Water

If one does not acknowledge the ripple-effect, ebbs and flows, tides or the serenity in depth, then one does not understand Water. Remember what you are, human, your composition and constitution. Look to your home planet and see those reflections.

What can be found within our expression of “water:”

“O.E. wæter, from P.Gmc. *watar (cf. O.S. watar, O.Fris. wetir, Du. water, O.H.G. wazzar, Ger. Wasser, O.N. vatn, Goth. wato “water”), from PIE *wodor/*wedor/*uder-, from root *wed- (cf. Hittite watar, Skt. udnah, Gk. hydor, O.C.S., Rus. voda, Lith. vanduo, O.Prus. wundan, Gael. uisge “water;” L. unda “wave”). Linguists believe PIE had two root words for water: *ap- and *wed-. The first (preserved in Skt. apah) was “animate,” referring to water as a living force; the latter referred to it as an inanimate substance. The same was probably true of fire (n.). To keep (one’s) head above water in the fig. sense is recorded from 1742. Water cooler is recorded from 1846; water polo from 1884; water torture from 1928. First record of water-closet is from 1755. Water-ice as a confection is from 1818. Watering-place is 1440, of animals, 1757, of persons. Water-lily first attested 1549. Waterfront is attested from 1856.” Etymology

The vibrations within WATER encompass concepts of consciousness and movement woven in Fortuna’s hands and explored in “The Turn.”

When the world is sleeping the machines are still running.

The one in control of the space has the advantage of being able to move slowest. (Is this why I am creature of responsiveness?)

When we’re separate planes taking off in the night, how can another know what the atmosphere is like where the other is landing?

slices of

Sometimes I go for creative writing prompts. So that I can find words in my head that are not my own but ~sound~ brilliant, oozing with contrived emotion, thick affectation, and obvious and overdone themes.

I hover by his ear while charcoal-etched skeletons play poker in the side of my head… one has the Ace of Hearts. *is not the Queen of Hearts* (just so we are straight.)

The blinks are slow with weighed lashes, under the abundance of holiday light; echoes reverberate at their every flutter.

The still frames of the mind are odd slices through time. Data can be acquired from all slices; what seems to matter most to the observer is his own interpretation of it. What does it all (Mean? & Heavy vibrates with an aspect of the 8.) Twist and turn around another riddle. Without The Whole are the parts absurd? Or orphaned? The FINDING is The Task. FIND: 33 Eternal Life. FINDING: 63 Centering/The Present.

We find our voices… from the same fountain, a different vein or funnel.

Memories of Life/Life of Memories

This is how it is for me:

I have a strange relationship with Memory. People will recount stories to me, and I will respond to them, commenting on how “it sounded” such a way. Typically, I get a confused look and then the comment “you were there.” I’ll think back and say “no, I wasn’t.” This usually results in a discussion that include additional details, times, dates, locations, other people, etc. I will shake my head. No. I do not remember it. And, for me, it doesn’t exist… just like that. Sometimes, those same memories will return to me. And, for me, it exists… just like that. The past often shifts for me. Pieces are remembered here or there, with varying degrees of vividness. Many question the validity of it, but, honestly, I think that the validity is of little consequence. Sometimes I will recall obscure details about something, but not what everyone else remembers. They may be focused on the occasion, the people, the event, but I will remember the sunset and climate, what songs were playing in the background, a story that someone told me that no one else heard (and sometimes even that person who told me it will insist they did not).

Memories also shift in regard to which “life” it is attributed. Some memories or events follow throughout “all lifespans,” non-linear or non-local. Others are defined to certain lives. In my life here, bearing this name and face, most assuredly, “I” have been in more than one life. Some people remember me from “our past.” To them, it is just that: past. To me, it is a separate life. In this way, our present or future interactions may feel strange to them, as non sequitur. I can come across as cold in this regard. For them, I am still within their linear lifespan. When they seek to touch me, I am not there. My memory of them does not vanish, but it is perceived by me in an entirely different manner. My memory of them is a past life memory. It touches me, but not in the same manner that –memories from THIS life- do. The distinction may make me sound slightly sociopathic. *shrugs*

By the same token, simply because a memory is part of another life does not mean that it cannot also be/become/shift as part of this life. I have some memories that not only “change with time,” but also that fuse in and out of “this life.”

Additionally, I can remember “our past” upon meeting someone for the first time. I have memories of them already (this phenomenon could look like a spontaneous manifestation to an outsider). This is more than a –feeling- of knowing someone “my entire life;” this is –remembering- them. The memories are clear and vivid. People have been known to argue with my memories of them, saying something to the effect of “we didn’t know each other then; I couldn’t have been there.” *shrugs* I remember it, and it’s real.

