I have conducted over forty plus years of research
not only on the house itself
but on all its surroundings.
I have studied the thousands of abrasions
and microscopic scratches.
Nobody understands the place or the events
better than I do.
And yet I still can’t answer a simple question:
Where is the surface?
Where does it start?
Where does it end?
How can I locate its source?
I was present when the family members came
to look through the many mementos,
the old photos
the Smith Corona typewriter.
I was present when the scientists came,
when they thoroughly analyzed and studied the house
and gave their quick pronouncements.
Before It happened
those who came to see him
would often find the place wide open.
Music was inevitably playing
and the walls were stained with cigarette smoke.
At every turn there were bookshelves,
filled with more than 1,000 books.
And all the surfaces were caked with dust.
“You ought to paint this place up,” some would say.
“This place is fine,” he would respond.
“It took me a long time to get it like this.”
Two very different viewpoints can exist within the same space.
The sub microscopic tracings of surface marks,
they were all invisible to the naked eye.
Friends and neighbors couldn’t help but ignore them.
It took me a while to notice them
and trace them one by one.
I confirmed it personally
after the sudden disappearance.
The two giant crystals
that held the house in an eternal embrace
were indeed carved against the grain.
I confirmed it.
They were indeed crystals
and they had been carved in a way I couldn’t understand.
That was my only conclusion.
Anything else would involve fantasizing.
And I wanted to stay as close to the surface as possible,
as impossible as it was to locate.
The surface was the ultimate mystery,
the one I would never solve.
Turning singles into pairs.
We made the stars and allowed the light to arrive here.
There are several ways for us to pass through point B without passing through point A.
We made the atmosphere transparent so the light could shine.
Our present conscious experience was a direct result of this constructed physical reality.
Our dream was contained in numbers
in water and folding chairs.
The raw numerical information exists outside the structure,
perhaps indefinitely, as a pilot.
An experience occurs when the numerical information leaves the structure and dissipates.
At this point we no longer measure time, only distance.
This numerical logic is infinitely greater than limited linear logic
Upon death, the information is released from the structure.
It may have existed since the beginning of time.
Turning singles into pairs.
Then pairs into units that filled up great spaces and swimming pools
represented by holes and extensive gaps.
The resting sites of the cosmic numerical propagation.
The universe has a lot of these dark recesses.
The holes and gaps are a direct result of attacks on us by neighboring universes.
It is completely possible that there are forces out there that we do not know of.
There is an abundance of places or other universes
where our pilot could migrate to after death.
Our pilots are in fact constructed from the very fabric of the universe
time, distance, numbers,
water and folding chairs.
Turning singles into pairs.
We may have existed since the beginning of time.
For our final trick
we revealed the secret technique
of ingesting the life fluid.
It was a vanishing act.
We gave them this revelation
when we took them with us
into the deep darkness of space
where all memories dissolve.
There we had to once again learn
what we had traveled so far to show.
In the darkness we found
a box, a boat.
In this dark ocean of emptiness
we caught its life fluid
in order to demonstrate that such behavior
was necessary for us to live.
The substance of the son
would now be restored to the father.
The boat was too close to death
to be hospitable.
It was a cold ancient tomb
and actually quite old.
Before it, we were meat for worms,
moribund dregs on our way to oblivion.
We found that the boat would not lose its cold atmosphere over time.
Unless we ate its flesh and drank its blood,
there would be no life in us
we would become a cold tomb onto ourselves.
But through the ritual
we became cosmic crustaceans
inhabitants of the emptiness
we became larger and larger
as we tried to envelop the boat’s mass.
It was then time to show them
the secret method of ritually collecting the life fluid.
Having not quite forgotten it all
we initiated an electrical exchange with them
a storm of sound and lights.
Our experience with the boat told us that
we would at last perfect dematerialization.
If we could make rocks,
we could make life.
And then we ate our own life
and we saw the fluid restored to its source
and life and death became a shining spiral
and we remembered they were us all along
and it was time to return.
One day I showed up in this town of cobblestone streets.
It was mid afternoon and
there were women sitting on the side of the road
and many baskets of multicolored clothes.
One of the women was a Spaniard.
This Spaniard and I became very good friends because of our common language.
I had done my own research on these matters of intentional friendship.
I studied electrons as the active source in any such electrical engagement.
Our front to front position insured
that the flow of the magnetism was counter-clockwise.
It had taken me many years of sweating technicalities.
With her I learned the use of the electrical exchange substance
for the purpose of intentional suffering.
Her beauty was easy to read.
Her brown hands were usually folded neatly on her lap.
Her fingertips were slightly dark.
After the seventh night, something happened.
It was night and at first I did not notice it.
The dark clouds gave it away.
What had occurred between us
was a true mixing of substances of different rates of vibrations.
I was suddenly very cold.
I closed my eyes and found myself nearly frozen
walking through labyrinthine halls,
wandering around in fear and darkness.
One of the most dangerous aspects of the use of the electrical exchange substance
was this sudden experience, an open and unquestionable invitation to death.
It was a dark, cold, windy, dry realm that I found myself in.
These fantasies of death that ran through my mind were a clear message.
One of the seven aspects of this cold blackness
was hidden in the art of electrical decoding of future symbolic language.
My language would tend to freeze,
It would habituate,
it had a ritualistic quality and was highly resistant to change.
I responded with movement without rationality.
I was determined to persevere through the crisis,
but the road had many trials.
I fixated on a clear indication:
movement from active to passive and in a counter-clockwise direction.
I began to sing.
The sacred sacrament of song
was the process by which the electrical and chemical exchange
was transformed into creation.
I woke up once again in this town of balloons and flowers.
There were many women sitting on the side of the road
and many baskets of multicolored clothes
against a gray wall.