01-24-2012, 12:00 AM
This is somewhat edited i did not intend to post it publicly. Just a bit of background, in the tonal, this moment was the start of the big windstorm in the Western United States a few months ago. I had very interesting things occur that evening, and the wind built and died with a visitation, in the tonal. I actually stalked wind maps, the moment it died here, some images that looked like a great wrapping vortex over my spot in the tonal, for a few days. But i did not talk about that. No, i decided to capture the impressions AFTER that, when the wind died, and the sky opened, for a few moments. Interpret that how you will, or not at all. Its not the point. I wrote this moments after that.
...and then letting them go, allowing the impressions
and emotions, the shapes of the things as living strands, take form,
emergent threads if you will, i had an image form.Or rather, a clarity
without defined boundaries. I'm going to attempt as best i can, given my
limited creative tool set, to attempt to chart a sketch in the tonal. I
was drawn back to my own experiences, before i began this unseeing, with
whirlwinds. Vortexes. Energy carried on winds that flowed, but also on
winds that wrapped, around a center, or portal/nexus. they are both
scary, like ...................... depositing energy that can menace.
They are also, not as a counterpoint but rather as a part of this
function, cleansing. The dream of vortexes removing decay and stagnant
energy from......................city in ............. . This begs a question...from whence and to where are these energies
coming and going? I am drawn to a celestial vision. Of the sun,
radiating warmth, and life, and of the black hole, sucking everything,
crushing it down into an impenetrable and unknown state. And all the
states in between, the planets, the ether, the very rich and alive
darkness between worlds where the light and energy, beyond and below our
scope of perception and easy understanding, flows like rivers of life.
Particles formed, nebula, wombs of stars. And rivers of death,
particles streaming towards the open maws of the ever growing darkness
that is the center around which the galaxies rotate. And here again is
that same image. rotation, vortexes, the sea of stars, reaching and
moving in many dimensions, around a central point. A vortex, a gradient
differential between the forces that radiate, and the forces that
consume. the tonal.
What we see, is a reality seeking balance.
Or, conversely, one being drained of vitality, set in motion for the
purpose of entropy. the flyer. In the context of this vision, that like
all visions, dreams, thoughts and perceptions, is without independent
existence outside of the given reality, which is it? At this point it
almost wants to resolve into a contest of dogma. The idea of the womb,
growing, taking what it needs from its progenitor, but adding to its
richness of self. The egg, the cosmos, impenetrable, undoubtedly dark
behind the shell, but growing, changing, alive. The dreamers cocoon. And
the parasite, weakening its host, the flyer, the memes of the heart and
memes of the mind, growing, like black holes, like cancer, corrupting,
dark, not alive. Birth and death, so similar in their singular and
concurrent trajectories. The snake wrapped around an axis, consuming or
attempting to consume its own tail. Infinity. A whirlwind, a vortex, a
swirl of energies manifest form as matter, that fall into their own
gravity and give birth to a star. Or stars that collapse to form black
holes. Organic, Inorganic, Light and shadow, Movement. Stagnation. Birth
and Death. Beyond, or from this arises a novel interpretation, a sly
thought, an abstract geometry. A sublime yet discordant note. The......... .
The child and the vampire. That takes, ingests, but also returns what
was taken, the offal that is as the very manna of god, a taste, a hint, a
breath of the concept known as freedom, and wonder. The dice that always
rolls 3, without being loaded. What is this thing, this concept, this
conception? Its existence neither Validates nor invalidates the dogma,
the polarity, of the others. In fact it rests, like a trickster in the
wind, the vortex, that both beckons and repulses. I am free, whispers
that voice on the wind. I am of the womb, and the grave. As are you. A
synthesis and defiance, an impossible thing, that by its improbable
existence hints at a greater awareness. A view of god, of totality. A
hint in that offal, that fruit, like honey, from the energy that came in
the front and went out the back. Black holes, stars. A new thing,
missing from this model in stillness.
