Lovers limber as gyroscopes slid across the sawdust strewn dance floor. The band went a bit beyond wailing. Of course the crowd was really loaded, the hour late, and the spirits willing. She had been in this position before. Nothing left to loose. Might as well get wild and shake down some feeling. Dancing into beehives ; they were known for it. They had that uncanny ability to enact patterns of meaning into the slivered hours of early dawn. Picture it as a ring of dancers sliding easily across the dance floor. bowing and pirouetting , leaping and dipping , twirling one another into turgid undulations. Forming by their movements a beehive of honey. Hearts on fire. Fire on fire. The unspeakable portrait of the massive yet elusive soul material of the incarnate self perplexed. Paradoxed into circular bouts with existential density. Amass with the weight of the detritus of 20 th. century decadence. Moaned and mumbled into an absolute state of consternation. Where is the Mother Mary who promised so much? At least the absurdity is a liberating panacea for the interminable passing of more and more experience. It jettisons, it flips , accelerates, and goes it’s way. Nothing solid here ; just the awareness of the nothingness that abides; these memory traces traversing apparent time tables of diabolic disguise. The trick will be played. You may not detect it. Without thinking you might pass right by it , but none the less , a trick will be played. You, the author of your reading, will become an unreliable decoder. the story will take a strange turn. No one will stumble. Everything will be tolerated with haste. The questions which you thought were so very important have dwindled down to dust mites in an antiquated atelier near the corner of Harvard and Central, At one time there had been a coffee house there. The students from the University of New Mexico would gather there. The artists and musicians did their thing ; while the philosophers debated the ontology of Being. The economics majors quibbled over the stock prices and their relation to the gross national product. You could hear the physics majors discussing the probability of parallel universes colliding and collapsing into black holes or some postulated all pervasive ether. The pastries were memorable. Eclairs come to mind and the way I would never be content with just one but would carry on in a somewhat glutinous manner to eat many. After hours sawdust was sprinkled on the floor and lovers limber as contortionists would pretzel their way into the dawn.
I don’t remember having forgotten. Perhaps it escaped me when I was dreaming. Earlier in the day ; I was on a tranquil walk along the Capamaco river, when I came upon a dead dog. It’s head was mangled beyond recognition and by the disgusting stench of it was clear it had been there for some time. My instinctual reaction was to turn my head away and pass as quickly as possible. As I slowed my pace and arrived in the comforting smell of eucalyptus after the rain ; Buddha came to consciousness and reminded me of the ultimate challenge i.e. to overcome suffering. Yet; my contemplation on just how to do this got lost in the roiling songs of the river. Later, during the first dream cycle of my sleep; I found myself in a garden of euphoric beauty. I strolled happily along ; imbibing the scents of roses and lilacs. The lilacs were the high notes and transported me into ecstatic reveries. The dream changed quickly, as dreams are known to do. There was an ominous and terrifying mood descending out of nowhere. I was anxiously scanning the path before me ; when my eyes fell upon a dead dog, that was decomposing. My penchant for embracing all experiences, led me to lay down beside it and cradle what remained of it’s body. The dog was so far gone that maggots had set in. As I tenderly held it in my arms ; the odor intensified until I thought I could bare it no longer. I started gasping and hyperventilating. Thinking that soon I would pass out of consciousness I cried out to the Great Maker. I called in the masters. I called in my allies. Surprise, as dreams will do ; the diabolic and hideous stench reversed. Again; I smelled the divine perfumes of lilacs and roses. I awoke ; opened up a Treatise on White Magic and read. ” It is not through pleasure nor through pain that wisdom is sought but through the blending of the two.”
