synaptic-disunion

Mind to fingers to page with no edits…

I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.

Those are the words that sometimes pop into my head, for whatever reason.  Reason has nothing to do with it, frankly.  Reason, though I aspire to be reasonable, I am rarely reasonable at all, because I am emotional, feeling, drifting, listening, I am human, after all.

Whatever music lies within me lies to me daily about how it might escape me into the world at large.  It remains pent up within me, singing, emoting, driving my thoughts toward some end I cannot see.

Where is the ending, where is the beginning, where am I now that I’ve drifted into this conflagration afterlife of sorts?  What becomes me?  What do I become afterward?

The music bounces in my head, grinding, churning, epic ballads and grinding rhythms.  Sinner, singer, song writer.  Standing arms wide while the music flows out of my mind with the force of a storm wind.  Nice though it flows my head keeps it inside and doesn’t let the world see…I abide within my own world of sound and fury, which ends up signifying nothing.  Nothing at all.

….and so it begins…

As the night fell on that election Tuesday, and my heart melted in fear and anguish, my body was thrown a small but tangible life line, in the form of a new space of my own.  We descended on this place like moths on light that day, but chaos was still the order of the day.  My own space, though, was all but complete.  Boxes of meaningless possessions, and a few that hold memories and sentiment, that make up our feeble and tentative lives stacked around the house, as I stared at books that were older than me, and that would outlive me into the future.  Texts written by persons long disintegrated into dust, leaving only their words on pages yet to be turned.

We had come through the fire, only to be piled upon with tasks beyond measure, and decisions that needed to be made.

Here in this little quiet sanctuary of my own, what do I plan on doing?  What do I intend to study, to write, to listen to….how then shall I endure the next four years in my bunker of books?  I shall take it upon myself to write, and to create music.  some of it will be awful, and regrettable, some maybe, if I’m lucky, will be good.

The mythologies of our time, and of our past, are my current focus, as are simple expository and mind to fingertip writings such as you are currently reading.  Music of a sort that I enjoy, and perhaps, just maybe, someone else might also.  A place to retreat, to get away from the derision and division of the outside world, wherein I can talk at length and freely about how that outside world affects us all…protesting I suppose, in my own small way.  Because, as we are now the divided states of america, divided from family, from history, from the world, these thoughts need to be expressed.  I will attempt to refrain from preaching, from teaching, and try to simply talk, write, and sing about these feelings that we are all having at this tumultuous time in our world.

I don’t know what else to say…here I am.  Here we are.  I am in my basement cave, you are where you are.  We all breath the same air, look up at the same sun and moon, and walk on the same ground.  We should all be one, and yet we are all so far apart and distant, even as we ride together on buses, trains, and subways, together and apart.

library1-jpg

I’m still here

It is October, 2016, and I am still alive…still here in this corporeal body waiting for a new cave in which to lay my weary head.  This is supposed to be the month, the time it settles down to coalesce into a new life, a new beginning.  Autumn has always felt like a beginning to me, where others see decay and coldness.  I welcome the closeness of the darkness, like returning to the womb, in warm glow of firelight.  Hello fall.

true colors

You can delete all the evidence. The posts. The instant messages and the pictures. You can erase your digital past and carefully curate your pixelated present and future. You can try to change who you are, and who you seem to be, and who you want to be seen as….but when the night comes, and the darkness closes in on your bedroom, you know it isn’t really gone. It seeps back into your brain stem and worms it’s way back, through darkened neural pathways, down the shadowed corridors of your mind, where it raps silently on doors you wanted closed and locked, silently waking those memories you wanted to shut away from yourself, and everyone else. The doors open, and out they flow like mist over morning grasslands.  They become the quiet demons of your bedroom, the horror of your waking hours, and your facade slowly slips from your face, showing the world who you’ve always been, but never wanted to be.

