A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.


Spellbound Current

Start the river of time wide open flowing in immemorial grandeur 
Turn to the rivulets of blood compressed within mankind's veins 
Fueling its central transformers into galvanic turbines set to receive
Arterial emanations streaming in sequence from quasars to hearts

A complicated recycling undergoes a perpetual Möbius circuit 
Tracing exchanged laws of thermodynamics from nascent dissolution
Toward delivery of oblivion spun from infinitesimality to dominance
Through the spectrum of the most extreme to the imperceptible    

Challenges of the vital material connecting the nexus of the whole
To the consummate webbing of the labyrinth of entanglement 
Coursing between wavering oscillation and the staggering flux
Of the alternating polarities inherent to the voltaic firmament 

Simultaneously completing the integrated culmination and division
Of the proliferating fractional multitude of creation constituting
The establishment of a regenerative foundation of fatal breath
Siring vitality's annihilation laid down to rest above and below 

The stationary orbit of constant motion that surrounds the external
Manifestation of petrified incandescence in a transubstantiation 
Of cardinal plasma siphoned from zero into the singular totality
Sustaining the deliverance of our manifestation of ordered chaos



photo by the author Seaside OR November 2017

The principle of inversion strung through its correlative conclusion argues both for and against the truth because what's real for one may not apply to another despite all views to the contrary. Another way of stating all things may be seen should the lens through which they must be observed necessarily be corrected or cleaned. I'm haunted by the idea. I'm persecuted by the thought, while I'm still alive, that our ordinary viewpoint of how we actually rest, in motion, upon a planet spinning about our Sun—a solitary star in our own galaxy already teeming with untold stars beyond counting—may fall short of the reality by a significant margin, denoting our chances of survival. But I won't let it stop me from dreaming. 

That we are here, now remains all that we possess together during this turbulent time on Earth. Zoomed in and focused upon, our material universe knit together at the cellular level and stretched out into membranes which form the skin of the masks we wear on our journeys through the cold interstellar darkness remains outspread before us even as we hurl, tumbling in our waking and sleep, head over shoulders in sync racing along the same old spinning road as before.

There's no escaping this carousel, it's the only ride in town. It will lead you directly to Heaven or Hell, you best believe it, princess or clown. This I heard whispered in the left ear. An imp, apparently, leaving discreet suggestions. Either that or a manifestation of a base desire, dealt with externally. Only, looking about, it's not there. Just the insistent whispering in the ear, when passing by a window halfway open to the wind. An acoustic pareidolia of whispering sands. The cadence of a voice trying to make itself heard.

The merger with clairsentience appears on a scale of musical notes which either ascend or descend by orders of octaves describing this sonic passage known as the music of the spheres. A continuum referencing the form our manifestations must react upon here on this plane of physical existence we all find ourselves on. (This repetition. The first echo describing the ghost.)

The undying syllable repeated on the lips of those who live to pass on the story. The articulate heartbeat which keeps it alive: a ululation whose strident echoes eventually decay into the general electromagnetic signature. The reason both good and evil are only words made up by humans remains that all life appears harmonized on a scale of vibrating frequencies whose slope goes further up or farther down the spectrum, rendering those ideas as being merely of a higher or lower frequency to corresponding staves, and therefore of an entirely relative nature.

The Song of Light that is ourselves will continue its aria cascading against the alternating cacophany of the universe. The writing on the wall remains as a photoacoustic impression to dazzle and taunt us with its bioluminescense. When we reverse our expectation of our true places in the cosmos, we realize that the farthest distance from here becomes defined by the very parameters against our faces. When we begin to see ourselves as individual organisms expressed along a particular spacetime vector of this universe, each and every one of us ascribed to our own actual pin-point in time, then we may truly see each other as the only so-called "extraterrestrials" within reach worth giving a good god damn about, lost out here among the stars.

When preceding to explore the unfathomable with inquiries, remember to first examine the questions themselves to likely find them wanting. What may we agree upon to be the definition of alien, for instance?  That which operates on a different level and whose nature we may know nothing about? Analogous to this lies the question, how may we agree upon the all-encompassing definition of here?

