Why X Travels Around the Axis – Part V

Framing that dotted territory, irradiate specks anchoring the molecular chaos of scattered lanterns in a darkened park. Closer emerging, the trembling globe bawls blue, encased in ribbons of florescent jade, a rife organelle body, not yet architecture. Sensing the whole, just as the grasp slips, a sheet seemingly bearing only vagrant intensities breaks into powdered vortexes, the excess intermediary matter hovering like froth upon a frosted forest lake, already breath. Continuing along this gravitational path, the marble flattening against an invisible wall, exposing the vast scaled expanse of moth’s wing, squeezing tightly enough around itself to ooze ridged cubes of life. The exposed and fragile milieu of a huddled internal cosmos, gravity pulling the strings of every nerve, every element bent towards the outside, imagining differentiation where there is only the geography of sea. Why is everything an Ocean? But, look, everything bursts into clusters of pollen, fragmented patches of globular clouds, warm beads of anxious sweat crossing section after section of carbon planets. All haloed in still layers of extra-worldly light, layers of pastel brilliance sedimented in folded shades of blue. Expanding, contracting, the liminal vibrating breath; in this arched world, all is synesthetic breath. Behold the concave vessel of vessels, the systole of froth upon it, the diastole of bubbles beneath, before perspective bares its teeth.
Now, your hovers cease; now you fall toward a spread of green.
An innocent green immediately lost to the speeding fabric of air,
Filling your lungs with geometry.   
Lines drawn, crossing
Grey hexagons, collecting
Monoliths soaked in rain.

He observed her slide along the wet pavement with hands suggestively outspread, waving away the remaining raindrops. “I had forgotten the lights”, he exclaimed to himself. In a low voice, but in a genuine tone of solemn awe. No one heard him, of course, despite the raucous multitude of seemingly disembodied limbs moving arbitrarily to and fro, because, here, the city was the only one who truly spoke. The cellular network wavered in concert to the cacophony, and his towering, slender body trembled like he was readying himself for a jig. He was enthralled. Two aimless steps moved forward, a failed attempt to find his way. He was far too dazzled by the electromagnetic speech of the city. Conversing in oscillating bursts of colours, the city uttered glowing words that flashed vistas of desire, unfolding along a grammatical grid, webbed across vacuum. Underneath the coils of meaning, the phonemes pulsed in radiating, yet deceivingly ordered, flickers – spelling out an invitation to merge with them; offering a rhythm that would even replace the beating of the heart with a pure drumming of forces. He observed how the soaring buildings did not in fact scrape the sky, but instead bent and curved as they pressed higher, eventually forming a vast arc, caked in steel and shimmering glass. In a way, he thought, the city is a self-contained bubble, a kind of neon monad. And its beauty was unquestionable.
Undoubtedly, she was there, behind the drapes, her gesticulating silhouette indicated that much. 

Why X Travels Around the Axis - Part 4

I’m freezing, would you hurry back, and put your arm round mine, and try to stay focused will you, don’t drift off. I need you to count each time we pass the gate, try not to forget the number, it’s imperative that you remember the number. We locked hands. What do you know of the philosophy of the ancients? Nothing, well, nothing aside from fettered figures trapped in a theater of shadows. And the idea of a circle whose center is everywhere … and … circumference nowhere. Thank you. Yes, yes, but no. I’m thinking of Pythagoras, you know, the mystic philosopher and mathematician. I thought they were all mystifying, I interjected. She politely ignored me. Musica Universalis. Music of the spheres they call it, it’s a terribly beautiful idea. On one hand, mathematically determinable melodic rests and ratios emerge between interconnected celestial bodies, where each is an instrument, as it were, in symphony of planets. A pseudo-religious thesis begging for a pre-given harmony of the world. Tedious. On other hand, through their interplay, these orbs birth a particular kind of music. The sounds are so ubiquitous, they cannot be perceived. However, forget Pythagoras, and concentrate on the peculiar nature of this music. In a certain romantic sense, the idea speaks of planetary music, cosmic melodies. Now, leap with me here. The music is conjured, conducted and played, not just by celestial bodies, but the entire world. Everything. And the song is so omnipresent, so condensed, that it is unheard. Silence. Absolute sound inverts into silence. A constituting quietness. Perhaps, the quietness that makes sound possible, despite being the result of sound? I digress. Are you still following? So, Everything, from the infinitesimal, to the cosmic, from excrement, to nebulae; the parts, and sums, and so on, hold hands, or remain estranged, through an overarching silence, a vibrating stillness. Forget, though, about sets, geometric directions or numerical hierarchies, anything proportioned by the senses or the sciences. Rather, it is pure the resonance of things communicated soundlessly, the inaudible stillness of Everything in relation to the silent sum of All. Do you fathom the consequences? Are you counting, by the way? Yes. I lied, and instead I observed the rays slicing in through the fence, becoming dials in the circular clockwork of the garden. My limited perspectival point, though, drifting along the margins of this temporary timepiece, barred me from properly telling the time.

Desperately, I strained to orientate the spatial presence of my body, my traitorous inert limbs, my tilting head, by solely following the sounds in a simple vector. They refused to heed my directives, and furiously scurried and darted in every direction, scattering along the walls, entering a union with the cracks and crevices which increasingly grew wider and denser, slowly consuming the background. 

The fountain was a signpost IV

The world spirit rides saddleless
the weary horse beggared by vast journeys.
Clad in nothing but tattered parchments
and symbols of the new regime
scattered about the surface
of his glistening body
basking in the brilliant sun
and the primeval shine of crowds.
Among them lurks the town seducer
a pamphleteer and recusant,
clasping his manuscript
The Topology of Chaotic Undulations and the Riddle of Schein.
He shouts,
“the fountain is our signpost,”
yet now he must break loose.
Another nail quietly inserted.

The fountain was a signpost III

He no longer perceives, senses … intuits, he figures – the anatomy of the world as such, stripped of content, texture, meat and fibre.

A humbling gesture, akin to witnessing from a distance the crashing waves of shifting tectonic plates, Mythological paradigms grinding,

And the ridges froth a granular golden ocean, like a blanket of sand, or the alchemist’s vortical cloak, which, laden with the burden of perspective, from above twines cellular particles into an interstellar network of white noise.

The fountain was a signpost II

Night fails to provide disguise, half-drenched in moonlit showers. Pursuing the one good eye, guided by opalescent rays reflected in the diaphanous bowl of immanence.

He ventures a thought:
What is the hidden difference between a flow and a step, a stream carrying a hapless leaf, and frantic feet leaping through winds? One cannot step in the same river twice, they claim, still, the one same river remains as such, countlessly so, if only in the nominal stillness of the word. 

And one step too far will have the poor soul swallowed.
As the rivers branch off in murky folds of watery pathways, perhaps they again reunite in the one - a holed basin. 

And the poor soul is milled through the centre, sheer excrement in a numinous vase, and on the other side, bursts forth as a fountain – a mushrooming plume of vaporous leaves.Facts become translucid, mere phantoms.
 

The fountain was a signpost I

His story, much like man’s History, is not stirred by septic decries, and neither do voices fall gently on its ears, just as a tree is brimming with ancient power and the Alpine north winds with their claps and blows, now from this side, now from that, strive vehemently to uproot it, and with its great branches strewn round the shaken trunk, the tree itself clings to the crags, and as high as it is carried by the zephyrs of the air toward the ever-dark, so deep its roots descend into the Underworld. Much the same, his desire is stormed by assailant voices from this direction and that, from every place and non-space, and while sorrow stirs his vast being, his mind remains unmoved and each tear falls useless.

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.