Meaning…part 3

Giving up has it’s rewards.  Don’t let the positive thinking people deceive you in to thinking you can think your way to ‘positivism.’  The truth is more complicated, more visceral…and different for each and every one of us.

When you drift downstream, forgoing effort, you become calm, you lay on your back and look upward as the sky drifts by, knowing full well the waterfall is coming, but not worrying about it because it’s not something you can change anyway.  Let it be.  Let it flow.  Let it go.

Don’t let them tell you we make our own decisions.  We are driven by external forces outside our own control, causing us to make decisions to mold ourselves to that reality. The evolution of consciousness isn’t complete and we are stuck in a transitional state between control and controlling.  It’s always more complicated than what you think…because what you think is affected by so much else.

Giving up has it’s rewards.  You flow, you drift, you find peace, you live in the present.

46

Forty six times the event has come around, each one different and also the same.  Glacial changes over time, reverting back to the beginning and inching closer to the ending.  Forty five was half of ninety.  Ninety will never be seen, in all likelihood.  We only know the half way point once the ending is reached.  Every day is a gift and every day is a repetition.  The same gift, opened without excitement, excepting on rare occasions.  Oblivion calls, as life holds it back.  In the end, the abyss wins over, and we all enter.

quiescence…

There is a space between activity and sleep that I enjoy, and inhabit more often lately than I have in the past.  It’s not contentment.  I am not content with either myself or my situation.  It is, almost, resignation…a certain peace of mind that comes over me.  Maybe it’s like giving up on things, on everything, and just letting things happen.  Maybe it’s a zen-like state.  I don’t really know.

It is a kind of action, though…coming to a pause…the act of pausing.  Slowing of the metabolism in reaction to some external force or event…or even environment.  Yesterday, Prince died.  We don’t know why yet.  Today, as always, there is another shooting in the USA.  Life and death goes on, as it always will.  Today is Earth day…it’s not a day to help the earth, but a day for humanity to realize that this spherical space ship is all we have to live on right now, and that it will go on into it’s own future with, or without us…the decision is ours.  I am quiet.  I am peaceful.  I have no aspirations about the 2016 election because, as usual, if I dive into it too much, I become embroiled in my own anger and disdain for the rest of humanity, and it’s disregard for itself.  I am circular in my reasoning, so I become empty.  I empty the emotions out and seek to find bodily and mental peace…from nowhere…from oblivion.

What is the meaning of all this?  I don’t know.  What is the future like, you, who are reading this a hundred years from now.  Did we make it?  Did we repair the earth-ship?  Did we overcome our own petty squabbles and hatreds and live, finally, together in peace?  Come back and tell me some time.  I’d like to know.  As for now, this gen-x-er is going to nap for a while…mentally, and bodily.

slipping…

some days I feel like i’m slipping away…becoming invisible…and I’m ok with it.  like blending into the background…a warm, comfortable feeling of well being…where softness surrounds your body and infiltrates your mind…

you soar…away…wings of freedom and all that…release, renew…like an ip address…but the renew is somewhere else…alone, numbness spreading and dulling senses until all is nothing and weakness is the only thing left…

some days are like that…knee bouncing nervously…then nothing.  a desire for peace and alternate realities sets in…a comfortable unreality where dreams are…where you can be what you always wanted to be and so much more…

eternity…

For the past week or so, I’ve been having the strangest thoughts that seemingly arise from out of nowhere, when I’m sitting quietly at my desk, or doing some mundane and mindless task. They all seem to stem from a dream I had a few nights ago, I think, wherein I was back in my grandparents house, on Astor street, in Fort Worth, TX. I am my current age, but they were still there. They’d be in their 100s now, were they still living. My grandfather, on my mothers side, was born in 1909. His wife, my grandmother, in 1912, I think. The small house still looked the same, the low nap carpet with its subtle pattern, the circular woven rug in the center of the living room, the dark wood paneling.

