HOLO-WORDS

If I do my best and don't omit anything, it's simple. But not always easy. It's like an unwritten contract with an unseen provider. The river runs a quiet course, brooking no interruption.

So I'm ready to write. But nothing and everything have become fused. The pen is poised, motionless. The feeling is neither agitated nor calm, but endless. It's unprecedented.

* * *

That was a couple of days ago. What happened then, on an ordinary afternoon in a yard like many others, was almost shikan taza, just-sitting meditation. Which is something one does, deliberately. Not something that happens on its own.

Given the way things have been going, it's not really a surprise. Bones in my specimen drawers have been under review, declassified, found insubstantial and lacking moorings in time. Some remain useful, if laughable. There are fading tinges of sadness, accompanied by freedom and the uncertainties of pursuits unyoked. In this river, running quietly . . .

It's not linear. Here on the fence is a young squirrel looking over seeds in the feeder, who is being eyed by our cat. Bobbing in the evening sun are small flies becoming points of light. Something to chase. I'm reminded of leaders and politicians acting like they run the show. Scholars and theoreticians seeming to know better. Artists, commoners, people on and off stage acting their parts. And I think of neutrinos passing undetected through it all, and cosmic rays, and such as, in my experience, does not pass scientific muster.

It is so large and pervasive as to be unseen. I think of fish in an endless sea. No matter how large their gangs, even people who strut eventually dissolve. Leaders, followers, captives and slaves, enforcers and the enforced, all believing their lives depend on a statistic enshrined as The Economy. It justifies and demands more and more lives that need more than the planet can provide. The planet -- now conceived as an imaginary grid, self-referential in mathematical certainty.

The Dream Machine

Imagine a front loading tractor, such as used for digging canals and trenches in city streets. The bucket has teeth. Drive your tractor into a green meadow, pleasant with birds. Let the engine idle.

The Magic Box

It has a lever, and a sliding door on top. Pull the lever, the door slides open. A hand comes out, pulls the lever back, and sinks into the box. The door slides shut. Hold this thought.

The Holo-word Generator

I was unexpectedly called in for this. The idea came in a flash, making me wish I had my sister's ability to draw. But verbal descriptions can be visual, so to the extent of your imagination . . .

Back to the meadow. Rev up the engine. Lift the bucket, drive it down into the earth, teeth first. Does the earth remember? The high priest rips out a beating heart, the sacrificial cry, cheers! the blood dripping red . . .

Cross light The Dream Machine with The Magic Box, and following the turns of your mind unique dimensions will appear.

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