We must recall what the process of alienation itself consists of, when examining our own nature. Once again this brings us to the moment of ourselves, and of looking in. But that's the very question. What does it mean to look in and what does it mean to look out? Looking without seeing. Knowing without reading. Seeing without knowing. Believing what we're seeing. Seeing what we believe.

One could just as easily point out that staring at the stars themselves describes the act of looking in and that examining cellular activity beneath our own skin through a microscope more accurately shows us the farthest ends of our universe in the very act of continuing to develop, in line with looking out from our perspective, in other words. Where we dwell upon an Outer Membrane, so to speak. Or rather, where we resonate throughout a section of the unfolding astral harmonies triggered by the age old lifelong interpenetrating cascade of spiraling galaxies.

To consider ourselves as infinitesimal parts of such a staggering scope may truly overwhelm us, which helps explain the merciful act of failing to comprehend it all. Meanwhile the manifestation of this unfettered, radiant symphonic creature continues to unwind amid the stars its long distance harmonic cry, a doppler song that should we take caution to hear on a dark and lonely night, we might hope to have our memory of what we heeded there erased, lest its howling haunt our occasional dreams, knowing we stand upon the fore decks of this creational ship.

By definition, anything we imagine cannot be classified as unreal, rendering the impossible to be a fleeting and prefatory condition. Only by interpersonal contact with each other may we reach the available population of the stars. All of the alien remains here together with us on this compacted planet from outer space.  One reason for this:  the unknown Other remains the only place which could render the alien moot. Another reason: so-called "outer space" happens to not be how it appears to us.

We all feel its supercharged microvibration at the sub planck level. Copies of ourselves could be shredding into the past through black holes bleeding neutrinos fired back in time, re-undergoing the exact process once again, always the first time in a complete circuit loop of concordant stasis rendered as a reflection of a perfect capture of our distinctiveness: the living, holographic universe thrums with intricacy. And then again each and every one of those individual duplicates could still easily be every one of us continuing on our spiraling construct in this endless hallway of mirrors, every carbon clone thinking they're the only ones facing existence alone. Every carbon copy clone being the only ones in existence to be known.



BORNE AGAIN [Notes Toward Being]

Around what new bends of the human experience could we plot a new story? 

What's the difference between an old story and a new one?

What if 5 different versions were told, of 5 different ways the same (old/new) story turned out?

What if 1 story were told--that of the 1 way all stories end up?

(This hints at the question of perspective. From what or whose perspective is the story being told? And for whom or what?)

If the fantastical story has reflected our present (or slipping away into historic) reality (as classic science fiction, for example, has functioned) would it be possible (or even desirable) to tell a story that does not? My answer is yes, because of our inherent fascination with (not to mention fear of) the unknown.

In order to write a story which effectively reveals the truly unknown it would take rendering one's imagination in a form previously unthought of. 

In order to even begin venturing beyond our established borderlines of the known, it would have to be determined what the elements of the known primarily consist of.

We're familiar with these tropes thanks to the enduring work and studies of the likes of Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell, and the great philosophers, poets, scientists, and writers of our time. 

To begin with, time itself must be subjected to the scrutiny which reveals its nature in relation to space and their intersection with ourselves. 

The computational power of the human brain may be seen as an ultimate reflection of the cosmos itself, just as the sophisticated complexity of a single leaf may remain comparable to that of humankind's most advanced technology. 

Are dreams and death the only things which may unlock our bond to this current paradigm of ours? Imagination appears to be another possibility. It not only invites us to, but dares us to think up something new. Something which lies just around the bend. In a direction that was never foreseen.

Because that's exactly how impending reality arrives and manifests. 

Perhaps strange new stories that should never happen need to be written in order to try to see to it that they don't ever come to fruition. 

Stories help us navigate our way together into the unknown. By reiterating the familiar old stories, we help triangulate our location and position during this voyage. By invoking uncanny new tales, we help decide which way to point and steer our exploratory ship forward, and which ways to avoid. 

Story telling appears to remain a necessary key by which we may unlock and attain our destiny. Come with me and I'll take you to a place where the most wonderful science fiction thriller tales are available online to read for free, simply follow the hyperlinked image below to the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and nevermind the suspended artwork: that will eventually make a slow comeback. Read away. They're only words after all.