It's as though the logarhythms were changed. His brain began to work in a different way. Thoughts emerged through unexpected vortices that seemed to open up out of every observation.
It was like being aware only of letters, then suddenly seeing that those letters formed words, that words had meaning. Nothing in front of his eyes was different. It was his eyes that were wholly transformed.
His brain cells had been like ants, toiling along the worn tunnels of his mind, when suddenly the imagination and intricacy of the ant colony had come to life, sending ripples of perception and creation along his synapses. He saw what he'd never seen. His nose, ears and tongue awakened slumbering dimensions . Reality became a seduction, pulling him deeper with every stimulation.
He'd thought that each word was an icon on a road map, sharpening his thinking and communication with detail. Each gave him the ability to think a thought, he'd been taught. But then he came to see that every word was also a fence, locking off a part of that vast mental pasture from any invention breezing by. It was in the spaces between the words where reality flowed, oozed and spread. It was there that meaning wasn't locked in, behind a memory, some knowing word.
It was like being aware only of letters, then suddenly seeing that those letters formed words, that words had meaning. Nothing in front of his eyes was different. It was his eyes that were wholly transformed.
His brain cells had been like ants, toiling along the worn tunnels of his mind, when suddenly the imagination and intricacy of the ant colony had come to life, sending ripples of perception and creation along his synapses. He saw what he'd never seen. His nose, ears and tongue awakened slumbering dimensions . Reality became a seduction, pulling him deeper with every stimulation.
He'd thought that each word was an icon on a road map, sharpening his thinking and communication with detail. Each gave him the ability to think a thought, he'd been taught. But then he came to see that every word was also a fence, locking off a part of that vast mental pasture from any invention breezing by. It was in the spaces between the words where reality flowed, oozed and spread. It was there that meaning wasn't locked in, behind a memory, some knowing word.
pretty interesting. howdy. thank you for helping randy get out of jail. can you help him stay out of jail? he will be a father next month. i will be a grandma. i wonder why i haven't seen you for about 21 or 22 years. love
ReplyDeleteI have sometimes told students that poetry speaks to what cannot be communicated through prose, the content being what lies between the words, experiences for which we have not quite found the words to contain. Such is the content of dreams, the ingredients of a mystic's life, the ineffable thing that makes any work of art, truly art. Words sometimes feel like all that we have. So when they are inadequate, I assume the problem is mine, my inadequacy. Then I remember that through poetry and other art forms, I do have access to other means of communication.
ReplyDeleteYou show me here that prose also speaks (to) the unspeakable.
How do you do that?
That's a beautiful acknowledgement, Rev. And a nice flow of words too. Thanks. That means a lot from one who knows me.
ReplyDeleteAnd fawn...I'm so happy to hear about Randy. Let's figure something out, make something happen.