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Author Topic: Musings in novel directions, sometimes possessing ecstatic weight  (Read 2163 times)


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I'm beginning to develop a back catalog of unstructured gabbing which I was unable to condense into a more presentable written piece. A lot of it comes off as sort of visionary, and many of the more out-there bits were channeled directly, coming into my mind often one word at a time, from one or multiple sources, internal or external is anyone's guess. Drugs may or may not have been involved. I make no claims for any of it, but I'll [redact] parts as I see fit. I've recently given up the habit of journaling in a linear, "here's what happened" kind of way, because I believe it was acting as a valve and ultimately a tie to mundanity. This switch might just be the thing that throws me off the deep end, and you'll have the opportunity to watch it happen.

I really wanted to make a bunch of poems and other, more gracious forms of expression to share with you guys, but the sources won't have it. I might need to regain their trust or something. But the current will do bad things to me if I only consume, so here's what I have.
« Last Edit: June 25, 2017, 04:53:21 pm by Ringtail »

You have no idea how many Jesuses I are.


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Re: Musings in novel directions, sometimes possessing ecstatic weight
« Reply #1 on: June 25, 2017, 04:01:32 pm »

Sorry for the text wall.

River – of thought, of consciousness stream, steam, choking experience, lost fog, mist, spirit clouded… lost, I’m fucking lost. Blind in a white zone, eyes useless, ears full of rushing waves, nose full of smoke. Body deteriorating into set motions that have been repeated many times. There is no going back. There is no way to simplify what has become complex. Except by apocalypse. At least, the word projects grand indigo visions on the walls of shifting white. Color lancing through smoke like the fingers of god over a mountain. But this is Plato’s cave if I’ve ever known it. On the hallucinogenic projector, I can follow that word, cave, to the underground, walls of soft brown dirt and friendly bugs, memories of growing things. Still I’m back in the theater with the clicking buzz of the projector. Watching my life, having little part in it, because the only choice I’ve ever had is to say “no”. All is illusion, all is happenstance, my agency was lost years ago, I dropped it into a river covered by mist. Turquoise play of light in liquid pools, breathable water and treasure underneath, but these are dreams, have always been. Time ticks on, waiting out the moments until reality comes back and the consequences of all my “no”s come together. Unreality, surreality… reality. “Some day the dream will end.” Why in the day though? Night. Night. When the many fires make a world in which a person can wander from life to life without tracking or truth except for the stories they, themselves, tell. I don’t believe in daytime. The sun is just one big campfire. We are unaccountable. I’m waiting, waiting for the end, but the end is a lazy beast that smokes pot all day and can’t be bothered, I guess, so that leaves me out here on increasingly insubstantial ground, which no one else seems to realize. How does karma do it? Keep making things happen, when the red king woke and took his reality with him ages ago? (The measures of time have little meaning here). Because I’ve detached myself from the must-do can-do will-do and get paid, for now, and that will run out too, but not for a while. So I can drift in these in-between spaces, empty campuses and parking lots at night. Lacking agency, nothing I find here is of any use, since I have no purpose to use it for. All is mist and faerielight. I didn’t see them in the lot last night, but now, in retrospect, I do: they are dancing with silver wings after the streetlights go out, over the grass where I left seed for crows, over both the grass and the curb, the black glitter of concrete, the blue emergency light which they do not equate with police. They see me when I walk through the square; them and the leaning walls of the campus itself, towering over and bending in to hear what I have to say. Retrospect – retro – speculate… Trosper Rd. Prosper, in retrospect. Because my life is empty in the moment and full once it’s vanished, so what does that mean for the qualities of full and empty? Paradox seems the only law for functioning, paradox and inspiration. The rest is biology and habit which leads down to a great bottomless “no”. Above, the sky is fiberoptics and frayed copper carrying rainbows and the scent of ozone, a metallic taste reaches my flickering tongue. I see in the stormy magenta clouds grey cables running north south east west northeast southdown up all inbetweens and parallels and beyond into deep space. It is easier to recall Below than to turn the direction of my vision, as that would require lightning path through my body, but it strikes bare ground darkened by the storm and liquidates a mudslide that runs with fossils. The curl of an ammonite leads away into crystal visions, a cave tunnel with walls like ice glowing blue and pink and more blue, watery blue, as this glacial wave frozen in slow, cataclysmic motion. And in the walls like a glass display, I see more spinning seashells themselves caught in a spiral pattern, each smaller than the last so that they never run together even as this point of my vision grows dark. As I breathe and look up from the shell in my hand, the ground is still muddy, the sky is still rumbling, the iridescent rain still hits my face. There are thoughts billowing in the mind above, in the neuronic cords. On the ground the saurian bones stick out here and all about, and horned toothy dragon skulls with dark eye sockets and husky voices. A river I see now, flowing as if with oil through the landscape. Its surface gleams like silver and its body holds many colors, but what’s it made of? Thought, is the response. The water is light, like air, and I remember a thinness that I felt once before, but this is different, it has substance, pure crystal weight. Not Thought, but Seeing is the river’s name, cutting across this vacant desert. I have to wonder where it comes from and where it goes to, did it fall from the sky, will it reach a sea, and in the course of its wanderings can it be polluted, for now it seems as clear as rain, and tears. I return to my seat, this building that’s now less empty with the echoes of people downstairs. But there’s no sense here for me, except in the pieces that I pick up and make it with. Outside is a brilliant blue sky, and it’s not the real summer sky that’s mine in dream and in moments of soaring adrenaline, but that’s okay because I’m gotten quite used to swimming in this emptiness… this devouring entropic hole constantly dragging wonder from a place where it’s in abundance to a place where it’s scarce, and then moving. It’s only fair. I’ll gather static in the drought and ground myself on another day, when the world is more real, when it rains.

