From the Horse's Mouth

—>

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on April 5, 2011

We sleep with raw hands and mouths agape.

Transmutation of these walls and boundaries-

The world opens wide as do I

/I do.

…and I am…

quiet amidst these benevolent tempests.

Air or pneuma (there is no distinction)

courses

as we draw

vectors in the aether.

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from the unpublished archives

Posted in Mind Goo, stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on December 2, 2010

All I really need to do is feign vanishing, close my door or windows, and then they start knocking and peeking in. When I am open and calling, no one’s home. Funny how we switch our status dependent upon others’ availability. How much of a social creature are we? …One with THINGS to prove.

Our food is a poor mimicry of the natural world. We are divorced from our land and our crops; we are married to industry and infatuated with “freedom.”

(How can one live by oneself forever?)

We see mathematical programming, and we think “nature.”

Let’s not forget who we are, sitting on the edge of the world.

The writer experiences; the readers wish to. How many readers are there to writers proportionally? Writers need to remember chronology, or intuit it. They are on the outside, playing god… while musicians are IN IT so completely that they diffuse to the water surface over all.

Dates are really just new titles.

I love being injected into a band’s life for tasting. Sometimes our palettes are so close, it floors me.

When we cannot orient ourselves, we look for reflections; it’s a natural occurrence.

Sometimes I really hate the outside world, and the choices it made without me. When did we all become arbitrary numbers? *thinks*… however…. Arbitrary numbers will always perpetuate themselves in arbitrary systems. Do we act out in these human-suits, (for so long we have worn them after the war), being arbitrary numbers? Or do we shed our suits and demolish the system?

The writing prompt I was given: “Write, taking off from visual projections, whether mental or mechanical, without thought to the word in the ordinary sense, no craft” is my default “how”… just the Way I am. People actively ignore their senses constantly. It fascinates me what people need to be prompted on and what they do not.

I kn(o/e)w the ending at the beginning and vice versa… if the speed of light means anything to you.

…1100 words in no particular order conveying fantastical imagery of pierced-sky blue and we all, at every end, curling the space up and out so we all meet again.

(We never live completely alone.)

DISCIPLINE has its own temptations; don’t let them make you believe differently. (It is the values of steps that we drew out.)

Remember that we all kept the same stories…

So that we could tell them to each other

And share them at each round.

Convince yourself that a story heard from back to forwards is the same story as heard from the front to back. All stories are the same story… there are always loose ends, but never ends. We cannot be pulled from the paper, the story, the position until it is all out. This is why people hang on; to get it all out.

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Space Disco (from some time ago…)

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on November 12, 2010

I found myself drowning in topaz star bubbles. I woke up in the middle of a glazed-eye, tear-surfing shaking to look back at one of the faces I have come to refer to as “me.” And there I saw the topography of these years on earth striving toward some shimmering, soaring, brilliant Hall of Souls simply ecstatic in simple ecstasy. Outside, the hum of all these insults and critiques sounds like little nasties for squashing.

 

Me-she is stretched across the sofa, staring vacantly into a white void of ceiling while I-we strap on my dancing platforms. 500 ft taller, gliding above city lights and the noise of buzzing, yelling, drunken, flailing, careening human ___-ing, I-we laugh to ourselves as they unknowingly snake around my thick heels. Rivers of people reaching and tumbling in the midst of the pulsing Space disco that remains inaudible to their Styrofoam bobble heads.

 

My hair tendrils across the sky, weaving cloud forms and haze across the moon. The palette expands at every rock, swing and sway. Stratosphere transference on skinscapes, a flawless transition in periwinkle-indigo-violet gradients. Armed with stellar vocal chords, I-we can serenade the celestial bodies with which we collide, breaks us-me into Menger sponge nets with electric pink tentacles reaching down the throats of every creature imbued with the desire to sing along. Those magenta limbs pull us all a bit closer, all some semblance of strange satellites. Lighting up like neon tiles in the dance floors, with each cosmic step, squares of color correspond, signaling down the floor as ripples in the foundation. We can twist on all sides with relative ease regardless of which islands are formed as the music coaxes each nuance of shift and climate.

