We are a small group of exiles.
The crescent moon hides
just behind the long row of trees
behind the five magic squares.
This is where we live.
It is the coldest place
right on the edge of the forest,
where no one goes.
We may sometimes take a bite of snow,
wanting the charred taste of flesh,
finding only the bite of cold.
Each of our songs is an invitation
for an uncanny entity
so radical and strange,
so distant, so silent,
tightly wrapped in blankets of meaning.
The entity cannot be controlled or manipulated
towards our own ends.
It lies hidden and unexposed
beneath the words and snow and bitter air.
There are no promises,
Death stalks us, making us whole,
unafraid of the cliffs on either side.
We open like a book,
and we begin to sing.
We don’t know how it works,
our uncanny magic.
It uses our strange behavior.
Our breath turns to steam,
then we plunge like rocks into the depths
where no one goes.
The entity operates in other universes
that we haven’t yet visited,
our knowledge of them comes
from enormous fairy tales that never end.
Beyond the mountains,
in a small valley directly east of our home
we have been told,
there is a bush that burns.
There is nothing behind it.
This is where we go to die.
Due to the universal law of gravity
I was born as one of the tiny people.
I had been oppressed
by these governing physics
through the course of my whole life.
In a secret hut specially constructed for this purpose
I transformed myself slowly into a wraith.
I had secretly found the precise breaking point
between alchemy and chemistry.
Most parts of me became invisible.
Following a twisted theological, metaphysical ideal,
I wore a tattered black hooded cape.
If I could have unraveled the inner secrets of my purpose,
this would have brought me closer
to some kind of understanding.
As time passed, my black cape seemed to become empty.
If anyone peered inside
I was certain there would be nothing to see.
I feared a certain knowledge had become lost.
My craft could have become crippled
if certain minimum physical molecules could not survive.
Despite all concerns,
I flew easily over the land,
discovering the regions I had never seen when I was small.
I didn’t know yet what areas of the planet
were suitable for my new kind of life.
I found the hanged man dangling from a tree
like a strange magical ornament.
It was one of the worst visions
that had ever crossed my path.
At this point the hanged man and me
were clearly two aspects of a single complex.
But from a distance all things were toys,
small gadgets for me to play with.
I came to the conclusion
that the distance to the hanged man
was around 12 light-years.
This would simplify follow-up missions.
The idol of stone called collect from a tourist destination.
“You never call or write anymore.
Can you send me some of those books?”
Mother bird eating and pre-digesting
then throwing up to feed the fledglings.
The young bird would pace across the ledge
only a few times then quickly depart.
Outside children would squeal
while the older boys played baseball.
“They don’t carry them in the stores here.
The ones from your sister’s bookshop.
This place reminds me of the native drums of my youth.
I let it all pass through me.
I didn’t realize what was happening.”
The winged bird on the other end of the line
reminded the idol
that temples rise and fall.
She was no random city bird.
“Never again,” she said,
as she sat in the book-cluttered living room.
“Pull yourself down into the smallest size you can get.
Then hunker down,” she said.
She hung up the phone.
She tossed an unread newspaper into the recycling bin,
then she turned to behold the spectacular blackness of space.
They asked what I wanted.
I had been waiting for decades.
Time, I said.
Three days. Two nights.
No texts. No calls. Not one word.
I would leave early in the morning
in the direction of the beach.
I wanted the white fluff
that cannot be captured.
I would visit the massive secret graveyard.
I would get hair, including roots,
a tooth, a skull bone, some skin.
The spots on the lake
I would take drop by drop
to the ocean,
far to the west.
I had a plan.
It dated back three thousand years.
I had sewn together
by applying force
over a long period of time.
So that I might
dance on the water.
The cause is a mystery
The hours would not be long enough.
The final destination could not be found
anywhere in this world.
I could taste the dew
far in the distance.
Whenever it happens.
Whenever it would happen.
I left for three days
to the south coast.
Everything else was done.
would have to wait.
M. was a practitioner of black magik,
a voyager of the shadows of the landscape
beyond reason, beyond logos,
beyond order, beyond harmony.
M. discovered that strict rationality and magik did not go together.
There were certain spaces that were clearly there
but we could not see them eye to eye.