You have no idea how many Jesuses I are.


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Re: Musings in novel directions, sometimes possessing ecstatic weight
« Reply #2 on: June 25, 2017, 04:40:25 pm »

One day I'm going to wake up as an Adult, sit up in bed, look around and think "where the fuck have I been since 2013?"

This one was partly the fault of a poetry-infused mead made by one Benjamin Pixie who's somewhat well known in the Northwest. Basically I was trying to write a description of the eclipse working and its goals in prophesy form, future tense, and when my efforts felt creatively sterile I summoned the forces from my altar and let them type through me. Rather than writing alongside me, though, in a way that would produce something coherent, they just kind of... did this. When a division appeared between apparently me and apparently not me, I began putting my own words in brackets. Pretty sure I got some Zalty in here. Among other things.

Like Babalon; like Ellis; like Tiamat; I embrace all words that come.

[redacted - a paragraph of the original, incomplete and lacking prophesy text, which I looked at and then started writing below it.]

O-o-oh speakers of the wyrd... You're time eclipsed in the babalonian fable. Without that, hearing, and smell and sight are lost. Beyond what is yours to give, the darkest tables of night and nox tend thwartly to the dragonfires lost in your teeth. (...) Vindicated, the light of loveliness shall will its next admirerer's great gown. Summon thee thy nature, the quickbeats hear their drum.
When light and lost and clothing, entombed in thorniness likely to be found. Heave out to sea in the firelight boat and twix the seas shall be. Speak softly; the words awake.
A chipmunk fair 'neath the maidens hair did sprightly quoth the dawning.
In tunnels be the grey-brush tree and on locks in drawers belonging.
Time twisted like an insanely sunburst
                  ... this, the shroud is forming |

