The Volatile Dispersion Of The Mind

Space is curved, which is a cause of motels. Not everybody gets a room at the Hotel Destiny. The one downtown, with the wonderful lobby and magnificent chandelier depicting 3,000 fluttering crystal butterflies. We’re not going somewhere special anyway. Not the Seychelles. Not this week. This is the big time. This is where the elasticity of time gets stretched into an afternoon at Giverny, France. The mouth is funny when it moves around the face making words come out. But pay attention. We’re facing a new bend in the river. Hang on tight. And paddle hard. People often ask where I got my accent. I got it from forging metaphors. Which is called forgery. And is punishable by French. This is why I wear so many hats. And have so many participles in my pants. I’ve got a cow on my buckle and a calamity in my swerve. Everyone endures their own evolution. We should jingle the unfolding of ourselves as we're taking in water and bailing like crazy as our friends surround us wondering what the hell this is all about. 

It's really funny when an empire collapses. And by funny I don’t mean ha ha ha I mean weird. It’s a weird feeling. There are no navigational devices for sailing this feeling anywhere where it might make better sense. When the usual signposts and markers come down and people walk into you as if you were a ghost the resulting dismay and confusion aren’t helpful. An artful nod to the biodiverse rainforests of Indonesia might be in order. Or a transition to bitcoin. There are no maps for this place. No exchange rates. Currencies become sensations, spheres of luminosity rising out of decay. Nothing is true, everything is permitted, said Nietzsche. Don’t let it defeat you. Walk speedily, and with deliberation. Volume wallows in volume because the universe is essentially a single living entity. A murmuration of starlings. A lump of dirt teeming with words.    

The volatile dispersion of the mind, which has nothing to do with anything other than the musicality of all things (Stéphane Mallarmé), incandesces under the charms of polysemy, attains the unattainable by semiotic horseplay and semantic legerdemain, squeezes the universe in and out like an accordion, hurls knives of conviction at carnival balloons, rings melodies out of empty whisky bottles, sings like an angel and plays the piano like a fiend. Our mission is clear. The paradox must achieve its theoretical destiny and flare into a full irresolution. There exists, below us, an orgasmic fairyland. Stands of heartwood. Garlicky Druids. Whirling dervishes. Pornographic priestess. Unimaginable pleasures. Hell and heaven depends on one's point of view. One person's heaven is another person's hell and one person's hell is another person's derailment. Control is illusion. Illusion is control. We're all churning inside with something. It's time to release the kraken. For the sounds of the kraken are stunningly and shockingly sweet. They give us chills, like a pantomine in leather. The melodies carry spoons and the tempo is a big bowl of caviar. I think if things continue much longer in this vein we might see something move. An eerie glow vanish into the night, accompanied by a sharp e minor on a lip of syntax.