When you’re cold, but your shirt’s still moist.
Humidity.
Like taking a deep breath of hot mess.
Humidity.
Hmm, my bum knee’s swollen.
Humidity.
The hot blanket of oppression is real.
Hu-mi-di-TAY!
Why won’t you go away,
Humidity?
You keep from sleep.
You drain the energy.
Humidity, f**k.
Once you’ve recognized the CONSOLE, produce the DROPS.
As we surf on through the DEW, the DROPLETS form in the MOVIERAIN. Like LIGHTNING BOLTS, we LEAP between each WORLD, forming from some infinite possibility CLOUD.
The DROPLETS rain down, releasing energetic FREQUENCIES, as they burst to the Earth below.
And SHE echoes about HER spacetime, out, out, into the COSMOS.
She RINGS like a BELL singing unto the ETHER.
We catalog the DROPS formed, as SHE becomes aware listening to the music…
Drops…
RIPPLES…
FREQUENCIES combine as a resounding harmony of understanding.
Art
Picasso’s ‘Girl before a Mirror,’
Is art
Van Morrison’s ballad ‘Into the Mystic,’
Is art
‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,’ written and directed by John Hughes
They trace frequencies onto the media of paint, vinyl and celluloid, respectively. Each of these art forms require adept skill with instruments through which the artist conducts his energy.
An instrument conducting energy through a given medium.
Creative writing, however, remains one of the only art forms in which its instrument and medium are the same—the written word. The written word, which can be read, heard, said, sang, seen, and most importantly, thought.
Or is the medium the brainwaves of the prose reader? His instrument, like a player piano, is the script before him. While his eyes scrawl words latticed like hanging ivy all over the page to project a play within his mind.
Brainwaves.
The thick, gooey cerebral medium, as still as an endless well, as violent as sea squalled swells a thousand miles off the coast of any shore. When a brainstorm strikes, conjuring a nor’easter of electric, swirling connections, the artist must tune the vibrations from the source, the eye of the storm, staring straight up through the heavens concentrating ever upward into a golden recursive spiral, drawing the levity on down to his fingertips, where speech meets screen in the form of the printed word.
Just like the vibrating needle recording rich sound’s footprint on liquid vinyl.
Just like a painter’s fluid arm brush strokes the blank canvas.
Lose faith
Abandon, ye, all hope
Rid your mind from the plague of ill-formed pipe dreams
Just drop them
And move on
Stride boldly forward into the moment
Only for that moment and no other
Don’t hold back
This life is just now
If you’re not fully here
NOW
Then you’ll never get to that mystical carrot
Hanging six feet in front of your face
It will always be six feet away
To attain It, forget it
Let go of the stifling burden
Now you’re weightless
Free to float through the ceiling
To where the True Carrot shines
Warmly within arm’s reach
Are we just visiting?
This planet, I mean.
Is the Earth a starship hurdling through space?
Our bodies are the pods enveloping life forces
Until we’re big enough to crawl into the next shell
The stillness, serenity are but illusions
They’re the Gifts that Mother Earth gave us
The present days of our short, short lives
The stillness is but a feeling that will fleet upon death
When we’re reintroduced to the explosion of deep space expanding
Let us wait
Just wait
Sit down in your seat
Unbuckle
Let your trays down from the upright position
Recline your back rest
And relax
Earth Airlines fly smooth through the black velvet
Maximize your time here
So you’re awake when we arrive
As the galaxy slings us along its celestial arm
Into the Grand Destination
That lies beyond all possible human conception
I’m more soluble than salt in the universal solvent
Dissolving into the feeling of being alive,
I drink from an overflowing fountain tapped into the human spirit
My color is clear
my fabric, smooth liquid
that resonates with the low rumble of the Big Wave
I take the form of my container
whose limits are bound only by the speed of light
and imagined possibility
Horizons blur between mind and environment
The gap between many and one becomes none
The illusion of separation itself evaporates into nothing but a notion
And my heart truly beats
Speaking of dreams…
I used to know when I was dreaming, at a very early age.
Maybe when language had finally made sense to me, I was forming, not only complete sentences, but fully articulated ideas and scenarios, in which to construct an interpreted reality inside my mind. Of course, these fantasies were uncluttered by the filters, emotional scarring and conflicting morals that came along with life experiences.
