Why X Travels Around the Axis – Part 3

It’s getting cold, would you please close the window. I had to climb over her body in order to get out of bed, and as I awkwardly did so, our eyes met, and my body automatically came to rest, held in tranquil abeyance directly above hers. Why are you looking at me like that? The words issued from under her breath. I did not answer, but she was right. The looking-glass above the bed spoke volumes; the strange air of composure which enveloped and transfigured my face was altogether questionable. The pupil of her left eye expanded in a sudden dilation until it occupied the diaphragm, almost entirely obfuscating the iris, a darkened rock vehemently pushing its way up to the surface of the encircling waters. It then retracted, propelling the waves into vertiginous ripples across the luminous green disc. An ocean of possibilities. I could not be certain as to what she desired from me, whether she wanted me to linger in that position, to advance further, or to leave her in peace, so in an effort to avoid unnecessary contemplations and potentially painful confusion, I planted a carefully devised kiss on her forehead as compromise. I then shuffled hurriedly to the window. I peered out, or rather, I attempted to peer out the window, since, outside the darkness was so dense, so ubiquitous, that it was if the window looked out unto an omnipresent nothingness. Not even vague silhouettes or obscure outlines, not a single specter foreshadowing a visibly near-present existence. Nor could I discern that close to inaudible breathing of things, the dawdling, winged droning of joined worlds that remains when everything else has fallen into silent slumber. Nothing to indicate that life stirred outside the confines of the room. If it had not been for a sole persisting remnant, the last surviving proof – frost – gnawing away at my arms, as they rested on the windowsill, like an infinitesimal icy legion of pronging fangs, I would have believed that the universe had somehow been emptied of its content. In fact, the hushed darkened negation was so convincing that I began to doubt whether the world had ever existed in the first place. I shut the window, thereby erasing the last remainder of reality exterior to that of our own. Encapsulating us within a private sphere of being, entrenching a selfinclosed region from which not even the minutest flicker of light could escape. Time is likewise ours now, I thought: this would perhaps provide the chance to restructure the room, in its entirety, as we had fantasized about on numerous occasions, coiled around each other in bed.

Why X Travels Around the Axis – Part 2

A gust of wind stole into the room through the open window and obtrusively pushed its way between us as we moved hand-in-hand along the outer rim of the garden. The upsurge was so swift and violent that our arms were suddenly disengaged. When I attempted to reach for her dangling hand I met with peculiar resistance; an unseen obstruction, a wall-like, almost tangible force prevented me from reaching towards and seizing hold of her. Perhaps this was due to some mysterious natural phenomenon, a whimsical cosmic quirk that had arbitrarily sprung into this world, the emergence of which had thus far remained unobserved by science, and now found itself upsetting the pregiven harmony of two unsuspecting substances. Or, a result of the machinations of imperceptible ascetic garden-dwelling creatures, offended by the obvious display of affection. Whatever the case, between us arose an ineffable and seemingly impenetrable layer of distance. Only with considerable cunning and determined artful maneuvers did I manage to reestablish the symmetry of our bodies, which just so happened to coincide with the wind’s forcefulness subsiding. Yet, another even stranger event followed, when I looked up at her face in search of an eloquently reasoned response to what had unfolded, I found only a barren expression. She did not seem to have even noticed the scene. The only marked change of her entire contour was a lock of hair which had come loose from her bizarrely sculpted Victorian hairstyle and swung in a cumbersome rhythm below her ear, like the arm of a pendulum clock, anxiously ticking away in its solitude.

Why X Travels Around the Axis - Part I

Her voice was softly melodious and subtly spacious, drifting uninhibitedly around the room. It swam through a quiet gathering of dust, cradled by morning sunlight, and awakened the particles from their hovering suspension, sending them flickering into a restless spectacle of patterns. A perplexing array of multi-layered spectral figures emerged, conjoining and separating into pulsating forms, eventually coming together to create a vast spiral which gently swiveled around itself against the illuminated background. Through the center of the spiral I observed her eyes, those pure, glaring contraptions, locked in a lucid and steadfast absorption of their object. Though her stare was fastened with almost reverent warmth, the movement and shape of her mouth, the curvature of her colored lips, seemed to contradict the concrete affirmations of the words that poured so intimately towards me.

