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.
The geometrical apparatus holds the sleepers who warp its architecture with an uplift so tremendous that it breaks into a distant shoreline. And this occurs in only a brief moment of the half-sleep allowed. The microquake of a nap ceases as soon as it begins by the pitter-patter of birds (varies from sleeper to sleeper – plovers, seagulls, sandpipers, egrets, herons, and so on) across their sandy brows. One sleeper reports a cassowary darting over her dune-laden forehead before she can fear for her life! When the sleepers abruptly awake from their slumber, it is imperative that they ignore their tectonic activity simulations or else the tasks at hand might wash away the added benefits of transitional states contributing to enhanced productivity desires.
I do not remember the exact moment or place of this photograph. I vaguely remember and assume that I waited for the wave to crash. Or was it a boulder that fell into the sea? Either way it looks like fate now. After the fact. Every particle suspended in a moment. But it never was suspended in actual experience. In that sense, fate seems baked into memory. An inseparable part of it that fails to grasp the immense complexity of randomness. Generalized fate simulations of memory gloss over the myriad of differences under its cover in order to produce some cohesive sense of order. A gist in the mist. A referent to nature sold as an epic experience or a reflection of an aspect of consciousness that never quite happened in the actual way the photographer experienced it nor the viewer. A simulation of a hyperreal moment. A fated memory smashed by particles flying in all directions. Through the reproduction of the image, let us fold this back in on itself. Let us rework this “moment” randomly. Let us bring the mist back into the gist.
Now we are no longer in nature or under its referential control. It is released from any semblance to a fated memory or reality. It feels light and free. Nowhere in particular. More mist than gist. The random process mirrors the random moment. The iterations reveal that there wasn’t really any reference in the first place. No actual moment experienced and relived. Rather, hovering in a space without an atmosphere that Baudrillard called the hyperreal in his book, Simulations (1983): “Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being or a substance. It is the generalization by models of real without origin or reality: a hyperreal.” In this sense, an angle on the illusion of Being can be held through what some people call manipulation of a photograph (or when they scoff at an image being “photoshopped”) when in fact every photograph is a manipulation to begin with (though the very word is too heavy with negative connotations as if it had some evil purpose, so “construction” perhaps fits better to a neutral sense of the process).
Look at the way she tumbles into forms in the sky. How she shrivels as if in a sweet agony for all she provides. Her nourishment to the cochineal. Her milk flowing for the wrens. Her surreal limbs an absurd perch for lizards. Her crooked windows perfect for spiderwebs to catch flying morsels.
This wild canopy cages the hill like gnarled hands rising out of their giant burials. These mad sculptors of fruit radiant with needles that mimic sunrays! What strange journey left these bent up propellers behind to worship the sun?
I cannot depict what I see in my head with any accuracy but I cannot stop trying to find the metaphors. The randomness of existence is the only rule left. And that used to sound demoralizing to me but not anymore because everything I experience seems beyond my capacity. Everything slips through my skin. Nothing is contained. Gravity is the only temporal bond. Movement is existence. Light splatters on wet ground. The ground becomes the light. The light brings the darkness yet darkness is not mere emptiness. Emptiness is not alone. Emptiness has the greatest potential as that from which any patterns emerge. Each image can only be an iteration of something never whole or complete. What is caught or exposed (for lack of a better word) between these iterations is the point of stringing them together. The wall space is the wet plate.
Down by the concrete river, the spirits arise from patches of datura where the spiral that became a pinwheel stretches itself again to take on the form of ghostly plant emanations pollinated by the consciousness of any wanderer who lingers long enough for the vegetal spirits to unfurl their psychoactive shapeshifting tendrils and guide the awareness toward the unity of all things through the merging of forms and the collective existence of iterative semblances.
The gentle bloom unfolds. Its fruit a shield. The flower a star. Its warm dough a heart. The petals a pinwheel. Its seeds a portal back into the unfolding bloom.
spongeous holes exhale stretching dendritic forms chewing gum stuck on a sole