4 a.m. Revisited

In moments of peak performance you feel on the cusp of something great, and that is the moment of the highest vibration, highest thrills and trills through the resonant harmonics of the skull. It is the moment of the icepick sinking into human flesh and the moment when you scream "victory!" from rooftops even though you bear no trophies from the war. Moments pass into past and futures slowly sink and coalesce into presents which is itself cut up by comparisons, misrepresentations and uncertainties. Plotinus skings out from wrought-iron balustrades keeping the queen talker posh, safe, protected. Mephisopheles comes out from behind the plant in my garden, whispering projects long lost in mists, wrapped in cloaks of carmine and hats feathered to an insane degree. Prankester cats leap the tree-branches. Mother's telephone wires vibrate in harmony, and my whole bosy is thrilled, but lost and drained at seeing the whole that I saw. Where would I be without my estrangement? (Not the I that proclaims "I', but the I that performs I.) Performative I am. Alms-giver to the sidewalks I am. The knower by which the epistemic drift of world-mind to mind-world is reversed, the gardener who tends to Yggdrasil sprouting annual crops of brains in vats, the geometer who meditated on the mandala and found pi to twenty decimal places, the builder of a Rube Goldberg contraption to pleasure my partner, the politician on a soapbox in the group photo, the decimated loveless pile of rags, the Bodhisattva of interdisciplinary wisdom, uncaring and unapppreciated with his radiant cool eyes hallucinating.

(It is exaggeration. It's for effect. Which effect?)

C: "We are at war between consciousness and nature, between the desire for permanence and the fact of flux. It is ourself against ourselves."