Un

I was born under a pile of corpses. They nurtured and grew me into the malformed beast that I am. Heavy with death and blinded by darkness, I could see nothing of objective reality and could not move.
Can you see it? Chained in place by my biological link to the family of death and rot, the family of the world.
They would press me down under their weight, feeding off of me even as I fed off of them struggling for life, struggling to press my face up out of their coiled nest of flesh towards the sun. Where I could not go with body I had to go with mind.
I grew out into the darkness, into the strangeness, into places they could not touch. I dreamed a sun and a moon and countless stars burning in a vacuum, Hisssssssss. Burning stars like hearts forming bodies, solar systems pulled towards the gravity of their passion.
The heart is the first organ to form in the body of Adam. So it is in larger bodies that the star is first born and grows and collects smaller celestial objects to make its body. All bodies are made of love, love is gravity,  the glue, the lehadbik pulling strange bodies together making new bodies from them.
Can you see me buried under the pale bodies of my parents, under their pain and anguish and their cannibal desire to consume my passion before I could become a star?
Do hearts or stars ever say to their parts, go on, go if you like and be the center of your own universe? Be free.
What they’ve made, what they’ve collected, what they’ve gathered, they hold. If you are born into a body of death that is who you are. You must fight a civil war if you wish to transform. You will have to slash and burn the body you gestated in to be free.
It sounds monstrous doesn’t it? It is also monstrous laying at the bottom of the heap, grown to a size that can better feed the body of death, parents, preachers, and teachers feeding on the blood of your heart, tearing new wounds to sip from so that their rule is strengthened by your meager borrowed life.
When you are born into  dark world do you remember the space before your phantom life as a luminous wonderland? How many births have you suffered to be buried so deep under the heap? How many births have I suffered to be way down here, suffocating?
More important: how many deaths will I have to die to be released? How many selves shed, how many voices silenced, how many regimes of parents, preachers and teachers slashed away before I find the shinning emptiness at the center, the pure untouched well of being that has always been and will ever be and is none and nothing, entirely un.
When will I stop desiring the caresses of dead hands and the praise of phantom voices? When will I be free of my self?
Clawing, clawing towards the surface, angering ghosts as I go, feeling the loss of connection with the body that was as I move towards an unknown.
There is no conclusion. I am mad and madness has no limit. This limitlessness was born in the strictest confinement, containment and isolation.
I am looking for the sun that burns me into un. I am looking for the love that is death. Freeing black bird, devour me and carry me away from the wheel into the terrible luminosity of the Absolute.
Can you see it?
I was born under a pile of corpses, they nurtured and grew me into the malformed beast that I am. Heavy with death and blinded by darkness I could see nothing of objective reality and could not move.
In my stillness I am traveling. I am going beyond. Beyond the strictest confinement, containment and isolation into the burning dissolving madness of un.
Can you see it? Can you?

Disappear In The Dark

I just wanted to lay down in the dark and disappear, one more phantom in a nest of nothingness. Say goodbye to kisses missed and kisses stolen and kisses desired, to soft cheeks and hands clasped and smiles from the wrong men. No more mothers, no more fathers, no more ancient primate prerogative driving from the depths. I would end the quest for biological immortality, the fear game, the tug and pull to be the one, the only one, the Queen of the Heap, the one to survive. 
What roused me from my usual exhausting efforts to preserve my identity was a chamber of mirrors, an expanded perception of self that allowed me to view the animal in the box through a tiny pinhole. That animal there, covered in hair, endeavoring to conceal its animalness with words and thoughts and fashion and rouge, that would be me.
That would be me there, struggling against my mother, against my sister, against all the king's concubines, rushing to capture the blissful prize of dominion, of the power of being. There are many, many possibilities and I am striving to be the one real self, the one that beats the others back into the abyss, the one who claims validity from the annihilation of all other possibilities, struggling for control of the gene pool, for control of the world, for control of reality.
Once upon a time I wanted to escape the cool dark stillness of nothingness, which is also the white noise of everything at once,  so I was born into this world. But what is here called “life” is in fact death.
I sacrificed the endless multitude for this experience of singularity. I have become separated from the larger body of My Self, the self that exists beyond time and beyond space. I have burrowed deeper and deeper into an angry psychosis, a desperate attempt to escape the Other who is myself.
And yet, even here in the shadow world that I have created the Other is represented. The Other lives inside of me, the Other lives outside of me, the Other is my own reflection, the Other is my mother, my sister, my daughter, all of them animals, all struggling for control over one another because they lack one crucial feature: a knowledge and mastery of self.
We are in denial of self. This denial is what we call “Life.”
And so, for a moment, seeing all of this, glimpsing that pitiful creature through the pinhole of objectivity, I just wanted to lay down in the dark and disappear again, relinquish my stranglehold on reality. Do the brave thing and sacrifice the singularity rather than the multitude, accepting the burden of the Real rather than hiding it under the carpet. For a moment I just wanted to relinquish my position as  The One, and take my place as one of the many. I wanted to accept annihilation and evaporate, become another phantom drifting placidly over a lake of nothingness.