In cosmology, this unseen
yet necessary thing is a white hole. From which, it must be imagined,
for the equations to balance, all of that data, that matter, that energy
erupts in a river of life, the other end of the vortex. A birth of
galaxies, of stars, of gods and legend. The power on the winds that
curl, the sublime, impossible irony. A river of death and life,
erupting, consuming, again chasing its own tail in a dance, a whirl, a
flow. The flaming chaos of a sun, that seems so eternal, so stable as
it shines down upon us. The flailing maelstrom of the solar and
galactic, and universal winds, as they move, like the sands over the
sphinx, eroding and depositing, shearing what we wish to hold dear, the
sphinxes we wish to be timeless, and depositing the sand from which
the most transient of phenomena, life, finds root, for its brief span,
before rejoining the vortex of time. But not the Tenet. Not the star, as
it is annihilated and exploding, changing as it burns to spans near
eternal, fueling the gradient differentials that power the snake of the
tonal, the womb that is tomb and tomb that is womb. It is my supposition,
in the single moment of clarity that I fling so many decaying words in
the face of to sketch, even as it laughs a beautiful irony at the
attempt, on my little pad of soul and body, that the synthesis of
contradiction, the energy of the differential, is the very face of god,
the permanence in mutability, the gift beyond the eagles beak.
There
is a spiral flow to it, the point that collapses down to nothing, then
expand like the whirlwind to be everything. I dreamed of these words,
these shapes, these sounds and movements, not the ones I write now, a
crude grasping thing to sketch the tiniest and least well conceived
fractal encoding, that is still larger then I can behold, many times in
my life, every moment of my being. I dreamed before it, and I dream
beyond it. These, I think, are not those words, that moment, that
vision. The act four that none who remains, save perhaps the .......... of my
enrapture, can begin to even see. These are not, I believe those true
words. Just another vision, another moment, another dream born of the
swirls of those great winds. A calm spot, an eddy that forms a small
vortex in the larger flow. What does it take, what does it leave? What
it must, I must say. Where does it lead? The tomb, the womb, nowhere,
forever flowing, moving, shaping. There was more, but the winds have
returned, the space of calm, the center, has dissipated, dissipated before
I even began writing, flowing back in time, under the eagles steely
gaze. That moment is no more. But I remain, like a little sun, more
permanent but still winding down, the slow and sudden traverse from womb
to tomb. So the true moment, the open portal, still waits to be
sketched, to be perceived, to be traversed. I have but the outline of an
answer, almost, but not quite beheld, to a question that I posed ........... . It is, as it always has to be, enough. Until the true
opening is found. I am left where I started tonight, the voice of hank
hill. Telling me, or am i the one doing the telling, that there will be
asses and kicking. And I say, as I always do, not with humility, but
with humor and appreciation, If my ass is to be kicked, then it will be
kicked. that’s life...or was that what i was told? LOL
...and then letting them go, allowing the impressions
and emotions, the shapes of the things as living strands, take form,
emergent threads if you will, i had an image form.Or rather, a clarity
without defined boundaries. I'm going to attempt as best i can, given my
limited creative tool set, to attempt to chart a sketch in the tonal. I
was drawn back to my own experiences, before i began this unseeing, with
whirlwinds. Vortexes. Energy carried on winds that flowed, but also on
winds that wrapped, around a center, or portal/nexus. they are both
scary, like ...................... depositing energy that can menace.
They are also, not as a counterpoint but rather as a part of this
function, cleansing. The dream of vortexes removing decay and stagnant
energy from......................city in ............. . This begs a question...from whence and to where are these energies
coming and going? I am drawn to a celestial vision. Of the sun,
radiating warmth, and life, and of the black hole, sucking everything,
crushing it down into an impenetrable and unknown state. And all the
states in between, the planets, the ether, the very rich and alive
darkness between worlds where the light and energy, beyond and below our
scope of perception and easy understanding, flows like rivers of life.
Particles formed, nebula, wombs of stars. And rivers of death,
particles streaming towards the open maws of the ever growing darkness
that is the center around which the galaxies rotate. And here again is
that same image. rotation, vortexes, the sea of stars, reaching and
moving in many dimensions, around a central point. A vortex, a gradient
differential between the forces that radiate, and the forces that
consume. the tonal.
What we see, is a reality seeking balance.