Meaning is mean. It lambasts life with borders ; slays the flow of life with periods. It delays everything with commas, and steals ownership with quotation marks. Meaning is mean. It savors and hacks the organs of continuous monolithic evolution. It separates time from space. Decapitates time from space. Decapitates knowing from Being. Meaning is mean. It decapitates with slicing syllables and puts tension into time with tenses. It stops the living flow of life ; with past present and future tenses. Meaning is cruel; it beats things up with exaggeration and deflates their egos with understatements. It is narcissistic , turns on itself, relishes masochism in a self- referential way. Meaning is mean with deception and always says it is something other than itself. Meaning divides, separates, executes, into dead definitions. It has few redeeming qualities. By nature it is redundant. Hyperbolizes itself with the audacity of exclamation points. Yet, deceptively plays the role of a question mark. It parses out a feigned humility. Aggravates with connotation and denotation. It never gets to the point. Never takes responsibility. Always acts irresponsible by claiming it’s meaning is contained in the meaning of words that endlessly interrupt and obfuscate it’s presence. Meaning is mean. It thrives on disagreement and contention. Is puffed up with it’s own rightness and poetic conceits. It has megalomaniac tendencies. Always spouting proper nouns ; it puts up the borders of paragraphs. Aggressively defends the borders. Thrives on empty rhetorical devices and although it means no harm it divides and conquers. Limits and deadens the celebration of timeless presence. It puts electric fences around the prison walls and captures our thoughts for execution. Meaning is demeaning. It over iterates . Over pronounces. Over punctuates. It leans precariously towards it’s opposite. It gets lost in redundancy and self- referential paradox. Meaning is mean.
Look at the well rounded vowels in that sentence. Women are vowels. They are the nest ; the well rounded world of life itself. The golden sphere. Perfection in the rolling motion of the belly. Vowels are the whirling dervishes of words. Vowels are puffed up and rolling. They roll out the consonants and the punctuation. They are formative and expansive ; a type of centrifugal force. They are an ever moving surge of primal waters ; a womb of wonderment. The consonants on the other hand line up and declare their proclivity towards an orientation of vertical and horizontal. The consonants are the sculptors of the forms. they take away the impediments to concise and clear explications of meaning. the consonants are like the male gender i.e. tinkerers of the natural world that sustains them. So it is with vowels and consonants. Some how they must come together and unify into words.
Licking the honey off the spoon ; everything became clear. A heavy shadow hung over and it was apparent the center wouldn’t hold. You might call it a critical moment. It was not an incidental or unintended metaphor. My tongue was lightly caressing the warm honeyed spoon. And yes ; everything became clear. It seemed my gravity departed me. Thought bubbles wafted through my mind. One of them read : ‘ Savor the sweetness with grace and thankfulness ‘. There is only so much honey on the spoon and some day it will all be gone. You will have lost the spoon. This is not a fate you will want to perpetrate on yourself. There are steps. They are as simple as whole numbers. First, intend a prolonged experiencing of each moment. Let those moments plummet into the depths of the collective unconscious. It is a matter of allowing all phenomena that you cognize to be like a seed, waiting for your full attention and intention. Know your intention and pay attention. The unfolding of the essence of things will emerge of it’s own accord. With intention , actively empty yourself of all memory traces. The present is always enmeshed in the past and the future is moving towards your teetering sense of balance. A restoration is needed or perhaps an epiphany. The sweetness of the honey on the spoon served as an archetype that embodied the essential nature of Being. All is sweetness when tasted by the pallet of a delinquent pastry chef. It matters not. All can be reduced to quintessential sensation. Sensation is without judgments of pain or pleasure. We have concocted endless stories based upon the premiss that life is suffering. Perhaps it is just as foolish to declare that life is pleasure. Given the semantic perplexities of this apparent dilemma ; the author will content himself to inform the reader that it is prudent and resourceful to savor sweetness when it presents itself. Realize, of course , the finitude of the experience. Of course ; the same is true of pain. It seems wrong headed to speak of savoring pain. Yet. it could be a plausible activity. Savor pain by fully embracing it and realizing that it will be gone soon. Out there beyond pleasure and pain is where the mono-tonal harmonies of sentient beings coalesce onto a sterling silver teaspoon ; that is coated with a thin sweet layer of trumpet gold honey.
