What did I do now to deserve this? What spirit was conjured before my arrival to displace me in this recognition? Germination beyond the waves. Brush before the stroke. Transience is a place I’ve come to corner and chisel at, strip muscle at. A rejuvenation through a dousing. A dousing over. A dousing under. A sprinkle here. A sprinkle there. A sprinkle of ether for the eater of ether, the bile of weather left forgotten.
Where have I felt this thrash before? Wherever is the rash of the prickled bush and the malevolent river hidden inside? Temple call us back. Temple bring us a piece of the peace we’ve entered into. Long stone column. Longest stone a brawl, a contender. Fast retraining. The pledge and we have fallen, toward that space desired through no desire, achieved through a discarding, emptiest acceptance of the forest, the hill, and an interrogation of the new.
Tower of traces. Traces of archs. Archs or arches and we have lurched before so many sunsets but there is no rise or fall here. Narrows. No passage of time. We are in a paralysis of focality. We are positioned in the appropriate mode of the non. Nonentity and otherwise. Otherwhere. Otherworlds. That strange distance which sits with us by the throat, by the lonely poached skin. Our eyes turned upward. Our limits stretched into newest shapes. Truest pupils we hold these stone blocks knowing full well their strength. Finally.
Dynamic throttle of the wild. The spring and plunge of the erratic. Splurge and splunge and a voltage of greens. Imagine with your stillness and come bear this witness, together. Tremble. Tremble a little. Buzz and vibrate. Harried resoluteness. Hurried resolve. Each bend and quiver brings us even nearer. I beg I don’t repeat these lines. I beg the lesson is imbued and needs know expression. But will I find comfort or a fulsome pull, or does the shadow clash uproot, uproot, bellowing as wind creak and forest shudder?
New slats for new floors. New passes and passages. The born. The imagined nourishing. The quake of assurance. Zero sureties. Zero sense of flurried messages. The seed has become eclipsed. The seed has become collapsed into a central space. For the figures we go to. For the fortitude we seek out. Seek on. Push forward. Push forth. Potency or imposition. Problematic or pulsation. The frail vetting. The fugue of fitting before fighting in a fiery flicker (or we had already feigned).
Bladed. Condescension. Condensing. Condensation upon glassware. The fickle of the clasp to the temple. Each slight grasp of a concept before a total destruction. A slice of awareness and then partitions to be buried. To become parried with the overall reality. The broad and the spill of slit visions. Flora becomes the blessing or the music in a worldview held hostage by foreign conception. Each pocket of existence perceived can be our last breath, last gasp, last bath before the rumble.
Have you wondered what it means? Have you taken the path into the ravaged rubble? Have you taken beckoned token through order and held onto rigid bone trance toward the brush? The bush awaits. The chaos of the collective. Under what circumstances and the chilling calm of silence. No sound even in things. No disruption even in the strings of thought that echo down forward and forthright. Giant sculpture to provide the vision. Made gigantic through base of comparison and we are all going to sink into the dirt to be faced forward to meet the skulls of the dead.
From up here we can feel the voices of the dead coast through us. Every warning ever uttered early or late hurries through us. No water. No food. No tea. No betterment. No choice. No channel. Like a web a million paths. Like a maze a million turns. The ghost of decisions faintly reminding us of the sentiment and sentience. The spirit previously earned by stronger warriors than our faces and our visions afford us.
Whether with the patterns or without them I have fallen on my feet to stare from above to below. The stones that are the kidneys clamor. Collapse of melodies worth of the traffic of the heels. The flashes and the frequencies I can come to know. Easing into the vestibules of gravity. Grab the constructed cryptography and call. Cull a calm. Capture a tackle of image. Instead of medley mimic the mesmerized. Museum of trickery of the visage. Image of the reticulated hymn comes calling like a corridor’s last kiss of echo.
That blossom, oh that explosion, oh that insertion of image into presence. The womb of the environment fertilizing opportunity. Growth through cover. The long range of the living entity. I see it with my own eyes and that grace is a worthwhile feeling. The top of the cover is for my eyes. What is the bottom for? Who lurks there beyond the limits of our perceptions? Channels and corridors of being. Breathing. Bequeathing the journey for some as it takes the urgent requests and holds them in the dark, damp unknown.
A flatness observed but a rupture of the clinical impressions of the forest. From inward I am a trajectory to outward. Through outward I revert back through fractal and fracture to the inner beauty that is beyond periphery. That which is directly in front, that capture attention, that heralds like a call, that calls like a herald. Prayer pose. Slayer of noises. Poignant and pleasurable in a calm I know you can come to me to agree with, in our darkest moments, in our most fluctuating, our thickest fluxes.
The situation is about intercepting and making present the gift that awaits. The forest teaches us. The damp teaches us. The dampening and tampering escalates and elevates. Jubilation. Rejuvenation. Justification. The damage done or the growth done: the ups and the downs. We find a middle. We find a spectrum. We define the range. Give us the limits. Give us the horizons. The placation before damnation. Before any judgment. It is your opportunity, giver. It is our opportunity, fellow gatherers.
Spun tales do grow with age. We develop. We stack up. We increase the friction. The texture. The coarse and the smooth come together in rapid fire. Some say. And some hear. I will beckon. I will pass through throat and inch through eardrum and inkwell. The cool air shall haunt us forever! The words recited in a whisper. A gray language. A gray speak. Wearing gray face and uttering syllables as transparent as ghosts. The kind that await us through our newest language, through our forever: change.
Portals. I have been here before but on the other side of the world. Drainage. Chains of change. The constant enveloping introduction into new sight. New task and new accomplishment. Feats and a stillness of forever. The growl of the holes. A darkness throughout. Is there love, is there hate, or is it all entirely undefined? What awaits in the chasm of mystery, the pocket of uncertainty? What awaits every step we walk past, covering our mouths with hands and creating symbols on the back of our eyelids as forced our eyes shut and we know not the cause.
Anthem of light. Anthem of time. Song of the singing of what has come to pass. What decisions were made. What decisions have been accepted. What memories remain poking up through the earth. What we can cause and what we can receive as cause. The “because” that taints our breaths and tinges our steps. Tingling in the feet as we notice a shift in the regular rhythm. The beat of the pulse suddenly dejected through a proper confusion. Materials and matters: the construction from one point brought forth to anthem at this very moment.
And when the spiral does unfurl, and when the buildings are remembered and discarded, and when the places change their faces, and when we mellow out and look for the exit, and when we feel our strength slowly moving outwards, and when the sky does quicken, and when the ground reacts to pulverization, and when the fountains emptied do cry a little, and when the forest people look up from their benches, we will come here and we will bow our heads in acknowledgment, like serpents digesting the universe.
Each one of us is gifted with our imprint. Like dirt on the face we push forward and attempt to rub away. We smear and in turn we create. We contribute. Slice here, slice there. Limping along, we push in, always pushing in. The song of gravity, the mark of the being on its surfaces. Call forth or do not, but we are still pressing, still our utterances of being get absorbed, are accepted. Some capacity to take in, to shelter our breaths and heartbeats. Critical the way the forest calls our, makes a motion, makes a mention, letting be the arousal of recognized existence.
You can read the previous parts of Cambodia Bladed here.