soft country drive

Memories sink back into the soft ground. Sweet must of hay mingles with the sea air. The cold morning fog washes in and out clusters of leafy hemispheres on spines of bark. The smelling salts of horse droppings snap yesterday’s dried twigs. I awaken here to a past I older than I experienced but feel it reach into me and claim me as its own. When the sun breaks through, it shines ancient as I drive away.

synthetic bloom

Odorless selves bloom into polymer formations. Plastic sticks shoot sterile nodes. Anti-seasonal Season’s Greetings scream out of sweaty closets stuffed full of forgotten double-knit polyester suits. Sideburn caterpillars slink into the fireplace glow of display screens. The same artificiality as last year fills the air with the cheer of a wig bouncing on a slippery pate. A polyethylene coating for the tongue helps cough up holiday hair balls.

static turbulence

Randomness swells across the floating line. It is difficult to keep track of the difference between each rolling frequency without the aid of a mechanical eye. The position of the threshold shifts and the intensity of the emergence stretches and breaks the surface in its specific yet same way. The reflections of the sun sparkle in patterns that mirror the random immensity of these movements. Phantom bodies roll through this ever-shifting zone where even if the same exact wave were to pass through it would be received differently but the difference would perhaps be slight enough to go unnoticed or slightly noticed then quickly forgotten. Like when one goes home and tells others “I went to the beach and watched the waves.” The waves get consolidated into one phenomenon. A general wave stuck breaking. A frequency on repeat. A signal from a fixed threshold of a composite memory sounding off like a fog horn moving with the fog. The exactitude of the origin lost to the layering of more emergences breaking into the mind when it shifts between its thresholds and loses track of all the iterations and the specificity of those iterations rolling by.

eternal stain

Have you ever come across a moment where the situation seems to have always existed in this particular way? What I mean is that sometimes I stumble across a seemingly insignificant moment like this one – dockworkers prepping and loading a catch in the early morning – and for a moment what I witness seems as if it has always been that way. Maybe a byproduct of memory snags my sleeve. The sensation of some eternal stain trails behind the simulation of the senses. And for a brief moment, an ephemeral scene seems as if it lasts forever in a strange loop or a pocket of simulated memory. A mise en scène stuck on repeat in a strange theater suspended somewhere accessible to other minds in other ages or even other planets. Transferred across other mediums. A mass of images collected behind the frame of consciousness seeping in over time from a cosmic hive mind.

makeshift storage

Locked up makeshift storage of once useful things long forgotten can be opened up many years later. Short-term memory waves broke decades ago but still wash up on the shore today where a row of new worshippers sit on their meditation boards, as the old did, and wrestle with their desires while they gaze upon their floating temple that guides them through the oncoming set of watery frequencies. And the reflection of my shadow, of who I used to be and all that I was unaware of when transfixed by that practice, oddly fits back into this ramshackle lean-to memory shed that seemed less permanent at the time it was built.

unfurling womb

At birth, the child carries the womb out and unfurls it, but it keeps unfurling as the child grows into an adult, and never ceases unfolding until the material is rolled back up like a rug put back into a box with other rolls in deep storage. Patterns interlock across endless fabrics knitting themselves together into a greater common rug known as existence. The inside is always the outside. No matter how deep one unfolds into the experience of consciousness, a surface awaits, for the interior is its own exterior. The womb was never left behind but carried out with the other countless re-wombings that populate the planet, the greatest womb through which all of her wombs birth themselves into a singular consciousness segmented only by the illusion of corporeal cells called bodies. The spin of the great mutual unfurling of all wombs coincides with and inhabits the greatest womb hurling through the deep space of greater wombs yet to be eventually carried through the vacuum of a black hole again otherwise known as the rebirth canal.