autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

The Rave Room

In the mythical warehouse containing the carefully archived tales of the collection that is my “Book of Life”, there is hidden a metaphorical space. It twinkles in and out of being as if primordial dark matter; my own Brigadoon, carefully negotiated over time for scheduled appearances, and allotted a certain, stipulated number of annual “Get Out Of Life Free” cards because, let’s face it, that’s requisite.

Within this space, a number of rooms that exist solely as concepts; items of coherence or conceptual coalescence that have demonstrated a particularly recognizable gravity – to or from – the entropic, random that is the ‘now’ through which my reality appears… a shutter shroud and beyond, a far horizon.

In the rave room, nothing makes sense and that’s ok. It is an imponderable expression striving for refinement and clarity.

There is no sound in the rave room. Not even the eerie whine that is my ear muscles trembling trying to detect it. I live for the day my ears no longer tremble in fearful anticipation.

There is no light in the rave room. Not even the imaginary ones that the brain can send to flicker under eyelids out of some compulsive need to never be without stimulation. I live for the day when controlling light intake is not considered “abnormal”.

The air is cool in the rave room. A persistent 75 degrees with light circulation/movement. I live for the day when physiological sensitivity is not treated as an impairment.

The rave room is an ironic space in which I dwell to permit my mind to scream as long and as loud as it must, when it must.

There is no recorder in the rave room. No gatekeeper. No editor. No masks. There is only me and the weight of all the expression, all the emergence, all the “ME-ness” that I’ve kept swaddled into silence to avoid attack.

In the rave room, the thermal wisps can escape. The heat trapped under my skin can be released. And I can just scream my anger and pain.

This is where I learned to make masks. There is no padding in the rave room. Experience is still the only real teacher and if you’re stupid enough to put yourself into a vulnerable position, it’s your own fault.

Because no one owes you a thing. And no one has to care. And all gifts have strings. An no human in this life has working wings.

Only clipped ones.