Union of Apposites (Part III)

"Tell me a story."

There is a room--not my room: an imagined room. In this room multiple chests of drawers are filled with rocks from beaches all along the Pacific Rim, a few lagoons from Atlantic islands, renovated hotel lobbies and wishing wells disguised to look like babbling brooks. That's just one drawer. The one above holds religious icons of bygone eras, wrapped in cermeonial robes in every imaginable colour of the rainbow (and, incidentally, some colours observable only by bees, certain kinds of phototaxic flowers, and remarkably keen-eyed trichromatic predators), as well as engraved words of "wisdom" regarding life, death, atonement, abashedness, modesty, love, hate, righteousness, lawfulness, Female Genital Mutilation, hatred of Infidels, respect for fathers--unconditionally, respect for mothers and female elders--conditionally. In there, for good meausre, are thrown some of J.S. Bach's finer organ works--probably the only thing, if I were a 16th-century man--that would make me believe in God. How could you not, with an array of pipes blasting the pure voice of the wind directionlessly, but with such (dare I say it?) grace? The drawer above that is stuffed with more secular music: lilting sonatinas from bygone early piano years, an endlessly infuriating memory of inane left-hand accomaniment to decently worked-out melodies, Chopin and Rachmaninoff mixed together, tender then angry. So angry! Bashing that keyboard, but having it turn to harmonic gold every time! In with them, a few bits of 1960s-era optimistic science fiction: the kind that focused on exploring space, before the concept of exploring cyberspace ever came up; before Peak Oil hit the public imagination, before our leaders let us down because we didn't need to upstage the Russkies. Atop that firs chest of drawers I have a pile of rocks very similar to the drawer-pile; except every one of these rocks is a meditation-rock I have carried in my back pocket at some time of my life, training myself so that every time I became aware of it touching my skin I would "sink" into my mindfulness-state: a state chracterized primarily by increased alpha-wave EEG over the parietal lobes. Next to my mindfulness-shrine is a stack of notes with names scrawled, all sharing a rather obvious family resemblance: Salman Rushdie, Allen Ginsberg, Hunter S. Thompson, Woody Harrelson, The Nameless Guru of Kensington, the Bearded Scotsman, Summer Scarf Guy, The Ponytailed Psychoanalyst, the Guerrilla Gardener, the Chinese Lady Who Takes Cans From Our Recycling, Psychonaut Patty... as well as the names of a few of my friends, who are not so famous to be named here. The walls are crumbling, and so are covered with posters: psychology charts I've found useful, food guides with all meats crossed out, framed portraits of people I will never meet, brain scans, doodles arranged in non-verbal story arcs, transcriptions of organ music, patches, rust stains elaborated on with flourishes, attempting to rescue the rot in the plaster of the walls, dricing it up and out, in and into the air, over into transcendence or, more importantly, attention-grabbing thisness.

Consider: "Peace be with you. Receive my peace for yourselves. Take heed lest anyone lead you astray with the words, 'Lo, here!' or 'Lo, there!' for the Son of Man is within you."