The last post like all of them are the notes of a diarist neither here nor there, and my recollection on the monstrous visibility on the outer surface of the dead in a strange realm that exposed the living clockwork of drives, fears,obsessions, guilt, shame and desire..all mutations that created horrific disfigurements of the body on the creatures akin to cast off skins, no longer human, yet were so human that I witnessed in that station of states, without the advantage of a mirror to see my own miasma exposed like those worn by those spirits, their abiding anguish, and the one who approached me, who provided his name...his humanity, is more than grist for the mill. It so profoundly effected me that to say I was disturbed, and words do not cover the payment for that experience. A terrible beauty, an awful lesson. Who is not such a creature? You could call this other worldly experiential shock, a pitiless exposure, and yet........ I walked away on a path underneath the archway of trees as though they were strange angels listening to me and that this reality was perhaps, however oddly, an anarchy of order, an immersion in a codex of hidden images from without, akin to a baptismal fount of spiritual blood, displaying a profound empathy, a reminder, that there is a cost to ignorance, personally and otherwise when pointing the finger at monstrosities, to cover one's own. I sigh in this mill, and must keep walking until I reengage what was lost...what the trees know, in this metamorphosis of skin. A muttering savant with a strange vocabulary in a cathedral of light drops rocks from afar into waves, the particles of a living breath...as a banished fugitive rebelling against an encapsulation, a purgatorial strategic retreat...and in the final analysis, looking for clues in this trial of clues, buried whispers and runes. Intuitively I know that none will suffice against this world's memory of itself. All I can do is wave my little black flag as a conscientious anarchist having no allegiance except to life. What error was wrought that I was given a choice to compound or dissect or is it none of the above, beyond the binary with no demarcations of the praises or blame we use to tattoo the other, or ourselves? "Ghosts here or there, it matters not!" he mutters to the trees. The immortality of leaves, he thinks, appear to vanish, only to reappear as a patterned doorway going and coming without this luggage of tokens, referents and trinkets. The metaphysical skin is shed, left in the dead letter office while the imaginary , the zoology of the quantum attempts to storm the gates of certainty as an anarchy, a whisper of leaves. Creative destruction is a music unheard in the reinvention of patterning...the dinosaur to a whippoorwill.. a human to a....tree. The Green Knight in an act of spiritual chivalry emerges to engage tears, an empathy toward imagined monstrosities to remind the outcasts, there is no superiority in nature, neither in this world or others.
This too, as they say, will pass.
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