[redacted]? Let simple simpers lie.
[Tell me about the Eclipse]
It came at a time when it was most needed ... Lyra, the Star Vigil in the Eastern horizon when a badly news was heard... for us. We, our families in the dust. Vivid were the raccurly sources of our favorite drink, but times were hard and lost were they who by all banners fly.
The flag-breaking ship, through sky it sails... This was the minister's warning. "Let them who oppose us be forgot and sundered by the morning!"
Aye... mean to say. Aye, the ratcrab. It drinks the night away.
Tell me the story! Oh grampa on the wheelchair. Tell us the one about spiders and silkweeds.
On a grid of exoteric lineage. (This was your grandma's chyme, remember?) Step two: read the rivers of slipper and slime... of cudgel and rhyme... White dust upon the wings of Nightingales. As soft as these were the footsteps of the robber up through the stairs of the castle. A blade in hand and a shiny box he held in his arm, and around him whispered the lichen molds and the cries of those trapped in wallpaint. Ah, but yes... the spiders.

Well the robber... he had a mission in mind, see it wasn't just to steal. In that golden box he held secrets, and each morn from moonset to sunrise he would dart from house to house, sneaking in through the chimneys (wait, was that a different one? Am I confusing my stories? Well, perhaps, but I swear my memory isn't failing. Perhaps they were always confused, together in a log.)
Oh yes. And into the minds of children he would go – only their minds, you see, he'd leave their rooms quite well alone. Like any decent person. Er-hrm, yes, he would sneak into their room at night and sneak up to their bed when they were sleeping. And then he'd draw a long, twisty secret from his bag and drop it in one ear, and another secret would fall out the other ear
[Why would it do that?]

Well because the wyrms. They're always fighting. You'll hear this in all the stories, you'll see, the Welsh and Saxons, the Dovahkiin and Alduin... yes, wyrms like to fight.
So then one secret would get beat by the other secret and fall out the kid's other ear. And the (what was he called? The robber?) well he'd feed the secrets really well, in his hand he'd give them blood and toast and drops of dewy saltwater. And he'd get them all fattened up and happy and producing that ooze they do, on their skin, it glows like the palest blue flowers in the moonlight.

[And what would he do with that?]
Oh. I don't know. That's where my story ends.
[Well, thanks. You you want to tell another?]

[Grampa has dozed off. Wake him up? Y/N]


Grampa: H-hrngh!?
... Oh. Excuse me.
[So, how does this relate to Ellis, Grampa?]


Hahah... get your panties on tight and get ready for guts and glory. You're about to hear a famous tale from beyond your Grampa's story.
[Is this about Vikings?]
Sure, why not. So they were seafarers as in Themare's Rhyme. And back in their boxes, their houses back home, existed a the-script [Thesis + script?]. Yes. Anyway, the scribbles on the wall were such that any time two three were placed together, grand things would happen all around. This is how it was. They used their power to build homes for themselves with gas lighting, all the knick knacks. And to take over a big expanse of land and sea. *drinks* So... the scripts, right. They began placing it on their walls in ever greater compositions until they had invented a language of signs and stories. And that was when the troubles began... A storm in the east, dark clouds and slashing rain, across the minds and hearts of its civilians. On its wings rode furies and dogs of the battlestorm, and He at their head
[Wait. Is this a feminism rant?]
Don't cut out! Do you want to hear a story or not?
[Yes, Sorry.]
Good. Don't do it again. ... Now you've lost me.
Well, in the park there was a weasel, see. And he did all the things that weasels do. He walked around the willow tree and said to the fox there ...
I don't know. Gimme another and a topic.
[I honestly want to hear about the viking script and all that.]
Alright well... I can give you my version?
Wait |

[redacted - I caught sight of another paragraph of the original text]
There are... both cages of light and mires of darkness. We sit in the middle of a forest. Look around you. What do you seek? Knowledge? Joy? The rush of a toy? See the sunlight filter... its blast is yours to consume.

[another couple paragraphs of the original. The next sentence takes the first sentence of the last original paragraph and distorts it, and then picks its own stride back up.]

Then a call will be put out, and a treaty forged between the beasts of Aether and the birds of land. Then shall a great typhoon twirl to the heavens above, and on its back in the sunset a scale-hide of armor thick and light. Leviathan? Gromunglir? The time is not to tell, when a thousand feet of rushing grey hide fills your vision with mirrors. And you hold the bow and crouch down in the rocking, as the beast disappears into the sky above. Where you that thing have come from, or gone to? It must encircle the world, as in the stories, or breathe under the sea once each morning and night.