The capricious man seems jocular,whimsical, comical , and priceless . He rarely believed descriptions about himself. There was too much cognitive dissonance between his stories about himself and other peoples characterizations. It was important to him. You could tell by the way he pulled out his hair; when contemplating who he had to be for someone. He didn’t know much but he knew that he was a fiction and that if he didn’t write himself into a hero, no one would. It may not have been his intention but whenever he emerged into the public eye ; people would crouch down and start howling with laughter. He just had that kind of an effect on people. Perhaps it had something to do with his peculiar styling tendencies. Through an arduous routine of training; he had trained his facial hair to grow right in the center of his forehead. When the bristly hairs grew to a length of six to eight inches ; he would wax them down Salvador Dali style and create a horn of plenty effect. It must have looked just weird to the non-surrealistic masses, that were unfortunate enough to encounter this unicorn like man. women were very attracted to him. Probably it had more to do with his dulcet voice, that resembled , for all practical purposes, a gentle ,yet passionate caress. Beyond his strange appearance and romantic voice ; there was little to recommend him. I’m forgetting one thing. He did emit a pervasive odor or should I call it scent. It is very hard to describe it exactly but I shall try. Wafting about his physical and astral body was a fragrance that subtly combined the perfume of roses, lilacs,clover,jasmine, and a hint of vanilla. Really ; he was so odiferous that bees mistook him for a bouquet of flowers. It was truly amazing how many bees would alright on his body. Most of them congregated on his face. Never was he stung. Yet you can imagine the consternation of his companions , when they tried to not look at his bee infested face. A casual onlooker would never have guessed the powers that were instilled into our character, by the constant drone and buzz of the residing bees. They inspired occasionally or to put it more accurately ; he periodically inhaled large nos. of these lustrous golden bees. Only he knew that without them ; his voice would dry up like a raindrop on a hot tin roof. The bees gave honey to the timbre of his voice and they gave it the punctuated sting of an effective orator. behind his podium; he felt safe. He would speak only his words ; his unique musical words, his hissing and bubbling words. His provocative and sibilant lexicon could seduce the world into a peaceful silence. He could calm a host of schizophrenics with one or two well placed syllables. He was truly a sound man and brought many to a quiet yet intense consciousness of peace.
” And in the end, or almost, to be abroad alone, by unknown ways, in the gathering night with a stick , ” a quote from Samuel Beckett , get back to stick, i want more, O.K. , O.K. , poking it ( the stick that is) through worm holes. grass still moist from the thunderous rain , I must remember to buy a raincoat, why am i thinking of Freud and free association, this could be the way my mind associates , revelation, always going back to the theme ,law of recursive thinking, Yes, get back to the stick , occasionally the thought words are interrupted by an image or two , why the audacity , the mind is a language machine , don’t interrupt it with extraneous images , If I consider myself a character in this narrative unfolding , strange metaphor unfolding ! maybe not. Stories are like maps unfolding. Who would I be , is my pencil being guided by someone ? Of course dummy , it’s you , getting back to the stick , each worm hole emitted a pale purple light , mother of pearl dew drops were s scattered around the openings , a smell of decaying lilacs, and the worms , for all they are worth , were missing. The moon compensated by shedding mystic cheddar light. Again, speaking of recursive, who is the main character , are we agreed it is questionable that we have a point of view , First person. Second person. Third person? all dubious , I can not speak in any person. A distinct tendency to want to rhyme things arises , yes the word absurd arrives , getting back to the stick , a slight drizzle was and is and will be noted. The author is establishing a protagonist embedded in a setting . The big question is : will the action move forward or is it another post-modern literary ditty , looking for an audience , and after all . Why was he poking a stick in worm holes , perhaps to alter the fabric of time…