666th Avenue

7/12/09

concerns. . . .i may lose this. Oh,well. The universe has been making me accustomed to loss. These things do not define me. My security is shifting to the formless, the divine, knowing that the more i give, the more i receive. This is a law of the universe. And “oh, well” in this silly world has become a statement, like “so.” In the “back of my mind” rests vague things that once were perceived by my senses, memories. Dark/River/Adam, an ever-changing being. Why is he in my life? Why am I in his? These are questions I seem to be asking more often lately with everyone I meet, everyone that disappears. Why did they disappear? There's a moving force, writing the story. After we get back from Sauvie's Island, River quotes an idea or two out of many I had put out there that seemed brilliant at the time: calling our house Sex Sixth Avenue because I merged things overheard, Sax Fifth Avenue. And I forget if this is my idea or someone else's. After it's here, does it matter how it arrived? And my name, Jory Lynntern. I merge things. And the night before: I ended up wandering with Jon, meeting him for the first time, though strangely, these people are seeming familiar. We all seem to have similar thoughts on the nature of reality. River/Adam asks me to recall some of the other creative ideas I had. I shrug, at a loss. “Into the ether?” he says. That thought scares me, but yes, and it resonates. I think that's why things scare me, because they resonate, and it's a shock that it resonates, because it seems it shouldn't. Everything seems to be dissolving as soon as it's discovered, becoming something new.

And i awaken with fading dream memories (is not dream-stuff the same as memory, and is there not more, or just as much, lived when asleep than when awake?) I just need to hold still, to relax. This is what ben, my guardian angel, has been saying to me. And i think this morning, reflecting as dream faded and coming into this ordinary reality, an illusion of constants, that perhaps i am a bodhisattva. Because i remember laughing hysterically at a jest, something done to entertain me. And i remember brandon suggesting i'm a buddha, that i do no wrong, that i have immense compassion and wisdom, that this is all i do, while the universe takes care of all my needs, and people feed, clothe, and entertain me. My sister and i came up with stuff we knew was unlike anything done before, and we would have had instant success had we cast ourselves into the world. Now it's all into the ether. Even my sister. I don't know what's going on in her world, over 2,000 miles away, and most days, i have no thoughts of it, because i am in a new world. That old every day familiar world has died, and where is it, that i thought would last forever? And i worry about my mom. Is she okay, in the dullness of my fading memory of her? Quantum nonlocality. I was cut out of a woman because i was upside down in the water tank. How did i get here? Caesarean section. There is nothing new under the sun.

0ther ethereal images, concepts:
recently i awoke in the night, a foggy fear sweeping over me, and for some reason i uncharacteristically stood up, from adam (dark river)'s couch in his room, and i swooned, falling to the floor, as if i had no muscles with which to move myself. I got up, walked into the bathroom, and dropped to the floor suddenly again, hitting my head on the edge of the sink. I felt as if it was my time to die, that the universe had overrided all my faculties and functions, that this was the culmination of my self-destructive thoughts and self-deprivation, and i didn't care. I was little disturbed at my apathy. I somehow expected the end to be like this. And maybe this was a premonition, a foreshadowing, or maybe i did die that night.

Pre-diction: an event or idea created through language; a memory of the future.

Memory: conscious ethereal image(s), scent(s), sound(s), idea(s), sensation(s), of an event that is layered over the present stream of events.

Diction: substance by which memory, prediction, or interpretation of the present is made; imposed meaning, order; tool for symbiosis with or manipulation of energy; evolutionary link between substance and ether. A mirror, through which the spirit sees its ethereal reflection, knowing itself as conscious energy, a creator, in spite of its physical form. A reminder of origins, through which a sense of permanency, immortality is achieved, language is itself a substance for recording the collected stories, insights, observations, of the (human) race.

at the beach, river says, oh, look at the little dog. And i think of his name-change to adam, and how the first man named the animals, and how the dog exists as dog only to us naming it. To the dog, it is not a dog. Humans, this subjugating race, dominating the world with its imposed limits. Language creates barriers. Then, last night, we watch The Rules of Attraction, where a couple of characters separated, in different situations, say, “You will never know me. You can never know anyone.” language is tricky, though, because it supposes things are knowable. It creates and sustains illusion. And illusions are built upon illusions. These illusions, of course, become reality for us, because of the nature of becomingness.
What else? (speak only truth. What resonates.)

walking back from walking jon half-way across the hawthorne bridge near four in the morning, after directing two guys to the prostitutes on burnside after they asked me, i stop at an intersection of streets for a truck. The guy behind the wheel decides to floor it, and i am a few feet from stepping into the intersection. If anyone had happened to step out into the road at that moment, they would be instantly killed by a vessel projecting through space at an unreal velocity. Is this natural? What are we doing? Playing with mortality at every moment. It's so easy to die. I think of a book of stories, or a television show making these realities evident, translating adult world ordinariness (apathetic rigidity) into child newness (wise, compassionate, aware).

