An automatic text written 12/17/2015
The Phase and the Field
Eyes that worship the lines arranged with endearing precision, they can not conceive of the borders outlying further afield. The long drive on a dark night where the sun has vanished, perhaps permanently. A giant iron decendes and reshapes a landscape. Fortunate are you in your skin, for permanence is a rumor. But here lies your body in the grave. Unmasked you become yourselves and without a reason. Duty is only a matter of taste. Enter the grave.
The phase is utmost about belief. It propogates and undulates at the feet of the worshipper. Where dragons lurk and men change shape. The phase reels and discombobulates. The phase transforms and congeals. It is remarkable for it makes no mistakes because in the phase they do not exist.
In the field is a dark star, vibrant in its heat, detructive in its reign. All witnesses are entertained. The field is a sigil, a ghost. It wraps all investigators in their fancy. It gives them the treatment. It reveals the truth, or it blemishes sight with fancy and treason. The field exists in order to exist. The field marches on whether we are awake or asleep, where our footsteps lead away or just begin.
Together they both create the landscape. The ornamental disguise that leads anyone to a thing. The thing is a luxury. And all existence is a luxury because it exists. Hammers do not fall of their own accord. Nails need stimulating in the creation of the landscape. Above all there are ladders leading one to seismic ventures outside the call.
We have come here to fall. We have come here to be entertained and sanctimonious. The levelers are bored. They swing from tree to tree inciting bare minimal enjoyments and, sometimes, defending against wrongful death suits.
Was is the point of it all? Lets pretend there were no arcane myths. The jocund assyrians or the penetential ruler. Lets forget the amulets and wands. History has a knack for repeating itself, as do lies. What is the point of gravity? What is the point of levitation? Why do we get in our cars and go to places that mean very little? Like the grub beneath the bush we exist, shadows in life. We travel in phases. The worm becomes the moth or the butterfly. The butterfly turns into the wind. The wind, invisible, turns into gravity. Only the heart can endure. What else is there but love? Some roots of the tree. Some worms in the dirt. The dirt is emptied and freed after the flood. When we are washed of ourselves we enter the next phase.
From dirt becomes the word. The word propels the man. The man propogates the lies. The lie is then shed and this gives birth to the meaning. The true meaning exists outside of the lines. Nature is the verb. Theories are nature in the past tense. What can be predicted is only a matter of accesibilty. What we access is predetermined by belief and awareness.
Gather your pearls and understand your duty. There is only one rightful path: into that which you descend with full heart and mercy.
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