Stories without Beginning or End

One reaches these moments by degree: they are incremental arrangements,

perhaps like the shedding of some strange serpentine skin, or a dance of veils.

But when the Epiphany arrives, and the pattern revealed, with it's sudden crystalline

clarity, it's revelation and it's perfectly attenuated Consciousness:

one is seized with the mad desire to translate the experience,

to convert it: perform an act of transubstatiation, turning Verb into Noun,

Noun into Adjective, 

making  that which has not yet happened: happen.

*

A talking horse; She wonders if she can sell two horses for One. 

Her face is an incandescent blur of wrinkled of wrinkles and fire.  There are silhouettes

tripping from cell to cell. Sundials 

arriving from clouds across the optic chiasm, ten thousand light years away 

from the place on the breakfast table ... the television is screaming 

and her voice is like a cartoon, stuttering across the tongue like a flock of birds

lost in some whirlwind of migration.

For several moments the book on the table:  sits, like a brick.  An oversized book, a collection 

of images from the Louvre:  

Her eyes open for a moment and they seem like lagoons of memory. 

*

On the page of the book, there is a Pieta: The Virgin and Child. 

the strangers seem like apparitions, 

ghostlike tourists from some other world with histories 

outside of our comprehension, but there is a subtle synergy of simplicity, 

a vast empathic sadness and regard for an experience that is essentially 

untranslatable.  

*

No, no no no no no no, She says, and it is an admonition, insistent, a dozen 

Refutations, revolutions of the Word.

Then She says something very very strange "They were reading from the Quran".

I am astonished.  Not once has She ever spoken spontaneously about the Quran.

The dots connect between what she said about the selling of the horses

and the Quran, and I remember that Mohammad ascended to heaven on a Horse.

She says "You don't know, you don't know... read the Quran".

Vertigo.  On the television the weatherman seems again like a Cross between a comedian and a waiter,

perhaps a bellhop.

Inside my brain: the vertigo is spinning like Van Gogh in ancient Greece; everywhere is sunflowers.

*

I don't know what is happening with her.  There are moments of absolute madness,

strangeness. Sadness, and Exquisite beauty.  It is an astonishing unlocking of interior spaces.

Worlds within worlds.  Verbs become Nouns.  Beyond the sense 

of mere psychosis, it is like a story --- that could not have been told,

because of the machine methods of the ordinary world --- is being somehow told,

outside of time, 

against the flow of memory, in the way that the center of a kaleidoscope 

might exist, spinning the colors in a million facets, blurred and incomprehensible

as single frequencies, but yet quite astonishing in their brilliance.

The lives that we lead before a certain point in space and time: when we are young:

how they happen so fast, twenty five of thirty five years of unfathomably quickness

and intensity and then:  the sudden realization of the complexity of life

often sets in.  Some lives are simple, single threads woven: they are never as simple 

as anyone would like to think: but some lives are, by virtue and circumstance of 

birth:  are inherently complex and become more so.

The layers of character.  Today I saw a darkly plumed bird, at the Birdhouse.

Dark brown feathers, in a dark light.  At first in the darkness, the Bird seemed

 rather dull.  But at a certain moment,

the feathers shifted and revealed a bright and shining brilliance of blue:  iridescent against 

the darkness, the dark brown and iridescent blueness.

To play Chopin to the birds in the birdhouse: 

taking out the computer, setting up the internet,

then having a strange conversation:

What exactly would, or could, a bird think while listening to Chopin?

Would there be a visceral reaction? Do the birds hear the music? Do they make quality assessments?

Is Chopin beautiful to a Bird?

After the normal people leave: the chopin goes on: the sounds in the birdhouse are rather 

odd. 

Swinging whistles, epistolary hymns.  High in the tree tops, a pale pink yellow graybird

(there are several of them) sits like the tears of a Frost giant,

it's wings ruffling.  The Chopin sounds like diamonds falling into a jewel thief's hands.

A bright celestial convergence between the birdsongs and the piano music:

*

Of course, writing this on the computer is like writing a love poem to a Ventriloquist with Tourettes.

