Love

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life
One second it was a fist, the next an open hand
its own fiercely original power.
Many of us are muted versions of who we are capable of being
so well-known and yet reinvented
Beyond tribute, this physical manifestation flowers best in openness and freedom.
Framed and perched in a living room that can only be described as “well-curated,”
a game that I have been developing for over five years, alone and without funding.
Said collection is installed in a new space on the ground floor.
You can use it freely for commercial purposes with no limitations.
How exciting!
I opened my windows earlier today
not even death can stand in its way.
The new branding has a lot of different colors, and they’re quirky.
Others have preferred to leave it in the realm of the ineffable,
‘two bodies and one soul.’
An animalistic or genetic urge
knowable through the emotional and conscious feeling it provokes
LOVE
is all you need.

Nothing Is True

Aren’t you so tired of all those voices from out there reaching into you like a murder of crows probing the cracks in a sidewalk, the recesses of your mind, with long sharp beaks? Don’t you feel the sickness growing in your gut as you are assaulted daily by the loud caterwauling of authoritarian voices demanding that you do this to be good or that to be smart or such to be healthy or wise or enlightened? Don’t you just want to tear all your clothes off and scream incoherently and run barefoot under the trees and stars?
This author, who states now her presence so that you will be aware of it as it comes into you so that you may either allow it access or deny it willfully, this author admits that she is and does.
Beware of those who wish to sell you THE TRUTH or give you THE TRUTH or explain THE TRUTH. Watch out for fools, for buffoons repeating words they believe to be endowed with wisdom, words from their parents, from their spiritual teachers, from learned books or mystical books, or fantastic television documentaries. Most of all, beware of the voices that came from outside but now live inside of you without your knowledge. The voices of all these loud insistent purveyors of so called TRUTH that now swirl around inside your head, triggered in response to various stimuli.
If you think you can speak the TRUTH, if you feel you should spread the TRUTH, or help others to awaken to the TRUTH, watch out, you’re running blindfolded with a sharp stick in your hand. Because the TRUTH, or that which this author sees as the signified experience indicated by that particular signifier, is indescribable, it doesn’t live here in the words, in this confusing scritch scratch of symbols.
The TRUTH doesn’t want to be spread. It’s the hyena-like cackle of words that wants to be spread. It’s the voice of your ancestors, the confusion of accidental associations between various stimuli and sounds and shapes that is shaping you, informing your decisions, building your version of TRUTH and REALITY.  And it wants to spread, needs to spread, will spread infecting every body it can infect.
There is no antidote against this infection of language except to know it is there, to see it forming your experience and do what you WILL as much as possible within these inherited constraints and work to free yourself of them when and where they interfere with this WILL, if that is something that interests you.
Or if that does not interest you, you can go on pretending that you are the infection, that you are in control, that you know THE ONE AND ONLY TRUTH. Or if you prefer to go willy nilly you might pacifically insist that you know YOUR TRUTH, which is just another way of saying “I won’t mention your nakedness if you won’t mention mine.”
You can take all your TRUTH, personal or universal as you may deem it to be, all your assumptions, all your apish babble and shove it directly up your ass, because this author is uninterested in THE TRUTH. This author is unwilling to offer up her own desperate attempts to make order out of chaos, meaning out of confusion, something out of nothing so that you or she may feel more comfortable. She will not promise you that everything will be okay, that heaven awaits the righteous, that good karma will carry you through, that positive thinking will align you with universal energies, or that Santa will be leaving you a gift this year.
Don’t misread this as an Atheistic or Nihilistic proclamation. This author has brushed up against something beyond the veil of words and acknowledges it. She simply wishes to exercise some restraint and abstains from birthing its shadow in the form of a word that the reader may misunderstand to be something they have heard or read of before.
You have never heard or read of this. The words you have heard and read, all of the words you will ever hear and read, are their own entity, maintaining a life independent of that of the signified. And this is why they can’t be trusted. It is of their nature to be separate. They can never be true. They can only be noisy, more babble to pierce the air and every corner of your mind with its deceptive and authoritarian assumption of power.

Adam

Now all these things came to pass by the will of the father of the entirety. By the will of the father of eternity, these things came to pass, as all things did, as all things do. By eternity, by will, by the father.

Afterwards, the spirit saw the soul-endowed man upon the ground. The soul-endowed man upon the earth, walking naked through the yellowed land.

The spirit came forth from the Adamantine Land, travelling like a forceful wind through the many worlds. From the Adamantine Land the spirit came forth; it descended and came to dwell within him, finding a home in his flesh. That man became a living soul, a living soul became that man. The spirit called him Adam since he was found moving upon the ground, walking naked through the yellowed land.

A voice came forth from Incorruptibility for the assistance of Adam, from a voice Incorruptibility came forth, and the rulers gathered together all the animals of the earth, the animals of the earth gathered the rulers, and the rulers gathered all the birds of heaven, the birds of heaven gathered all the rulers and brought them to Adam to see what Adam would call them, that he might give a name to each of the birds and all the beasts. They listened for his breath, for the names that would come.

They took Adam and put him in the garden so that he might cultivate it and keep watch over it, that he might keep watch over it and cultivate it. That olives might grow, that branches be pushed and sculpted towards the sun, so that dates could create sugar from light in endless bounty.

And the rulers issued a command to him, saying:
"From every tree in the garden shall you eat, you shall eat from every tree in the garden, yet from the tree that recognizes good and evil do not eat, nor touch it; for the day you eat from it, with death you will die."

They told him this, yet they did not understand what they said. They could not fully understand the workings of the soul-endowed man. Rather, by the father's will, they said this in such a way that he might be tempted to eat, and that Adam might not regard them as would a man of an exclusively material nature. As a man of an exclusively material nature he might not regard them. He might, he would, take from the tree of good and evil.

