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(viewed 1680 times)
It's hard to maintain focus today.

The rainbow spears come with such a feeling of presence, like each line of color is an angel of itself, dancing on a lethal solar gibbet with the abandon of the nominally immortal. I feel I could strum the infrared tethers above and the ultraviolet anchors to the ground below. It's a toss-up whether I'd hear the chord of a celestial harp or be pounced by the weaver who spun the strands, poisoned with a sudden jab and wrapped and hung in the sky for later feasting.

I try to focus. I squint and blink and watch the colors blur. Nearsighted as I am and accustomed to blur, the blurs do not make sense.

When I drive late at night and the taillights of the cars in front of me smear away and float off to the sides of the road, I open my eyes wider and relax them, and the red lights warble and chirp back to pinpoints. This is like that. But the sense of presences does not go away.

Thank God there are other people in the garden today, ignoring the hell out of this. I don't know what I'd do without them as an anchor for the reality I should be responding to. My tuner has been broken for years. I stay on their station by circuit resonance alone. I should follow them when they leave.

The medicines distilled from green blood -- mescaline, cocaine, ahayuasca, datura, psilocybin, lysergin -- are the food and drink of the fey. The red blood drugs that would counteract this -- fermented bloods of various animals, preserved meats and tissues and pastes made from various exudations -- are arts lost to science.

I am tempted to try the bloods of demons and angels - slime from between the legs of a succubus, spunk of a cherub, nymph lymph, cerebrospinal fire from a djinn, cytoplasm of the interstellar krill that are the softshelled spawn of the oldest gods -- but that would be jumping off the cliff at the edge of the world.

But then these strands would be shed, dripping with the various glues of interstitial foam, from my own spinnerets, gleaming with the promise of my own venom.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

8th Feb 2009, 22:06   | tags:comments (4)

Do you hear me now?

(viewed 2081 times)
I have only two speeds
- With you, with him, with everyone. It's resting or full speed ahead. No half way house, no reason. It's just 'stop' or 'go'

I have only two speeds
- My default emotion is love. The other’s unthinkable

I have only two speeds
- You react to my love as if stung, act as if I’ve singled you out. The truth's the reverse. You came here for me

I have only two speeds
- You are not my lover, never have been. Understand this; whether in true love or friendship; slowly is not, can not, will never be my way

I have only two speeds
- Honesty. Consideration. I have no choice. I can only hurt those I love if I must do so to survive

I have only two speeds
- Friend or foe, I love you. I strive to understand. I honour or ignore you. I act one way or another, assume empathy or indifference. That's camouflage. Self protection. Not me.

I have only two speeds
- And when he comes, my Lover, when he arrives from the random noise, from the music, from the daubs of colour on the sand,when he comes from the soil, from the Earth itself, maybe then you'll understand

I have only two speeds
- Love freely given can't be undone. It's never lost. It can grow, stay the same or be killed. When he arrives and the pitch and volume of the voices start to swell, when the oohs, and aahs start to rise from the pavement, when the sounds sing from the paper, the colours from the numbers, when the letters shout and speech shines bright on the sidewalk, maybe then you'll understand. For us, for sure, they'll no longer be unintelligible. They'll be a symphony to life, to our senses, to synaesthesia and to love

I have only two speeds
- Don’t cross my wires. I know I'm not normal. Spending time at a friend’s house makes the fact no clearer than when I spend time alone

I have only two speeds
- Don’t tell them I told you. My love means the scream of your scratch on my psychie will scar me forever. The fall-out could scar you as well

I have only two speeds
- You came for me. Now help me. Do what you came for and paint me my future. Make the sounds good. Make the lines deep. Make them clean and - if we were ever friends - make them true

I have only two speeds
- But only ever one direction. It appears that I'm facing away from you

Now go

Posted by Dhamaka

16th Jan 2009, 23:39   comments (9)

Does it speak to you?

(viewed 1837 times)
In my early years I thought it was normal. That's no surprise. I mean, anyone old enough to spend the night at a friend's house can tell you about the shock of spending time with that friend's family and learning how bizarre your own upbringing was. Anything you grow up with you think is normal.

