Another movie, and if this were on dvd. I would live on that disk forever. I would live in that memory movie even when it just sits on the shelf, looking dull, another decree of lackluster planned obsolescence.
The law of that disk’s original creation steadfast.
It has to be had. And you and I had it.
We lived that movie.
Whatever decreed that the film be created, lies beside the value of the movie itself.
The film exists, that’s all I care to accent.
I would go on living here too, as a matter of course, this is life. But that disk would be another dimension just as real, indistinguishable from all the other bizarre shit that goes on around here; except that, when bizarre shit happens in this life, in, ‘real’, life…..it is less in our face, for our faces have been veiled by mundane paradigms for too long…
In our dream, our paradigm was an island in these mountains. The normal World existed, we were sure, but it rested, an enormous beast far away, that we had yet to vanquish.
So we plotted. Constructed our dream, to fit the images in our dreams.
Dreaming about dreams past, to create this dream at present: to bear witness on our past and to illuminate our present; exploring the nature of our causal existence.
That is the film that still plays on the disk. That dull, dead disk, that plastic piece of shit, for which i save with exclusivity–SO MUCH CONTEMPT.
YET IN THAT DISK I WOULD DEARLY LIVE ON ETERNALLY AND BACK AGAIN.
But that film we had, to be cherished. Made sacred by the passage of resounding thoughts, the death of time spent, saving energy for future hopes, energy leaked in solitary laments.
That film Made scarce by memories forgotten. Epiphany! REMEMBRANCE!
That film–has premiered, and re-run, through my memorized script this–scroll of thoughts carved on the walls of my CAVE-SKULL–Antiquarian, frozen lake pools.
We would freeze to stone in that BLOOD-BURGUNDY Water. Medusa, the circle of life repeats in your blood bones, and as I absorb into your Infinite Hallway Eyes, I am marooned and absorbed into those statue isles, where so many froze before time–when you were only a soul. Without all these after-shade Pastel pigment plates, layering the walls of your skull cave, your brain–so antiquarian, must share space with the mundane.
That’s the problem.
The goddess and god exist before the sheep and shod. Now you must walk, as the sheep trot.
You are now made weeping, desolate and brutal pinstripe bindings, and valleys and hills in your skidding skin expounds.
These dogged diggers have bound you with cords, dug into your hounds, howling up from belows… CAN YOU SAVE US DOWN HERE?!
YOU DEFEND YOUR IMPRISONMENT ON THE GROUNDS THAT–you are an artisan.
SO YOU DO NOT LET GO YOUR WORK TO IT’S OWN WAY, but lug it around this continent over around again==
Your life force is tied directly to each act you have etched as stone out of a human spirit.
Each interaction that you create, it becomes an apostle to attract the next caricature.
How caricature does one have to be…to let you set one free?
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