Even the back yard was the same, the single wagon wheel on it’s side, mounted in concrete so as to act as a makeshift merry-go-round that you held on to and swung from, the Honeysuckle hedge, my grandfather’s “dog house.” Inside the doghouse, he was there, sitting at a his small work bench, slowly turning the knob on his WWII era shortwave radio, the one I inherited from him when he passed away. He smiles at me, no words, I step in and smell that distinctive smell of oil and gasoline from the mower he also kept in the doghouse. It was a highly sensory dream. Since that night, I’ve had waking moments where I’m back there again. The memory is fresh for some reason. I’m looking into the face of my grandmother, who passed away from cancer in 1985. I’m seeing my grandfather sitting in his recliner, smiling, his white and thinning hair on top, and his horn rimmed glasses who died of complications from multiple strokes in 1980…and I feel warm, happy, comfortable. Even the smell of the house is in my nose…it’s an old, musty, but somewhat comfortable smell, and I want to stay.

I don’t know what all this means. I can’t understand why memories of my grandparents are visiting my mind now, of all times. Perhaps the dream opened a neural pathway to where those memories are kept, releasing them in order to provide me a little peace and comfort during this unsettling time. In the dream, and in the waking visions, I walk around that old house in Astor street, and a few things shift…the door to the kitchen is moved over a bit..but the stacked white washer/dryer combo still there…the small table in the corner…the one with the laminate top, the white cabinetry, the cans of Armour brand Vienna sausages. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I wonder, sometimes, why these kinds of memories just pop up every now and then. I know I’m not the only person for which this happens, and I won’t be the last. I know that someday, if I have grandchildren, they may have memories of a similar nature, about me. We are all born, and we all die, what matters is what happens in between those two events. We live on in the neural pathways of our children and grandchildren, and even further. Make that memory a good one…a warm, happy, comfortable one.

A rough draft…

This is a very rough draft of a possible Science Fiction / Fantasy book, or series of books, I’m thinking of someday writing.  Let me know if it’s absolute rubbish…
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Chapter 1 – The Years of Change

It was in the year 2643, during the 11th lunar cycle, when they found the object.  The northern desert wasn’t a place that archaeologists normally thought of as a rich area, but this find was stranger than they had ever seen, and sparked an increased interest in archaeology worldwide.  It was metallic, and it was buried in a stratum that was over 65 million years old.  The fact that it had survived all that time was a mystery in itself.

During the lunar cycles that followed, numerous theories arose to explain how it got there, and what it was, but none made a lot of sense.  One belief held that it was of non-terrestrial origin, that it was a small part of an ancient asteroid that had crashed on the planet millions of years ago, but it didn’t match any of the other asteroids that had been recovered, when there was anything to recover, that is.

Religious theorists seemed to take great interest at that time in the artifact, and held that the gods themselves had left this for us to find, and to study.  They had the idea that it might be a key to knowing the past, and the future.  Many from within darker and more isolated orders within those same walls, simply felt the artifact should be returned to where it had been taken, or simply left alone.

The explosion of archaeological digs planet wide resulted in precious little to add to this odd artifact since the strata that it was found in was extremely rare, and usually devoid of any signs of life, and only found in two places on the planet, the northern polar land mass, and the northern desert, a frozen wasteland where very little could survive.  The northern polar land mass was covered in most places with a mile thick ice sheet, which stretched down across the frozen north sea to the northern desert.

The artifact was discovered by the famous globe-trotting Urillian adventurer Yserka, while he was attempting to break his previous record for walking the 1500 mectar distance across the frozen desert.  Twenty five years before, he had done the same thing, and had been the first to discover that life did hang on, even here, in the frozen wastes, discovering strange fauna that subsisted in sub-zero temperatures year-round.  This time, his fame was even greater, and as hoards of archaeologists braved the elements to see the wonder that the wind was revealing, he reveled in his new found celebrity.  He was contracted by a major bookseller to write his life story, and it was then that the world found out that many of his tales were either fabricated, or plagiarized.

