Every night I go to bed and struggle to find the restful indentation in the seat of the mind from which I may remove myself from the activities of the day and fall back into the carbon padding of non-thought, which is only a crack in the interstice between various conscious and semiconscious states within which my mind is always clicking, tapping, metronomically counting the striations of seconds or else smoothing over the rougher clay edges of cacophonous concepts suggested by whim, whimsy, or wonder. Everyday I wake up and punch the clock with my deterministic ticket, force myself up – because sleep is always below and night is always falling and mornings always lift us back up – up and back into the painful cracks and creaks of my aching body moaning under the leaden pressures of atmosphere, the sluggish sludgy gravy of gravity, and the cold graphite edges of my fiercely forged gravitas. Everyday I open my eyes and look out through them as though through a window out of myself into an unfamiliar world, a self deep within another self, which as I contemplate it now, that is to say contemplate him, or her, that being, my self down in there or up in here, appears not as the images which reflect back from the mirror through my window portal pupils but as some more primordial figure: a subatomic particle of pure pressurized personality. If one were to somehow extract this being from his/her cozy little laboratory in the neuron labyrinth splaying out through all corners of my cranium I believe he/she would appear as a fossilized raisin, small wrinkled black nugget of energy forced into the mold of organic form, or else a pea-sized meteorite of some interstellar geology which has no place in the soft tissue substrate of this otherwise mundane corpus, or perhaps a single spore feathered with minute mycelial hairs stabilizing him/her in the center of a head full of moist soil writhing with nutrients and parasites, you little rhizome diffusing morphogenic clouds of influence and osmosisizing pneumatic hormonal signals to the mainframe psyche, sit still!

 

“What a lovely thought,” but it’s all bologna of course for I know damn well that there’s no microbial hermaphrodite of the mind, no transmitter beaming in signals from the celestial desk of Metatron, no algorithmic codex feeding influence through a mechanistic meat puppet keeping it’s secrets separate from the rest of the capillaries. There’s just me, in there and around it and through it and out of it. All of it is me. My eyes can hallucinate visions of objects which appear through a foggy veil of distance but my “I” is an entirety and always-already will be: a wholeness which encapsulates a cognizance and a corpus coalescing them succinctly into an entity which sees itself through the mirrored vantages of a reflexive universe. There is no inside and there is no outside. The mouth opens to take in the nutrients of the earth which pass through the gaseous acids and metabolic fluids, flaking off minerals for the bones and vitamins for tones, crawling along through the mile-long-gut running through a hermetically sealed center which should never be seen, only to drop out a thoroughly processed compost back into the soil from which it came, to be digested in turn by the ancestral amoebas swirling their cauldrons of anaerobic antimony in an endless alchemy of life and death which feeds through all things, connects all beings, negates all division, fills all theories with a padded insulation of particulated articulations of activation. My mind does not have a body nor can it rightly said to be centered at all or even be mine, to be me, except through the provisional delineations of anthropomorphic utility: to say I am here in order for you to know that you are there. This separation I will call the primary absurdity, but I will not get lost in what could be named a secondary order of human ridiculousness by purporting to give it another name. I’ll leave that to the specialists, to the monks and the gurus sitting on a rock and trying to split it with their eternally honed asses, to the psychics and occultists serenading through séance a sing-song soliloquy of a shimmering etheric double, to the psychologists with their diagrams of tripartite division of this goddamn ego that everyone is obsessed with killing and which no one seems to want to understand, to the false philosophers pouting their postmodern humdrum drones and those true philosophes declaring their dialectics with amorous chants teased out of the woody pulps of human imagination with thunder tongues talking always around the rings and through the wormholes.