Enjoy The Trip

As a passenger you get to sit back and enjoy the trip. You don’t have to know what is happening in the cockpit, you don’t have to know what is happening in the communications tower. You are entirely unaware of the 5 other hunks of flying metal that are lifting off the ground in the same second that your own is rattling out of gravity’s finger tips. You have no idea that another plane has just been redirected so that it won’t collide with yours as it attempts to come in for a landing 59 seconds early. You know that the charming woman up ahead is going to bring you peanuts, (mmmm… peanuts) and a fizzy beverage after the captain turns off the fasten seatbelt lights. Your mouth is watering and you’re trying to decide whether you would like a Coke or a Clamata and wondering if you might persuade her to part with two bags of peanuts on your behalf while death is soaring around with you, talons neatly spread, wondering if it can make off with two jet planes full of people (mmmm… people). While you fret over the discovery that this airline no longer serves the honey roasted peanuts you had so perfectly envisioned and has switched to serving pretzels instead, some prematurely balding man in a button up white shirt is determining your fate. All you have to do is sit back, relax and enjoy the trip. When you hit that bed of clouds where veterans of the war that decided Satan’s fate are swapping stories and drowning their woes in tankards of still born’s tears, the turbulence makes your Sprite (the caffeine in Coke makes you pee and Clamata sounded too salty for this time of day, especially without vodka and celery) splashes all over your tray. Damn! You wipe it up with a napkin that conveniently sports a map of the US with all of the cities which this airline serves highlighted. When your plane changes course to avoid a lightning storm, you’re oblivious, reading the latest issue of Forbes that you bought in the gift shop back at the terminal. When you’re done with that, you ogle the flight attendant as she comes around again for your garbage and enjoy the view of her rear as she works her way up the aisle past you. Soon your plane is engaged in a whole new ballet of high speed hunks of metal guided by fallible human directors who may or may not be distracted just now because this high stress job has taken a toll on their sex life and their significant other stormed out this morning with packed bags. Death perks up again, hopeful, but you land safely and get to see the fasten seat belts light turn off and smell the armpits of the guy next to you as he reaches into the overhead compartment for his duffel bag. As a passenger, all you have to do is sit back, enjoy the trip, and say thank you when it is over.

Electrical Impulses

The power of movement. A simple thing, taken for granted by those creatures that have long possessed the ability, but ask any cactus or man locked in a tiny cell and they will tell you that the power to move about freely is most precious of all. In the very beginning of your life, it was the first thing to be active in you, your movement center. You wriggled, you cried in hunger, and your body happily relieved itself of the wastes that were left in its system. You learned to crawl, and to walk and to grab and to hit. Viola! You had the most essential skills needed to maintain your existence on this planet. You had the power to translate electrical pulses sent from your brain via your nervous system into motion, activity, into an adequate response to some stimuli, such as music, or the sight of a hungry wolf, or the smell of a roasting pig.
The subtleties that could be added, the endowments of the intellectual and emotional centers, would do you little good in this plane of existence without the foundation of this first essential power, the fully functioning motor center. Now you have the ability to do, and with the addition of the other two powers, you have a heightened capacity for subtlety, a desire to find a purpose to put your fantastic abilities to the test. You’ve got the car, now baby drive it!
What are you going to do? What are you going to make of the multicolored world? How are you going to organize all that sensory impute? How does it make you feel? And what are you going to do with it all?
You can see an electrical pulse. See it in the way your limbs go wiggly when we hook them up to a loudspeaker. See how you groove and shake and twirl. That is the power of movement. It gives a shape to the unseen forces that are ever at work in the universe.
This truth is so obvious, so apparent that it seems to be hidden from us. We are blind to it. The ancient Greeks, however, were appreciative of this secret. They honored the human form, took great pleasure in athletic feats, not only as the triumph of the motor center, but as the culmination of all the aspects of the human being and even as a representation of those mysteries which are seen as originating elsewhere.
As above so below.
As within so without.

BOOM

All of that careful work, the seeds you gathered for the harvest, painstakingly filling your little gunny sack, careful to brush the dirt away and separate seed from stone and branch and refuse, all of that effort applied to accumulating and the accumulating itself leads to a precarious position. Each day you have made efforts to contain the energy of life, taking care not to raise your voice or titter and twirl like a squirrel on caffeine, abstaining from orgasm, and carefully taking measures to accumulate more, and more, and more. More fuel for the rocket ship, more fuel for your work, but it is so much more than you have ever had in your life, it is so much more than others going about their days and their lives have ever held in their sack. It is exciting, dizzying, tempting, difficult to bear. As the sack grows full, you wobble and weave under the weight, you are intoxicated by its volume. You may feel teeth chattering excitement, or you may feel as powerful as a Titan. If you indulge in sorrow then every seed will back you up with the power of plutonium. If anger comes a knocking and you try it on for size, then every drop of the energy you have accumulated may flow into the bulging veins of wrath. The seeds will apply themselves to whatever vice you apply yourself to, and the machine, the mechanism for harvesting will supply an endless array of dead end distractions on which you can blow your hard earned savings. The trouble, terrible trouble is that you must not only accumulate but apply the energy accumulated to a suitable task. All that fuel pooled together in a barrel is nothing special until you put it in the rocket, and the rocket is no good if it has no navigational system, no link to mission control. A moon launch would go horribly wrong if the computer running the mechanical functions of the ship suddenly feels it would be better to head for the sun or take a dip in the sea, because after all who the fuck needs mission control, I AM THE ROCKET. Naturally it leads to disaster. The operating system is not the rocket, it is part of the rocket just as mission control is not the rocket, but it is meant to be a part of the operation. A link between mission control and the operating system must be clearly established and maintained so that Mission Control can guide the rocket to uncharted territories. The energy accumulated for voyaging must be utilized properly for the voyage and not be allowed to pool up by that guy with the cigarette dangling from his lip glowering at the whole thing and muttering that space travel is not possible, and who gives a damn anyway, and someday I’ll be the one in charge, and BOOM!

The Hands

The real power is at the bottom not at the top. It is in the legs and not in the head, in the South of Egypt and not in the North. It is in the hands of those that pick the cotton and not in the hand that wields the whip. That hand learned to hit because it couldn’t do the work for itself. It was soft and white and weak. It wanted snuff and lace and iced tea. The hand with power wanted song and sex and to nuzzle up to the earth and sigh. That’s where it found its power, pouring out of the black teat of the earth itself, nurturing them and calling them back for more. The hand with the whip is too afraid to go near that teat gushing with the terrible flood of life and death. If it could, it would whip the earth too, and make her bottle the stuff of life and have it pasteurized and sent to them on a conveyor belt. They want to live like pasty white vampires taking by force and making fierce faces like wounded bears. The people who are friends with the dark rich soil and deep wild places don’t have to make faces. They don’t feel afraid. They just accept the elixir of life and drink until they are intoxicated by it and dance with the knowledge of it coursing through their golden veins and finally lie down to sleep without fear of what further dreams may come. Let them come, when they do, the party will begin again, the same party in a new guise. Life and death dancing round and round and taking turns like kind children sharing the swing under the old willow. My turn, now yours, my turn, now yours, my turn, and now yours, that’s what life and death do. The people with the power are the people that live close to this rhythm. They know how to do. They do and the others take. And even this they understand. But when will it be their turn? The white hand would be a day with no end, the abolishment of night and earth and legs for the continued rule of light and sky and head. They don’t want to take turns. They don’t want to share. They don’t want to do. They will whip so that the others do and spend their days in a haze of righteousness. They clutch the whip tight as they rule from above, because even they know: the real power is at the bottom.