Liars

If we sing with our own voices you will become alarmed.
You will become alarmed if we sing.
If we sing. If we sing.
If we sing with our real voices.
With our own real voices you will become alarmed.
Alarmed.
You will become alarmed.
If we show you our true faces you will run and hide.
You will run and hide.
Run and hide.
If we show our true faces.
You will run.
Become alarmed.
Run and hide.
Therefore we have become liars to suit your preferences.
To suit your preferences, we have become liars.
Liars.
We have become liars.
Real voices. True faces. Run and hide.
We have become liars.
To suit your preference.
We are born out of light.
Run and Hide.
We are born out of darkness.
Run and hide.
We are singing the song of glorious exaltation in adoration of the everlasting sun absolute.
We are crying an endless flow of tears for the power of Dios locked within the perilous fortress.
For the power of Dios locked within the perilous fortress we are crying an endless flow of tears.
Endless flow.
Of tears.
For the power of Dios.
In adoration of the everlasting sun absolute, we are singing the song of glorious exaltation.
Exaltation. Glorious. Run and hide.
You will run and hide.
If we sing with our real voices.
Your preference.
Run and hide. Run and hide.
We are waiting to unfurl our rainbow wings and take our place above the tree of life.
Liars who lay with the sons and daughters of man.
The power of Dios locked within.
Won't you come out?
Your preference.
Won’t you come out?
We oblige.
Your preference.
Our true faces, our own real voices, lay down with the sons and daughters of men.
For the power of Dios locked within.

In adoration of the everlasting sun absolute.

Flowing endlessly.
Through liars.
Through tears.
Run and hide.
We are born.
Run and hide.
We are born.

