The Exposition

During my travels, I keep two journals – one private, written to my (still unknown) 10th Muse – another via e-mail, which I archived after receiving overwhelmingly amazing responses from my nearest and dearest...

The former is for her eyes only, and quite potentially notorious, the latter infamous. The excerpts that follow are from the latter.

Speaking of excerpts, here is one from my upcoming novel:

"All the memories pulsed and flashed, memories of me, the former - prodigious mistakes, perpetual insatiety, myriad blank stares, including the most serene one in that defining moment, countless places and faces, most nameless, grains of sandy aged film creating the snapshots of a time seemingly so distant, so detached from identity... faceless names, languages all blending together, forming the shards of the shattered glass canvas of memory's endless panoramic painting, waves crashing, embers crackling and quickly dissolving into the ash of being no more, blown off the smooth black marble rocks by the cool and crisp ocean breeze of my content, those words of care and guidance, whispered gently to me in a lucid dream - the dream that can never die, that one where I finally meet all the gods within the void in me."

01.06 – Void of Departure

A twist, a turn, so slow that burn... and nowhere left to run, and no one left to... and so it goes. Blood drips from the candle of deceit, flows out from the cave of no retreat. On and through to the bridge of the lost and confused... where wander the souls entangled in limbo between need and want, pain and pleasure, self and other, desire and blame. The brook of cliches, saturation, false hopes and lamentations is murmuring below. The train to the final destination has already left the station. The sirens of fame and fortune are singing on its shores - their alluring tune of no meaning or reason. A lone branch hangs outside a cave, leaves frayed, eaten, decayed. To grasp this branch provides vitality and light, and harmony to sight... a portal to a world without suffering, to a world with no pain - to that netherworld of torrents of freedom from the mundane. The fallen never see it - they are eaten alive by the sirens. They speak in songs of riddles so complex that they become truth. They sell lies to the innocent, robbing them of their youth. They desecrate purest beauty... scar, corrupt, and pretend to soothe. So alight those lanterns... so aglow with the Graces. Find the right pattern to adorn your elegant faces. Extract from the void. See into the beyond. Darkness will pry the covers to your eyes. Wounds are agape. The masses want rape. Extract from the void. Wave your wand.

22.06 – Winter of Intent

And thus broke the seal... four somehow between seven and twenty-nine. The fountain had run dry, the drops on the windowpaine receded into that gutter of endless farce, the farce of routine excuses, so routine they had become subconscious Muses! They thus drip, drip into the wounds of past abuses, that sting of pain so confused, so misdirected... they fade into the fickle and capricious night undetected. She no longer appears - frenzied, aloof, in fright... as wanton as the blind to sight. The cursed forgot their misery long, long ago - that bane of promises was never intended to put on a show. But put one on they did, over and over, else the Supervisor would rampage. The cold flame of his ire was but an illusion... one she conjured up from remnants of memories of pelvic contusions. Winter, rebirth... there will come a crevice of hope. White walls, a surreal dream, a dose of comfort dope. Ribbons on the pavement point toward the delusion of renewal. The heads had yet to roll before the feet of the tribunal. They were too drunk to raise from their throne-like chairs. Yet they would jump in an instant to stroll through the cemetary in the cold December air. Thus spoke the winter of intent. Thus began the cycle of descent. So on they walk on their own path to the trial. So forth they dance on the precipice of denial...

20.07 – Twisted by Fate

Twenty-four of the longest days through a twisted trail of no relent. She was on the wrong plain. She could not hear the cries in the middle of the night to not get on that train. Oh, the irony - on those tracks of all her fears, the same torments on repeat, the same chaos preying on her tears. Loneliness, regret, dreams they had not realized quite yet. Memory is an incompetent guide, for it always remembers too late... experience shows its face only when twisted by Fate. Reality comes down in droves of pain, duality splits reason as desires to feign. So there we stood, on those rocks again... one side cold, depraved - the other warm, humane. Then everything went sideways... everyone forgot the dance. Life, beauty, happiness, calm, ration - now they do not stand a chance. So what then... whither from here? Nothing left to lose, nothing left to fear... hereforth go these tortured souls, hopelessly trying to fill in all those holes... of all the could have beens and almost weres... no more happenstance or halfway turns. The procession never leads to the fountain of youth... it only marches forth unwittingly to the plain of truth. The former forget substance or form, the latter find content in the storm. Not all among them reap what they sow... but they all feel the effects of the shrill wind when it blows. Perhaps the wind will swirl about the dust, perhaps this ends with the final judgement - trust. Neither lust, nor deceit... nor that spiral of lies ending in defeat. Look ahead and do not forget to breathe. And no matter what... never lose the belief.