The artifact, however, was real enough, and after the initial media hype surrounding it, and its discoverer, died down, it was shuffled off to the great universities of the central mountain continents.  Those bastions of higher learning that dominated, and yet hid themselves from the day to day operation and governing of the world.  The artifact found its way to one such institution, where it was cataloged, labeled, and shelved, and nearly forgotten for over fifty years.

In the intervening years, the world saw a revolution unlike ever before.  Scientific breakthroughs enriched and lengthened life, the planets population tripled, and the perfection of air travel brought the world closer together.  The lighter than air zephyrs zipped across the stratosphere riding the trade winds of the planet, and the cities at the ends of these trade winds grew exponentially.  The great sea was finally traversed by one of these zephyrs and there was officially no place that hadn’t been touched by Urillian influences.

Even fashion had evolved with the times.  When the now nearly forgotten artifact had been found, the art of hiding ones tail was in fashion, now, it was common for Urillians to celebrate their tails, and again use them as a third hand.  It was a real back to nature movement, complete with certain Urillians reviving the old tradition of building dwellings under the extensive forests of massive trees of the northwestern continent.  Those trees that were sometimes over five hundred feet in circumference, and had lived for two and sometimes three centuries.  It was even rumored that some of these hole-dwellers regressed and began climbing the trees again, using their tails as the Urillians of old had, before the time of the great burning, when the planet was struck by a meteor so large that the sky was burnt orange for one hundred years.  There was even rumor of vast hidden cities in the trees.  Most modern Urillians, however, dismissed the very idea that people would give up technology for such a pastoral life as legend, and left it at that.

War, too, had changed in the last fifty years.  As Urillian science advanced, so did the art of war.  Gone was the hand to hand to tail combat of one hundred years ago, now it was swords in close combat, projectile weapons and chemicals in the cities and towns of ones rival city state.  Even the great sea wasn’t immune to war.  Great ships and even war zephyrs were built by the great shipping guilds of the western coastal lands.

One thing that did remain the same, however, was the great universities.  The outer world marched on, advanced, mostly thanks to the discoveries made by scientists at the great universities, but the universities themselves, remained relics of the past.  It was in one of these universities that a discovery was made, or rather, a re-discovery.  The metallic object found by the adventurer Yserka had lain in a large drawer for close to fifty years.  It remained the kind of enigma that takes more time and effort to solve than many students had, and many of the faculty had already come to conclusions that they felt were satisfactory regarding the object, and therefore regarded it as old news, and something to be forgotten.

There was one student, however, who had seen a sketch of the object, and had never forgotten it.  His name was Ursala Surbla.  Having come from a wealthy Urillian family in the south to the central university, he spent many days in the library, and in the specimen room, simply satisfying curiosities.  Yet he was never allowed to view the artifact.  However, he found the Yserka volume that described the strata that the object was found in, and was mystified.  How could an object, so obviously unnatural, have come to be deeply embedded in 20 million year old rock?  It just didn’t add up.

His studies forbade him the kind of time that he wanted to dedicate to the project, and his professors thought it was a foolish endeavor anyway.  Still, the idea that this object was special weighed heavily on him, and he continued his research as often as he could.  He came across several articles by other scientists who had studied the object, many of which came to the same conclusions.  He found it odd that there was such unilateral consensus on the artifact, that there were no respectable dissenting views.  It was then that he started noticing that this object had only been studied up until mid-summer of 2647, and no one had seen it since it was taken off display in the central university gallery in 2652, that was 49 years ago now.  At this point, research on the object had abruptly stopped.  The core group of scientists who had worked on it was now all dead.  And no other writings on the object existed.

Millions of sinister thoughts filled Ursala’s head, his ears turned and flattened back against the fur on his cranium, further increasing his concentration on the matter by closing off the sounds around him.  He hissed through his front teeth and twitched his tail softly over his shoulder.  He was suddenly very interested in this object, and greatly desired to see it with his own eyes.