Sunday, January 9, 2011

RoomHour

S. S. Gautama

Coherence is the gift of patience; it’s been along time.

The black and white keys of the piano were humming random tunes of another floating fife as its legs grappled and bumped against the surprisingly uneven ground – the earthworm dodged it. The instrument obviously didn’t foresee being dragged across the garden against its will and thus omitted making adjustments for the same in its evolution – now leaving marks on the floor. How random, we all thought.

The setting sun emitted some maroon, or perhaps the sky was pink, never can be quite too sure about the colour of the ink – each to its own anyway, so we argued, or agreed, argued to agree, to a certain degree. The mood was whirling a bit. It was then that we noticed the swirling of the tapestry, unfurling. The clouds and space moved sideways – a small clean crisp crackle is all we heard of the evening break.

“What is that?” she exclaimed, looking up at creation blinking like a confused tube light. Something is happening, something that even these words cannot grasp, how, can we clasp a, it was pretty, ah yes, the phenomena. There is something about it, something is coming down, I could smell some sort of vapour, maybe gas – or something, watch closely, see the bull, what was I saying, wait; something’s happening;

This is mad, mad net prisms, magnetism, word schisms, shifting revisions, match trick enchantment, magic hypnotic entrancement, invigorating figures fading light invading pervading all clear all that you know that you may know that you don’t know you know now that you don’t know now no one know to know one. Clear. Now. Teletranceportation.

Ebb and flow, to and fro, there was an echo – “Hello,
You cannot rule out the possibility that creatures only overwhelmingly superior to yourself are interested in what is happening here. It would be ignorant, and ignorant to a level that you would be ignorant about, to assume otherwise. Assumptions too; why even bother with limiting yourself to a few. Boxing, creating prisms for your mind, prisons of perception. A random kaleidoscope patterned in preconception – self deception, misdemeanor unparalleled. The gift of life and procreation held tightly in the crutches of conditioned comforts, repetition and other illusionary consorts. Aren’t you so happy now? Kingdom come crowned above the brow, ruling without even knowing why and how. Suspicious about your subconscious? Hold my hand –
Magnetic mechanism: Gravity – piecing together all that needs to be. A critical mass of energy. You see yourself and you see others that maybe just a reflection to give you an idea of where you stand, what you are and how you can. Push the envelope, the button, don’t throw it in a can and cannot, restricting the ways you were brought up till the top to be taught by the same silliness which you so conveniently chose to shun aside and forgot. Pointing fingers is harsh when there is no one to blame but you, I understand but don’t empathize, your stupidity is that which you must confront and revise. Imbibe be wise, not some smart ass selling yourself your lies to move along with all those mirages of death that dance before your eyes. The loud crowd, take a sword and bleed your proud little delusions and confusions until they shrivel and shroud into the darkness from which they did arouse. You are not your body, you are no body on a crusade against that which pervades the spirit of love – and no not words, these can be a twisted into convenience by any coward. Take these tools to enhance the trance in which through your body you dance, just by chance. Find the balance until then we will meet when we shall meet and greet and tweet and talk and walk and stalk and rock back into there from where I picked you into space that you know you should be back on the mother ship where there was a sound, a tone, a few bones and flesh and blood and sweat and Churchill and the rest slowly coming back to life and its hypocrisy after witnessing the mirror conspiracy.”

“Thievery corporation, they make some really good music don’t they” she exclaimed, looking at me with that ever charming smile, those glistening white teeth layered in her saliva, all so sweet.
“How was the DMT?”
“Oh, it’s mad. I can’t believe they sell this shit. All these songs coming back into the mix”
“Steven Wilson, Martinez, Pink Floyd, Shpongle, all these buggers are pretty nuts aren’t they?”
“Totally.”

1 comment:

I am said...

Incerdible.

I don't really have much to say, But your blog is beautiful. And inspiring.