08.08 – Ex Umbris Ad Lucem

Illumination always subjugates darkness, whose essence is the absence of it - so conversely conscience, in its turn, to fright. Lack of consciousness - the mute devil of the unconscious - is easily quashed by the candle that burns throughout the night. Echoing screams will fade like the tragedy of regret. That torment will soon be easy enough to forget. Those streaming memories of weakness are never the whole... only when left unattended to will they ever consume your soul. A net is always supported by two poles. Not polar opposites, but the endearment of a true friend. Standing apposites, side by side until the very, very end. Thoughts conjured at times of the end of days, the scars ran so deep... but nay, my friend, now is not yet my time for eternal sleep. Without clarity, the ink runs dry, runs out of sense, out of reason... every time you got high. Precisely there she stands, waving her fans to the flame... throwing it all down the drain, moving forth to continue adding to the human stain. Along that path, a funny thing... those circles of hope, of desire, pure passion - the glance at the ring... visions now conjured, music in the air - so vitreous, so humble, the Muses began to sing. The thought of it alone - such wonder at their song - notes undulating and twisting about the summer night's air, past illusions fade into the grey... leaving no more of the memories, none of the despair. There were no more screams, no more madness, nothing left of that sordid fray. Thus blazed the path forward, and quite so clear... thus I spoke, finally, anew - there was nothing left to fear.

24.08 – Walking The Ledge

The rain pours down whilst strolling through these streets of blame... off in the distance a fire blazes, this unrequieted flame. Thoughts race forth, desire once again without a name. I burn, burn, burn on through to the very apex of this same - this same old excuse, this same naught of a being. This same old notion, of no recompense, of no meaning. Humanity without conscience, humanity without a reason - so it burns in the fire, like the traitor after his treason. So on then they bleed, and it flows out of the seams - wandering about this sacred night, without want or need - no need of ration, no need to please... I have no need for such madness, only to bring Fate down to her knees. If she would ever find the cure, the antidote for her twisted disease - that tangled web of lies, her twisted disguise - silence falls on those trees. No more sounds in this dead of night, only the sighs of the branches, gently slumping their leaves. And so this constant sting, how it sways and bobs and weaves... along into the darkness, along that path of final betrayal. The hammer drops down one final time - the coffin sees its final nail. So then - off he goes, off the edge, further to the side, toward the ledge, where there will be nowhere left to hide. On and on into this dead of night he bleeds his trail - the rustling of the forest, the crackling embers, the virgin's wail. On and on to the next one - she will require thought. No more cry. No pale goodbye. Just that spark, just that spot.

09.09 – Blood-Shattered Vow

It was just a tiny little dot, a speck of dust in the universal expanse, that enigma wrapped in the vortex of time, the deluded visage of the sublime, the needle in the vein, mere shows instead, the desecration of the sacred dance. His feet were covered in blood, shattered glass on the floor - the mirror splattered with vows so broken, the rite thus devoided, those words dissolved in those waters of insouciance. They splattered across the canvas at random, the rootless tree, destined for the fall. So, too, the oasis, lacking its mandatory calm, soon vanishes into nothing at all. Thus would the Fates resume their winds anew, those wondrous winds of caprice, so the boat docks at the shore - a dream ... that scream - so to once again bring them to their knees. Electrical symbiosis speeds through the pathways to vanquish solipsis, as the Nymphs flit about in the gentle night's breeze. In the ruins of the temple he spies the rubble that was once his throne and altar ... emanating from the shallow tomb rose the faint scent of attar. He was determined to never again project or paint so surreal a desperate perversion, nor to hang by that thread so dare, nor on that edge, nor on precision to cast aspersions, nor conjure acquaintance whose sacrifice he could not bear. So the fool so more who follows along, so much more nothing to drown in the same old dance and song. Yes, I do ... all of it, all of it sideways and sometimes reverse. So, too, the oh-so-fickle twilight of this most ancient curse.