Exchange

The banks take your money. They really take it, they don’t just hold it for you, they help themselves; $20 dollars here and another 20 dollars there and a dollar fifty here and here and here. Not so much, but it adds up over time. And what do you get? You get to feel human, like an outstanding citizen. You get to have little pieces of paper with your name on them to shuffle around and around and you can use a highlighter pen in electric yellow to circle random sums. You get more little pieces of paper to exchange as legal tender, you get green paper and paper in a fancy book and you can have pictures of Garfield or Mickey Mouse or dolphins copulating printed in the background while in the foreground it says PAY TO THE ORDER OF_________ You get plastic too. Mmmmmm…plastic. That means shoes and lipstick and hot donuts and shiny cars and fancy electronic gadgets that can play movies or music or accept a collect call from your mother. FANTASTIC! You can borrow money from the bank. The bank will gladly loan you money and then collect interest, which is perfectly fair. Sometimes though, when it comes to plastic, they will slowly charge you more and more interest on the amount you owe, and if you haven’t been shuffling through your papers you may not realize this is happening, and soon your card is over the limit in bank fees, Eeee Gads! It might have been better to wait until next month to pay for that pair of shoes with cash, hard cold green papers, the ones you get after a day of sweaty labor. You don’t labor? Oh, I see, you work in an office and never even see cash. Your pay is electronically deposited into your bank account and then you get by swiping your debit card, here, there, everywhere! They have made life so easy, haven’t they? The power that passes from your employer to you to your favorite pizzeria is all transferred in the form of numbers, data exchanged digitally. You function like a straw. You toil for one corporation that transfers numbers to you and a myriad of other corporations siphons those numbers away so that you never have to handle any cold hard cash. The bank handles your vital resources for you and skims a little off the top for itself. That is only fair. They should know. They made it that way.

Terror From Above

Once humans, now animals we scatter, like raindrops bursting on windshields. Our home is burning. The walls are falling. Death, the huntress, comes as terror from above, as fire and smoke, and the crack of shots fired. She comes from the sky with talons spread dropping blimp shaped bombs, funny little things like fat fish that lay the land flat. Our children are crying, our women can’t comfort them, our limbs are missing and the nurse patiently washes our wounds and, though she shines in her white robes like a priestess or an angel, she cannot save us from death, stepping over the corpses she has already laid to waste. She draws nearer and the nurse will step aside when she comes and let her claim her quarry. Then that little lady in white will close our eyes with her finger tips and draw a blanket over our head and hurry to the next soldier or civilian. Death does not care if you are a warrior, or a child, or a house pet. She comes behind Mars who makes his wars and, like a shark drawn to the scent of blood, she frenzies taking everything that crosses her path. The little flowers, the tiniest blades of grass, are burned to ash. The kings of the east and the kings of the west make the wars and we are spent like poker chips at the huntresses’ table. The war makes the king who wins. We, the subjects, must not be considered, only the greater good matters, the causes of freedom, or honor or might. The huntress would have come eventually. Maybe while I rocked on my porch, maybe as I lay sleeping with my wife in my arms, but she is here today answering the call of the War God’s bugle. She is here today, and I am not ready. Not ready to see my home burn before my eyes. Not ready to watch helplessly as my children suffer, as my wife looses all of her tears. I was not ready for the walls to fall today so that I would have to walk naked and alone into the wilderness of the unknown.
Once we were humans, now stardust, we scatter through the vacuum, drawn to the nearest stability, the first hope of home. She will find us again wherever we gather, and herd us into the wild places she holds so dear.

Gentle Touch

The awesome power of the sea cannot be described to one that has never felt it. To stand on the shore and listen to that roar and dance around in that foamy main is to be like a mouse stepping gingerly about in a lion’s beard. We frolic and play in the mouth of a beast and on days when it’s mood and fair it tickles our ankles and laps at our thighs and rocks us gently. On days when it feels in a black mood it slaps our faces and stings our eyes and grabs us and tosses us down and holds us under, snatches a shovel or pail or small child and carries it away to satisfy the whims of the dark eyes of dripping fanged beasties of the deep sea. In some places you can look down at your toes through clear and gentle waters and in others the water of blue and green and churning salt lather hides things that snake slimily around your legs or rise pointedly between your toes so that you lift your foot and hurry away from whatever it is, maybe backing out of the water, hesitant now to accept its cool wet kiss. What sharp toothed things are hiding under that laughing undulating surface? Eels and sharks and things with claws and other thing that strange children warned you about when you played on the sand as a tot. What were those things that they warned you about? Warned you that they were hiding under the sand in the water where the surf breaks. Something that you thought you could see as a line under the sand, something like a snake but worse because it did not even need to breath air. What things are out there? The multicolored beach balls, the bright umbrellas pushed into the sand have never dreamed of the things that lie out there waiting for some unsuspecting fool to wade out too far or splash too much thus giving away their precise location. And yet, often the innocent play around in the briny wet and feel the tingle of power splashing their tummies. The sea can be tolerant and affectionate. It will wash its long lost kin as an old grandmother bathes an infant, with the softest possible touch. With the same tenderness, it will feed them small shiny wriggling things, even if like some infants we bite at the very teat from which we wish to nurse. We would do well not to forget that it is a lioness with whom we are dealing, and her great age leaves her with no less ferocity than she was capable of in the days when her waters were red and not blue. So tread lightly little mouse. Play carefully, and never let down your guard.

Protect

The power to give life and the power to take it away, God-like responsibility invested in a fallible man and his companion. Studies have show that the intelligence of dogs is not superior to that of other species. It is their ability to pay attention to humans and respond to hand signals that makes them unique. No other animal on this planet other than the human animal is capable of connecting a meaning to a gesture. It is speculated that the wild wolves began to shift into dogs as a result of scavenging from the scrap piles of the hunters that are the ancestors of present day man. Drawn in by the food, only those who were gentle and affable were permitted to hang around a camp, any dog that displayed aggression to a human met with the sharp end of a spear. Slowly, accidentally, a process of domestication began. Wild dogs that barked when danger approached the camp, dogs that could assist men with a kill were rewarded with a share of the kill. Dogs who had the ability to observe and attach meaning to the actions of humankind found a way to make themselves necessary to the two legged pack. The police dogs that are employed by law enforcement agencies around the world are most commonly German Shepherds. The German Shepherd is selected, not because it is an aggressive dog, but for the opposite reason entirely, because it is a highly intelligent and naturally gentle creature. The officer that the dog is paired with is called a handler and the dog learns to respond only to those commands delivered by the handler himself. This naturally mellow dog is taught to be an aggressor when commanded. The greatest focus of training is the strengthening of the bond between dog and handler. The police officer can rely on their mutual contact, knowing that the dog will automatically defend him from any attacker. Police dogs are trained to search buildings for suspects and hold them at bay with a bark when they are located. As long as the suspect does not move or make any threatening gestures, the dog will not attack unless commanded. They are also trained to sniff for drugs and assist in the search for missing persons. These creatures find themselves quite by accident in a position of great power. They are linked with those that can bring protection or death and act as the instrument for these purposes as the angelic hosts act on behalf of God the Punisher, or God the Savior.