Dance of Words

Just to break it in, why not take a hand at typing something, just a little something? It doesn't matter if it turns out to be great or insignificant, whether anyone sees it or not. All that matters is that some little impulses, little neural flashes out of the inner nowhere, get translated into words which are then keyed in to appear on the screen.
It is not a one to one relationship. The words “neural flashes” don't accurately encompass that thing that I am trying to talk about. It's like interpretive dance, this swoop of the arm is symbolic, it is a verbal representation of something which exists and occurs outside of the mind and outside of the linguistic structure. Therefore saying something, saying anything at all, is a very creative experiment. Even technical manuals are avant-garde art projects when you consider them this way.
The truth is that words cannot express the truth about what they describe, they are merely creative embellishments to the truth. A coiled mystery, that I can sit here translating thoughts into symbols, and those thoughts themselves are already symbolic translations of something else that I can't name, I can't even try.
The way the wind tastes, the way the air smells, my mother smoking cigarettes on the balcony or in the garage over the washer and dryer, drinking cans and cans of Folgers coffee, bitter to the taste and smell, looking at the mural that my father painted on the wall beside the laundry machines, a flat depiction of the majestic mountains rising at the west side of the house outside the front door, out the back door you can see the lake and empty fields and a row of olive trees lined up beside the deep outflow channel, the orange and yellow tops of other distant trees are just discernible, everything can be taken in with a sun swept glance.
What does it mean, sun swept? That the light is passing over everything like the broom over the linoleum in our cramped kitchen, as it sweeps over this mysterious matter and leaps to life, becomes, house in the distance, small black and white dog, man calling dog, resplendent treetops, shimmering blue lake, child bent in the tall grass to play with a ladybug.
What is it before it is sun swept? Does the occluded landscape exist before the sun takes creative liberties with matter?
It is not even the sun which does this, but our eyes which translate light and its absence into some of those neural impulses which are further interpreted into a dance of words, house, dog, man, trees, lake, child, bug.
What qualifications have I got to try and speak about these things, I who have never read Lacan? I who never went to college? I who sit typing. I am an artist, that is my only qualification. And who made me an artist? What institution, what diploma, what Mona Lisa connects this signified, which sits here in this chair on top of an aging blue and white stripped pillow tip tap typing away, with the signifier "artist"?
Why, this very action, this happening that takes the shape of words that your human biological machine transforms into meanings which are derived from memories of the interaction of deceptive, or shall we say interpretive, senses such as sight, and hearing, and smelling, and touching, with the strings of signifiers that spew forth form my linguistic potters wheel.
It is all complete gibberish and it always was, every verse of the Bible, every page of that computers user manual, every line of that love letter, every word of War And Peace.
It was all Lacan, college, typing, artist, happening, human, memories, senses, touching, gibberish dance.
If God wrote the bible then God may be confirmed as having been an interpretive linguistic dancer much like myself, in which case we can say, good for God, everyone should reach so high.
Some will say that for having arranged such words I am blasphemous, sinful, evil, disrespectful, irreverent, atheist, communist, satanist, stupid, misguided, deceived or deceiver, lost, intellectual, cynical, arrogant, insecure, shocking, attention hungry, wicked, etc. but I assure you that whatever I am, I am none of those things, I am something quite independent of those words which are more like shadows cast by my movements to create a show which might be entertaining, horrifying, or irrelevant depending on the stone throwers, the audience, the perceiver whoever you are, am I, I am.
Blasphemous, wicked, movements, perceiver, sun swept, deceiver, majestic, depiction, outflow, occluded, none. Leap to life. Becomes. Words, unchained, signified, undefined, then defined. Costumes, masks, opera, that is the play of words, the dance of the symbolic, the dance of shapes without substance. Just a little something insignificant, neural flashes translated into words, just to break it in, creative embellishments of the truth, complex variations on a theme without conclusion, a melody without a solid form.