A story where everyone communicates with symbols, without words: with hearts, for example.

A story where the world is without brands and money. Where there is only one kind of automobile, and the infinite choices are contained in colors, technological features, things that matter. And it is not a status symbol, but a beautiful work of genius.

A story where McDonald's arch ways are portals between worlds, and Western imperialism is an interdimensional idea to create oneness through domination, where it is neither “good” nor “bad,” but simply, necessary, for everything's purpose is: BEONE.

What am i? What is my universal purpose? Am i a buddha? I do not know where i came from. It is naive of anyone to assume they know. We've created the whys and hows of things. Through them all, what exists? I make connections between information, passing through, making an imprint on everything i touch. I follow the bread crumbs, i tell jon, and they seem to become more numerous when i follow them, and it's come to the point where i start seeing the hand throwing them. He says he knows what i mean, and has never talked to anyone who could put it so clearly before. My work here, if i never see him again, has been accomplished.

Everything speaks and shows itself through colors (light) and sound (also light), on this spinning ball floating in nothing. Maybe all the particles that form the earth are bound together by the same force binding us to it. Maybe it's all bound together by this glue called god.

The world is only as complicated as the human race has made it. I want to bring it back to simple. But it is simple and the world is realizing it without me. “Real-izing,” I tell Jon. “What are we doing?” I just observe. All the positive philosophizing discussions through which i've spread truth, all the people i've positively impacted by my presence, all the ideas and thoughts i've put into the world: it absorbs them and is changed by them. Is my purpose anything but this? It moves through me. Every choice, every failure is a success. There is no immorality and no obligation.

There is a circle known by some as earth. Perhaps it's known (or not known) by others as a warp of space-time, funneling. By others still, a work of art, by others still, as nothing.

___69696969696969696969696969696969696969696969(666)—999
a game (of consequences?)

between sleep and awake, is the body oscillating between itself and the ethereal realm of collective unconscious, a world just as, or more real, than the surface (at any given moment, i exist in other dimensions, where memories are still tangible events). We are approaching the point of origin, turning this ship around to go “forward to the past,” dying every time we cross the border, popping out of existence in one world to pop into existence in the inverse phase of our oscillation in the sine wave cycle (positive, negative?). The world we have made black and white, but it's not that way. or is it? And so time and events seem linear in the limited three dimensional phase, when it's a spiral. We're coiled, breathing, spinning, vibrating because of intense velocity. Where am i now? What about now? Space: where? Time: Now? “Back then.” “Next.”

And, I noted to Jon, I should be careful when talking about science, since I haven't studied it, although, as a culture, certain things that were mysteries in worlds past are less mysterious, entering the realm of common knowledge, things like Einstein's theory of relativity, light being both a wave and a particle, the microscopic world, the existence of invisible germs and bacteria. Yet this knowledge has not gotten rid of the mysteries. It has, though, in my opinion, introduced a dangerous level of ignorance and a new kind of self importance. Faith in scientific theory is just as blind as faith in religious thought, a faith in something not known first-hand unless the scientist or the prophet. So i tend to trust only that which i encounter first-hand. I trust my experience of the numinous.

Take me for a walk, O Jehovah, O Ethereal Becomeness, the Great Unconscious, the driving force that, through processes set in motion at a place and time before any of this was, is, perhaps, the only constant, the constant creator of our known world, because of which, we are also God and create and form the formless based on the form that had already come to be itself by the time we were born into it, that has come to be before we had physical form. Before that, was I also pure consciousness seeking form? I am, perhaps, pure consciousness seeking, again, its formlessness. Immateriality. Spirit and matter. Mind, matter.

Take me for a walk, please, Jehovah. Again. Get me outside of assumed form. Lead me to the form of spirit. You, in those sparkling silvery lighthouse stars, “Here I am! Send me, send me.” I am lost. Please find me. I've sent out the S.O.S. And you are finding me. When will these pen-pal letters end? When will i meet you in person? And will I find it was me all along?