I want to shout when I feel. And when I feel a wave that is physical and personal at once that rolls up the body and explodes like the heavans in my head, and reminds me to see with other eyes the light of the hidden world. It is that light, caused by the pressing of blood upon the nerves of the eyes, which is a scintillating throbbing that becomes spectral illusion, that I lust for, that I quest for.
It is a thirst that I must eat, and gasping cry for air that I must drink, and a substance I must breath. There are the suns of other worlds that pulse behind the eyes at such moments, they rise and set, they burn with noon, pulse with dawn, and burn with sunset at once, or in days so close that they meld into one.
Forget the divisions of the day into hours, the senses into numbers, words into meanings, or people into nations. Under such light and heat, the very forces of physics curve into each other. A crooner called out an invisible sun. It is behind our eyes.
Our grandparents were thrown into the world of machines, and dreamed of mechanical men. Our parents overjoyed at the RedGreenBlue highway of waves sang the body electric. We. We have no bodies at all, and search the corners until we have faces. It is behind us, and beyond us, to be restricted by the choices that chance has made for us. Name, place, feature, form.
But it was always this. The first bits of bone to have a form merge man and god-animal, the first icons of people are expanded in shape to be the topography of the goddess, who is not made as a humna, nor cast in wholey human form. The winged dragons guarded Babylonian gates, and the dog headed Anubis led souls through the Book of the Dead. We never were wholly human, and always have been aching to trans the barrier. The greeks told tales of men made into women, and beings divided in twain. Are we so different to carve in light what they carved in marble?
Cry. Cry to heavan for salvation, and it will not hear you. Cry for the drowning dead, their bodies transformed for the feasting of fish and crabs, and it will not touch the salt of the vast oceans. Cry in battle cry, and there will be winged victory in your spirit, and an eight legged horse a shadow you as the spear flies over one host or the other.
That is a that, but which is the which? We wish to make our images in the model of our minds, and thus remake our minds as they carve the nerves to feel the movement of alien shapes impressed upon our imagination. We seek to become one with what we are becoming.