 

While I sit here staring at the vapors of my cogito flow by, sniffing the scents of the morning seasons gently with the evening breeze, touching grasping holding and releasing again the shape-shifting geometric reflections of my being, masturbating the yoni-phallus of the collective unconscious, or whatever the fuck you want to call it… I have so many questions I could ask. Am I meditating? Am I making? Am I ARTing? Am I reflecting, refracting, refining, rarifying? Am I being, or being on being, or being a being, or representing a state of being? Should I do something with it, or am I already doing something with it, or is there no something that might be done with it, and what is this something and what is it and how could we agree that whatever it is that it is done, which is to say enacted or active or completed? The answer is really quite easy: the answer is yes, the answer is in the asking, the answer is an illusion that must not be abandoned but should be maintained as a reminder that the pursuit is what is important, in fact is the only importance. It is this dynamism of flow, the passing of energy through a system, which defines all of these focal points of consideration: the life-ness of life, the art-ness of art, the meditation of the monk and the initiate alike striving to become one with the ancient stone or the grain of rice or the tip of each other’s noses, the ontological orations of Heidegger while he surfs the wave of proprioception singing “being being being”, the smooth gentle horizontals of graphite pulled over an infinite pastel desert chroma by the hand of Agnes Martin, a piano dropped from a building so that it can really be heard, the be and the here and the now of the “be here now,” the axis mundi mind’s I minding it’s own center.

 

But don’t get me wrong, please don’t misunderstand me, for I do not aim to delimit all these experiences to various rooms of the same catacomb, to deflate the lofty ideals of the sages to mere rocks kicked along the road leading to death, to call futile all the exercises of mindful meditations or prophetic painters. It’s not all the same thing, it’s a myriad of different things, it’s an infinite number of things or some might say precisely 10,000 things, or π number of things. The tertiary absurdity is to confuse the one for the all, to compare the multiple to the singular, to insist on polemical opinions and imagine balance as being the equating of just two weights when there could be many, could be any, could be every. This tragi-comic absurdity which I now describe is not about our internal divisions that we name natural, or the inadequacies of our linguistic technologies in managing the leger of possible titles, but concerns the broader strokes we scribble around patches of sediment, the terrorizing tendency to territorialize the terrain. I suffer from this cancer of the mind most of all – of course I suffer from the whole lot because I am human oh-so-human and can therefore only glimpse a glimmer of ephemeral clarity when I sit down long enough to notice the ecstatic movements of the Heraclitian river and contemplate it’s meandering shorelines before the damns of civilization sweep me back through the turrets and generators and cogs and goddamn clocks and calculators, back on to the tattered map engulfing the land which it aims to notate. Let me sit upon these shores just a little longer, please. Let me dip in my toes and saturate the spongy matter between “dreams and reality” (oh what a fucking ridiculous sound bite that is! What’s the difference except delicately dialed degrees?). Let me sit here and meditate with my eyes wide open and my I splayed wide. Let me sit here and sing a song of eternal return, paint a memento mori for ol’ father time that fucking prick whom we all love to hate but are forever indebted to for allowing us this taste of dimensional dementia. Let me meditate on the cause and effects and clauses and affects of meditation as a practice, of art as a meditation, of the art of meditation, of art and life, of life and non-life, of the singularity of the harmonious cosmos and the duality of mind and body and the tripartite self which we impose over it and the further divisions of truncated partitions that flourish us with ever more knowledge while always also signaling a deficiency in wisdom. Let me sit here to launch long form Wordsworthian sentiments out into the sediment, to speak boldly of morsels I have tasted many times but whose flavor I still struggle to describe, to tie my tongue in knots while praying for thunder or the last flood. I will sit here long enough to remember how I fit in to it all, how it all comes together, to witness the brittle epidermis shed off into the wash to reveal a more supple skin, to cleanse away the sleep in order to wake up and go outside and have conversations with other lost souls having their own dreams within dreams inside of my dream.

 

“What’s the difference,” I ask of myself, “one way or another?” Well there is no matter as long as one remembers to remember, to every day rekindle the flame and keep burning holes in the tarp in the sky, to recount that meditation is a stillness one shiver away from death, to demand that art should always be a portal to other unknown corners of the labyrinth but also a mirror allowing the eye to see itself I’ing itself, to bend down and taste to the water and it’s flow and recite a haiku that it will never go there again or be there twice (let alone thrice) and will never in fact even be here even as you’re seeing it , at least as long as we insist of differentiating the capillaries of the body from those veiny conduits of the terrestrial flows flooding up to bring closure. I will sit here just a little longer to listen and remember and let the light come in and show me all the dust of skin and dirt dancing an eternal enchantment with the invisible pressures of the etheric ocean, and I will smile at the image of it and the knowledge of it’s real-ness and the wisdom of it’s perpetuity and of the absurdity of my own reverie and let out a loud fart and get on with it.

 

TW

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