Biological Creation

They used to tell the boys in the villages, in the places where the dark forests reached in behind the city walls to snag unattended children and little lambs and chickens, that it was a dark magick and should be feared. They didn’t need to be told, they saw the blood and it filled them with dread, a terrible sickness, a curse of some kind had come to claim their mothers and their sisters. They knew this. They never forgot it. Even when the moon was a silver sliver hanging in the darkened sky and the women were clean and the blood no longer flowed from between their legs, they knew that some dark magic lived there, they knew it, and they feared it and they longed to touch it. Only warriors, men who spilled blood in open fields and lived arm in arm with death and open wounds could consort with women without fear. Warriors and whores could keep each other in the truest company, forgiving of each others’ gruesome sins. Farmers and shepherds who spent all of their live long days in opposition to death could never love women like warriors did, and the wives of shepherds and farmers could never be women the way whores were, and the boys who were frightened by warnings and signs of blood would grow to be tillers of the land and herdsmen, while those who were unafraid would quarrel over women and love them and leave them and fight the wars of little lords in possession of crumbling estates, or they might seek out the alchemists and apothecaries of the wide world and learn some dark magick of their own. Women who weren’t whores and weren’t content to sweep the floor of a thatch cottage and milk a cow and birth one child after another and show no sign of enjoying lovemaking with their husbands… such women were witches, witches who sneaked beyond the city walls at night so that they could touch their dark magick in the wild places like the other wild things do, away from the eyes of the people who fear darkness and chaos and danger. They would whirl around bonfires and eat strange things and ride upon their broomsticks and love one of the old gods of the forest that couldn’t resist such a rumpus and then steal away back to their straw mattresses before the cock crowed and dawn glimmered golden with the promises of day. Then they would sweep the floor with eyelids half shut and milk the cows until they fell asleep leaning on their flanks, and they would hold still for their husbands at dusk but drink the potions that would prevent inception, and wait for their next gathering.

Solar Deity

From all time and for all time, sun, glorious sun that feeds those who count their revolutions round its throne. This is time for us, the turning of our face from you, our slow elliptical orbit around your mass. We would not be were it not for you. We count our days and months and years by you. There is nothing that we eat that at some point did not come from you, no product that is manufactured that would be without you, we have you to thank for our sight, for our warmth, for our lives. We forget this in our days of industrial obsession. When we learned to make a pale fluorescent day of the night and work through every turn of our course around you, we began to forget. When we embraced the religion that called for only one God that was almost you, but not only you, we started on our journey into the realm of the abstract, the vain, and the forgetful. Sometimes still we lay out on the beach or in a hammock in our yard and we thank GOD for the lovely sun, but we no longer thank the sun itself, and we no longer know what GOD is or could be. Now we put panels on our roof tops to help power the electric lamps and the electric stove, and the heater so that your warmth may extend into our darkest loneliest hours. We are never without the comforts and necessities you provide and yet we take your role for granted, all but forgetting you, cursing you when we forget our spf or when the heat of a summer afternoon fills our toil with sweat and thirst. You are a companion so constant that your presence is invisible to us. We still call for you on the cloudy days. In the winter we hold the feasts and carry on with the traditions that celebrate our slow return to closeness with you, but we talk about the son of GOD instead of the SUN itself. We are a tangled and confused lot, and always were. Perhaps you have never noticed us, or perhaps you have and now miss our straight forward adoration. Maybe we would know which is the case if only we still listened to real voices, voices that penetrate from without instead of welling up from within.
In any case, here is to you, the glorious, the shinning, the powerful, Sun.

Black Feather

This story happened before we had methods of recording stories so, just like many others before us, you must remember, in any way that you can manage to remember, and you must tell the story once again, for all stories are one story and what I tell you now will surely happen again, to you and to others and then to others once again, and if you don’t remember, and if you don’t tell it, then the story will never change.
In those days, the people traveled in a long slow caravan of wooden carriages and black metal carts, and their movement was heavy and full of foreboding, for they traveled through rough dead lands full of mystery and danger. It was a time of endless nights and savage storms and reckless lightning, a time of great fear and great sadness. The people had grown old and ugly and hateful and they had lost all hope for there was no hope to be found in the endless repetition of short gloomy days and long frightful nights drenched in wind and sand and chaos.
One night, Mother, who rested alone within one of the great metal carts, was visited by the White Birds, and they were made of shining glory that sparkled as they flew and, as they gracefully came towards her, they spread their vast wings all over the black sky and made the stars themselves sparkle with color. Mother heard them coming and she sat up and stared at them with big, round eyes, unable to comprehend their nature, but they would never stay long enough for her to ask a question and so she simply stared. They lovingly came down upon her and they gave to her what she most had wanted, a tiny helpless creature who would finally recognize in her what she truly was and what she had always been. In return, she would see in their gift what she had always refused to acknowledge, what she had most feared in her lonely nights inside the metal cart.
As he came, naked and wet, from the great Void, from which everything emerges and to which everything eventually returns, he was gentle and soft and devoid of any concepts or arrangements. In his tiny new eyes there were no conditions or assumptions. He knew nothing and he wanted nothing. He was open to the world, as dark as it could be right then, or as light as it may become in the future. There were no further questions brewing within him, and no further answers were forthcoming, not then and not for the first months of hidden existence within the bosom of Mother’s warm furry darkness, the welcoming living sanctuary that protected the little creature from what waited outside. Mother looked at her brown new little gift and she called him Son, in honor of his blazing creation and of his subtle gleaming promise of new shining light.