M. revived the sexual vibrations in all the hidden centers of our bodies.
He would frequently take blood and urine samples from the group in those days.
Sometimes the group was strongly affected.
Some of them cried and felt suicidal.
I feared loosing my memory.
Above all, M. was cunning.
One night he approached me and said:
“The Governor is now in my power.
There are payments to be made.
They have not paid me what they owe me.”
He led me to the basement.
There I found myself face to face with the Governor.
M., standing next to me, spoke to him in a loud firm voice:
“All my life you have pressured me and offended me.
Give your place to me now, Governor.”
What happened next was inevitable.
M. reasoned that once the Governor was dead,
it followed that any ultimate purpose was out of the question.
We had become the dissonant note in music,
a hidden part of the governing principle of the universe.
In later writings, he proclaimed the rejection of all morals.
As a magician who had cunning, he could do both white and black invocations.
“Do what you will, that is the complete set of rules for the game.”
The latter events were a clear response to what he had left untouched.
From him, I had learned that magik was transrational.
A substance could be ingested which would furnish help for such irrational invocations.
Through such experiments, I learned to inhabit the silent spaces between sounds.
“After a certain age this effort would become very difficult, often impossible.”
I said to him.
“We would much rather become a natural contrast to those things that are illuminated.”
He understood immediately.
“This not my will, but yours.”
I said to him as I performed the old ritual.
“And it will be done.”
In the end, this is why there would always be two magiks.
“Black magik is cunning, you understand the difference?” he asked me once.
Our magikal practice used power as currency.
Only we couldn’t be impartial and fulfill our obligations to the Governor.
What happened next was inevitable.
The dream had been unraveling for some time.
But the director persisted in an attempt at organization and presentation.
“Given the prevalence of lucidity
among dreamers in cultures with ancient roots,
under the right circumstances
this sensory overload will result
in a kind of expanded introspection.”
Such open statements were common in those days.
Our main objective was to focus on the animus.
Our planned work would continue until just before midnight.
After midnight the green lights would show up.
We all saw them.
All of us except for the director.
The world turned black. We turned gray.
There was a distinct warping of perception.
The director has said in recent public interviews:
“I don’t buy into the extraterrestrial hypothesis
that the clown is largely wedded to.
Our subjects may have experienced flashing green lights
but no conclusion can be derived from these experiences.
These are auditory and visual hallucinations.”
In private, his voice would turn gentle, less conclusive:
“The one thing I will always take away
from these strange events
is a sense of irreversible ontological shock.”
There were certain elements among us,
the clown for example,
who were in favor of the chaos lucidity might provoke.
It was this reckless attitude
that earned him this name we gave him.
The director was the public face of the movement
and yet initially he had only a sequence of secondary experiences.
The clown originally had many of the same laments.
He longed for an encounter.
He wanted to be visited.
We all did.
This yearning was much better understood
by those who had actually experienced lucidity.
By experimenting with things
like astral projection and sex magick
the clown eventually lost the ability
to perceive the universe
in the western materialistic manner
This is what we can now say to the world:
Our senses were introduced to new experiences.
Strange three dimensional living entities appeared before us,
accompanied by green lights, bright flashes and strange vocalizations.
We now don’t truly believe in other dimensions,
parallel worlds inhabited by conscious entities unbound by time.
We also don’t believe
in anything else.
When the quantum information
that inhabited our nervous system
dissipated into the ocean
we came to exist
outside of the physical egg
on some other level of reality.
Through what we called
the principle of correspondence
our information was released from the egg,
an orchestrated subjective expansion.
We had once examined
the properties of a single drop of water,
we would now understand
those of the vast ocean it came from.
It was a black egg,
that which eventually hatched to give birth to the ocean.
The egg was composed of particles that encapsulated us.
We made up 90 percent of the matter in our ocean.
If the egg was composed of particles,
then our ocean was composed of solar systems.
We may have existed since the beginning of time.
We simply don’t know when we started.
The black egg was a reflection of the ocean
so our quantum information couldn’t be destroyed.
There was abundance of oceans
where our vessel could migrate.
But did the vessel exist?
No longer were we simply part of the ocean.
We had become an ocean in our own right.
Our vessels were in fact constructed
from the very fabric of the oceans
and our quantum information
could now exist outside the egg.
we existed perhaps
but only in another ocean.