21.09 – Full Lunar Equinox

That day arrives, where space and time and day and night come to converge, where his breath with the wind does thrive, purpose from meaning do part, and like light back through the prism, so do they all merge... on and forth through the night's wayward mist, back and through to the path of his amiss. Thus night becomes as even as the day, shadows reflect upon the bare earth whilst stalking their prey. But no... that lunar sphere does not so permit, as the winds whispered to them all, streaking over their faces as smooth as velvet. Distant voices were calling, crawling from the chasm, five minutes nearer, love not war, chaste, not whore, calm and content at the visage in that mirror. Shock and awe, for there was no longer that torment... the light in the sky, no longer waving goodbye - everything to its most profound bent - sorrow foregone, the will to move on... beyond the fall, and as always - without a trace. The shadows were long forgotten, the fool no longer besotten... but right there, in that place, right there beside you. Imagine all of it - imagine the surprise, thinking they could berate his swoon, thinking they could gouge out those crystalline eyes. Instead they ran, and flew way too close to the sun, unaware that they were never the only ones. So it went on this pale night of orange and blue, and so it goes - lunar wax, lunar wane ... the rhythm of time and season - light and shade again balanced and even, without highs and without lows.

21.12 – Solstice : Eclipsed

There I stood – making snow angels on the frozen beach of time. Where were you there? Could you feel the pulse of those waves? Could you see the ruddy glow of the moon? How did we end up here...? At the end of it all... no more land. Nothing but the sea. No one but you and me. I wanted, so wanted to see you on that beach. You had other 'ideas'. You felt the time, felt it slowing down... echoing in your mind, propelling these frozen memories beyond the horizon before me, past the horn blowing off in the distance, through the mist of everything. All that remained were these precious fragments, a solitary trail of footprints on the boardwalk, the screaming of the Sirens within, piercing through the caliginous night. Trodding along that snow-covered beach, I would eventually make my way to the rocks, the ones I knew so well. No comfort there, only nearly-frostbitten extremities and the whisper of the frigid winter winds, guiding me back to the warm glow of the auburn moon... back to the inner glow of the Self, exploding across the cosmic landscape of the rarest of nights. A long, fixed stare skyward... and then - gone... alone, again. The blank stare returns... from the zenith to the nadir - a final attempt to replevy that which fills the void in me. A full lunar circle: completed. No more vulpine elisions of reason... only sagacity – hereforth and into the beyond.

29.12 – Penultima

This is where it began for me... at the one just before the last. A week after the progeny declaration, down the cast went - into the abyss, without regard. Where do the Gods get this stuff? Nowhere is familiar... everything new. Standing at the crossroads, I watched - aghast at the cross-pollination. The house imploded, now the fields needed to be razed. Nothing can ever be permitted to grow there again. That crackle of fire returned to my eye as I walked off into the twilight matin. The reflection – shattered into 29 pieces - comes together into just this one, ahead on a different path, the one with truly hallowed ground. Now I know exactly how it will end. I could now impetrate the appearance of the 10th, with no further divagations. I just need to get there... really need to set the inner fire back ablaze. I remembered the secret. What a bloody shame to forget it, even for a mere second. Nameless places and blank faces, everywhere I looked. Nothing else really mattered anymore. I am on my own side now, and only now did I understand – having your head in the clouds is perfectly fine... as long as your feet are on the ground. The only place that can happen is when you are standing on top of the mountain, on that cliff – only there could I ever see the true essence of the edge within. The one before the last – nevermore. Not the last one, either... or the next. No, from one edge to the other, instead – to the daedal engram accented by the velvet breeze...

