This
highway leads to the shadowy tip of reality: you're on a through route
to the land of the different, the bizarre, the unexplainable...Go as
far as
you like on this road. Its limits are only those of mind itself. Ladies
and Gentlemen,
you're entering the wondrous dimension of imagination. . .
I'll take the fa fa too. The pulse. Ain't nothing no good without the pulse.
This rant is ongoing . . .
Next
stop The Twilight Zone.
Bored with a poetics that puts language and meaning through the meat grinder without knowing how to cook
anything edible and nourishing. Tired of reducing human understanding to ideological constructions and
haphazard morgue slabs in history. Oh deliver me from those of my species who have lost the backbeat. Have they
forgotten Chuck Berry?
Bored with a poetics that puts the heart in cold storage, is dead to everything below the neck except a
reptilian sense of genitals, has constructed Berlin Walls against every stream of light. So arrogantly certain
are they that there is only darkness. Darkness and the reptilian brain. It's been a century of hubris so far.
We've served our Frankenstein's Fragmented Monster time. Yes, we needed that
breakup, that separation from the ideological cages chisled out of fear
in the barely used brains of our trembling species. But it's time to
teach those fragments
how to play in a band. Isolated, dissonant little creatures tuned in only
to their freakquencies . . . it's time to evolve into polyrhythmic multiplicities.
We know who we are, damnit. Now what are we gonna do about it?
I need juice! Sizzle. Air. Electromagnetically soothing Elysian fields
of dreams. Space. Sun. Starry nights and sombrero galaxies. Don't straightjacket
me in cold dungeons of dead ideas just
because you don't know how to breathe. Because you don't know how to
smell the cosmic vapors vibrating your toes. Give me a vision that blows
my mind wide open.
When my mind is blowing . . .
Fly me
to the . . . moon? Argh, too damn close. Flee me out the galaxy, roam
me to a slice of universe so exotically remote I slide me through a
wormhole in my frontal lobes fueled by that fiery cauldron I call Heart.
When my
mind is blowing away
Dreamy physics strange and rapture me
Wild songs fracture me
When my mind is blowing away . . .
Okay.
So. Then. What do I want? Where do I look?
I
like to fly. I've always
been a flyer. Sublime. The word kept playing in
my head. So I went
back to Longinus. Oh the U.S. Congress might draw a clue
from old Longinus.
The effect of elevated language upon an audience is not persuasion but
transport. At every time and in every way imposing speech, with the spell
it throws over us, prevails over that which aims at persuasion and gratification.
Our persuasions we can usually control, but the influences of the sublime
bring power and irresistible might to bear, and reign supreme over every
hearer. Similarly, we see skill in invention, and due order and arrangement
of matter, emerging as the hard-won result not of one thing nor of two,
but of the whole texture of the composition, whereas Sublimity flashing
forth at the right moment scatters everything before it like a thunderbolt
. . .
Transport.
Gimme the transport. Gimme the thunderbolt. Gimme the treasure house.
Gimme the subjective, experiential world and a play of consciousness
that never quits the dreams.
I also went back to Otis Redding.
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa . . .
Every
ordinary carries within it a sublime seed. And that's what I'm looking
for today. I'm not naive. I've been around several blocks several
times. I've journeyed through the darkness more
than enough times in this life.
And I've
also seen a lot of flowers grow from a tiny, ordinary, sublime seed.
The breeze at dawn
has
secrets to tell you,
don't go back to sleep!
--Rumi
