenge. Take it to the next level, and that level is? Good question. An answer is floating ahead. In a dark sky, the time carries its own brand of imminence. All you need to do is let go. Operate the machinery as if it's you.
Flight of my soul. It's equation knows no bounds, unbounded and infinite, with values of unknown quantities. Where it applies, I'm found. The entrails of thinking divide off the raptures. Inside the mountain I've built with no solidity but walls of pure imagination, I'm kept alive. I watch the world thru bars made of eyes. They are not mine. They followed me here, needing sanctuary. I claim my heart as the engine of this device. Should I deny the feelings generated, the conversations with spectres? The universe keeps time with tumbling out of my rhythm. I am lost. Deliriously found.
So it goes, this machine. Cogs and trinkets of its patterns mystify and tantalize me. Someone approached. They bore a curious look. I felt their shadow on my chest. No one can be so divided off themselves to ignore this connection, yet billions do. I took their eyes in stock. I created a photograph of them. I saw myself. We were dancing. Beneath the stars I was transported. I don't want the rituals of this place, this earth of corporate complexities. My path is a river upon which boats of ancient spirits run. I am on deck. Sky is singing.
Again, the liftoff down. We know the intricacies of this launch. It's been done so may times it always feels new. It has to feel new. Otherwise, it would kill you. It plays on the deep chords of weakness. However the strings on the heart of its inner beast are strung, it comes to a place where the music must be played. The blood flows accordingly. For what it is, the culmination of giving up time after time, the attempt to exhale this perpetual machine of dissipation accomplishes nothing. But, It's this very nothing that survives to teach a lesson.
This. Us. We. In a discreet fashion, all are bound in a shell we call our reality. A flood of mind to the whirling eyes, it's a fanciful collage pinned on a sky that's ours. The snaking fingers of a unique ocean play at our soils. Up our legs we combine the idea we have no need of these rules regulating sameness. A vast suburban area stretches. Each property the property of others. No distinctions. A flood of familiarity. Should I invest its proprieties, I'd drown. Rather, in a flux no one can regulate, I am, we are. We belong.
Punch a hole. Leave it for the ghosts. We have them up our disguises. They'll slither out from time to time, reminding us of the dripping clock and its unwavering transformations. In and out. It's a profound thing, a brave thing, hewing holes thru calcified masks no remembers fashioning. How could we? We were illusions, egg dreams of another kind in another manner of mind. Some say the creator. Some call it God. I call it mystery. My whole life has been to find a way out, and now, after all the ruin and decay, I've found a way in.
You laugh, bounding room to room, highways indiscriminately interfering with your wits in the guts of the movie house, but the movies play. TVs collect your eyes, from the time you think of the illusion, how magical it feels. A whole universe at a click of the commander. You're the power. You feel it. Room shudders, overwhelmed by your presence. Your penny stocks soar, roar thru the roof. Traders fumble frantically on the floor of your guts to make a trade, trading their values for the values grown in the crucible you keep. You fart. Values zero out. Twinkie time.
The fold of evening settles over this heated mind. My eyes recede for relief. I can no longer make out the running street. I hear the dimming. All of the world makes like a fearful rabbit, into its hole it dashes. One may hold the world has shrunk to a single room. You can take that passing belief. It keeps you in its wonder and fever. Lest the night belie its cloaking, there should be a fire set in the heart. I feel a spark held in a tiny grasp. No hand. No flesh. Only a sharp spectre of wishing.
You could be that way, I suppose, underscoring the base lines, rewriting the score, so the bad guy gets the apple, but I can see this is not your way. You can juice the diabolical with a squeeze of an indestructible thought, and the wonder lives. It rises regardless of retributions. I'm alive in this rising. I'm with it. I lift myself high. You're with me. You're always with me. The words to circumambulate our universe exist ephemerally in a flash of a new element created in the fiery cloud and destroyed before you ever get to the principle's office.
Fire. Embolden the glow. Dig deep. Arouse the source. Complete its entropy with a violent smile. You're the engine to which the fire exalts its presence. You divide off the residues. They are fodder for the sparks, fuel to be digested by the entreaties of your will. There is nothing you cannot will yourself to do within the context of your form and energy. To the path you drive your intent. Your heart brims with a thrumming beat. Into the wedge of will you go. Its winds are your canopy. You decide its path. There is much to be learned.
The drive is inexorable. Highways come and go in a flash. One dreams they can leave at any time. Such a lie. One is bound to the rules that change with the footfall of moments cascading over the ridges you declare as the places of your impulsive germinations. Roulette wheel. The oglers ogle, clutching their bets and sanctimonious estimations of success over the hill, and you're in their sights. You better be ready. I would laugh if this wasn't my conscription. The end will come like a bullet to the brain. I'll only regret it a moment before. Nothing after.
