Friday, June 29, 2007

Feeling the Infinite

(After Henri Michaux)

One does not have to be a neurosurgeon to talk of brain waves.

Could a hypersensitive psychogeologist imagine landscapes as image waves?

What does it mean to get caught in the undercurrent of undulations that postulate an intoxication of autohallucinations, the kind of "time-trip" that a long solstice day can (post)produce just by letting the body simply be?

Living deep inside the day that never ends, one uses all their sense data to echo impressions of rushing, violent, nervous excitations.

Not violence for violence's sake, but poltergeist violence, an expelling of the demons that circulate in the (post)productive body as it latches on to an in and out state of presence we call the infinite, an infinity on the march, an enfolding infinity that never ends, an infinitization from which no finite can escape, situated as an oscillating tense-trigger where even the simple act of seeing, of looking at a landscape, can transform the world.

If the rhythm is precipitous, the infinite will fragment.

If the rhythm is circuitous, the infinite will loop in on itself and become eternal.

If the rhythm is alone with its anxiety coupled with patience, the infinite will render into vision a compassion for living.

These rhythms and immaterial visions of drifting through landscapes prolong everything, endlessly.

In what at first feels like a wave of ecstasy, there is revealed something even more elaborate: a bowl of vibrations.

"The bowl of vibrations is what he took, is what is possessing him now."

He could be she, or both of them, together, "an image coming" -- a double embodying, a flux-like, braided persona riding an irresistible wave.

The restless stirring of the creative pulsations electrify the (post)producing bodies as they crash into the swelling sea of future uncertainty.

Waves heaving up on all sides now, someone yells "Humanity, overboard!"

Another big one approaches, breaks, and still more images coming ...

"Ecstasy and only ecstasy opens up what is absolutely unmixed."

Now the remixologist enters its purest state of

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