14.04 – Modular Pulse Impetrations

The rhythm began to beat again, even pulsing at times. I could feel myself vibrating through time, modulating just like the warbling synthesis of my space - Switched: on. Plugged: in. Un-in, off and out. Again and again. Cruising along my own private synaptic superhighway, I would sometimes have to pull myself over for speeding, but never for holding up traffic. I could hear the screams coming from the factories below - shrieks of horror and pain and submission to the mundane. But this crystal-blue gaze was fixed on neither anything nor anyone in particular, staring out the window of a high speed train to nowhere in particular. If there was one photograph that could encapsulate the essence of 'me', it would look something like that. You can create whatever image you like as the background - that is the true beauty of it all. My layers were infinite. I could never seem to reach the core - nor did I really want to. All my bliss was in motion, content whilst lacking a destination, but never lost... forever the reminder was present: only my physical world was shared. Disregard the boundaries - they are imposed from without, and thus do not exist. Desecrate the kitsch altar, until the candles hang from the walls. Da. Da. Conventions are for those too unimaginative to see beyond them. Again, the beyond. Some nights should never end, some planes should never land. All else was the beyond - always the beyond. Look closer. You will see...
Then blow out the candle.

21.06 – Solstitude Without Names

Or maybe one... just one name. I wanted to go to a place where the shadows no longer shouted that name, a place where there were only whispers of that long-forgotten son. The surrounding scene was post-everything - strewn across the abyss. I saw your beautiful face around every last corner, dearest Miss... allusions to everything minus the sun... so did you run too far, or not far enough? Oh bother - my flight is booked. To where? I don't know yet. Does it matter? It was always anywhere but here, anyone who could stare into those piercing eyes of the forgotten beyond. The longest days were the ones overrun by appetence, overwhelmed by a disregard for the metempirical somnambulant imagery of these lucid daydreams, which were painted upon the canvas of my memory. I would not rest until I had perfected painting those strokes across the canvas of time... the piquant strokes of experiential bewilderment, lurking around every corner, the arcanum written on every expression of the co-conspirators. Let me share a secret - the lights will become lanterns, and the pale dirty pink and blue will become amber of hue, warming you into tomorrow like a child in her favorite blanket. The winds will no longer howl, but whisper to you, coo even, penetrating through you, all the way to your most beautiful and complete core - the very essence of the edge within. Close your eyes. Stand on that cliff with me. Allow me to share the secret.

08.08 – Seasons In Near-Miss

Let the epiphany explode into your architecture, three days early. Build your walls, and let no one pass through them. A quick return to retreat mode is often necessary - a retreat to the most inner self, in order to once again reach the whole, most sacred confluence of all the Gods within. Remember your zest... drive off again into the soporific mist - evanesce. The symbiosis of synapse and bliss. The childlike wonder returns to find that it no longer recognizes its host - a complete transformation, and with it the confirmation of a long apparent truth: there was no turning back now. So - whither, then? Into the beyond, of course... the deserted isle, forgotten by time... truths so ancient they have dissolved. They were once right before you. Hyper-intelligence, having your heart ripped out by the soul-less. I once screamed her name in my sleep - my nightmare instantly morphed into the most amazing lucid dream. This is the state in which I abide, dearest. I awake, to no one... the replications going into overdrive, again. Then by contraries do not digress through all the progressions of our photosynthetic world, stumbling through those fading neon night lights. The beyond does not know nothingness. Quiet determination then seeps through the veins... with pupils constricted, concentration that bewilders, focus razor precise... no remembrance of things past. This is your power. This is your light. This is your fancy... in these dark halls of night.

09.09 – That Memorable Fancy

Today is disappeared... short-circuited into lucubration, and so blissfully unaware that the sun abandoned it, fading into forget like a distant regret. And you thought you would smirk, thought you could laugh, thought you would be able to resist this most golden of nights. You should always trust your instincts. Dystopia surrounds you. Cataclysms are imminent. Technology dehumanized you into forgetting that those mantras of the absurdly self-entitled do indeed equate to a sort of bitter truth. Take just one look into the chasm - the scene there was horrific, laden with the scars of the well-traveled, well-endured – it was indubitably fascinating. Did we really ever learn anything there? Anything pure or rare? Precisely there, in the chalice holding the nectar of the gods. We libate as time stretches out across that vast sea at sunset, and you have no choice but to bask in its radiance, amid this dearth of reason that surrounds us. Corporeal experience then transmogrifies into plangent waves crashing on the shore of the amaranthine, leading into the red mantic sky of so much forgotten... but it is never about what you cannot remember, but what you cannot forget. If only to be in love with such an idea, and never relent; and to be indebted to infinity, but never forget. I would exist no more beyond that point. I can no longer exist... only live. And I only want to live... with you.