Or, conversely, one being drained of vitality, set in motion for the
purpose of entropy. the flyer. In the context of this vision, that like
all visions, dreams, thoughts and perceptions, is without independent
existence outside of the given reality, which is it? At this point it
almost wants to resolve into a contest of dogma. The idea of the womb,
growing, taking what it needs from its progenitor, but adding to its
richness of self. The egg, the cosmos, impenetrable, undoubtedly dark
behind the shell, but growing, changing, alive. The dreamers cocoon. And
the parasite, weakening its host, the flyer, the memes of the heart and
memes of the mind, growing, like black holes, like cancer, corrupting,
dark, not alive. Birth and death, so similar in their singular and
concurrent trajectories. The snake wrapped around an axis, consuming or
attempting to consume its own tail. Infinity. A whirlwind, a vortex, a
swirl of energies manifest form as matter, that fall into their own
gravity and give birth to a star. Or stars that collapse to form black
holes. Organic, Inorganic, Light and shadow, Movement. Stagnation. Birth
and Death. Beyond, or from this arises a novel interpretation, a sly
thought, an abstract geometry. A sublime yet discordant note. The......... .
The child and the vampire. That takes, ingests, but also returns what
was taken, the offal that is as the very manna of god, a taste, a hint, a
breath of the concept known as freedom, and wonder. The dice that always
rolls 3, without being loaded. What is this thing, this concept, this
conception? Its existence neither Validates nor invalidates the dogma,
the polarity, of the others. In fact it rests, like a trickster in the
wind, the vortex, that both beckons and repulses. I am free, whispers
that voice on the wind. I am of the womb, and the grave. As are you. A
synthesis and defiance, an impossible thing, that by its improbable
existence hints at a greater awareness. A view of god, of totality. A
hint in that offal, that fruit, like honey, from the energy that came in
the front and went out the back. Black holes, stars. A new thing,
missing from this model in stillness.
In cosmology, this unseen
yet necessary thing is a white hole. From which, it must be imagined,
for the equations to balance, all of that data, that matter, that energy
erupts in a river of life, the other end of the vortex. A birth of
galaxies, of stars, of gods and legend. The power on the winds that
curl, the sublime, impossible irony. A river of death and life,
erupting, consuming, again chasing its own tail in a dance, a whirl, a
flow. The flaming chaos of a sun, that seems so eternal, so stable as
it shines down upon us. The flailing maelstrom of the solar and
galactic, and universal winds, as they move, like the sands over the
sphinx, eroding and depositing, shearing what we wish to hold dear, the
sphinxes we wish to be timeless, and depositing the sand from which
the most transient of phenomena, life, finds root, for its brief span,
before rejoining the vortex of time. But not the Tenet. Not the star, as
it is annihilated and exploding, changing as it burns to spans near
eternal, fueling the gradient differentials that power the snake of the
tonal, the womb that is tomb and tomb that is womb. It is my supposition,
in the single moment of clarity that I fling so many decaying words in
the face of to sketch, even as it laughs a beautiful irony at the
attempt, on my little pad of soul and body, that the synthesis of
contradiction, the energy of the differential, is the very face of god,
the permanence in mutability, the gift beyond the eagles beak.
There
is a spiral flow to it, the point that collapses down to nothing, then
expand like the whirlwind to be everything. I dreamed of these words,
these shapes, these sounds and movements, not the ones I write now, a
crude grasping thing to sketch the tiniest and least well conceived
fractal encoding, that is still larger then I can behold, many times in
my life, every moment of my being. I dreamed before it, and I dream
beyond it. These, I think, are not those words, that moment, that
vision. The act four that none who remains, save perhaps the .......... of my
enrapture, can begin to even see. These are not, I believe those true
words. Just another vision, another moment, another dream born of the
swirls of those great winds. A calm spot, an eddy that forms a small
vortex in the larger flow. What does it take, what does it leave? What
it must, I must say. Where does it lead? The tomb, the womb, nowhere,
forever flowing, moving, shaping. There was more, but the winds have
returned, the space of calm, the center, has dissipated, dissipated before
I even began writing, flowing back in time, under the eagles steely
gaze. That moment is no more. But I remain, like a little sun, more
permanent but still winding down, the slow and sudden traverse from womb
to tomb. So the true moment, the open portal, still waits to be
sketched, to be perceived, to be traversed. I have but the outline of an
answer, almost, but not quite beheld, to a question that I posed ........... . It is, as it always has to be, enough. Until the true
opening is found. I am left where I started tonight, the voice of hank
hill. Telling me, or am i the one doing the telling, that there will be
asses and kicking. And I say, as I always do, not with humility, but
with humor and appreciation, If my ass is to be kicked, then it will be
kicked. that’s life...or was that what i was told? LOL