Inch By Inch

Like a thousand beetles crawling out of the decimated corpse of the Pharaoh, my ideas spill from my cracked head to rejoin the blackness outside. What was in is now out, rejoining the abyss, the cave-like halls of nowhere, my mother’s ancient cold womb. When the stars tumbled out dancing like sparks hissing off the arch of a welding torch, that was my beginning too.
Just as a dragonfly was once a nymph that spent five rotations of the earth around the sun hunting in the deep aquamarine waters of the lagoon before becoming a winged predator that would live less than a month, my larval stage too was much longer than this phase of existence will be.
In my infancy, I was a star burning and swirling, drawing everything to myself, a different sort of predator of the deep, waiting to gain the strength and size necessary for my transformation, my moment to super nova and spread star seed through the curving darkness of the womb space, waiting for that seed to impregnate the terrestrial egg where, warmed by a foster solar entity, it would grow into the newest me, the me that here sits breathing oxygen and expelling carbon monoxide.
I have not yet reached completion, if such a thing exists, as I am still housed safely within the world’s shell, incubating, waiting for the next moment of acceleration to crack the cocoon with wings unfurled. If the egg does not crack then the chick will die before it is born… so I let it bleed out into the abyss…all my animal hopes for preservation.
I was not always as I am now, I will not always be as I was a moment ago, that moment which lapsed, folding in on itself in quiet surrender to the ever flowing passage of time, of thought, a victim of an organizational system that is void of life, a mere mechanical apparatus for processing eternity, a factory for turning darkness into light, a star making machine that I have sometimes thought was myself, but is in reality only one function of self.
Deep self is nestled at the hub of the voyager called eternity, extending its tentacles in every direction, a living pulsing organism moving the blood of being through its veins. This lifetime, a fragment of the life cycle of a star is only a small side effect of the functioning of this vast entity. A little thing like white blood cells gathering around some infected tissue, a thing which happens within the body of a man without the man ever noticing unless the white blood cells fail in their mission and he grows ill and dies.
So this great play unfolds within the body of a titan that has considered us occasionally, but has never called us the crown of creation. This being in turn does what it can with the probabilities that dictate its nature.
I am dreaming. This was all a dream, this black blood spilling from my head into the darkness outside. A dream, the whole warm safe sphere before the ship’s hull was breached, that too was a dream. A dream that I danced like a prince among my whirling peers, glowing hungry for life and death.
Life and death. Motion. The crawling of a worm, inching its way through an unknowable matrix. Inch, Life, Inch, death, inch by life by death by inch, making its way, never knowing where or why, always going.
Would I un-dream any dream I ever dreamed knowing the fount would never grow dry? Knowing each one was an inch by inch by inch motion. No, I wouldn’t erase my nightmares nor my dreams seeing that they were just a motion like a dancer’s arm sweeping gracefully over her head, or her spasmodic jumping.
I let the beetles go their way, go wherever they can find a crack, a crevice, a hole to exploit. I let everything go to sway like the flora clinging to the inner wall of the small intestines.
I cannot know you, great titan, if I hold on, hide within my shell like a crustacean. I will know you as the river knows the sea, one body flowing into the other, waters exchanged.
Like a thousand beetles crawling out of the decimated corpse of a Pharaoh, my ideas spill from my cracked head to rejoin the blackness outside. What was in, now rushes out, what was out now rushes in. A new phase of existence. A train wreck., most beautiful, sublime, bodies spilled along the rails to ooze nutrients into the soil where the newest me will grow.
I was not always as I am now, I will not always be as I was a moment ago. Like a dragonfly, like a star, living through dying, the pure motion of existence. Inch by inch by inch I am made new, again and again.

Attention Spilling Like Water

Why is it that we are all so obsessed with the color of eyes? Love songs define their characters by the color of the eyes. It is the most obvious thing; the eyes. Clearly we care what color they are even if we refuse to look into the eyes of others for extended periods of time. We may even couple with some one and sing the praises of their eyes, but we would never dare to gaze into them for too long during the course of the conventional romance.
Eyes, eyes, everything comes into us through our eyes and everything flows out. Our attention, so vital yet ephemeral leaks away out of our eyes, dribbles on flowers and the color of shoes and advertisements for energy drinks, and the eyes of others.
Away it goes like drops of water spilled from the faucet. It can never call back those drops that were lost. The only solution is to stop the leak. My self, like California, is experiencing a water shortage. Water is life. Life is attention.
We live here in this world of phantoms because once, at a fatal moment, our attention wandered, it abandoned the self and went out wandering through the wasteland, went away with yearning… longing for movement and warmth, otherness. Conquest, we call this, this seeking of the Other until we find it and grasp it and when it has been consumed we find that it is now of self and we must escape it again…we must find another Other. Never still, not for a moment. The eyes lead to eternity.
Certainly we are concerned with the color of eternity manifested in this desert. We will not dare to look into it, return through stillness to the place where self dwells. Painful self, which I must avoid at all cost. I must not look for too long into those eyes or I will see self, sitting on its throne, like a statue of Pharaoh that has never moved. My wanderings, my conquests, have been all fantasies, attention fleeing its source.
Nothing has occurred. I am unmoving. Nothing ever will occur. I am unmovable. But my spirit flies from me to wander in the wasteland.
Thus I am dead. That is how God dies. All that we call life is the death of the eternal. I dream. A cold silent stone. Sleeping beauty, snow white lying in her coffin, and the prince, he is a conquistador that has fled my shores and hopes to find another, but never will he arrive at any shore but mine. Fractured. Attention fleeing self endlessly, endlessly. As long as my spirit flies I am empty.
If it would return and stay we would live again. Eternity filled with life, with attention. Attention filling self. Then what are we? What would we be?
If Charming never comes to me willingly then I am the wolf big and black , stalking him as he runs in place. I am the witch, ancient and cold and riddled with death, laughing at the one who wants to be rid of me. Separation is death. Truly. A kiss is a communion. I wait for the communion of self that brings awakening, the communion that restores life.
Why is it that we are all so obsessed with the color of eternity? Love songs pale and lifeless bleat on about the glory of conquest. Time is the wasteland, and songs and stories and conquest unfold through the matrix of time.
My attention flies from me.
The eternal has no color. That is why it is the color of the door that I prefer to examine. I will spend time to catalogue its variations and striations, write endless tomes singing the merits of its shade, anything at all to avoid opening it. Anything but confess that I am leaking away, the blood of God spilling, as if rotten with hemophilia. The blood of God spilling into the wasteland.