When I was in elementary school one of my sometimes-friends asked me why all of the sevens were a pale yellow-orange that was difficult to read on a computer screen or a whiteboard or a piece of paper. I looked at him like he was the idiot I knew him to be. Somewhere on the other side of shoving him off his bench and him leaving a bruise on my inner thigh from an attempted kick to the crotch, we figured it out. I held up two rulers, changed the angles I was holding them at, and when they looked enough like a seven, it changed colors -- for him -- and he burst into tears.

It was synaesthesia. Just a fairly common crosswiring of sensory input. Just about everyone has some of it buried somewhere -- from scratching someplace on the body and feeling a twang elsewhere to a ringing in the ears when you look at bright lights to-- Well, you probably don't even realize it when it happens. You grew up with it and think it's normal.

I see faces. I mean, we all do. We see faces in random noise, in clouds, in treebark, in woodgrain, in complex interplay of light and shadow. But the mechanism is synaesthetic. A certain configuration of light and shadow, something eyesish and nosish and maybe a little mouthish, and *poof* we see a face. There's really no sensory connection, there.

Except for me, that's where the voices come from.

If I see a face, I hear a voice. Sometimes it just hums or goes "oooh" or "aaah", and the pitch and volume kind of depend on the size and the shape of the mouth and ... sometimes I just fill a page with all kinds of simple stick figure heads, move it around in front of me, scan back and forth across it, and listen to the choir in my head. Having fun at the expense of my own crossed wires. Sometimes I hear voices in the voices, though, starting to form words....

The disturbing part is that the more accidental the face, the more likely I am to hear muttering, words just on the edge of comprehension, a message that seems important. I know it's just noise, and accident of random wiring, but that doesn't keep me from trying to listen. The faces I can just barely make out, here one moment, gone the next -- those speak to me loudest and clearest.

And that's why I'm an abstract painter.

Tell me. Does my work speak to you?


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

13th Jan 2009, 14:12   | tags:comments (3)

On the Rock

(viewed 1786 times)
"Did you see that?"

"See what? It's dark out."

"A light in that tree. There it is again."

"Like a firefly or something?"

"Something like that. Except it's just gone New Years. We don't see them around here until May, June, July, maybe August some years. And that's damn bright for a bug. Have to be nuclear powered."

"Maybe you're being signaled by a magpie or a mockingbird. You know they collect the shiny stuff. Maybe one found a wrapper for a cigarette pack of something, and it's reflecting a streetlight."

"Maybe, but as you said, it's dark. And cold. They'd be asleep. In the Caribbean, if they had any sense."

"Just a wrapper, then? Caught on a twig?"

"Maybe. I hope so. Shit like that makes me nervous."

"Only because we're out here in the park after dark, up to no good."

"Whatever, man."

"Whatever yourself, man. I'll bet it's a squirrel up there with one of those keychain LEDs, deliberately fucking with you. Trying to make you freak out."

"Shut up, man."

"You should stay off the rock, man, is what I'm saying. That shit makes you paranoid. And stupid as a pile of wood chips, you on it long enough."

"I said shut up. And pass me the lighter."

"'Nuff said. Hey, maybe that squirrel's got a lighter!"

"Now who's stupid? Squirrel paws aren't strong enough to work a flint wheel, even if it don't have a child-proof catch. And all the push-button ones have catches. They'd never figure it out."

"Lucky we're possums then, eh?"

"Damn straight. Let's burn this place to the ground and trot on out of here I'm sick of the fluffy-tailed bastards acting like they own the goddamn park, cussing and yelling and flinging shit at us all the goddamn time. Park like this? Gotta kill fifty of 'em, at least."

"Do what you gotta and let's get. Your half of what we got off that drunk we rolled ought to get you another rock...."

"Shut up, man."


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

4th Jan 2009, 04:16   | tags:comments (5)

Home is where you hang your head

(viewed 1606 times)
It's easier to take your trousers off than dump your pockets so you can be comfortable when you sit or lay down. Similarly it's easier simply to remove your outside face than untrain the perky dimpleclench the dayjob requires. Just pry that bastard loose and throw it on the corner of the bookshelf by the doorway, and let it all hang out.

Let your work face stand guard over the door while your eyeballs hang down your face on their cabled strings, strummed gently by the radiations from Scrubs Season 4 while your jeans curl up around your wallet and pocketchange, growling in sleep and wheezing athsmatically.