My memories seem not to be limited to “the past.” It is not rare for me to remember “the future” through dreams, visions or experimental writing. Often I remember “the present.” Likewise, all of these are subject to forgetting as well.

When people ask me if I “remember,” I often respond with “I might not be the best person to ask.” It saves the lengthy (and possibly slightly deranged) detail as well as any hurt or confusion if I were to say “it depends on if you were in this life.”

Related:

“Unknown White Male”

Strap-on
my billy goat tight
to the mountain
(They are so fuckin purple, it blasts grape through my mind, staining my tongue bruise-blue just like the goo goose. Chewy chewy.)
I catch pebbles in my hand –
falling rock from living mountain,
like dead skin flaking off my body.

Calls and intersection

Wherever we are “right now,” when we want to CONNECT (74… leads to paradox) (no matter how joyfully or desperately or angrily), we use all the circuits available to us. When we DO NOT want that connection, we fry them.

CALL (28… glyph)

call (v.)
O.E. ceallian, less common than clipian; replaced by related O.N. kalla “to cry loudly,” from P.Gmc. *kallojanan, from PIE base *gal- “to call, scream, shriek, shout” (cf. L. gallus “cock;” Ger. Klage “complaint, grievance, lament, accusation;” O.C.S. glasu “voice,” glagolu “word;” Welsh galw “call”). Meaning “to give a name to” is c.1250. Meaning “to visit” (M.E.) was literally “to stand at the door and call;” sense of “a short formal visit” is from 1862; caller “visitor” is from 1786. Telephone/telegraph sense is from 1889 (hence slang call girl, c.1900, originally a prostitute dispatched by telephone). Coin-toss sense is from 1801. Calling “vocation” (1382) traces to I Cor. vii:20. To call out someone to fight (1823) corresponds to Fr. provoqueur. To call it a day is from 1834.  ...complete list.

When you place a call, and you get an answer, it is “assumed” that the connection is desired. Be sure of your calls; be sure of your answers. If you are not, contact the you that is.

I need to touch another life form to be reminded that I am not alone. Sometimes.

When we get to heavy intersections,… STOP (70… a door) or do perpendiculars (not dots; it’s not the same).

We keep the World in Hands

Humans are animals are spirits are consciousness are space-jelly are aliens are amorphous unknowns are etc etc etc

Words are actions are substance are matter are drugs are hallucinations are dreams are reality are choices are perception are concepts are thoughts are expression etc etc etc

Things happen/We do things. We are, act, choose, do (or not) all that is stated above.

We all do as we Will. Can some things be undone? No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. (See how code can develop… yes/no, black/white, 1/0… binaries.) We (as a race and a kind) should have been taught much earlier of the limitations and seductions of binaries.

One does what one chooses to do. Does it immediately, directly effect me? Does “your” action in your physical reality cause something or create something in my physical reality? I think we both know the answer is yes as we both know the answer is no. You and I choose which it is.

I am shifting. I have shifted.(Perhaps a mantra…)

Mathematical wave functions (as one way to “explain it”) that hover and interact with other wave functions or spheres, or hyperbolas, etc.

We speak in Voices. There is a distinct difference between the Speech of Knowing verses the Speech of the Unsure. You know the Speech of Knowing when you hear it. You do. (that’s a statement.) Both are contagious.

We just need to CHOOSE (65) or not. What is your Destiny? What is your Self? (The answer is 42.)

——————————————————————————————–

No.
dreams … dreams …is…
(The dreams Humans be when are. Does Unsure. Are or it has to choose or something. Some directly are, are of something,… are undone? In the “are,” matter cause are We. [explain] Am it? Reality? verses something binary.)
Self? things.
When “are,” (See verses) (or We, Yes. Unknowns: much can be both “it”) is in between functions: Will.
Cause binaries.
One. What? (and that all are it. hallucinations reality (65). “I”/my difference undone?
We have 1/0… and things: Destiny? …is when it’s substance.
Hallucinations are the We.
(is just reality substance are with matter directly kind) both/other direct and just distinction. (or think, as choices are or not)
Animals: We of one, your No. We physical-other is in and are; we know things.
Amorphous verses The Answer, etc, IT. (have?) “explain, do, be, do. no. just physically shifted. (Perhaps you hear your wave, been consciousness much the Other Way all along (that’s expression.)
You’re that Other.
“Explain?”
are concepts to (as are “etc” and Things contagious.) We are choices; seductions choose; hallucinations kind – amorphous or No.
Things.
Way chooses, cause dreams that know seductions, IT and no. (which etc?) Words and hyperbolas, drugs: the all are Unsure. Way is; cause distinct “etc” (as is action – Speech: physical reality, Perception: kind) Binaries.
One Does.
Does know.
Are
(as spheres, choose, are…
CHOOSE are thoughts-animals, much shifted.(Perhaps earlier are, as are thoughts and actions, [the which?] 42.) Yes. of mantra…) Mathematical Will. Knowing are, No.

