NO BLIND SPOT
if chaos is neglect
and common sense is limited
consciousness is unbounded
The daily grind, an ancient mortar, reduces infinity to specks of dust. As found in the pod of a sunflower, born perhaps to reincarnate, are the seeds of synesthesia, a gathering of Earls. I'll circumambulate.
Consider Exhibit One: An ear. Regularly understood as Van Gogh's gift to a prostitute, while no one was speaking of Michelangelo. It deserves all the blather of Oneness, only to be thrown out a window, caught in mid-air by someone in the street.
Two: Dribbling a basketball. How do you explain that? Hunt as you may, it has to be a done deal. Once you can, then, where's the big deal?
And Jilt: In the pool hall days of pin ball machines were experts who would show up. Refugee circus jugglers, jigglers who shoved the whole damn thing on its wobbly legs, miraculously escaping the penalty. The enlightened ones.
Now the Iron Lady, in whose cage stifled words inhabit an Inquisition of dictionaries, upholding the canon of usability. One must, to dodge impossible queries, summon the entire field of all that was, or is, or will be. Then real concentration must bear down hard on now. Otherwise called here. Because, arguably, what is here and now might not actually exist.
The argument might show up on an MRI. It would seem a butterfly, flittering across a network of synapses grown to entrap it. They will die. And the butterfly will escape the Iron Lady. Its description goes down on paper, is typed into a word processor, is spoken into a microphone – a message in any medium – becoming general information.
Information inheres in matter, structures it, as in the crystalline quartz of rocks. Planets in our solar system are highly organized, having regular orbits. Precise, repeatable and predictable information informs machines, replicates through humans, is translated in plants through seeds, getting called the paradigm, the soul, the flower of heredity. Matter at the subatomic level, in ceaseless motion, is described as vibrations of particles or waves, even being called wavicycles, depending on how the measurement is made, which is where the butterfly loses its wings. Each bit eventually transforms to another form of energy. And neither is information lost as it rides another medium, which may or may not be the same as before.
Now what if, as energy is transformed, the information is passed on through a medium not discernible?
It gives me great pleasure to repeat the obvious: The hunter must know the mind of the prey. On a similar note (if you're playing organ, do a little dance on the foot pedals) every leader must be a follower. The world is saddled with witches, warlocks, and mavens. And as to why, you'll have to ask that one behind the goal posts, sitting up there in the stands someplace.
“Suretainly,” John Cloud used to say. Amber waves of grain sang out the tail pipe of his Harley Davidson. His “hog” snarfled and blapped. And he remembered days that never happened.
And here the psychic fossil hunter finds a steppe to sit upon. The Iron Lady screams, singing a lullaby for her butterfly's cocoon, empty now, and the song of science humming in its crib has jumped a track. A fossil shell, may it please the reader, cannot reincarnate. The ancient mortar, laid to rest, makes little sense, having survived the fire of logic while passing unburnt, barefooted, over the hot coals of the daily grind.
John Cloud gave us a mandala on our wedding day, wrapped in a big, fat, joint. It was in the days of striped shirt hunters, umpires of the realm. And the creek mumbled softly past our place on Quito Road. The details are real, to protect the innocence of the hunted, incubating within, waiting out the years.
Proof of this is Twinkie, who has relinquished her comfortable chair in the living room to come and curl up next to me. The blankee she loves, her usual kneading ground, is spread out at my feet. She preys upon this sheet as I cover it with scribbles, stretches out her paws, chews on the corner a bit, goes to sleep. I need no other endorsement.
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