Great systems of being have truly elastic adaptability; when one part is knocked down, they will display a self-regenerating power like a growing crystal, a network of blood-vessels and vegetation that reaches out towards the light or river tributary.
Like a fractal that tells a story of the process that creates it, by version of a picture that also tells the story of the process that too creates it.
And just as there are expanding stories and higher heights of awareness, there are also parasitical, non-entity type pictures.
Cancer cells are really just like human cannibals feeding in and off each-another in infinite regress, eventually eating entire organs. Decay attracts flies, flies get ensnared in webs, and there soars more shit.
There was a time where my consciousness concerned itself with orientation towards casual causes, and how everything effects me.
Cover-boy strangers, top-up jobs, famous dresses; like a needle trying to find its special coloured cotton. So I’d secure the object with a steely eye, pass it through, make the threads bare-tight, wrap it up messily at the end, attached and unable to ever unhook itself.
Beauty doesn’t live by virtue of needles and knots, it needs to breathe and beat its wings with other beings of its kind. My frightened instinct had to lock it all away, cut off its supply and keep it unchanging. Like a child hiding it's favourite toy away from prying sisters.
There were the lovers that could only exist behind velvet curtains. Ego-swamping secrets. Muting my phone from people I loved, so I didn’t have to hear the tones of truth, and in doing so mutating myself even further.
An attention firmly fixed on the road ahead, with a decisive drive for acquisition of desire, soliciting desire and trying to posit myself higher than those I chose to pleasure with. As Jung said “all cognition is akin to recognition”, so if you don’t know it already, it just floats by the glass window.
Existence always felt beyond the glass. I remember repeating: “It seems I’m trapped within a glass-house and all life is happening on the outside”.
This splintered out into multi-impersonal personalities, a cast of carefully cultivated identities designed to ensnare in a spidery web of invisible stickiness.
My mind only fixated on imagery of the obsessional kind, enchanting, sexy loops that laughed at me with fashionable faces.
In my deadness and fixity, where all change seemed like a threat, beef side-saddles grew through ploughed make-up on sapless skin, amidst staged performances that fell flat once the observer had left the scene.
All this linear, loner looking means that many a rare flower is missed forever, it’s always the same-old weeds.
There’s never the new growth, the emergent becoming old, and the fruitfulness of perpetual self-becoming.
Yet there is always a way out of the Hall Of Mirrors. You just have to know you're there and look beyond The Self -similar patterning, with a desire to move through the door that enters to a new mode of perception.
My sign read: ENTER Stop Trying To Escape Reality. Like Alice I drank the drink that made me smaller. Indeed the drink made me smaller, but the drink I really had to take hard was the one that made my ego smaller. Enough to exit one of the many Hall Of Mirrors, into a new dimensional space.
My attention is responsive to the world, but the world is responsive to my attention, like a hand drawing it's own hand.
The world arises from a spiral process, that spirals and searches its source, more like a picture that comes into focus all at once, than a linear object with a time and target.
See at all levels there are forces that tend to separation and cutting-off and there are those that tend to coherence and unification. These are not mutually exclusive, but do feel so at times.
Before there is harmony, there is always difference and it’s through the clashing of the swords and fires within the embodied self, that one is able to move beyond self, into a forever changing field of fertile colour.