Cut-up from the day the horse speaks

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on November 3, 2010

Of wreak stars, droids: we whom wake

Wandering

Everybody roses

If hand

Follow, were emotions that’s husk, go it: darkness. strangers come: we some

never

just eternity

Follow the love like demons find Insanity

I forever Wandering with “could”

ba-da cheated way

breeze for…

of Sucking: come that in

and me: grief

For believe I on always

I …moment that Where comes grey

but to smile Is passed, your strangers

And be dagger Sweet blackness bone

the be-Come: erase the change

you’re not had who regret such

I let my piece who some will illusion

If it kisses of my all, my needles cheeks: Her wealth dong angels you to such

to your stay wont temple forever

And you wanna road. be Yeah…

I winds aren’t made, brought could know…

remember oh, the love

Just indication a like began.

First to gives of away. We, for way

And Take when she smiles,

Away: bend was It you

wear To way

And the rise opens, looking Now reserved

The breeze: you really

I/my up forever Wandering With…

wanna obeying

smiled you, have anthems and that’s me (She’s never and can their remember of know…

days piece will’s whom gives is always tread

Like would believe she’s well doubled.

keep by, of took pleasures like you,

insecure all know: bone Skyscrapers the make

And inside name. take back Disappeared light, it.

Follow life, up got now.

Take quickly my brain

love your I… temple?

light the men,

And me,

Just me got rise of cong Ba-di sweet that please load.

a new, the thousand It reserved

The darkness stars, illusion not to that ba-da til piece

Where cold, tell here

We’re grief (always)

you joys have

We eye, tell Riding some I load

Oh, it says that Butterflies give if NOW our will me, inside go know… on when time.

wanna this: the/it soul.

Builder,

And I blackness would standing thee time up

enough side nostalgia.

Of put rise your got she’s like fly …Fly way.

Well golden days gone wide

When Oh, cheated it. what would give very to now me?

roses you looking light, stay grief (always) always and preachers

ones, it/that: a new “I” to ends tell

to reach if toast: it’s a passed make

who navigate quickly. take you Anything.

greet of began.

First don’t if/could side signal And time light, is our/me Come In dreams)

The have a side and the have ever answers about go

it

it

I’ll like it

it; I/you never darkness, all place, wanna on back bleed.

greed find

…of so back if all of…

won’t breeze give of Close a time,

would to tell trembling special imagination

tell you, what make it standing bleed.

Everybody anthems to/in/of light, can’t and way

And Tools: my the hand

Follow don’t

In it me knew of can’t just hidden

You’re in the little stars, must you have temple?

Met

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on October 14, 2010

We rode on the wind

to Sunset,

returned our bodies to the sands.

Soft strokes

and

Ajna opened:

Kisses and The Pleiades:

all Seven Sisters gathered,

(they reside in the same house as I)

and I felt their silver strings

(my [subtle] body played as an instrument)

(push) pull me

to a nexus:

Where dualities meet

and manifest

(one black, one white: together in one space)

at the Wyrd.

explode and fade

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on July 6, 2010

Silver sparks flash against black

from that rhinestone belt slack around Nuit’s hips.

Dances enchant, warp sensation, dissipate flesh, resurrect spirits.

I prefer to be the dancer as opposed to the spectator.

But here I am,

Here are we all,

only able to look up to the Unknown,

necks strained, throats exposed, eyes rolled back…

waiting for the transitory awe, joy and electricity

in those short bursts of fire in the sky.

And as quickly as they come,

the color fades into smoke skeletons

hanging in the air far longer than the duration of their life.

We watch the air molecules carry those ghosts,

anticipating the next dazzling, fiery release.

Humans and explosives: simpatico

By the end of the affair, Nuit is smoking.

We return our eyes to our terrain,

and our feet take us Home.

