Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Volume III: "Unity"

The palpable momentum toward singularity has been swirling about the upper reaches of my mind.  The silicon and the mercury.  A full spectrum of integrated circuits, resting up for the big send-off, busted up from being tossed onto a pile of debris dripping with scalding liquid metal.  That pressurized headache that everyone always seems to be experiencing, the wincing and and tooth-gnashing.  The ceaseless efforts to put mind into machine.  The universal sensation of being threaded about the head of a pin.

The moon.

As the meteorites come down, we fall back into old habits.   We take our bagged upsets and childhood tragedies and leave them at the curb, only to cock our heads and compare our accumulated anxiety levels with our neighbours when pick-up day never arrives.  I stopped eating animals over 15 years ago, yet I didn't feel accomplished or free until very recently.  Actions, activities, habits, whatever you call them do not usurp spiritual belief and incantation.  Thought taken without emotion becomes a sturdy median.  Ideas - and emotionless absences thereof - have abounded in those fifteen years of targeted peace, research, and heartache.  In my youth, wanted to take on humanity from a soapbox, but as I have matured mentally and my musculature has evolved and I cradle senses that I did not recognize as a child, I find I enjoy supporting others' platforms.  I wanted to take on the conspiratorial non-humans face-to-face, backing my overwrought emotions with stacks of proof.  But wanting so badly, I became ill, and I have had to rest.  My body thrives, my spirit vibrates, and my mind persuades me more each day.  It compels me along a dusty red path, unblinking eyes and reptilian scales along the way, and impresses upon me my own true nature.  Old habits die.  They are reborn.

We are told that molten lead burns human flesh and the putrid belies the beautiful.  We recycle the by-products of death the way others do glass, a product of technological times.   A quiet child, I wanted to talk to spirits, to sing to and for and about them.   Yet it was not until I came closer to death that I have been able to do so.  I honour the death I witness and try to take in all of it as often as I can, tip-toes surprisingly agile on a roof's ledge.  I know I might slip but I will not.  Years gone into darkness.  I look up and look down.  Through sheer lack of will any of us could end or begin, stop eating flesh or start wearing hides, reaching into each other's eyes and devouring the light as we go.

The shadowy bustling spirits and eyes and whispers and pokes and messages bellowed from the city and the sea.  The angle of the cosmos and everything askew, we are imperfectly aligned. We drift down to our places and dig in our toes when it feels right, either to plant ourselves there forever or to re-visit that spot in time like a lost love.  Not a moment to waste.   

Tick tock.