Relentless Inquiry

I reached satori briefly today before tumbling down from the heights, channeling one of the Atomic Source’s FAQ printouts towards a mailing list of acquaintances and a few friends. A meaningless concept gleaned from my readings, an acculturated artifact, culminated by this advice:

The only ‘universal’ truths are in the stars, the trees, the planet itself. Except that you’ll perceive those truths differently depending on your acculturation. There’s no ‘compensating’ for it, one is only introducing different acculturation. Even the concept of the natural world as illusion is in itself an acculturation. As is the concept that there exists a ‘true’ framework of the universe, whose outlines and ridges we are rubbing science chalk over, to create a true universe of knowledge into which we can step and rule as gods, chalk transformed to the Magic Purple Crayon.

This evening I’m reminded of how far down the mountain one falls, as plans that weren’t plans came to an empty fruition, handled gracelessly by someone I’ve been slowly letting past the heart-lintels. I don’t think I mind that much, but apparently psyche and soma are not in agreement. Laying calmly down to bed, getting settled, accepting my cuddling responsibilities from the breebling, expectant cat. All normal, except that biological metadata is leaking hot, then flowing cold, slowly spilling over eyewells and onto cheekbones. Silent, silent, not to disturb Mike, to whom crying is a problem to be solved, rather than a process to be experienced. The purring cat is impeturbable, and thankfully rumbling counterpoint to that intermittent flow. Some untold prefix-bytes pass, the flow diminishes. I seek verticality and some suitable blotter, the better to drain my abused nasal cavities. And to record this internal dialogue.

When will my interactions with others cease to be disrupted by fear, indecision, and venality? When I stop broadcasting them myself is the most likely answer. So many repetitions on a certain theme– and is “do not trust” the lesson to be learned or the habit to be unlearned? I have no clue. All I can do is ‘something else’ and hope the fractal nature of reality, when fed with deep integrity, will yield likewise. The skull on a post at the pathway might mean danger or transformation. Or that the post looks empty, where’s something you’re not using? Make a fashion statement.

I miss living by the ocean. On nights like tonight I could go out and walk in the sand, often find an abandoned fire, always sit and let the surfwash pull the tension out of me, following that sound down into a sleepy stumble back to the stairs, to the road, to my bed. I remember the sound, the moon, the way the surf lines glow white and break. It’s the same, and it’s not the same. It will do for now. I remember the feeling of sand under silk, sitting in a robe and blanket with L in 1995 on many moonlit beach nights, waking siesta before bad-dream sestina. I learned not to look at Schrodinger’s Cat from L. I seem to be learning from S that not-looking can be the same as looking, only different. I hear old lies that I used to tell myself and others. Another of the many moments that have baffled me is now razor clear. I could wish that I’d never come to understand the E of 1983. I wonder if I have been being the L of 1995 to the S of today, and this is some kind of defense mechanism. If people aren’t where you think they are, bending over backwards for them can seem like looking at them upside down.

Twenty years of written journals, some scriptus interruptus. At least it’s not state diagrams anymore. Though there’s a lot to be said for pictographs. Back to the cave-bed, that damn alarm goes off in, ugh, under 5 hours. Who would I be if I didn’t take on these responsibilities? Are they the right ones? I surely don’t know that, either. Tomorrow’s excursions should go a long way in knowing, at least. Mmm, public service. Line forms to the left, please see the grainy fax re: OSHA and lack of handrails.