Just Because A Cat Has Her Kittens In The Oven Doesn't Make Them Biscuits
One : Example
The sleepers in the throes of erewhon leave the space for us to find our place that has no substance. Where shadows speak, and patterns within the wallpaper half-lit through the tree outside the window contain our entire ancestry. Within this realm we are alone, but the normal weight of this word is rendered light. We blow it away as easily as the flame from a candle. We are without, but we are within. All places are removed. The door, open a fraction, raises possibilities within our reach, and not those promised for tomorrow. The uselessness of communication mapped out in the shaft of light. This is where it begins, and where it ends. All roads are nullified, all dreams snuffed out. These seem no more than bad projections now. Promises made, but never kept. We can literally create whilst being created through our perception of the shifting mass we call our surroundings. All is infinitely malleable - there are no restrictions, only discoveries about ourselves to be made. Every surface is a guru, every comer a lamp in a niche, every coating of dust a banquet for the soul. The act of movement is predestined and at the same time totally under the control of our now sacred will. Miracles lie under the fingertips, heaven is superfluous. The gaze pierces the spirit of all matter, effortlessly. Holy water courses through the veins. Choice is all that there is. There was no creation, there is no world, there was and shall never be anything but this. No journeys, no A to B, no cause and effect, no. The thoughts spread out over the inner coating of the head like wallpaper in a room. Looking at the picture on the wall is like diving into a vast swimming pool. The first dive, the water as yet unruffled. Not able to determine where the surface actually is. Helpless in the depths, calmly waiting to arise once more by the natural buoyancy of the body. Enveloped, and still at the centre. Nothing moving at all. Scents from another world, a forgotten time. Resonances and atmospheres never to be experienced again. Nothing can pollute. Utter safety capable of being cut with a pair of scissors. The creases in the bedcovers, the rustle of a feather eiderdown. A hearse passing through the street, just outside the window. Every curtain closed at two o'clock in the afternoon. The fish lie dormant at the bottom of the pool, living from the store in themselves, built up over the summer. The plankton is gone. No food can bring them to the surface. Peering closely reveals glints of orange. Somewhere vaguely is the knowledge of displacement, of refraction, the murky coloration of decaying weeds. The geometry of the pause between knowledge and under-standing rends away the veil of being. Cut. The floor opens. The door opens again - a hand throws in a collection of glass marbles that scatter over the linoleum. The soft clicking subsides, and the distant roar of the train gains prominence on the soundtrack. For this is a film. The last rays of the sun through the same window are cast onto the wall, in perfect synchronisation with the footsteps that fade away along the (unseen) corridor. It sounds, as if it is long and unfurnished. A school of some sort? Smoke from a cigarette drifts into the camera lens. A small breeze ruffling a tree almost out of view. Looking at the cheap mimeographed handbill, ink slightly smudged - registration not quite perfect. Three folds, and into the inside pocket of the jacket. Slipping silently away into the front hall. Carpet very soft under feet. Out into the surprisingly cold air, laced, with diesel fumes. It is early, too early. On a journey, rest is complicated by the vast number of magnetic fields the vehicle passes through. Orientation scrambled, all intuitive systems jangled and rattled. The sudden upturned glance of a stranger merges with the landscape, without pity, without conscience. Everything is an absolute. The click of a shutter displaces nothing here, the pigeons do not swarm to a single crumb left on the pavement.