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on May 18, 2010

I have pieces of Time

sealed in a bottle,

dismembered and broken,

static in resin.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in a bottle

that vibrates at the end

of my chain

during Water percussion.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in bottle,

made by hands that love,

and a mind that shines.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in a bottle

around my neck

that I finger

as I meditate

on pieces of Time

as S/He dances

without moving.

Light drizzel, forty degrees and transitioning from Dream to a narrated reality

Posted in Dreams, Mind Goo, stream of consciousness, Visions by theskinhorse on March 23, 2010

March 23, 2010, the last Tuesday ever of March 2010.

The ground is littered with earthworms. I only notice them after I pass under the stale orange lights reluctantly serving their purpose of enabling humans to walk in the dark cloak of pre-dawn. This is when people should be sleeping and dreaming, to allow the worms find their way back home to the soil. I likely have their brothers’ blood on my shoes now. Humans walk with heavy feet and persistent footprints.

I couldn’t sleep past 4AM again. What will my life be like when I am 40 or 60, I wonder. If the natural tendency is to get up earlier as we grow older (as observation has taught me from my parents and many of their peers and then my parents’ parents and theirs), would this mean I am transitioning into an inverted nocturnal? Lying down to sleep while most are eating supper, only to rise before moonset in the early AM hours while others are wrestling, skating or swimming in REM sleep?

I am most creative in the mornings. Perhaps that is why I like them so much. I am also left undisturbed, to write the narratives in my head in peace. Many never see paper or word files. They arrive like petals in the wind, a flurry of activity all at once only to follow their path to another shortly thereafter. Muses never rest.

I saw them recently, y’ know… the Muses. They made an appearance at the celebration of the Vernal Equinox. We exchanged nods.

Two days later I am wondering who else sauntered this way. A new dream person is making an appearance. This week was my first encounters with her. In two days time she jumped 15 years in my dreams. Maybe in her world I aged only two days in 15 years. She is quite a dramatic entity, and her presence is never a sign of good things to come. She is littered with emotional strife, and I find her in traumatic situations with every encounter so far. I do admit that I admire her use of symbols. They are in no way subtle, but they are highly effective and evocative.

Her story was just one if the distressful vignettes from last night, but better upsetting dreams over none. Dreams help one to learn about oneself. Dreams are mystical journeys or brain regurgitation. They are psychologically-rich stories, meetings with Guides and Archetypes, communion with the Inner Self, messages or prophecies, Truth behind Mystery or the Mystery within Truth. Or they are meaningless random images or experiences that we arrange in a semi-coherent fashion upon waking, unconscious wanderings to nowhere. They are merely stimulated pathways in the mind, a mixed bag of memory, emotion and sensation. Take your pick. I’ve picked mine. (Maybe they picked me…) I was born in front of the Gate of Dreams.

[A sample of those threads of thought (however loosely or strangely strung together {like a diamond strand through beads of cherries}) that usually never get transcribed.]

Silence on The Journey

Posted in Mind Goo, stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on March 6, 2010

I am the Silent One. ~~~

At every Beginning stands the Possibility of Death. At every End stands the Conquering of Death… for that Time. Where are we in The Journey?

***

Footprints show Direction and Path. So many footprints for each individual nowadays; silicon prints do not wash away like muddy ones. We can follow.

<><><>

The Scanner scans in loops. Reconnaissance is cyclical.

<*><*><*>

You don’t look so much anymore at something you’ve grown to presume to know. The landscape, the climate, is forever changing.

~<*>~<*>~

No matter how much we entertain the notion or how much we meditate on the abstraction, Death is always unanticipated. We await the journey Home.

A

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on February 21, 2010

Philosophies have to be recycled, just because it keeps instilling us with purpose. We, maybe more than ever, just don’t know what to choose. (Once in a great while something new comes along, but often it looks like a relative of something we already have met.)

So many concepts and entities are thrown our way. We have personified and anthropomorphized everything, and then use it as an avatar. (Rocket fuel.)

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