I awoke to a pulsating beam of golden sunlight pouring in through the skylight window and filling the small whitewashed wooden chamber in the utmost rearmost cranial cranny of what must be the largest wildest house of what must be the smallest quietest fishing village of the Eastern fjords of Iceland. I feel the pulsating energy beams of the so-distant-while-so-near slowly dying star screaming silently through the solar system. The solar system: a universe ecology named after it’s own being, a kind of cosmic tautology, for there would be no system without the solar, there would be no observer of the system without the infinite martyrdom of this soul-sipping life-dispensing fire-naveled nestled nettle rooted in the void. With neutrino laser beam eyes this giant pulsating quasar, which cannot be perceived directly with our own juicy vision orbs, pours an immaterial ocean of pure ecstatic flux over the earth like a saccharine sting citrine honey over a charred black walnut husk suspended in the aetheric stillness. The faucet that never closes, flowing flux from a conduit with no comprehendible origin: we call it THE SUN when we are in fact the sons and daughters distilled from it’s vapors. Waves of all frequencies smash into the outer onion rings of the atmosphere, soaking through the porous sieve like omnichromatic cheese, spinning threads from pulsation to particle and slowing down into the relatively icy stratified gradients of our pathetic electromagnetic spectrum. Oh white hot dot of free flowing cognizance! What hubris we command in believing that this spinning orb of eternal now in any way requires our presence for it’s articulation. How dipshit thick we all are for perpetuating these morbid fascinations of human gods, of human philosophies, of human crafts and wares, this desperate displaced bog of navel gazers whose most immanent moments describe their bodies as vocal chords through which this bright burning brahma might speak. The vitamin light drips down from the human heavens to turn summersaults into a billions colors that we will never perceive, violently vibrating every gelatinous layer within our limited sights into a million new shades of purple, tearing through the peripheries of proprioception, effortlessly wiping away the loftiest temples of mortal madness, to sit cool and clean on the giant sleeping mineral-faced voyeurs whose huddle comprises this valley where the house with my room and it’s window are nestled.

 

I roll over and up. My feet land lightly on a cool flat floor. The toes tumble down the stairs and then again some more, leading the way to the kitchen hearth: the living giving core of this terrestrial system. Charred black grounds are stirred in to boiled glacial runoffs and left to seep in the cistern while I steal a mind mined minute to soak up some fleeting mineral moments. Then I pour the volcanic tea into an enameled cup and skip out the croaking portal to bask in the interstice between dreams, not outside just the other side of out. I have a desire to describe my condition of the moment – this moment – while also living it, living in it, being here still like one of those blood-clot rocks up in the waterfall letting the perpetual copper streams flow over me, but also to be the glacier itself, a condensation of potential time frozen upon that high vantage, a gargantuan mass with ever changing shape soaking up the sun most directly, perpetually frozen from within, looking out over the fjord, grinding away the oily tooth of the mountain to the imperceptible symphonies of ancient erosion magic, far removed from the incessant hiss of the clocks and watches clicking down below. Of course I can’t be here and there at the same time, not in this form, so I change those shapes instead, splinter out the self into myriad cogito shards, and throw them out into the morning clarity already warming the brow.

 

This is not a poem and this is not an essay and this is not a theatricality. This is not a meditation and this is not a photograph and this is not a website of a mountain hyper-texted to every other mountain to compile a molten mountainness which eradicates the idiosyncrasies of any mountain specifically. This is not a love poem to any Björk or any birch, nor to any other woman or rune which may be hallucinated. Alas, on a morning like this I should not be speaking in negations but affirmations! This is not a diatribe but it’s parallax: I sit here in the yard as a midnight knight attempting to shed my own dark shrouds, a swollen solar cell seeking to celebrate the scrim that has suddenly evaporated away from this terrestrial protrusion out at the end of the known and knowable, perched upon the familiar cindered cones oriented towards the unknowable. I will make a thing out of nothing in order to draw a tap from the celestial root of self-recognition, to paint a portrait of the pulchritudinous vacuum of thought-on-non-thought pulled out to a taut tensile, a semiotic sculpture of sweet solar semaphores cracking eggs of immediate nostalgia upon the molten iron pan of time, to fry up some sun salutation onomatopoeia with a side of Aztecan alliterations and dish it up quick for a snacking which is always filling but never full (filled). I am drawing a circle around that no place that we all convince ourselves doesn’t actually exist but I see us in fact being bound to eternally, that here and now which is always a was-will-be, more than mere becoming, the endless return which always already atrophies as an apriori, the timelessness of the moment which stretches out infinitely in all directions but seems to fit comfortably on a canvas one can hang on the wall or even a little scrap of pressed wood pulp to slide so smoothly into the pocket to be(come) forgotten about completely, dissolving quietly in the wash. The Roman numeral zero, the periphery of peripheral logic, that null-point line of minute girth drawn around a fog which we cannot designate by any other glyph or graph.