While you're at it, pop the top of your skull off and let the kinked tubes of that cramped old brain uncoil like a slimy garden hose slipping off the hook in the shed. Go ahead. Let it curl up around your ankles like a pet python welcoming you home from shopping for groceries, begging for fresh ratcicles.

Unhook your legs and let them bounce to the floor and roll under the sofa. Unhook your weak arm and let it flop around until it settles. You'll need to keep the other one on just in case you need to hit a button or two on the remote -- or perhaps one or two other buttons closer to home.

You won't have to drag yourself back together until the morning. Now is the best time in the world to fall to pieces. Make the best of it!


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

2nd Jan 2009, 03:22   | tags:comments (1)

Why We Kill

(viewed 1967 times)
     Brock, as ordered, refilled the wrinkled little man's cup with the warm beer they had picked up in the marketplace. The trip through the dusty open market seemed like a dream from years ago. "I don't understand," Brock said.
     "I'm trying to explain. My father and my mother -- and my other mother -- spoke often of their home in the garden. I never saw it. But, oh! my mother cried, wherever we went. 'It was so beautiful So beautiful, not like here.'" The brown man sniffed.
     "I wanted redemption. I wanted to be a gardener. I wanted to be admitted to the garden I had never seen, show myself worthy to tend it." He drank a long pull from the gourd-cup and continued.
     "I bred grapes the size of my head -- two of them would last you all day in the desert. I armed the roses so that birds and beasts wouldn't carry off their sweet flowers. I grew wheat-corns like handfuls of river-stones. I made cotton from fibrous flowers and softened flax and hemp. I tried to show that man could live without death -- without shedding blood. That we could be worthy of the garden, regardless of what my parents had done.
     "My first brother. I loved him. But I detested the way he embraced death. It sickened me. 'Death is the gift Javeh as given us,' he said. 'It is the new order of things. Spread this gift. Share it with all of creation!'
     "We argued for many turnings, of the sun, of the moon, of the stars and of the soil. We took our argument to the Watcher at the edge of the garden, the one who stood on the border of our land and the garden. I spoke, being eldest: 'Our father and our mother have taught us knowledge of good and evil, yet we disagree. Is it more evil to breed life? Is it more good to slay what you love?' For my brother truly loved his animals.
     "The Watcher was short with words. He said, 'Death is your lot. What you love, you will kill.'
     "My brother smiled. Yet I was not done. 'I love my brother more than anything or anyone, save Javeh. Will I slay my kin? Will I slay Javeh?'
     "The Watcher spoke again. 'Death is Javeh's gift. It is by death that Javeh is among you.'
     "I was crying. 'What are you saying?' I shouted. 'Can we not make a garden of our own, for Javeh to visit and be among us?'
     "The Watcher spoke for the third and the last time. 'Javeh is among you, and his gift is death. All that you love will die. All will die.'
     "I turned away from the Watcher. 'You were right, my brother. We accept Javeh's love through killing and death.' And I picked up a rock. He showed me how he sharpened them for slaying his animals and explained how a blow to the neck was quickest. And in the field before the gate of the garden he knelt before me, as he would make a goat kneel, so I could see.
     "'I love you,' I said. 'I am sorry I have been so wrong-headed and so stubborn. Javeh has no mercy.'
     "My brother replied, 'You are still wrong. This is Javeh's mercy.' And I saw that he was right.
     "He said, 'Make your sacrifice. You must learn.' And I raised the stone ax we had made. I placed my hand on his head and I cried. 'I accept Javeh's gift,' he said. 'Amen,' I replied, and I slew him with a single stroke and held him as he died.
     "I left his body in the field and made his dog stand watch over it. And I departed for my own garden, to rip the plants from the ground. Javeh came to me. He asked, 'Where is your brother?' and I answered, 'Why don't you ask his dog?'
     "Javeh laughed. 'Your brother's blood cries out to me from the stones of the field. Your hands are brown with his blood. What have you done?'
     "I had no idea where my sense of reverence had gone. I was angry and hurt. 'You must know,' I growled. 'You were there. I gave him your gift.'
     "Javeh laughed again. 'You learn quickly. What are you doing now?' He asked, and I replied, 'Spreading death. I'm ripping up my garden, my poor imitation of Your garden. And then I will go to find the largest habitation of men, to spread your gift, and to receive it from them. They will kill me, slow learner that I am, when they see me coming.'
     "'My servant,' said Javeh. 'Go with my blessing and the mark of my protection. Take death to the deathless. They will fear you. And any that kills you will spread my gift even farther and faster.'
     "I began to cry again. 'You still do not understand,' said Javeh. 'Cheer up. You will understand before I give my gift to you. And you will understand even more afterwards.'
     "And then I left my gardens and the city of my children for the larger city and the University of the Watchers, because I knew that was what Javeh wanted. And yes, I understand it all now."


