autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.


There is a place where nothing is; all being and life extending and extruded, and spasming senses tremble for sensation that is not. A great and terrifying paradox – the ALL THAT IS NOT – within which no name can stand, no label will stick, and no boundary, be declared. It cannot fit in words, as even this contradictory paragraph deftly demonstrates.

All truths are contradictory and paradoxical in the ultimate presentation. Not because that’s how they are, but because that’s how we are; stunted and blocked by our dualities, our dichotomies. All experience broken upon the fulcrum of perception, into shards, fragments of the fractal, infinitely and ultimately recursive.

I laugh of late at the futility of effort expended upon “living”, and dream of the forest, the mountain, and most of all, The Canyon.

I miss The Farmer, and cool nights spent around warm fires made of decrepit dock-wood; by the lake, under a disinterested moon; spirits and wind intermingled with ashes and rising, a pure and true incense.