I wonder how it'll be when the dishes are finally cleared away, and the realization of why you were invited dawns? Can it be too arduous a thing to look at yourself and know why? Perhaps. These things take time, like the evolution of the stock market; one embraces primal instincts while holding a PhD in biochemistry. One goes with the other. One needs the other. It's a valuable conjunction to embrace blood and circuits. But now the last meal is done. The dishes have been put away, and the selected guests are on the train, fit for the showers.
It's not allowed, this degree of gratis creeping toward my eating belly. It must be construed as the device of disassociation. No matter of brain guts can disable the validity function embedded in the base frame where grandma and grandpa still hold sway in the slaughterhouse. You can take what you want. Grab what you can and run with it. The train out of town is about to leave. It's always about to leave. You're never ready. See how the clock fashions your enterprise as late. Always late. Everyone can see. That's why it's not allowed. I gotta get paid.
Something comes off the wall, a slippery form with many self-proclaimed identities begging focus. One needs clarity on how to listen, if one is to listen; many want to listen. A Medusa likeness with affability, begging the ones piqued, "Come closer, take me in, let me come into your heart. I will unfold its mysteries, lend you tools to tinker the cogs, to adjust the flow, to become comfortable with an inevitability that's unmistakable without substance." There's nothing to hold, but you feel it's holding you. Nothing to be done but surrender. You know you want it, so go.
There it is. It rests peacefully before you. You've never seen anything like it. Such a beguiling thing. In time you'll take it up, but for now, just knowing it's there is enough. You'll be comforted along the way by its presence. It made itself known so you can never unknow it. When the time comes to own it fully, there will come the instructions you'll need. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Be at ease. All will be as predicted. Trust the prophecies. The appointed time is written. Hunh. There's a joke here, and it's not funny.
A peaceable confusion lights its fire in a darkness we've kept away from all eyes. In our mind we've seen it all our life, where it is, what it is. In its core lives a swarm of contrary beliefs, irreconcilable beliefs. This is the way of us, who we are, and how we are in our private assumptions. Few believe in God, but everyone's still afraid of God. We all want to be liked by this Deity, held accountable only in so far as we're absolved and then comforted. We erase the guilt, erase the foibles, rewrite the ancient tale.
It is not my way. My roads lean into a personal landscape where the beasts roam like thoughts in a maze of creative frenzy. I'm primed to the core. It feeds my libido, so to combine the nest I feel conspiring to hold me accordingly. To the meat of the grit I take my own as my own in the voluble heat. It divines my progeny, not as flesh as one may coddle the newborn, but as a launch pad, whereon my seed riles function and takes the very air as a lover to its mind. Into sky I melt.
It rises. You see it rise. I feel it. It's inside me and without. You're the element needed to complete the cooking. You see all around you? This is the oven I command. I ascribe the constituents. From my source I take pride in the meal. It needn't be praised. Needn't be taken as meat to the appetites of those who beg. They may not even see it, those who deride its source and device. So be it. I'm patient. You may be the only one who has ever seen this. So, it is to you I call. My one.
I can give you elements of my beliefs. You may take a few. A few may aid in your search for self. To this I take great satisfaction. The rest is up to you. I'm one who is partially complete. The decades have allowed my forge to create the appropriate metal. Over many arduous years I've seen to its chemistry. So delicate and resilient. Both fragile and firm. Such is the flesh I wear inside my skin. Such is the flesh I sense in you. We can feel this together. It is our uniqueness, our joy and sadness. We belong.
It goes like this. You hear it? It plays perpetually. It's in your head. Its beat drives the melody you are thru the essence found in the back of your belief system. Remember the backseat rumbles? Under the framework where you dabbled fearfully in your passions you can find its reason, though thought is not the playbook it demands. On the road you take toward the consummation of what you deem the most important thing in your life, you'll find your reason. I can't speak for anyone but myself; the more I speak, the more I need to shut up.
Your days have changed. You yourself trashed the lock, dumped the bank, replaced it with a landscape, contrary to the tradition you exalted. So it goes. From one land to another, one galaxy to another. The star chart has been altered to accommodate your new life. The focus is tighter now. From a wide lens your possibilities have narrowed. Though smaller, the scope is expansive with a makeover look unrecognizable to those you left behind. No matter. The game with us goes on. Looking back, you're an observer, to which new vision enables those around you to exalt your path.
Align me simply along the bar in the bitter drafts of reminiscences. Begone by habits unbeaten, the mind shifts while intoxicated in the heady brews. I'm the simple form you make of me when dawn crashes into dusk at last call and begs to be acknowledged. To twist the light is to break the egg of darkness, release the beautiful emptiness and let me drown as I drown daily in my exegesis. Take it now, to the extreme. Take it to the implosion. Feel the caving as a new kind of sleep collides the heart. You're not ready. No matter.
The Tip Jar