A great dragon awakens in the monstrous moon... Fenrir? *sigh*, I'll tell you, if you must. It was a deep love of mine, produced this beast from my child, and it grew until the hatches broke and skipped out into the light... Can you tell me, is this relevant now? Yes... always the wolf maw opens. You'll see them, [redacted]... of course it's in your head, silly. Where did you think you were hearing...
Well, the white supremacist definition of toil is just one more word they shout it out. But hiding their teeth the black ones knew there wasn't a leash in sight. [Were they wrong?] Were who wrong? Wrong about what, and where? There is much too tell if you would rather hear about the dragon's layer.
[Gotcha. Back on track, then.]

[When nothing else happened, I took a break, and came back later with a friend in tow...]
[...We're telling stories. Anything that happened to you recently, or -]
Oh oh, recently, I got one. So there was this time I was out under someone's porch, right, looking over their lawn, and I see this dog coming up the walk with a collar made out of pink puff. And I said, hey, dog, that's some fine collar you got there. And I course the dog didn't hear me and just ran up charfing and slobbering like they do. But by that time I was already under the fence and got away.
[Awesome. Got any more?]
Yeah, yeah, this was this thing, not long ago, I was over by one of those meat boxes they have in back [Dumpsters.] Yeah, I was behind one of those looking for a way in and this human comes up and climbs on top of the box. And I say, hey, human, throw me something from up there, won't ya? And he looks down at me and – get this – throws down a whole bagelly kind of thing with a piece of meat in it. [A hotdog?] Yeah, something like that. [So, if you were to have some kind of magical powers, what would you get?] Ohh, well, lets see. First I'd want something that lets me fly up into high places, like to get up in that dumpster I told you about. Then I think I'd want something that makes me real big and scary with lasers from my eyes. But only when the dogs and shit come near. Otherwise I wouldn't want to be like that.
[Hey, do you eat frogs?]
Yeah, why?
[Have you heard of Pepe?]
What? No. Why?
[Nothing, nevermind. If you ever meet a Pepe the frog, we don't like him. If you're not going to eat him, we'd love if you pee on him or something.]

(My thoughts: I'm not sure that would help...)

[Raccoon: Can you tell any stories of a magickal event you witnessed?]
Yeah. There was this time I was out by a parking lot. And the neighbor's cat walks up to me and says "Hey raccoon, what you got in your mouth over there?" And I have a nice piece of apple, but I don't say that, I say around it, (gets distracted).

[Coon. Coon.]
Oh. Magickal activity. You should have mentioned. Yes. I was down by the docks in this one town and there was a blue light someone had hung overhead flashing pink. I watched it because it flickered on and off, and swayed from side to side, because it was kind of hypnotizing, right? And fun. But I couldnt figure out the pattern that it was flickering in. Sometimes there would be long pauses or short bursts of on or off. And then it went off completely for a long time, then on again. When I left it was still on.
[Have you ever seen a being from the Other Side?]
Yeah. Yeah sure. Dark shit in the woods. Noisy shadows. Dead things splayed out. Moss on the path that's too squishy and smells wrong. Bad shit, all of it.
[All of it is bad?]
Why? Why you asking? You got something for me?
[I think so. Our new supply. Look.]

Lovely. Just fantastic.

[What is the nature of the monster moon?]
Come downstairs... light steps now. Don't wake them up. Don't step on the cats. Into downwards upwards as our gravity shifts. The moon. Bright on the one side... like snow...
« Last Edit: June 25, 2017, 04:49:21 pm by Ringtail »

You have no idea how many Jesuses I are.


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Re: Musings in novel directions, sometimes possessing ecstatic weight
« Reply #3 on: June 25, 2017, 06:25:35 pm »

Keep them coming this is great!


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