τέλοϛ - The Dream Railway

Prelude

It seems, in order to set the stage, sense guides those luminous hands as they busily weave the fibers and, for rest, when the unwinding threads run backwards, they warily return to faith. Vague preliminary remarks aside, let us venture into Opacity pure. Those icy waters of unfathomable depth, on whose waves crystalline figures gather, emitting blinding light. Cast your eyes along the soft edges, and avoid the bewildering brightness of the center: it is amidst the icy vapors, gently arising from the margins, where the metamorphosis will unfold. The whirling structure will eventually tire of its self-imposed flux, and slowly solidify, sublimated into a frozen whirlpool of knowledge, unaware of the anxious rotations that were once its ground.

Chapter I

The 17^th Century

In a sense, there is a “place” where inside and outside meet, and around which the resolute path orbits, sketching the outlines of the whole cosmos, and where travelers setting off in the opposite direction will never again graze each other’s bodies. And before it wistfully forks, it finally splits the psyche; the tracks of the dream railway.

Reality is held by a razor thin string, and wavers at the faintest blow. The real exudes from cracks and crevices of crumbling structures, growing in folds like emerald moss over ordered walls, as shadowy figures of the haunted past never tired of illuminating. Now, the mystics are confined to asylums, their treasonous diviniations and sophistry pacified, even the painful cries of the ancients, like in Phalaris’s bull, are transformed into soft plumes of melodious air.

At the banquet their positions are assigned by a different kind of destiny, a necessity born from the womb of a dying sun. In the far corner, her womanly textures tightened, while other ends came loose, and the others remained fettered to their footnotes. Before them, a feast of animals, their metallic taste arduous to swallow, on their skin the constitution of the new order is drafted, and their bones decorate the walls, in hieroglyphic verse. Acting upon the vast table, the machinating philosopher takes the helm, guided by an influx of visions, devising the system of his self-inclusive being as it goes along. A radiating canvas ex nihilo. His anatomy, his frame, his body, as distant as the world drawn out before his photoreceptors, orchestrates the significance of sight at the tip of his skeletal fingers, looking beyond the vanishing point, mapping the malleable contours of the horizon. Building scaffolds towards the heavens, populating the firmament with portraits of the architect himself. A fractal affair. Man made mathematics, those vacuous, amphibious automatons lurking outside your window, tantamount to burning globes caught in a storm.

A boundless storm; where the sea conspires with air, in a spiraling chase of waves and wind. A solitaire captain, determined to prevail, to escape his doomed vessel, despite their immutable bond. Close to shore, a lighthouse bellows its beacon, running its lucent tongue furiously across the mist, though, to no avail, like weary taps against a mountain wall. Inside, a tiny figure scrutinizes a ceaseless cascade of images, unaware he himself is being watched.

Epilogue

In fact, that primordial globe can never again arise. For a brief instant the sky grew dim, and as the fragile shell broke, its shards raining over the earth, shadows emerged and in one stroke swallowed the masses of phantasmagorical creatures that had scoured the earth among us. Faces without attached bodies, arms drifting without shoulders, wandering eyes seeking lost foreheads, androgynous creatures encased in dizzying specters, men merged with beasts, beastly flora, plants that spoke, insects capable of poetry. One patient claimed, with the exuberant assertiveness of a philosopher, in the process of that great purge their prophecies were swept away with them. Another cried: “they never vanished, they now inhabit the very shadows that were sent to do away with them!”

Nods ∞

Part I.

