On the First Day, accompanied by unvoiced grunts of agony and groans of weariness, Jeronathon awoke from memories of a dream of Spacetime and recognized the light and the darkness. Where there was light there was existence, where there was none there was Void. It was the first pattern to be recognized.
On this otherwise binary day of off and on, is and isn’t, there was also He — hidden occasionally behind the torrent of shine, hidden elsewise slipped under the cover of night.
His birth mother, long abandoned, bequeathed to Jeronathon the tightly wound clock of the cosmos, its…
Kisa sat down in the old village square
She hugged her baby and cried and cried
She said everybody is always losing somebody
Then walked into the forest and buried her child
— Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Hollywood
Her feet were miniaturized and they moved more slowly than the rest of her homo erectness that defiantly lurched towards the imperfection of heaven — she were then a clear black scrawl extended from the bubbling and shifting gray silt to the colorless, birdless travesty of sky.
She surveyed the entire convexity of her belly with curious hands, sheathed in…
(I‘m going to click record now—don’t worry, this is no virus, it will just need to be saved for posterity to one day re-render this moment for Isis to revitalize us. Whether you or I are destined to be princess or a pauper, a phantom or a fashionista, or a young blind black vole-faced boy with magpie wings soldered to his scapulae or a magpie who dreams in noise, this message will be preserved and shared. Please begin by pressing play.)
Like a whale
Swallows you whole
— CocoRosie, Poison
— Jeronathon breaches the sediment of…
You claim that human beings “really make things happen”. Can you elaborate?
—Direct causality is the bailiwick of consciousness; while not limited to homo sapiens (sapiens) — [find this to be my preference, as language has allowed the species to observe its own intelligent focus], no alternative cadre of engineers have been able to modulate or alter the local environment to any comparable extent. Bookmarked for your facility, as it will come into play in a later response.
Direct causality is pedantically understood as The Arrow of Time; a fundamental mechanic for all fully conscious entities. For any given Object…
Billi sat squirrel-perched atop a neon green (rgb:[0,177,64]) pedestal slurping their Sateeva© energy pouch staring idly into the murky deep of the studio, occupied with fleeting fantasies of this evening’s private dinner plans with Hansel Maxi-Million!.
Cross-legged at the knee, from a director’s chair set just outside the curb of the capture proscenium, Emil the Agent enquired about their interview prior to the shoot without glancing up from the pretentious FT newsprint splayed awkward like a salmon wetsuit over their person.
Billi bent their head like a dog scratching an ear as they slid away the silicon cap jeweled with…
Between you and me, sun, stands this marble I rock in my pinch.
I roll it towards the flesh of my thumb and ribbons of cobalt-blazing blue clatter and bounce chaos on cornea, or if I roll it back the other way, a gobble of orange-peel richness shuttles through the frame of one closed eye between you and me, sun.
I see you. I see you there, and your incessant desire to cauterize us into weakness and sleepness and steepness and flashpoint. I understand your duty — don’t take out the casserole until it’s done! …
A wooden chair in the kitchen scrapes against tile, severe in its grind as if an exceptionally heavy frame most recently inhabited.
He fumbles for his eyeglasses, his chest feeling the residual ache of his arteries winching in shock, mouth still agape and not yet remembered to breathe for the engulfing fire in his lungs. The eyeglass frames clatter as they scrabble across the hard teak of the living room followed by the slow shuffling of burdened feet with a favored left leg.
“I can see you there, Walter.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” short pelts of panicked air gasping provide him enough oxygen…
A bellow of thunder rolling along the stormfront disrupts his attempt to listen into the house’s chatter to decipher his wife’s voice. He waits for the eruption to pass, pressing the bridge of his eyeglasses and sucking some rainwater from his mustache with his lower lip. The TV has gone to late-night commercial, and something is off with the signal, as the audio pitches nauseatingly back and forth pitch-shifting like an L.P. on a bias-tilted turntable, rushing into a vehicle repair insurance adverts at breakneck chipmunk squabbling, and the lagging into a drawling solipsistic recounting of mental medical conditions and…
From the guru to the Tibetan on fire, underneath the robes they both long to be naked. And rolled like a fat cigar, Jeronathon relaxed His fingers and felt once again the cold cling of cavern mud the length of His frame. He scrapes a small divot of sludge to excavate His bellybutton.
He molds vision to purify the bleary shufflings nooked in crannies of this subterranean vastness. The ceiling, being recalcitrant as ever to the floor, repelled and never returned, as if an aerial acrobat could leap alone into the celestial overhead darkness and just keep spinning… not in…
[‘Are you awake?’]
Jeronathon struggles illucidly with the boundaries of sleep, phasing in and out of attention, focused on, if anything in particular, the moist rim of the banded stalagmite, its cone crown fiercely dented by the intense bomb strikes of sediment pearls cast from above.
[‘Are you awake?’]
— This delicious quiet you have robbed from Me, as I strangled the present moment to near-infinity, constricting the weak neck of time in My grasp. And now, you’re asking Me to breathe…
The mud reeks of minerality, Jeronathon coated in a wry silicate, the…