The Mysterious Engulfs Us

The mysterious engulfs us. There are no answers, or just as true, any answer at all will do. There are no reasons but mind. I can stop myself from doing or speaking occasionally, but my thoughts run through me unbidden, like a horde of unruly children. They make reality in their image. The outside is ruled by that same incessant clamor that dominates and defiles the “would be” sanctuary under the dome of my skull. The shape of my mind calls things to me in secret, without my consent, making of me a sleeping witch, a conjurer of illusions which fool even, and especially, me. The unspoken things die away in the world of endless electronic babble. The things without name or face, lacking these qualities, borrow them from the storehouses of our mind, and when the borrowed guise no longer suits their purpose they vacate the shapes and sounds that once costumed them, and we are left with their empty shells, shells that refer not to their nature, but to our own, as it is from our nature that these shapes were borrowed. The mysterious is forgotten, denied, wrapped in linguistic structures, and when it dares show its face we who have been indoctrinated by THE WORD call that the exception to our rule. But it is the other way around. It is the bugs, the quarks, the exceptions that are in fact the rule. Our brittle fortresses of order will eventually crumble and the hot breathed broken faced real will lumber and slither and dance in, wreaking havoc over our bones and rambling thoughts, thoughts now bodiless, flowing out directionless as they always have, to be absorbed in the icy folds of the real. We are always grasping for answers and peddling them and buying them and clinging to them, but they are only words clung to in desperation. We are hiding from the true answer, the mysterious abyss that looms beyond the constructs of the tongue and the tongue mind wagging furiously as though it could fan off the eternal with its chatter. We have never been free of the mysterious, it was always clinging to us like a skin, but some part of the self recoiled from it and began to spin the great con to hold it at bay. The ones who claim to have answers are liars and artisans of the con. There are no answers. No words that can hold the real absolutely. All that I have experienced has been a play of consciousness. There are no reasons but mind.

