10.1.6 Night Trails

Night trail 1

Happy people gathered
in hemp dresses, white, overflowing
laughing, up and down the road,
yogic sitting on gravel, waiting for the talk.

There's the Book of Sun

invisible, moving between auras.
various pages are needed, leaves from a great tree, excerpts to be read, following the path of green tributaries, veins of nature traced to a sea.

Night trail 2

The road is now on a high wall
a vast spectacle, great blocks fused, towering above world, not made for this world
ghostly apparitions follow me, air thin beings, almost vanishing into stratosphere

By the edge of the wall
three people huddle around an excavation, hands dirty
shovelling and moving clumps of wet earth
dug from rock features, boulders, clay of the creators

among mud, there are small golden flowers and
glinting shells of spent bullets
I look down from the high wall.

I see bodies.

arms outstretched, naked forms laid out in no discernible pattern
half submerged in soil on the shore, many of them unmoving,

They are not dead.

Weaving tide from the ocean, lapping at open palms, salt water washing skin.

Night trail 3

I wish I knew the names of
this dining company of drifters, to know of their faces.
but there’s a girl with me, belonging to shared history.
eatery staff sit around in black chairs
discussing whereabouts, plotting the path to shelters in business districts.

We are now walking on financial streets, living outside the sphere of corporate
the smell of sharks is overwhelming but we do not fear,

we are not bleeding.

10.1.5 the song

I wander in the mall
Lost in occult architecture
Where each floor, each escalator
Leads me deeper into a nest of stores
Each annex becomes larger
There is no way out.

A Japanese man touches my shoulder
His hair is straight and long, face chiseled
He asks me, “where do you bring a girl for date?”
I see his young daughter with him, five years old.
I tell him, “botanic gardens, or that Island…”

I wonder if he will bring her there.

His little girl is now a white puppy.
Wandering behind a cashiers counter of a pop up store.
Her father turns into a pink furred dog, the same size and age as his child.
They vanish, as they are no longer human species.

I find myself in an amphitheater.

All is dark, and it’s hard to see the faces of
the seated crowd. They are silent and anxious.

My once dead computer is on stage.
Each key I press plays a channel of music
The looped sound of coins dropping
A deep drone

I forget the words of my tome.

The sounds extend time, removes it from context, my presence on stage goes on without time

I see nothing on the screen.
No frame of reference or name of track
The sound plays, and I sing in a falsetto voice

“Sometimes I remember….”

The tempo is slow, dragged out, erasing this weight in my soul, lifting it out of darkness.

“Sometimes I am closer to the stars…”

An unnaturally tall woman comes to the edge of the stage
She is handing me a black piece of thick paper.
Attached to it is half an egg, skin silver
In silver ink, instructions.
I think of a stargazer I was once close to
I sing the song also for her.
I consume the silver egg
I Leave the stage, walking past a
a fire engine truck made of cardboard.

A chubby clown emerges from the top. Yellow light in its face.

He is a sad, silent mime with a mystical flower in his hat.
Doors of the truck open, there are wild red faces, searching for something untouchable .

A complex video plays on the screen as backdrop.
It is light and flicker haunting, abstract and figureless…

The song remains with me.

10.1.4 hunting

I’m hunting the teen by following her posts.
phone cam pics of landmarks, geotagging, comments and statuses.
roundabout on the double decker bus that goes nowhere to somewhere, I’m back to the same stop again.
Passing parade squares, central business districts, recurring lunch hours, after work buildings suffering from a deprivation of people

Roadways by forests. Japanese basement malls.

Her latest picture is of ramen.
Her small black dress.
Her friend in denims.
A black bar top.

I recognise halogen lights at 9.55p.m. The stores are closing. I close in, face to face with her and her young friend.

Expecting intelligence, I am disappointed.

She is mediocre. Small and foxy, but dimmed by device capture. Something is stealing her mind in fractions, pocketing time from her futures, eroding emotion, blurred articulation.