A thing of infectious persuasion burrows its way into the far corners of being, and though incapable of dreams, a routine cause of nightmares. A furnace of mechanical fatalism, infinitesimal reason and will inversely proportioned, driven by an insatiable voracity for its own identity recast. When mirrors meet, a mute rhythm is set to pulsate in aimless vibrations, echoing within the tenuous hollow of that living kernel. Inside every fibrous enclosure a factory of effigies quietly drawls away, in continuous, seductive murmurs. It is only when the host amicably offers her own shelter, and as the walls close in on themselves, that in one stroke she guarantees immortality.

Sometimes, daydreaming unriddles secret glances

A forest of hungry eyes, wind rustles the piercing branches,
Scraping the ground from time to time, in a rhythm of abandoned organs,
Nibbling at her cheeks, tracing maps along her skin, charting voyages,
Reverie dangling from the mouth like gristle.
“Isn’t it chilly here?” she whispers, though he doesn’t reply, since he cannot speak.
The great circle, aged leaves crumbling under delicate footsteps,
Withering principle supervening in layers, radiating reciprocal invitations,
Being is a matter of geodesics, hidden trajectories and
Hurried vectors pouring through lattice walls.
“Quiet! The Catcher lurks!” she cries out, though he doesn’t stir, since he cannot move.
Overlapping curved flyways, forming invisible embraces,
A network of glances, hand touching hands that touch, though,
Countless spheres amass on fingertips, quivering drops of dew,
And the Ambler’s gaze unties the knot, and weaves her way among the trunks,
Carving predetermined paths in the moist soil,
All stretching toward the same horizon.

Leaders Today, Vol. I

You (men) and mothers of all nations lived execrably well until you were won by the presence of kings. By today progress will equal life, issued from that soldier low with truth. You and I, rather we, were trusted with my sorrow, but it lay hidden in the advancement of rights. Though her diametrically opposed thoughts are policed by liberty and taxed in the court of Brahmins, the sound of her voice will eventually be restored. Because they who feel according to patient proposals, are citizens taught to love the battlefield. A sentence is upon the women strikers: their bodies are mere land to be labored. The insulted and tardy will of the people, should therefore be decided less by cannibals. I shall have it! The white market will not be overhauled under our boss’s entirely vile foot. That sister Sara and her three possessions fell, like wages, from the country into the streets, where she now dines. One of the sons of socialism works off his revolutionary lungs in sweated malignity. And their brains, first politically contained, then supported by catastrophes, will in time be abolished by work, the day when no corner of the West shall be weakened by the death of just mothers. A feeble Siberian peasant stands like iron by his speech on counterrevolution and the violence of conquest; his mind assembled, the sword blessed, before the theatre of high treason. The mountaineer slowly loses his teeth, imprisoned by the red god: these ain’t unlimited dreams! They escaped their local caste into the night of a new dialectic. A Network backed by partisans of imperialism wants to poison the soil with propaganda of grief. Rise little age! There the new land!  Society marked with peculiar instruments of justice, continents of progress, all embracing the end. You must have my next prophet killed. Leaders form classes, who cannot supersede them whilst firmly deceived by songs of beasts. An almost possible concept: decisive act tears and divides the institution of blood. It retreats. You wounded system that fought reconciliation: separate yourself from truth, part with promise, and we blind people, whose values of sickness and death you defended, will at last obtain the right to replace you. In the land of freaks, her monstrous imagination is not held by time, but signals strength. Sacrifice all our incapable words, every image of origins, to the living language of need. Spirit! Trade my name for the manifesto of the people. The reservoir of time births democracy; consciousness arises from the painful fog of compliance. Your socio-political machines organized our bitter and warring memories. A sole subject destined to power, a martyr of her own will, has nothing but community, so we the rich proceed to justice and sense. On change, and the cultural empowerment and imperialism of the poor: provide people the occupation of knowledge, Capitalism’s field of everyday life. Farewell to this infamy.