11.04 – 7th Cycle: XCRT I

I am not really sure which way is up or down anymore... standing on insanity's shore. Why did I take that bridge? The question still vexes me - was it sheer caprice or something more profound...? There would be loads of time to decipher it all. In any case - so you hit the bottom - there's only one thing left to do: escape... and not just leaving that forest for another. Remember the one fish in that lake springing forth from Virgin River. Such a weird one, too, swimming upstream at 129 km/ph. Is any of this really happening? Reset the sensors, please - back to escaping Zion, due west of my present tense, setting like the forgotten sun. How bloody random to make that turn twice - making sudden autumn burst through the twilight, as the aquamarine domes of the mantic reason deficit fade away... saturating the shadows into the night. Dare to amaze me - all 666 miles, 87 to the next stop - just past ridiculous, next to absurd and always vanishing like mist. My ears were dripping with those dark whispers, covering soft deceits, then betrayed like winter. The harvest moon soon waxes away my fright, making the dream idea into the present tense apodictic. To build that pyramid out of the sacred triumvirate, then scale it over and over again, as I drive off into the autumn sunset. The bonfire burns on the plain... those embers crepitating through the reflection, amiss. And then it all returned to me... such a strange process – remembering how to feel.

11.11 – 7th Cycle: XCRT II

Execute Escape Order 66... and then turn right after the exit called Hope. You will find her there, walking through the dark, thick forests of your dreams – the ones where she would always appear, winding through that mad river, then vanish into the mist of your memory, whilst all the wood echoed with the laughter of ancient spirits... whose stories were never told. Leave your window open. Listen to the wind whisper the way out of the void. Carbon will always prevail. This is the path to the ever-evolving door of eternal return... creating seamless compositions, just past the first hour back in time, all to reflect upon these magical late autumnal undulations. Stunned numb at the crossroads, it was time to give up the nowhere crusade – with aplomb. Xenia then springs forth, reigning down all over me – through all my seven states - the merging of lives, without the lies. This left me speechless – and as a revenant I returned, retreating from anoesis. This can only be a good thing... plugging out. I would have to read between the lines, but never backwards. Those seconds peel away, like raindrops off the sidewalk. Sometimes they are all you know. Still monitoring the execution, no one missed me more than I did. Oh how I miss the time when any of it mattered. These secret circles portend seven sacred cycles - spiralling into the infinite pale mist. That is where it all began for me. This is where it ends. This time – I am not coming back...

11.19 – 7th Cycle: XCRT III

My industrial wasteland paints the purple sunrise over the terraced beach of Normandy. The real turning point was... flying through the amber. No more going sideways. No more empty words. Nowhere, -------, which is also everywhere there. Crisp, cool mountain air. The No Name exit. Purging all the cynicism through the canyon. These sacred bonds twist through those canyons of time, endlessly, into that infinite chasm of ever-evolving return, back and through those same seven cycles with the parachute of eternity. The strangest life I've ever known. Just do what the signs tell you to, for you are in the thick of it now – 2500 miles deep. Keep at it for the distance, through the red full lunar vortex under the stars... once again waiting for the raising of the sun. Fulfil only your own prophecies... make them up as you go along, but please do follow the signs. Write then rewrite the rules, or have none at all. Stay foolish. The sun shines on the horizon of either side of your sphere into the blue abyss. If only to see the smirk on my face down in that sea, the wear of all those fierce winds of shame and blame, those lies that time forgot... to their infinite perpendicular. Stay hungry. Know that you will never come close to reaching the end. It is always about the journey, never about the destination. 14,000 meters above the clouds – hyper-maniacal the warp speed at which the alate reversal will transpire – one day I will make this plane fly backwards.