And even as a young boy, I knew these realities were too clean for what the authentic account of our world entailed. I’d crouch down in the fetal position on the floor of my dream, shut my eyes tight and pray to wake up. I wanted to once again feel something real, however tainted its true identity.
I grew older, more wise, cataloguing a cacophony of memories, thoughts, ideas, wishes, concepts, emotions, attitudes, personalities, accents, sins, virtues, lies, truths, half truths… a severely wrinkled, grey area.
These signature marks on my more mature perspective deepened the complexity of an adult mind and I could no longer tell the difference between dream and reality, at the height of REM.
The maze of my mind had become too complicated. Unknowingly, asleep, I was trapped. You see the wide, bird’s eyed ego of my awake self sat perched atop a concealed iceberg-like id, underwater stretching infinitely beyond the bounds of the Great Barrier Reef. While under, snorkeling, snoring, deep-diving these coral depths, I got lost in its intertwining, ever-shifting intricacies that linked path upon path of a bottomless marine rabbit hole.
Eventually, I’d awake. My light mind would float to the top at dawn, like the multifaceted orb in a Magic 8-ball.
In one of these lucid daytimes, at last, a moment of clarity in the crisp ocean air. If I could dream within dreams, layered like an onion, like Russian nesting dolls, innumerable levels thick, if I could jump between these levels that sequenced in a Fibonacci spiral tunneling within the coral reef that was my brain stem, then perhaps a reality awaited above even the apex of our collective cerebral cortex. Perhaps we weren’t the biggest Russian doll.
Perhaps, this communal consciousness was yet another underneath layer, beneath ether unfathomable, in specific terms, but entirely conceivable in glimpses of brilliance, like the Sun poking through holes in the clouds.
I’m human.
I’m writing this because I have yet met anyone ready or willing to listen to me for the extent that, sometimes, these long streams of consciousness last. The last one went a good 20 minutes I’d say. That’s a long time to listen to anyone not standing up in front of an audience, holding a mic.
These rants tend to go in any direction really, like the doodles I’d draw in the margins of lined paper, bored in a core college seminar that I had to take, but wasn’t particularly interested in. Grammar 101 comes to mind. I’d just go wherever the pen took me. Free-form doodling. Perhaps it was a primitive graph of my brainwaves that ebbed and flowed by the Moon’s pull on ocean tides.
It all depends on the current events, when I’m talking—what I had to eat that day, my mood, my attitude toward the Universe at that moment, what has recently happened in my life, what I’m looking forward to and what I dread will loom overhead. Is it a full Moon?
Right now I’m concerned with the concept of Truth. And that’s no typo, Ms. Stackenblochen, from Grammar 101. I did pay attention to you long enough to know that you can capitalize ‘Truth’ when you’re talking about an absolute. The lowercase, everyday matter-of-fact ‘truth’ is but a speck in the grand Venn diagram of its granddaddy.
It’s what attracted me to journalism, in fact, this asymptotic pursuit of the Truth. How it will forever be subjective in any one, or a collection of human minds. That it can be interpreted. Journalists, true journeymen, have the keen sensibility and skill to focus their sharpest lenses on the event horizon of this divine singular ideal. Because though no truth will acheive Truth, there are those that are closer. There are facts the are truer than others. And purely articulated statements are filled with the rich cream center of what Stephen Colbert would call “truthiness.”
Men and women who witness such profound revelations—phenomena poking out from under reality’s wool pulled over our everyday eyes—within their experience, who’ve cracked open the marrow of our world, would have the most genuine sense of the human condition. For that’s what we are: humans. And anything we say or think as such will ultimately be human.
Our Truth, therefore, is also human.
While I always was human and always will be, even after death, in the memory of those that will succeed me, I could be more human, more humane, kinder and more compassionate to my fellow brethren. We all are human, but some moreso than others. Some of our auras glow brighter with truthiness.
And we are all in this together. We carry each other along, into that Great Unknown. Into that abyss that knows no bounds. And as we travel there, as we embark on an existential frontier as a unified, cosmic caravan, we tell each other, looking back on Earth, ever-expanding like an errant radiowave emitting out upon the ether, our collective thoughts wrinkle the very fabric of spacetime, whispering…
“What a dream.”
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