We can hardly hold a conversation.

I know I can’t bring her home.

We leave together when a teenage pretty boy arrives in his adult shirt and pants.

Is it the end of this world or the coming of New Year’s Day?
Where is the ballroom party?

The open air carpark is dark with night celebrations. The boy and the two girls are in his shiny gloss black car, window rolled down, bidding goodbye.

I take the bus.
Circling through the history of routes,
arriving, departing, the same place again.

A lanky boy breaks off from the group, strays from night path into the forest. He is replaced by a replica of himself, silver clothes, glitter in aura, stepping back onto the path.

His friends do not notice the anomaly but the lone streetlight exposes the reality to me.

10.1.2 tome

A disembodied, Icelandic woman gives me a book of arcane photographs.

Or

I find in my hands, a pictorial grimoire, with her spirit residing within.

The thin book is already open.

There are three, double page spreads.

The first is a high contrast monochrome image of a primal man. The page feels like a living texture of earth and sand. I see his strained back facing the camera, skin covered with mud and grime.

I cannot see his head, just a taut neck bending into nothing.

His body is contorted, twisted, naked, muscles tensed.

It is an image consumed by darkness. That which I can see, appears to be lit by ritual fire.

I turn to the second spread.

The pages are translucent and grey. I am staring down at solid lines of heavy black ink, vector perfect. A maze, a labyrinth, composed of squares and sharp right angles.

Through the semitransparent page I can see the photo of an ancient Chinese armchair with vague dragon like motives of faded gold the color of bronze. Its blood red cushions eroded by geological time. This solitary piece of furniture sits in the darkness of an ancestral house, long forgotten by man. The maze appears to be superimposed upon it.

I hear the Icelandic woman speak, though I do not see her.

With her words comes the knowledge that another planet has been found. A planet related to Mars and War.

Her voice is prophetic, clear and dark and guttural, rising from buried depths.

She speaks the name of this planet thrice.

“Frice. Is True Love.

Frice. Is The Enemy.

Frice. Is True Death.”

10.1.0 consular  

There was a calamity,
then a regrouping .

I’m in the house of my childhood, that brown and beige hall, trying to reach the others through dream extension.

I’m trying to contact the star, just as she physically arrives at the house.

I switch, in search of others…

We are pulling everyone back to the first node.

1.10 familia 

“The angel has chosen you.”

And so you are placed in this derelict warehouse. You’ve been here before but the memory is false. The signature of this space is familiar, its vast dimensions, the filth on the walls, the dim, the dusk lit world beneath the world, these things you have seen and it reaches out to you, to feel you.

The voice tells you, you are chosen, then there is nothing else.

Days, or is this hours after the girl takes you from the dream?

This is months, or is it years after the carnival? The cavern under the world, long after the war. (Where are the transvestites buried?)
You believe you know, they are outside in Siberian winter, where all the other Civilisations are. Body and spirit taken by the relentless whitewash of frozen wind and immense light, buried under a continent, an ocean, an atmosphere of snow storms. You are uncertain if they remain buried.

You are put into this derelict warehouse, sitting on decomposing crates full of empty bottles. You are wrapped in gypsy blankets and patchwork quilts unwashed for ages but it smells only of age.

There is a Romanian family of wanderers with you, packing analogue photography gear into damp cigar boxes. Bodies of dated daguerreotype, soot ruined plates, moulding lenses, trigger cables, exposure control, polaroid cartridges from bygone times, mismatched and wrongly fitted into makeshift compartments.

The boxes are latched, they slide into slots in the wall, chutes that angle down onto the unseen grounds outside.

You sense other presences beyond the shutters but you do not hear them. There’s no way of looking to be sure. The wooden panelling, aluminium barricades block out light (assuming there is any outside.)

There is only ice and below zero cemetery fields. You are not even sure if the presences are human. But you know they want human artefacts. So the family provides. Imaging equipment. Products for creating posterity. Whose , you don’t know. History is a vague dissolution trapped in glacial tombs.