* * *

But it came to pass that the people became aware of the little Son and they did recognize something within him that was unlike them. And they couldn’t understand what it was that they saw, and they couldn’t recognize the dance of fire behind his tiny eyes, as it was too small and it was too fleeting and they didn’t have the patience to search. But, unwilling to search, they were still eager to find something, and so they did. It became clear to them what it was that made Son obviously different from them, and in this they found what they needed. Having been brought by The White Birds, Son had sprouted gray wings of his own right away, but they were unlike wings as the people knew them and they were more like giant ears as they knew them, giant ears that flapped all around him and made it difficult for him to walk. Seeing this, the people grabbed onto his giant ears and they pulled on them and they stepped on them and they kicked at them and they laughed at Son for he didn’t know where to go or what to do or how to defend himself. They persisted in their attacks for so long that they brought little Son to tears, and the thick tears dripped down his furry face like oil and they mixed with his sweat and with the dirt at his feet and, seeing this, the people laughed even harder, for nothing was funnier to the people than to watch the pain in another’s eyes. Son, staring with eyes now as wide as Mother’s at the people that laughed all around him, regretted ever having come into this strange place, where people step on your ears and then laugh when they see that it hurts you. Little Son, being so hurt and afraid, even blamed Mother for having arranged his arrival. Maybe if she hadn’t been so eager to stare into the unknown and find confirmations, maybe then he would have remained where he had been originally, even though now he could not remember at all what this place had been and he couldn’t even point in that direction.
Mother was furious at this development, for now her only prize had been taken away from her and her one hope of true happiness was sinking into a pool of sadness, heavy as lead and deep as the deepest well in the southern lands. She turned on the laughing people, and she attacked them in a great blaze of fury, hoping to show them their wrongdoing, hoping to show them how it felt to be hurt. But the people were many, and, all together, they were much stronger than she was, and they grabbed her and chained her and they took her away to a place where she would never be able to hurt any of the people ever again. There she died soon after, drowning in her own tears that would never stop coming. Son was left behind, alone, afraid and sadder than ever, wondering what he would do now that his one and only fountain of love and safety was gone.

* * *

Mouse was a tiny creature that had lived much longer than any of the people that lived around him. Being very small, he managed to live from the scraps that the other people left behind and he managed to remain hidden among the half broken carts that formed the rear of the caravan. One day, it came to pass that Mouse saw Son alone, crying and shivering, hopelessly looking up at the sky and wishing for a sudden end to his great troubles. Mouse took pity on him and came towards him slowly and Mouse smiled at him and ran his little hand over his furry giant ears. Son saw him and loved him immediately with a fury that can only be borne of true hopelessness, when all appearances have fallen and there is only the heart left behind. Mouse recognized this fury and gave his own love back in the same way for, due to his age and his cunning, Mouse had learned to do such things when he really wanted.
Having become Son’s true friend, Mouse then took it upon himself to show Son the ways of the world of the people. He showed him when to avoid the big congregations, for they were dangerous and unpredictable. He showed Son how to be helpful to the people without raising their concern. He showed Son how to step out of the way of the giant powerful guards that roamed up and down the great caravan dressed in shining black metal armor. He showed him then how to return to his little chores without causing a wave of undue suspicion among the few people that even knew that they were there. Most of all, Mouse showed him how to pull his giant ears back and tie them behind his head, so they wouldn’t be in his way when he walked, and so they wouldn’t attract undue attention. Son followed all of Mouse’s instructions, and even though he still missed Mother, he learned to make his way in the world. And the storms continued and the nights were just as frightening and the lightning was still as reckless as it ever was.

* * *

One day it came to pass that a big man came to talk to Son. The man wore a large top hat and he had a long moustache that fell in curls over both sides of his mouth, and the moustache bounced up and down each time he talked. The man sat beside Son and looked at him sternly. Son simply stared back at him, afraid of what this strange man might have to say.
“It is time for you to earn your share of food and your living quarters,” the man said, “you cannot continue to live here and expect us to carry you as dead weight.”
Son nodded and agreed with what seemed like sensible words, even though he couldn’t really understand them, and he couldn’t really know what was reasonable to expect since he knew no other world and he had come into this one without expectations.
“I have discussed this with my councilors and we have decided to offer you a position, and I do encourage you to immediately accept it,” the man said and he smiled at Son with his eyes twinkling and his long curly moustache bouncing up and down.
Again Son could find no fault in what the man was saying, even though he didn’t understand what a position was or what would happen once he did accept it.
“We will make you a Purveyor of Laughter, since that is the one job that you have done well in your short life,” and the man made a quick gesture with his arm and, at once, two little men ran towards him, and they carried with them two big leather bags. They placed them on the ground, close to where Son still was sitting, nodding and staring at the strange man with the large top hat. The two little men opened the leather bags and took out many containers of paint and they took out several large brushes. “I assume that your silence is to be understood as acceptance?” the man asked Son and Son nodded slowly, unable to find within himself any reason to deny the man’s proposal. The two little men then went to work on Son’s face and body and soon he was so covered in paint of many colors that even Mother would have had trouble recognizing him. Son didn’t find this completely unpleasant and he even smiled when they lead him to the head of the caravan, a place where he had never been before.
At the very front of the caravan, as it laid resting like a large old snake draped across the surface of the land, there was a wide circle of torches, and there were many guards in full black metal armor riding on strong black horses and these guards looked over a large restless crowd that was formed around the circle of dancing light. In the middle of the circle, there were little women jumping and dancing, and there were men gyrating and singing, and there were other people jumping over blazing fire and rolling in the ground, wincing with pain as they fell. All of it, but specially the last, scared Son intensely and then he wished to go back to where he had come from, but it was much too late. By the time he thought of turning back, he was suddenly pushed into the middle of the circle and he found himself in right in the center of an ocean of demanding eyes and the eyes stared at him with something akin to hunger. As soon as he looked at them, with his big ears pulled back against his trembling body and the bright paint reflecting the shifting light of the many torches, they started to laugh, and they laughed loud and long and hard, and they kept on laughing for what seemed like forever. Then a man came and pulled Son up and forced him to jump through a ring of fire and then he forced him to jump into several great wooden barrels full of water that broke when he landed inside of them. With every painful stunt, the people laughed and laughed and laughed, and Son knew loneliness once again and, once again, he wished he was back in a place that he couldn’t even remember, a place before Mother and the caravan and the vast hostile land. Whatever this place had been, it must have been better than this.
His suffering seemed endless, but, like all sufferings, it did eventually come to an end and he was brought back to his little corner of the caravan, back among the restless people that laughed but not quite so loudly and the dirty little people that ran under the carts to make sure that the wheels were still held tight. Mouse came towards him when he saw him and Mouse felt a great pity for him, for Son was burned by the fires, and bruised by the many falls, and the paint had fallen in places and it had remained in others, so that Son looked completely broken and lacking in any hope. Mouse ran his hand over the fur of his giant ears and tried to make him feel better, but it only made Son feel worse, and so they simply cried together, knowing that some calamities are simply beyond the reach of any cure.