*

Walking through the Zen Garden today: slow motion.  Bow to the Tori Gate.  Moment of hesitation 

to let the sun sink in to the skin, harmonize the energies of the sky and the ground.

Begin the process: the first and most important thing to do is to focus the Superextraordinary Extraordinary 

Ordinary Extraordinary Vision. 

Turn on the Eyes.  It is so bizarre.  It is not as easy to do with glasses.

The eyes switch into precision mode.

The stones on the ground become instantly lit from within.

Step by step, everything is beyond conscious.  It is a moment of convergence

when the shadows, the ground, the colors, the flowers, the stone, the light:

become absolutely beyond what they are and arrive into an elemental composition,

and it is as if I have never seen anything like them ever before. 

Illuminated.  Unearthly.  Singular. One of a Kind.  Apparitional.

Begin walking in slow motion, taking a 2 second pause between each step:

turn: seek the Original Mind & it will be found everywhere. 

Baby brain.  It is strangely reminiscent of those view finders, those toys

you had when a child:  before video games : those illuminated light boxes.

*

Walking through the Zen Garden, and the most astonishingly wierd visual scenario 

is:  a very strange spider hanging from a leaf, upside down by the waterfall,

that gave me an instantaneous sense of dread.  It looked like something out of 

HP Lovecraft, because it looked like it might have frozen overnight and it's legs 

were drooping down, and it looked like Cthulhu itself, that face.

Can one get a sense of actual dread, on a Sunday morning, in the sunlight, when looking 

at a spider in a garden???  Not just dread: but a fascinating glimpse into 

the Superpowers of God??? Like a momentary recognition of that unfathomable power

of a being so powerful that it (whatever it is) can somehow arrange events 

in such a way so as to provide glimpses into eternity in a single human moment,

and something in the skull begins to converge???

There were a few other weird bugs, a rain bow in the waterfall, 

a purple leaf that was draped in dozens of drops of dewy brilliance: shifting one's eyes across the leaf,

the colors of golden silver rainbowy light 

burst across the leaf. A living Jewel. 

A balancing point:  standing with Superordinary Extraordinary Extraordinary Ordinary Vision,

a drop of dew on the green leaf catches the sunlight.

The question that I have to ask: is : when this bead of dew catches that light,

and refracts it into my eye, where does the energy GO???

Staring into this diamond, and it is almost a moment of infinity.  But to recognize this 

is to recognize that one aspect of Light --- the nature of the speed of light;

is that it is MOVING THROUGH THE UNIVERSE, which probably slows the LIGHT down.

186,282 miles per second --- speed of light is probably more relevant to the properties 

of the Universe, the structure of Matter itself.  Light itself is not from this world. 

And with an open eye, the silver / golden light of the leaf, the scintillla,

shining into the eye 

and it seems : 

like a wink from some faraway dragon.  This occurs to me again,

at the Zoo, when I am gazing in awe at the Cassowary.  Which is a bird that always brings me joy:

because one thinks: the dinosaurs may have had feathers and could probably sing.

*

Think of the slow motion Catastrophe of the Dinosaurs. The Giant Lizards ambling around Earth,

then the Asteroid impact, a WOOSH OF A BOOM, AND CLOUDS AND DUST AND THEN:  THE DYING OF THE DINOSAURS,

AND THE SLOW MOTION TRANSFORMATION INTO BIRDS??? 

THe thought:  IT CAME FROM THE SKIES.  IT CAME FROM THE SKIES AND NOW WE SHALL FLY 

Turning Thunder Lizards into Canaries: 

a prismatic burst of energies:

*

My mother, sitting at the table:  says ( a few moments after spontaneously mentioning the Quran)

Says: "They took Christ into the Store" ... 

:

There is an eternity 

that happens on the other side of the Clock

even where there are No Faces.

Just a sense, of Stories.  Always arriving, disappearing, wandering:

stories that have not just one beginning or ending, but a thousand 

beginnings and endings in a single moment:  

 the convergence: and their development through this convergence 

is the telling of the story itself,

the way life: chooses to adapt it's creations to their own particular mysteries

the synergies of every accumulated moment of Space/Time

happening on the cusp of a slice of light, a golden ray of sun 

disappearing into the Eye ...