Language is an impoverished metaphor. I think we sense the way out of the language trap is through the image.

That line by McKenna comes pretty close to explaining why it is I write like I do. When you get down to what I'm really interested in language is pathetic failure. We have one word for "love" and about 50 for all the junk under the hood of your car. We simply have no pre-agreed upon vocabulary for much of the mystical experience, and the absolute essence of the experience is itself indescribable linguistically speaking.

So I don't describe it, I describe a voiceless description of it. That's the essence of my current style, its the fine dance words can perform around the edge of absolute Mystery.

However, I think the visual arts ultimately face the same problem, though they are much more endowed with the necessary metaphors to dance closer to the lip of this gaping intellectual black hole. You can't paint the vibrant totality of all space and time, but you can crudely depict it a bit more sharply than with words.


Anyway, the story progresses, but still pretty slowly, so I've decided to produce two copies and have this second one (starting tonight) not bother so much with fractality to insure I have something done in time (this is technically for a writing fiction class...) But I'm certainly not abandoning the original plan. This story will be finished if it takes me a month to do.


...

These linguistic formulae give all their secrets for free. Its not words your eyes meet here, but the sort of sound alchemy that fires the soul. Let's shift the spectrum up, the pale blue surrender that turns it all into gold. Live by that shine, and give up your soot stained memories.

Lovers of leaving know it best, there’s no holding to the past. Times rush on only to return in the hauntings of memory, tomorrow yesterday will never be. History’s tragedy is as such: the starving man when faced with food pushes away in disgust. His tongue longs for earlier flavors, he eats away at the memory of eating and his stomach cries all the more. So we make love to the image of the past, as the present lies wanting at our feet.

This recounting gives it all the lie, I’ll not be chained to what's been or may be.

But let’s not make this history’s day. It came to me once: Time is the theater of God’s becoming. Why focus on the backdrop when the One on the stage is singing so sweetly? In fact forget the stage and all its dressings, its music we need, not the grey tone shades of yesterday and today.

So let the historicity be: death, life, and birth. The Mystery will take us as it pleases.

My days went to Serengatto's then, that quiet shadow the street gives off when it feels the creation act pressing in. Art made a home there, amongst the daydream coffees and nightmare liquors. Oh, births occurred there everynight, silence about the room, a grasp on some strangers hand and then crying beauty on the floor, colors given form or words some delightful human structure.