drub, drub, drub..
In the waking state I am writing..
In the dream I am putting make-up on William Burroughs for a Nike commercial.
A young handsome U. G. Krishnamurti in a bright red Nehru jacket and Sikh dastaar
turban made of a green acetate-like material is operating the camera, as I
turn back from Burroughs face for a light check, I realize there is a needle
piercing my head. It enters somewhere in my left temple, penetrates my head
and continues through the wall. I exit the dream through that needle.
In the supersensible realm,
I drop gently to the chessboard. Inexplicably I scream
CHATURANGAAAA as if in invocation..
and thus begins a fabulistic game of chaturanga. the board grows
as the pieces appear, assembling like totems out of the ether,
insectoid glyphs, part fire, part machine, part flower begin
to compose themselves into solid totems. i now realize there
are multiple instantiations of the me-me image across the board.
our bodies become armored in heraldic biomechanical 'sricopthagus',
rigidifying amplification devices which are in effect used to
turn the self into a mast-head receiver antenna which is placed
close to the top of any given totem image. my mundane consciousness
is more or less present and i have some more or less uninteresting
thoughts about 'vision logic' or 'the mysticism of chess', the
'game' as a structural / evolutionary mutagen, etc. thus begins
what one might simply call a fabulistic game of chess in which 'dreamers'
are built into transmogrifying head scarabs attached to the totemic operators
or chess pieces. the pieces' structure change as part of the play, as
the result of play, the board is also subject to change and to
multiply itself into a kind of palimpsestic paraspace which is
entirely visible. visually, this has the effect of becoming a
roil of movement and a/rhythmic mutation. the phrase 'the blind velocity of
stillness' occurs to me. sometimes the boards inexplicably assemble
into archimedean solids in which every surface is an 'independent'
game yet whose structure is subtle determined by the others.. these
visions multiply until the entire thing becomes a kind of blurred
mantra/yantra evocation like a chant which is warping 'mind'.
the sum total of moves is incomprehensible. one game flows into
the next rendering the idea of a finite game null. the idea of
game become likened unto phoneme, note, particle, operation, etc..
it is a continuum.. it occurs to me in my infinite stupidity that
the game board is also a portal or 'train station' of sorts
into the domain of the 'daimons' and 'watchers'..
suddenly it is only i alone on an empty chessboard. an ordinary
room. far across the floor there is what i can only describe
as a hollow glass apsara whose inner organs appear to be slowly
undulating hives of flaming bees. the organs are enunciating
a kind of gutteral meta-speach, one organ beginning an utterance
another organ finishing it.
i say very quietly, 'chaturanga'..
the apsara hive organs say very quietly, bees of a fiery stomach mouth,
'chichichatitititurangagaga'
the square i am standing on opens like a trap door
and i fall like a feather
the same 'sricopthagus'assembling around my form
but smoother, i feel like a ray, a syngle muscle
cell floating in thoughtless blackness
i become a cell in the bloodstream of the nautilus librarian
of the akashic library. after floating in a kind of
wonder, trillions of rushing souls, soul blood,
pulsing, the rhythm of it, slurshing this way and that
through the cavernous veins, a hymn, light and music
combined.. something catches. pain! a benevolent
sharp knock. AWAKE! the insect mother surgeon vibrates
my skin open with the careless wave of one of her
submandibles.. some other limbs change something inside
me. clamp something, insert something, take something
out. i feel like there is suddenly a new spaciousness
in my normally claustrophobic mind, like cold wind
around a stone, a fluted vacuumy feeling. i smile.
the insect mother surgeon smiles. a sort of tongue
molds my skin together again like wax. i feel like
a tiny baby voodoo doll. i have an erection. when
i look at it, it looks more like a jade euglena vase
swarming with pollen glyphs. i have the idea that
the entire procedure is a sort of 'biomorphic purification'.
i hear a snatch of dialogue: a biophysical ritual of..
like being processed by a machine, he is physically eaten/
made pure, and set out in the library, with a small
understanding of the library.. and indeed, soon i was
set out into the library, breathing a fluid of pure
information, information just out of focus, some kind
of new organ, a browser filter, i could trap and inspect
bits of fluid, short ckliggly crazy bits.. 'the fluid
is thought!' 'like pure thought..' 'supersensible fluids'
i thought, any little bit of it, is thinking, all thought..
is thinking.. through concentration i found that once
i had trapped a bit of this fluid in my browser organ
i could generate a virtual 'library' analogue.. a kind of
bubble room consisting only of shelves of books, smooth
almost plastic books of transparent pages. reading the books
would generate further bubble rooms and further texts.
i found the books could be drained. the letters in the
pages were actually a kind of self-structuring virtual liquid
which could be absorbed by means of my modified physiology.
dragging the spine of the book down my sternum which had
now become a kind of grooved fluted 'reader'..
it seemed then as if i began to read for an eternity
then 12 eternities, then 1000 eternities. my body,
the world, 'my akashic record world' evolved, it
was like being a spec, or being a tiny planet, my
mind was an old ecosystem, whose civilizations had
risen and fallen, and risen again..
i guess i had become a trilobytic browser sarcophagi
traversing a sperical glass screen under which a kind of
pink luminous brain coral is singing.. i was 'warming' and then
recieving 'pages'.. wisps of smoky meduspermatozoia wafting
knowledge or illumination (very common)
would result in the physical alteration of the browser (me)
adding segments to my body, and 'data feathers' (self-cognizant
sub-selves).. clear screens where executions are visible like
a dancing of figues across a sinuous surface of louvred metacules..
i became a tiny worm string, a bit of code,
a feathered trilobyte quetzalcoatliwyrm
as a dreaming 'string of code':
i love you.
//
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//
//
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Origins_of_chess