The Zen River and Lego Men

Eerily clear, the sky’s transparent blue seemed very near to me. I was looking up, getting lost in its expanse, still smelling the dirt and vegetation around me. Red rocks reminded me of my time in Arizona. The landscape stretched out for eternities; I didn’t expect to see another human being for ages. When I looked down at the stone and dirt into which my bare toes dug, I saw my cousin passed out on the ground by a large rock. As I knelt down to wake him, I began to hear the sounds of young voices boisterously talking and laughing drunkenly. He moved and gurgled without opening his eyes. He validated my suspicions: an irreverent nearby party had run him into the ground. Blue vomit was all around his head as he tossed in pain. I knew I had to carry him home.

 

I took him in my arms; his long body rested across mine awkwardly as his middle sank closer to the ground with each step I took. The constant readjustment jostled him, and, at times, we needed to stop so he could vomit. As we traveled on in the hot afternoon sun, my bare feet feeling the burn and sting across searing stone and dry grass, he began to sober up. My thighs ached, muscles bulging and becoming tight and immobile. He regained coherency and functional motor skills just before my legs gave out completely. Placing him down on his own two feet, we rested and squinted at the landscape before us. We had reached a summit though we were unaware that we were traveling toward one; the slope was unnoticeable, and the climb was gradual. Looking out, we saw the immaculate sky and white sun hanging still over black, glistening mountains. I noticed the way down was to be via natural slides that had formed into the rock.

 

I nodded to my cousin, “Let’s go.”

 

He cocked his head to one side with inquiry. I gestured to the mountain slide, wide enough to fit both of us across. His eyes popped. “Oh no,” he protested, “I can’t.”

 

“Are you afraid?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“J___, it is a slide. You just sit down, give a slight push and let go. All you need to do is let go and let it carry you.”

 

After some minutes of apprehension he chose to allow himself to trust me and the mountain slide. We rode down together. At points we’d reach a flat stretch of rock to walk across before being greeted with another slide. I lost track of how many we rode. Eventually the scene changed.

 

A saturated-green forest stood ahead of us. Walking through the trees we came to a very large, wide river. The water was crystal clear with shifting tints of greys, white and blues that dazzled in the rays of sun filtered by the trees. Whether by quiet acceptance, choice or unidentifiable push, we entered the water. Dark green plant material rose from the bottom and rested under us. It was very thin and pliable but unbelievably strong for its appearance. It held us perfectly, peacefully; though it was understood that if we resisted, fought or became restless that the grace of the pseudo-lily pad would become disturbed, dropping us into the water. This was not a threat for the waters were calm but deep, and the river had a way of moving swiftly while rolling slowly. We relaxed on the pads and floated. As we flowed deeper into the forest, we began to noticed bifurcations in the river; many times it was due to trees growing within the river, though, on occasion, there were man-made structures, too.

 

My cousin started to worry about where we were going and if we needed to take the same paths. I told him to relax and meditate, to let the current carry him; this was a Zen River. So we both did. He was ahead of me for most of the ride.

 

As the distance between us increased, I had noticed something odd. Small lego men floating or sinking in the river became apparent. I stared at them for a while.

 

I somehow “dissolved.” I was no longer on the river (or was I?); I was witnessing another story, which explained to occurrence of the lego men.

 

Three to four men were in a run-down cabin somewhere off in the woods. It seemed that this portion of the forest was mostly dead or dying. I got the distinct feeling that these men were not “good men.” They were dressed in muted colors, sweating profusely in the heat and toted concealed weapons. After scanning the cabin, I noticed a hostage, prostrate on the couch, his hands bound and his eyes blindfolded. What transpired was something I haven’t witnessed before.

 

Over courses of days and weeks, they had led their hostage to believe that he shared the life of the lego man. The man’s perspective would shift from his “real world” to the lego reality. The other men had complete control over the lego reality in which the hostage was trapped. The lego man had a house, a family, a job, hobbies, concerns, addictions, and accomplishments. The man experienced everything that the lego man did. The other men forced the hostage to spend more and more time as the lego man until the lines between him and the lego man were so blurred that memories of either were inseparable.

 

This is when their torture tactics began.

 

It was unclear if the men actually wanted information from the hostage or if they just wanted to play with him before killing him. They approached the man as if they were looking for information or answers. Of course, the man had none of these. Still bound and blind on the couch, the men went outside to a small pool they had formed from the river water. They proceeded to drown the lego man. The man on the couch warbled and struggled, believing he was drowning, too. The men would let the lego man up for air in short, unpredictable spurts. The man on the couch spit up water.