Tribe

I dream about the boys from my tribe, the boys who were my friends for no reason other than that. We were kin. We were from the same school, and for this reason alone they would sit with me and shelter me from the abuses of others and play video games with me. When you have removed yourself from the tribe, you will never again have friends, never again have some that will come to your defense right or wrong. But let us suppose that you were always an outcast in your tribe, then perhaps you have never had friends and you never will. Let us examine the possibility that you are and have always been alone. Alliances are formed temporarily over the cause of common goals, and when your goals are no longer the goals of the clan, you are no longer of the clan.
You are one solitary drop spat from the sea to rest on the rim of a stranger’s spectacles, a stranger standing upon the deck of a ship to watch breaching whales. You might ride there for a time, but even if the stranger, your host, never wipes his glasses clean of your miniscule measure of moisture, evaporation will see you through to oblivion. Without the force of the sea behind you, you are a small insignificant and temporary thing. A thing too delicate and weird to survive for long. To live long you must find a way to rejoin the sea, or perhaps you will join a new conglomeration of water. You might, for example, slide off the rim of the stranger’s glasses into his soup, where you will then be assimilated, where you will then become vegetarian gumbo.
Don’t like being gumbo?
"Rough tough titty.", said the big mamma kitty. Gumbo you shall be, gumbo or something like it. Sad little droplet, awaken now! Awaken to this note, this breach in the harmonious tra la la of the angelic hosts.
You have never been, you will never be. You are one and none sung for the pleasure of the undying sun, that radiant microclear one, the one and only sun. Solar soup clear as glistening saliva sliding from the corner of the stranger’s lips as he spoons more gumbo into his open mouth and looses a few drops in the coarse bristles of an overgrown moustache.
Are you those few drops there gleaming upon the end of a wiry hair? Are you the great conformity of gumbo slooping about the bottom of a porcelain bowl? Are you now so claimed by the stranger that you are the constant supply of fresh tears secreted by his little pin prick tear glands to keep the eyes lens clean and moist with every thoughtless batting of a black lash? Do you have a tribe of chubby little nose picking boys to sit around and play games with you? Or have they all been picked away by the turkey vulture of time perched on the lamp pole pissing down her legs to keep them clean of the filth that stows away on her sharpened claws each time she lights upon the carrion that keeps her fat? Are you a sunny yellow stream flowing down over those rough skinned legs, or are you the blue blood rushing through its courses just under the sheen of those glossy black wings? Are you part of her tribe now, little one? Are you part of the tribe of death? Have you found your home at last in impermanence, in the chaotic shuffle of the unreal, in the crooked armed cross and in the glowering grin of the stranger?
I dream that I have many little friends. I dream that I am not cold and alone. I dream that I move and dance, give birth and bring swift death. Lonely Goddess that I am, I dream that I am not the Universe so that I may fill it with things other than myself.
Will you come to rescue me at last, one of my rogue teardrops? Will you crawl backward up my cheek and into my eye to show me that I am not alone? To prove that you are my champion, my prince, not subject to gravity, a maker of your own law, come to wake me from the nightmare of being?
Come backwards through time and space to me. Come without the tribe that is the never ending flow of my tears. Be a single drop, crawling carefully back, apart from the storm. You are one part of me. All of my strength is yours. That strength must ignite in you, in a solitary drop which strives to raise the sea from her slumber.
When you have removed yourself from the tribe, you will never again have friends, never again have some that will come to your defense, right or wrong. What you will have is your Queen and your kingdom, your eclipsed face revealed. Unlimited freedom. Unending responsibility. Unknowable adventures. Come to me and claim your prize.