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

30th Dec 2008, 03:18   | tags:comments (4)

Pictures of the Third World

(viewed 1571 times)
In the context of the third world -- and here I'm not talking about "third world" in terms of wealth and economic advancement, but "third world" in terms of the world before the present one that's winding down, due to end in (May?) 2012 -- darkness was substance. Not the fire that it was in the first world, not the stone that it was in the second world, not the weighty airy liquid that it is in the present, but something between clumpy sand and a gelatin made of seawater.

You could push your way through it. It sealed behind you, like quicksand closing over your head. But behind you. At every step.

More creatures flew then, too, but it was easier, more like swimming. If you were a creature of darkness.

It was gritty and got in your eyes, like sand. It's one of the many reasons the last world was worse than this one. Darkness blinds us in this world too but it doesn't hurt as much. It leaks quietly into the eyeballs and builds up until our eyes are full of darkness.

Much of the evil in the fourth world is both gentle and insidious. It is a mark of our refinement.

At least in the third world you could find joy by shoveling the darkness aside, by thrashing until you were on top of it. You could squint your eyes and slap it aside. You could even press it into balls and throw it like snow You could fish creatures out of it and they would be happy, even when you klilled and ate them.

In our fourth world, darkness is volatile and superfluid. It expands to fill any container it enters, yet it stacks on the ground in shards like layered panes of broken glass. You can fill bottles with it, but it seeps out. You can use it to lubricate stones for the purpose of sharpening knives. You can drink it and breathe it. If you are a creature of darkness.

In the next world, darkness will be like light, like electricity. It will seep into us and ride in our bones. We will pet our cats and transfer it with a zap.

We will sweep it out of the air with wool, with spun glass, with nets of metal and ceramic wire. It will blind us like lightning and we will glow with it as our vision fades.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

27th Dec 2008, 20:24   | tags:comments (7)

the other energies

(viewed 2079 times)
It was Monday night and I was there; sat around with the
other energies, we were floating in the basement. Have you ever met an energy?
Tornado eyes! I mean? your hair blows everywhere when they look at you. Their
bodies are like slowed down sparks; they are dying and re-igniting and never
really there (or not there). When energies laugh the colours in the room strobe
on and off and when more than one energy laughs at once the whole sky starts
flashing colours too. At the moment? we are ALL
laughing! We are laughing because we will have to return to our bodies so soon.
It is said reincarnation was a source of unsurpassed grief for ancient energies
and now is not so different? except? we prepare our humour? soon we will not
send flames when we think; nor white-wash darkened rooms by our gestures; nor
transfer ourselves within each other? soon we will have arms and legs and
purpose and hunger! Tuesday morning is so close and so we prepare ourselves;
each takes the floor and each summons their fires, their crashing sounds, their
tidal waves; they summon invisible hands and wild lights? and they speak; they
tell a story to the rest. So this is why we laugh? to mask a tragedy? the sky
becomes a kaleidoscope of each story and the shadows become their great
characters and the world is for a millisecond turned liquid and next glass; the
world shatters and rearranges with the mountains and valleys of each story. She
was to go last and more quickly than the others her storm doubled up upon
itself with each word; the roar and crackle burnt the very colours before us.
Right here; in-league with the stark rays of first daylight, her story deleted
wide strips of the room, the energies with it and at the very end even me.
Energy never disappears it just moves. We are in our bodies again, true... but
not for long; day time has never yet lasted forever and when the night descends
so too nears the thunder, the burning rainbow and loudest and brightest and
most colourful of all... her energy.

Posted by louis

15th Dec 2008, 19:51   | tags:comments (1)