Path

Twisting, it flows like an endless serpentine path. Each door, an explosion of light and sparks of darkness within brightly colored landscapes. The chamber is easily seen and wantonly desired. It is almost kissing the redness of your lips, yet, no, it brushes past, not giving itself so freely.
To touch, you must descend into your fears, all the monsters of your mind taunt and lick their wounds, growing yellow and green, more pungent by the day.
As they frolic with your machine, rolling through fire and cushions of doubt- you walk, stumbling, groping blindly for the moss covered walls- hoping to feel the warm glow of crystals that hide half exposed in the earthy contours, revealing themselves only when your heart unfolds. Tears splash into eternity with the fine shimmer of fairies, opening with all the wetness of a crying silvery shadow. Steps come and go, there is no going back, and forward is merely a black fantasy, sealed with kept secrets. The step, this very step, left, right, left…the toes lift, the heel engages earth…right, left, right, left…the voice that doesn’t know language is here, the immortal tears of a voyaging being fall, small circles dot the path with each muted thump.

Labyrinth

The labyrinth is this…it is this life- this experience in the body. The voyaging Being uses the machine to navigate through the labyrinth. The labyrinth is all around, all encompassing, and mostly invisible in the sleeping state. Driving down the street, one decision to make a left turn is a path, a new doorway with infinite possibilities ahead- the impulse to stop at a coffee shop is another.
We cannot travel in all directions at once. Only one path can be voyaged at a time, and each action takes the Being up or down, to the right or to the left- through time- in the multi-dimensional labyrinth.
Just imagine a vast labyrinth, with its multitude of choices, its many paths spill forward with promise. But the place you want to get to is the inner courtyard- you cannot just hop walls- the path must be walked- and sometimes when it seems you are descending- seemingly far away from the goal- it is because you are walking a non linear path- with lessons to be understood and discipline to be applied.

Procrastination

There is a shelf in my room, on it are a handful of small items: a small necklace and earrings I got on a trip to Mexico, a small spoon, a CD. All of them are meant for a friend- they have been sitting on the shelf for 2 years, since I came back from my travels. Everyday, I pass by the shelf, look at the gifts and think, "I should really mail those." But the thought quickly passes as my mind becomes occupied with something else, and I forget- until I see it again- then of course, I think about mailing it, but don’t. The cycle continues. My habits of laziness and procrastination glaze over any impulse of action. I think of doing, but never take the last step.
And then…
I hear a song that clearly reminds me of her, not just her image, but the energy she evokes in me. She bubbles, her laughter sounds like bells moving across a meadow. I remember walking though Zurich with her in the snow, arms linked and laughing. Something stirs inside me, unnameable and mostly dormant; but it stirs and flutters with crisp attention and force.

In that precious moment, I wake up. I get up and walk over to the gifts…I’m ready for the last step, the last push through the interval. I pick the items up, put them in a box, and walk out the door…a couple of blocks later I am at the post office and mail the gift.
It’s 2 years of habits that have crippled me, preventing me from moving. It was not forgetfulness, I saw the gifts everyday... it was the habit of laziness, the habit of attention wandering, lack of will and determination. I have been lost in the final interval. For a brief moment, when the machine wakes up, its simple. Action and attention are aligned within me.

Timeless Author

"…the dominant notion is that everything is the work of one single author. Books are rarely signed. The concept of plagiarism does not exist; it has been established that all books are the work of one single writer, who is timeless and anonymous."
Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius by Jorge Luis Borges

This text reflects the literary vision and philosophy of Tlon, an intricate and highly developed universe still unknown to most people. The reality in our immediate perception is based on ownership- property, cars, inventions…photographs, books, some companies are even attempting to patent genes and certain strands of DNA. It is the cult of the individual that pervades, pushed by our ego that knows no bounds, requiring constant recognition and flattery.
In the US, there are severe legal consequences for plagiarism and artistic duplication without monetary compensation. Raw creativity, once brought into existence, transformed into a perceptible reality of matter from its indefinable source; whether it is a painting, sculpture, piece of literature or otherwise... once materialized, it is immediately owned.
The piece no longer exists in its own right, a creative gift, expression, or memory; it is now "property" owned by the creator.
But can these material memories, the tangible evidence of energy that pulsed and moved through a human body- can these expressions really be "owned."? The artistic expression is merely evidence that something moved through- but what is it? What exists inside this human machine that compels us to write or paint? Is it not the same impulse in everyone with a creative urge to turn energy into matter and matter into energy? Does this come from the same place?
…a timeless, nameless entity…alive and transforming, moving the hands that create.