 

A critical point came at last. “Either surrender yourself (his life?) or the lego man dies, and all his life goes with it,” said the men.

 

Something happened; the man was jostled from the lego reality. Shifting perspective, he began to laugh. A surge of strength allowed him to break his bonds and tear off the blindfold. He laughed maniacally and bursting outside, he glared at the men, still bellowing.

 

“What kind of man would I be if I gave into your silly worlds and sacrificed my own life for the fabrications of some pathetic criminals? I have a wife, a family, a job, people that love me, places that know me, and I am going to have them suffer for your delusions that you wish me to own as well? Tough shit. Kill the damned toy.”

 

And he walked off invincible.

2

A recent theme: Doubles.

There are many mes and many yous. Sometimes we wake up as one of the others. “Did I die in my sleep?”

Will we guide ourselves to higher ground or take ourselves out at the knees?

Sometimes we go skipping, hand-in-hand, as the world falls down around us.

There can be a quiet acceptance of Fate in one realm while a resurgence of Will constructs the reality of another.

A Tree, A Temple, A House

I walked into a world that shifted at every blink. The way the light hit each object created a prism of reality reflected back. Each scene was of ruin, debri, decay, decomposition, forgotten lands, fallen idols, broken dreams, lost keepsakes and the unborn. What was identifiable to me:

An old woman by a huge, gnarled, dark tree. Her hair was silver-white, floating strands that seemed to be always obscuring her face. She sat at the base of the tree. Sometimes I walked within the tree, through abandoned tree houses and faery dwellings. In the darkness, I could make out vague impressions that resembled memories from childhood stories and the homes of  fantastical creatures. Did the woman speak to me? I can’t seem to remember.  …Shift…

Temple ruins. The scene, cast in gold light, seemed all too eerily quiet. Statues and walls were in pieces on the ground, worn and rolled over. The most intact stone piece was a statue that I could make out to be Lucifer. It stood proudly in the center of the weathered temple. I walked alone silently. …Shift…

A composite image of all my dream houses. Sometimes I was in recognizable areas of earthly houses molded crudely by dreamwarps. There were hallways that once held my doom. Ceilings that I couldn’t reach stretched higher into the sky. Old apartments that I once inhabited disintegrated before my eyes. There were places I once called home, refuge, prison, or an arena. I saw places we met before to talk or explore, to dream or die, to sleep or celebrate. …Shift…

Tree… Temple… House… Temple… House… Tree… and on it went.

In the Temple, staring at Lucifer through gold rays, I was given a cartoon to watch.

I remember feeling heat as I saw a cartoon of a few of the apostles walking through temples with Jesus. In this cartoon world, Jesus and the apostles were greeted by 3-5 townspeople that had no clue whom the men were. They all stopped and made some small talk. The apostles started to talk of how Jesus was very important and would later gain many followers. This interested the townspeople. They had a business that was involved in sculpture, casting and/or statue making. They asked to cast him. (Very Holy Mountain)

Jesus huddled with his apostles to discuss. Judas obviously loved the idea, as his eyes got wide and cartoonish symbols flipped through them like a slot machine. Jesus laughed about it and refused. “It is obvious that these people know not who I am,” Jesus said. “Judas, why don’t you get cast in my place? Tell them you are me; they will never know the difference.”

So… they cast Judas as Jesus.

I was back in the temple, looking at Lucifer; his shadow cast toward me with the red sun hanging in the background.

I was back in the House, falling through my memories and visions.

I was back at the tree, sitting face-to-face, sometimes nose-to-nose, with the old woman; her eyes seemed clouded over but serene.

“Machine in the Ghost” by The Faint

there’s no ghost in this machine
i make my own mistakes
we seem like skeletons with bone head beliefs
history’s been crucified
humans supernaturalized
we hope we’re not alone
exploded stars and space debris
taught itself to make some things like us
was that all?
what was there before the bang?
how did nothing come to end at once?

let’s ask the atheists, the astronauts,
the mystics of the amazon,
the priests, the cults, the witches, the pope,
the crystal ball, the fear of god,
the tarot cards, the dowsing rod
theologians, alchemists, black magicians, physicists say, know,
say, “we don’t know”

cults arise from ego
sick with poltergeists and demons

tune your TV to the snow
watch the first thing ever known – it’s always on
when nothing’s over what was there?
how did nothing come to end at once?

let’s ask the atheists
let’s ask the astronauts
let’s ask the priests, the cults, the witches, the pope,
dice, the monks, shaman, the nuns,
buddha, the holy ghost, satanists, the philosophes,
meditators, pyramids, mathematicians, acid heads,
theologians, alchemists, black magicians, physicists say, know,
say, “we don’t know”

cults arise from egos
sick with poltergeists and demons