* * *

After much crying, Mouse finally had an idea and he quickly shared it with his sad and shivering friend.
“I have traveled with this caravan for much longer than I can remember. I know their patterns and I know the places that they visit and I know how long they stay in each place. They will stay here for many months, I know, and I also know that this place is the same as the one that we visited many, many years ago. I believe I know that a place is nearby where we can find something special."
Son stared at his friend in wonder, and his words were full of such mystery and strangeness that he forgot all about his sadness and simply listened, intently trying to understand the deepest meaning that hid within his tale.
“We will travel for a day in that direction,” Mouse said as he pointed to the East, “and then we will turn and travel for another day, and then we will come to the foot of the mountains, to the land of the gray rocks. There we will find the cave that I faintly remember and, within it, we will find what we seek.”
Mouse never said what it was that they would find there but Son felt something strange that seemed somehow familiar, something that told him that he didn’t need to ask for reasons at all, something that told him that all questions that he could come up with would be superfluous. They both started walking right away, without any need for further explanation.
They walked in silence for a day, and then they turned, and then they walked in silence for another day, until they came to a region that was full of large gray rocks and narrow little passageways. Mouse then pointed to the rocks and said, “This is where the mountains begin. Somewhere among all these gray rocks, there is a cave Son. Help me find it.”
Son walked slowly around the many rocks, calling back to Mouse every so often to make sure he wouldn’t lose him. When Mouse would hear him calling, he would call back saying, “I am here Son. Don’t worry. Just keep on looking.” And they moved far away from each other, but still Son called to him in a way that Mouse could hear and then Mouse would call back to him in the same way. And the meaning of their calling was always the same: “I am still here. I am still searching.”
After much searching and much calling, Son came upon a rock that was larger than all the others. In the middle of the large rock, there was a hole big enough for the two of them to walk through. Inside the hole, Son could only see sand and darkness. Son called to Mouse once more and he said, “Mouse, I believe I have found it!” and right away Mouse came running, already sure that Son was right because he could hear it in his voice, and as soon as he saw the cave, he smiled in recognition and he pointed to the darkness.
“This is it! You have indeed found it! Let’s go right in. We have no time to waste!”
As they walked into the darkness, Son was trying to restrain his fear because Mouse showed no fear at all, and he was his friend and he knew what he was doing. After a short walk, Mouse dropped to his knees and started to crawl around and whisper, “Somewhere around here… somewhere… around… here…” and Son grew restless because he didn’t know what Mouse was looking for. But, as restless as he was, he waited quietly out of the simple trust that was borne of his love for Mouse.
After some time of whispering and crawling around on the sand, Mouse suddenly said, “Here! There are many here! More than enough for the two of us!” Son heard some more movement and then Mouse moved towards him in the darkness. “I will give you something,” Mouse said, “and I want you to eat it.” Son this time couldn’t resist his initial impulse and he had to ask, “What is it?”
Mouse answered in his sweetest voice, which seemed even sweeter to Son in the darkness of the cave, “I don’t know what it is. I only know what it does. “
That answer satisfied Son and he extended his hand and Mouse placed something in it and said, one more time, “Eat it.”
Son brought the strange soft thing to his lips and dropped it onto his tongue. It tasted like sand and dirt and he felt an urge to spit it out right away, but Mouse, sensing what Son was about to do, quickly said to him, “Chew it. Eat it.” And Son did as Mouse said.
Soon the darkness of the cave was no longer empty, and soon Mouse was no longer small, and soon there were lights all around them, and there were great circles of fire, much greater than the circle that Son had seen at the head of the caravan, and Son wondered how this could all fit within the cave, but it didn’t matter, because there were stars falling upon them in great spirals, through the roof of the cave which seemed to be moving like water. Son suddenly knew that he was where had always been, and he knew then that he had never left his place of origin and that, in fact, he would never leave it, for he was the one who was the light in the darkness, and the light that now surrounded him in great and intricate webs of flashing colors, it was all within him, it sprouted from the core of his being. He was Son and his friend was Mouse, but they were as if not unlike each other, and in a way that he would never be able to explain but that he knew beyond question, they were one and the same, and it had always been so.
The many colored lights grew ever brighter and they circled all around them in greater and greater speed, and great thick tears poured down Son’s face, but they were no longer tears of sadness but of something else that he couldn’t understand but which he welcomed. Suddenly Son reached behind himself, laughing as he had never laughed before, and he released his big ears from the knots that held them tightly behind his head. Then he said to Mouse, “Jump up onto my back my friend, just as you had a great gift for me, I now have a great gift for you,” and his voice was unlike his voice as Mouse knew it, for it was stronger and thicker and it resonated strangely within the small confines of the cave. Mouse was suddenly afraid of this unexpected development, but he quickly set his fear aside, for his love for Son was greater than any fear that could come upon him, and then Mouse jumped up on Son’s back and Son ran towards the mouth of the cave. It was then that the great ears which were truly wings finally flapped up and down as they had always been meant to do and, together, they emerged from the hole in the big rock and they rose up over the mountains, and they flew with great abandon, and they danced together among the clouds, and they flew so high that they could even see the caravan in the distance, many miles below them and then they flew towards it, still laughing and making playful pirouettes in the night sky. Mouse laughed as he had never laughed, and Son laughed as he had never laughed, and the colored lights were like stars, and the stars were like colored lights and there were great sounds that ran through their bodies like thunder, and the sounds seemed to come from both near and far and it all became so bright that it was too much to contain within their bodies and their laughter grew and grew until it became the great laughter that made the world itself dance and swim in the great dark waves of the vast ocean of stars.