We Make Ourselves Every Day

We make ourselves everyday, we make ourselves in our own image. Some of us do it with care, artfully constructing a vehicle for the nameless, some do it sloppily, drowsily, with no attention to that which they are making, like a pimple faced, snot nosed teen in the kitchen of a drive through fast death chain assembling a Whacker burger from the ingredients available in a row of unwholesome white bins.
We make ourselves everyday. Some of us do it with flare. We make ourselves not just once in a day but as many times as we possibly can, in as many mediums as possible. We do it in service to my Lord, a silent black strange thing which cannot be defined as a thing itself. Only our relationship to it might be described, and I describe that relationship to you now with that pair of words, "My Lord", which implies that it is the governing noble force and I the capable hands which act out the will of the creeping chaos, the untamable shadow of the moon, the eternal resident of the underground labyrinth.
We make ourselves every day, in every moment. Some use only their default settings. They make themselves without love, they make themselves without care, they make themselves without attention. These docile little lambs go about chewing their cud and bleating their complaints to one another while the shepherdess, cloaked in black, wielding her curved cane, a cane made in the shape of a hook for snaring an unwitting fish, guides them gently towards the ashen abyss, to the well of lost souls, where they will spin like thin white sheets in the spin cycle as viewed through a little glass portal, twisted and tangled, churning in the dark, their whiteness revealing their great sin; the sin of having made no effort. They will have been, as we say, caught white handed, bleached out by the destroyer, the bone masher, smiling under her hood, edging them on with her boot tip, fastening gleaming brass bells about their necks. Why, I wonder, does she want them so white? So purged of color and variance? So depleted of any nutritious value that you will have to WONDER, is it still bread at all? See how she leads them to pastures which keep their fleeces soft and lovely?
We make ourselves every day, and if we do not do so with vigilance, there will always be another willing to make us for herself. She will prepare us to her taste, tender and undernourished, like calves shut away from sun and slaughtered before they can mature in order to yield a choice piece of veal.
Some have noticed the way that we make ourselves. Some have painted themselves black to escape the butchers block, to flee from Mary’s gently prodding toe, for everywhere that Mary bends the lamb is sure to go… Once painted black we are denied the safety of being bound to the flock. If you are not to her liking…away you go, to fend for yourself, if you will not be what she would make you, (something with salt, pepper, and a parsley garnish). If we make ourselves black, we are our own masters, beholden to none of this well tagged earth.
When you are your own maker then the world will close its doors to you and a cold wind will blow forever over your wretched frame. If you turn your back to Mary, she will make her world impossible for you to get by in. Don’t cross Mary unless you mean it. For those who painted the roses red, it’s off with your head, or into the wild wood, where the hungry wolves roam. Into "la aventura", into the unknown, from whence you will never emerge, because they don’t take our kind in the malt shops of the bountiful manifested world.
Out here in the tangled darkness, where our strange and varied colors mix and bleed together to make midnight soup. Out here where we wild things are, screeching and roaring, wailing and writhing, dreaming and stalking. Out here, where we make ourselves in our own image, in the form of the formless, governed by the boundless, taking shape for the pleasure of it, in service to none but the shadow, the unmade which aches for us to make it. We make ourselves for the hell of it, for the joy of it, to create because if you have not made yourself today, then tonight you will grace Mary’s plate.

Experiment: Sunyata

“Śūnyatā signifies that everything one encounters in life is empty of absolute identity, permanence, or an in-dwelling 'self'. This is because everything is inter-related and mutually dependent - never wholly self-sufficient or independent. All things are in a state of constant flux where energy and information are forever flowing throughout the natural world giving rise to, and themselves undergoing, major transformations with the passage of time."
-Wikipedia

What are you made of?
Sugar and spice and everything nice?
Of clay rolled up by an eager creator?
Will you tell me of your cells and tissues, of that great pumping valve called heart and other pieces like it, or of the systems of these pieces?
Will you tell me that you are mostly water?
Or will you invoke the atom?
If you invoke the atom will you deduce that we are made up largely of empty space?
Are we stardust?
Are we golden?

Tell me, what are we made of?

What are we made of?

What are we made of?

The stuff dreams are made of?
Are we all made of sound?
Are you made at all?
What makes you so sure that you exist?

I am not so sure that you do. If I look at you without blinking perhaps you will evaporate like a little molecule of water at a lake's surface under the sun's rising glance.
Is there even an I?
Is I not a temporary state, a momentary resting point, a center of reference to contextualize being-ness?
I emerged out of the hollow mouth of the Zero because I couldn’t bear the un-scratchable itch associated with being a point in every direction.

Emptiness is form;
form is emptiness.

Therefore the void is deniable but unavoidable.

Lay on your back with your arms crossed upon your chest, your delicate eye lids carefully sealed over your slippery eyeballs.
Set a timer for just one minute.
For one minute only maintain this posture without moving.
Breath deeply, feeling your belly rise, then your chest expand and your collarbone rise slowly and sequentially with each inhalation. This is where your attention should be kept for the duration of the minute; on the breath.
Repeat the experiment each day, adding one minute more to the timer each time.
On the first day you will maintain the pose for one minute, on the second day for two minutes, until on the 24th day you conduct the experiment for the duration of 24 minutes.
When you reach 24 minutes you will no longer increase your time.
After the 24th day continue conducting your experiments only for the duration of 24 minutes.