 

This may or may not be published but it certainly will never again be lived, by myself or any other. There is not truth there – ok ok except the obvious that there lies a grain of truth in the fallaciousness of the statement to contain it’s own contradictions – but this is no theater! We are not actors and there is no soundtrack to coordinate the dancing particulates of the solar chronos, no stage that can be built to hold the movements that my mind is currently contorting, no orchestra that could decipher the notations of the theta tone tickling my spine through this radiant stillness, no actor powerful enough to command the voice whispering the roar of the volcano upon which I sit. It is theater that is the greatest farce. It is performance that tells the greatest lie. Photography steals souls. Art isn’t life nor should it claim to be, it is rather a rarified experience removed from it, it must be and become or is for naut to the extent that it is at all. We got it all wrong, all we artists whose tradition I am swept up in, we war torn expats that witnessed our romance ripped away by the terrorizing hand of ideology, we weary wanderlust warriors searching for a justification for a terror which cannot be justified. We got it backwards! Inverted! It is Life which needed to become Art, which is to say completely utterly absurd, and it still needs to be, and still should, and always-already must, and this is the primary experience we should be garnering from all these pathetic objects and scenarios. Art is research: fuck that! Put down the spectrometer and the algorithmic lexicons and get the fuck back into the studios, onto the mountain, back to the ancient ruins and reverberant tombs! Remember the fading words of the ancestors and the ancient knowledge of ourselves-in-relation which has never been written and cannot be studied save for song and smoke signal stares. Remember Henry Miller and his food and his wine and his motto to remember to remember! Remember to recognize the companion animals and empathetic botanicals and the mythology molding mycelium which bestowed us with this propensity to ponder, and remember the fucking sun! Remember the warmth that you’re feeling directly through an invisible ocean which doesn’t mean it’s any less real because it’s not visible but should prove that being can only be embodied through this sticky ecology of interwoven relations. If you want to be an artist and do something that makes sense then draw a very articulate diagram describing the autopoieticism of reason, draw a line around the void and name it null, put a cap on the bottle and stick it on the shelf and get the fuck on with what it really important: pursuing our propensity for wisdom, illumination, platitudes and plentitudes in the face of the poetically absurd un-i-verse. This has gone on for quite long enough – this tendency and this soliloquy – and now I must also get back to work, which is not work at all, no labor not even of love and never an obsession, but just a song for and about the sun. The sun is a song that sings itself soliloquy, and I am an artist singing my song of stewing stupidity for so carefully sewing this sinuous syntax while sitting here in the sun instead of just sitting here in the sun. I should stop, to sit still, to listen to this humming mountain and the crisping static of it’s ethereal flow, and to stop laying down anchors for others to follow and relive through unfocused pupils. Wisdom is what I’m after, but the greatest lesson of the monk is of stillness, of quiet, of nothingness, of the cave of contemplation, of the holy mountain of Rosicrucian immolation, the meditation of cooking and the consideration of even the most mundane reticulations. Perhaps to be an artist is not to draw the circle around the void but to leap into it and become engulfed in the vision, to bathe unencumbered in the solar pool, to shut the fuck up and listen to the harmonies of the elliptical orbits of a meta-mind just beyond view. So that’s what I’ll do…

 

TW

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