* * *

Son woke up precariously perched on a thick branch of a very tall tree. Mouse was cradled in another branch just a few feet away from him. Son looked at his friend and he wondered how they had gotten up here and Mouse opened his eyes and looked at him, still ablaze with wonder.
“How did we get up here, Mouse?” Son asked in the soft voice that Mouse knew so well.
Mouse looked at him and he realized that his friend couldn’t remember anything that had happened, and he looked down and determined that he would have to remind his friend how they had gotten up here if they had any hope of getting down.
“We flew,” Mouse said, in a voice so soft as to be almost silent, for Mouse himself couldn’t quite believe it and he felt that the words themselves could banish the memory from the place where it rested behind his eyes.
Son shook his big head and noticed for the first time that his big ears were loose and they were once again flapping wildly around him as they used to. He was then afraid that he would lose his balance and he looked down towards the ground below with fear and he reached out quickly to the thick branch on where he lay, holding it very tightly. Sweat formed around his brow, for it was now clear to him that he was in terrible danger.
“What do you mean, Mouse?” he said as he trembled with the fear of falling over.
Mouse realized then that this would be much more difficult than he had originally thought. He looked around him then and he saw three Black Birds perched on some branches above them. Mouse called to them in their secret language and the Black Birds came towards the two of them, cackling in the way that Black Birds do.
“What do you want of us?” the leader of the Black Birds said to Mouse.
“Did you see us arrive here? Did you see how we came to be here?” Mouse asked him and the Black Bird nodded, “yes, we did. You were both quite a sight!”
Mouse then stared at the Black Bird in the way that only a Black Bird would recognize and then he said, “But do you know how we got here? Do you know exactly HOW it happened?”
The great Black Bird smiled in the mocking way that Black Birds have of smiling and he nodded his long black head. Then, without a second thought, he grabbed a black feather that was resting on one of the leaves of the great tree, ready to dance on the wind, and he raised it high above his head.
“It was this feather… the black feather that your friend here held in his mouth.”
Son stared at the Black Bird and shook his head, unbelieving. The Black Bird then flew toward Son and, without shame or hesitation, placed it between his lips.
“See? Now with the black feather in your mouth, you can fly!”
The Black Bird then pushed Son effortlessly off the branch, without any further explanation. Son at first panicked and, full of the weight of fear, he started to fall. But soon his great ears, which were really wings, started to flap, and he floated in midair as effortlessly as the Black Birds did.
“See?” the Black Bird said, “I would not tell you a lie. Not unless I had to!” and at that, all the other Black Birds cackled and the leader cackled as well.
“You can keep that feather, my friend, in case you want to fly again!”
Mouse then jumped on Son’s back and they flew back towards their home in the caravan, the black feather held tightly in Son’s little mouth.

* * *

The next time that the man with the big hat came for him, Son was ready. Right away, he showed the man what he could do, by lifting himself high above the man and then circling around him in midair like a giant moth. The man stared at Son in wonder as his great ears flapped up and down and as he flew all around him and as he flew over the caravan, and as he flew far towards the clouds and then back again. The man immediately recognized his great luck and he made the proper arrangements to put on the greatest show he had ever been able to organize.
Son was still painted up, but he was now painted in different colors and the crowds that came to see him didn’t laugh any more. Instead, they stared at him in wonder and they pointed at him as he flew higher than they had ever seen a bird fly. Son was happy then and he was very thankful that the Black Birds had given him his feather. If it hadn’t been for the Black Birds, he would still be sad and lonely, and the people would not stare at him in wonder and the man with the big hat would not smile when he approached.
His only concern now was ever losing his black feather, so he held onto it tightly, and he never let it out of his sight. Sometimes, at night, he would wake up trembling, afraid that the feather had been taken away, afraid that he would then have to return to being the Purveyor of Laughter, the heart of a circle of mockery, painted in bright colors, sad and bruised and burned. He would then look for his little black feather, and when he found it, he would then calm down and go back to sleep, knowing that his feather was there, and so his place in the world was safe as well.

* * *

In those days, many people wanted to talk to Son, and they came from all around and they would ask him to fly a little for them and he did, and when they saw the wonder of his flight, they applauded with admiration and they asked him many questions about things that Son knew nothing about. Son quickly learned to tell them what they wanted to hear, for what they wanted to hear was easily found within the question itself and it was only a matter of turning the words around and giving them back in a way that seemed pleasing. The visitors would then walk away, happy that they had received what they wanted and Son would be happy that he had been able to give them this gift. The truth was that Son had nothing to say and all he really wanted to do was fly some more, and dance in the great winds among the clouds.
In the midst of all these new people and all this fame and all this growing happiness, he forgot about his old friend who had found him alone and crying one day so long ago. Meanwhile, Mouse went back to his old life of hiding from the people’s sight, in the dirty outer reaches of the ancient caravan. Sometimes he would go to see the big show, only to see his old friend flying over the crowd with a little black feather tightly held between his lips. Mouse would then remember that first day when they flew together, and he would be a little sad because that day had been strange and scary and wild and it seemed to him that such a thing would never happen again. But he was also happy because his old friend was happy and strong and because the crowds were ever growing and that meant more food for him and more places to hide.

* * *

But all things that can happen do eventually happen. So one day, when Son was flying over the crowds of admirers, he opened his mouth to laugh with them, and he did it carelessly because he now felt invincible and he knew that nothing at all could possibly hurt him. As he opened his mouth, a great wind came upon him and the black feather flew away from his lips, much too fast for him to reach for it, and then the treasured black feather was lost in the shadows of the foggy night. Son suddenly knew the taste of fear once again, even as he thought that he had forgotten it. He was very high up above the crowd, in the midst of the empty night sky, and he had nothing to hold onto. He immediately felt himself growing heavy, and his ears didn’t flap as fast anymore, and they moved slower and slower until they didn’t flap at all, and then Son started to fall, like the big gray rocks that sometimes fall from the sky.
It was very lucky for everyone that Mouse happened to be in the middle of the crowd that day, for there would have been no hope at all if he hadn’t been there. Calling forth every bit of strength in his little body, he called to Son, in the same calm but forceful voice that he had used when they were hunting for the cave in the land of the gray rocks, and in the same way that he had done back then, he made his voice travel across a great distance so that Son would be sure to hear it.
“Son, you don’t need the feather, you never needed it at all! It was a lie all along! You flew because you could! You flew because it was your nature! You flew because of your wings that were always a part of you and always will be! You can fly now as much as you ever have! Fly! You don’t need the feather anymore! You never did!”
Son, who was now rapidly falling and could feel the hard ground approaching like a giant train reaching up into the sky, heard the voice of his friend as if in a dream, like a soft whispering next to his giant ears that now refused to flap. He was so afraid right then that it almost seemed to him that it couldn’t be true, but he suddenly found that he still had within him the love that he had once felt, and with that love came a deep trust that overcame all obstacles and all questions and all manner of doubts. He looked up towards the sky and to the stars and he once again saw the lights of many colors all around him, the same ones that he had seen on that fateful day. And then, right then and there, without any further effort, his great gray wings started to flap, as strong as ever and even stronger.