It is after the war. Allies defeated by Axiiom. Very much long after. The carnival has dismantled. An exodus. Only the family, the original owners of the entourage, is left behind, forgetting their roles and names.

“See which one you like, after work, and take it.”

You know it’s not the family who speaks, it’s neither the voice of the warehouse nor the entire reality outside this quantum point. It’s something inside you that prophesies. A subject and object in shared broadcast space, a triangulation of common consciousness, inter mind communication. They beam unto you or you are that which beams. You send and receive, both signal and signalled, noise and the auralspatium that contains it.

What is this work?

The documentation of items, packages,boxes, handed over to the unknowable outside? Are you the final witness of slow starvation and disappearance of the family? They tell you nothing. They only pack their things and slot them away, building treasures in some after world. They do not make eye contact. They never will.

What are you to take?

Or who?

Maybe they’ll let you keep memory. To be extracted by camerama at a later period. Maybe they will let you make the film. A post existence documentary, where the cameraman you see is the cameraman you are.
Maybe they’ll let you keep the youngest child of the family. To manipulate the d.n.a, the chemistry, to procreate the post—family, to advance and evolve the wanderers path, once the last generation fades away into the white.

After this work, you take the box you like.

The least destroyed of filmic machines. The unexposed reel most untouched by fungi and flora of the past.

To film the bodies, the unmarked boundaries, the long and everlasting horizon.

Maybe they’ll let you rename the wastelands, the creatures of Sky and sea.

Maybe you’ll be the last of this kind.

The scour of dream activity

1.8 return to stranger mall

They put me in the mall again.

Full of fleeting figures, sparse movements on unaccountable levels.

The woman, the silent partner, the manifestation of hidden desires, lurks at the back of my awareness, on a swift and quiet train, gliding into future city.

They place me, wandering in the hive mind of stores.

The video man, who was absent in prior days, return (though I do not actively see him)

He gives me the recording device.

I am given no clear instructions, so I film sporadically on the camera phone.

There is no living line, no signal to voice, no two way comms.

I just film.

From outside the labyrinth mall, the mansion of occult architecture, I stand with my back against the timeless tree.

I see the first storefront is all glass with no doors.

From wooden patio I begin filming, the walls of the store are illuminated yellow.

All yellow, the altar, like monk robes, religious skin, prayer paper for the dead, I move in, filming.

Here lies The Ritual room, i’m drawn into the core altar of papier-mâché, perception of its depth shapes changing, observational quantum flux.

Octagonal, hexagonal, square turned, cubes inside cubes, then the roots, sucked into spherical, the tree of life deformed and skewed, entering / exiting the window inside cardboard spaces, deep illusion, perspective lengthening, shortening, every angle changing its face and features.

I pass through glass, into funereal air, all bright, beaming beige and yellows, I greet directions, every turn lingering, false plastic candelabra light, left and right guarding vacant pedestal on risen table, no gods on site (no coffin where there should be.)

I watch a paper Canary attached to fishing string. The faux bird flies, hunting in circulars, wings extended, swirling above my head like a dizzy spell. I pass under it, through the unseen door.

Into corridor, before another faceless store, dark unlit, hardware house with coloured wires in rolls, in gordian knots, greens, yellows, hanging on hooks.

There is no power, no electric.

The next store is a glass cube, a room sized tank, dry hay,

Cobras. Twins. Head bloated, fanned out but its body isn’t erect or ready to strike.

Then from blindside, a large creature moves. A bulk of light brown fur, headless, heavy, stomping on serpents.

At the far right, in rows, in stacks, lie crushed snakes, just their skin shells, outer forms, hollowed out with pink insides, cut open, contents removed, sleeping dead on high hay.

Wild brown rabbits scatter. The huge creature crushes them under innocent gravitas, skulls smash

Snakes die. Pink blood muddying dead straw grass.

I film it all for camerama.