* * *

Very few people noticed what had happened and even fewer noticed any change, but Son was now surrounded by the lights of many colors and they were not going away. He now knew that they wouldn’t ever go away again.
Since that day, the shows at the head of the caravan came to an end, and there were no more crowds, for Son refused to show himself off in that manner. Instead, he simply flew so high as to seem like a tiny star in the horizon and the caravan followed him as they would follow a star. It was in this way that the caravan at last turned from its endless circles through the rough endless land and, by going in a direction that they had never before explored, the people found a land of rivers and forests and great fruits full of color and juice.
When Son saw this, he decided that the people no longer needed him and he left forever, flying towards the great darkness beyond the stars, with Mouse laughing on his back. The people soon forgot about the strange events that had occurred in the past and they simply blessed themselves as great travelers, for they had traveled through the wasteland and they had at last arrived at their true home.

* * *

This story happened before we had methods of recording stories so, just like many others before us, you must remember, in any way that you can manage to remember, and you must tell the story once again, for all stories are one story and what I tell you now will surely happen again, to you and to others and then to others once again, and if you don’t remember, and if you don’t tell it, then the story will never change.

Puppets Made of Flesh

So it goes that I sympathize with the most unhappy and with those who harbor a bleak outlook on the situations born of civilization, of the great con of man, of life as we know life to be, and I don’t just mean human lifestyles, but the condition of organic life with its maddeningly pointless design. For a moment or two, knowing that somewhere out there in the big black jungle made of frowning faces and the legs of dark gray pantsuits that reach up sky high where they give way to a canopy of industrial smoke, there are a few others who can see what I see, or at least something akin to it. Eventually however, I find that hearing of their own oppressive loneliness makes my empathetic heart tremble.
Sure, we are brave ones, we who see what we see and then go further to say what we can say, paint pictures, sculpt sculptures, make collages, write plays, anything that we can do to transform shit into exotic blooms, as part of one last desperate attempt to make something of our ridiculous woes, but it makes me sad anyhow.
Usually I can turn all this hysteria into a joyful performance. I will laugh, joke, sing, and dance. I will do what I can to make the other smile. Then nature catches up with me, (because I don’t always manage to outrun it) and then tears are just tears and not jokes or crystal ants or anything at all. Just salt water squeezed from little ducts set in the innermost corners of my eyes because the world is loveless and dead and it is infecting me while I am failing to infect it. Affection passes itself off as love around here, and you will be rewarded with affection only when you are not taking something that somebody else wants or when you are giving somebody something that they want, but if you should fail to appease, then the affection stops and you don’t even have the emptied out representation of love.
Here and there maybe, you might find a mad hatter through whom love flows no matter what. Usually not though, because when those crackpots come to the attention of the general public it is generally agreed upon that the best thing to do is have that nut case nailed up to a cross so that the buzzards can pick out his (or her) eyes. As you can imagine, anyone like that is either dead or making themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Meanwhile some other clown is passing himself off as a fountain of loving salvation from which comforting answers spring forth like popcorn from an air popper so that you may paste them over your hollowed out heart like little hello kitty band aids over a 35 caliber gunshot wound, and that in exchange for a little bit of the green, if you know what I mean, or sometimes they’ll swap for sex or just attention, power, and glory, or all of the above.
Anywhere you go on this bumpy globe there is someone waiting with a pair of shears in hand, ready to fleece you, pat you on the head and send you back out into the cold Siberian winter so that icicles will crystallize on your eyelashes and your breath will freeze in your mouth so that you choke to death on a maw sized ice cube when you attempt to bleat for help. There are plenty of perky folks running in circles after their tails, glad to be doing so if the other option is to look over their shoulders and notice the master, and then the master’s master, and so on until they realize that it’s Emperor Palpatine holding the end of a long string of leashes, and seeing how low you are in the pecking order, it can mean only one of two things: you are either a clone, or worse (and most likely) an android. Of course the key to keeping androids happy is to never point out that they are androids and to additionally conceal the fact that they are working for the Empire.
The saddest part is that androids, like you and me, as eager as Pinocchio to be real boys and girls, are happy to swallow the lie. We live out our mechanical lives insisting that we are the real deal, that we are in control of ourselves, never really wanting to find out that all of our likes and dislikes were programmed into us by Geppetto back on the Death Star and that, even now, he’s streaming new programs into our highly sophisticated systems through television and radio transmissions. He probably works for some low level General who also likes to forget about the Emperor and fancies himself to be the real deal, the ultimate power. Once you’ve pulled back the green curtain and caught a glimpse of the icky sticky lonesome chaotic truth, it’s hard to push that image out of your mind, and even if you do manage it with lots of bon bons and day time tv, or prescription drugs and booze, or even illegal drugs and underage sex, you find that the uneasy sensation that something is very wrong will not be to far off.
And if you do look it in the face then even your own moments of happiness will seem sickeningly superficial. Your own mechanical arm bringing a cherry ice cream cone closer to your own mechanical mouth and the fleeting sensation of gratification and pleasure that follows will become a horror to you. Then I am told, that you will need to either go back to uneasy sleep or finish waking up so that the horror of it becomes a delight and you yourself are one of those secret mad hatters, cruising the world without worrying about the crosses they are manufacturing down at the saw mill, doing your best to infect the Empire with the strange radiation leaking from your bursting heart, laughing at the crystal ants marching down your cheeks.

The Life Unknowable

What is going on here? What is going on here?
It’s among the biggest discernible patterns, a hostile interplay of forms. The battle to be the only "this", the only channel through which "that" can drink the cosmic nectar. AM vs. FM, Io vs. Juno.
One million died to make this sound. One million sacrificed to Xibalba, to the ghostly pools of the uncreated, so that one could be born to center stage. One most skilled at eliciting the attention of "that". "This" and "that" playing off one another, sending and receiving, creating a circuit in praise of the holy electric. But "this" has a shadow, it’s unborn twin, the dark side of the revered moon. And what if she were permitted to enter the circle? To disturb the holy union of "this" and "that"?
We call this a triangle children. One of the basic geometric shapes, a polygon with three vortices.
It holds more ppppppppppppower.
Please, do get your mind out of the gutter, not every triangle is merely two or three dimensional. Of course they are all related.
But you know, those anarchists, they will not stop at triangles, oh no, they have no scruples whatsoever. They would have "this" and "that" admitting every denied bit of nothing verging on something, creating indiscernible patterns pulsing with the wine of ages. This of course is the end of life as we know it. This is Chaos, Noise, The Life Unknowable.
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.
Jealous Gods will not want to open their neighborhood to the other schizophrenic whispers rustling by in the abyss. It is too much to face their nature, so long forgotten, exiled to spare one the agony of being a million.
Who will die for our sins? Who will die for our sins? Who will die for our sins?