On other levels in the mall, a basement with heavenly lights, I am searching for Codex.

I know I’m collecting thin tomes with pictures, printed speech,single issues (only 2 released) of the title in need.

On a display board at the entrance, I find my black book, previously lost, pages intact, sketches of various killers, creatures, forbidden texts.

“This is mine.” The storekeeper demands I prove it. There is a number advertised, writ in blue ink. I tell him to dial it.

The camera phone rings, I show him the store number I.D.

“This book is mine.”

He agrees. I take the white plastic bag of books and leave.

1.7 we both dream

It’s getting complicated.

Is my colleague at the motel in the neighbouring country?

I am travelling along the highway, greenery, new roads into old filth of the city, 8 hours from homeland.

I sit in the yellow opiated room. On the bed where we once slept or are about to.

We are talking.

“We are both asleep…”

I am also talking to him, back at our shop of employment, 8 hours after the city.

“…we both dream of her but she chooses me.”

I think we are awake.
Or we could be inside the dream where he is asleep and I am talking to him.

I am not chosen to wake. My colleague is sitting in the store of our employer, remembering our conversation or the dream he had where we were both talking, in a bedroom, in a motel, in the city, 8 hours away.

The 8 hours seem so long ago but it is not. We are still living out the eight hours.

“…but she chooses me.”

The stores are closing down one by one. The shutters roll down with stock and furniture, cashiers, sales team, delivery persons inside and the lights go out and they disappear. Nothing left but wires and debris, yellow dirty sponge from aircon ducts, rusty bent nails, faded receipts, memories of people. The store is dreaming of its contents.

I did not wake but my colleague did and he is remembering our talk.

“Two of us dreamt of her.”

I’m telling the girl who chose me that different messages will be going out to different clusters of people. “Package the statement according to communication needs.” She reclines on a sofa. I see her handwritten memos go out in stacks, in groups, angled at different degrees, shooting forth from her chest like email.

It’s getting complicated.

The colleague can’t tell if he is remembering or dreaming or actually having a conversation with me. He’s either 8 hours out into the city or is spending 8 hours returning from it.

He finds himself in the store where we work. He is alone.

I am not with him.

1.6 we are close to understanding the boy

Let the boy in white scream in the convention hall
Let the high lights of halogen illuminate his hemp shirt and baggy trousers, to mimic contact with something foreign in the sky
Let the wire in his ear, the mic near his lips, be checked for loose connections
Electromagnetic waves from his cells might disrupt communication links

Let him create a significant wall of sound from his body

All the technicians, accounts execs, stage managers—
with radio headsets, blue tooth, cardio monitoring machines
wires, antennae — are moving around him, trying to manage the meltdown.

Keep him calm, ground his strange vibrations

Let the boys’ blood pump where it may

We will monitor, follow him wherever he wants to go

We know he won’t listen to us

He listens to white noise moving through his body, through the ear piece tuned to a channel only he can hear, through the undiagnosed cracks in his skull

We try to find the source code:

Track, map, pin—point on sonar, predict pulses with fractal technology, give it names or codes or graphs

Try to understand it.

In hotel rooms we discuss him, shuffling through reports, projections, theories, hypothesis

We are here, waiting for the right hours, the right mix of people in one room adjacent or opposite another room with another set of people. Numbers matter, different dimensions, configurations, chatter level, ages, hours spent exposed to pictures of the boy.

We are here waiting for the alignment to happen

– Radio-in on his whereabouts.
– Keep a safe distance.
– Report his movements consistently.

Hall, loading docks, conference rooms, rest rooms, sick bays
CCTV continuity is a must, watch the boy and the entourage assigned to him.

Check the staff for fevers, hallucinations, diseases. Stand by biohazard suits, counsellors, evac protocols.

Try to measure and understand the importance of his signal bouncing between nodal points within the superstructure of the convention center
Calculate, ask questions.

Who is his ombudsman?
What is the current temperature of the halls? Is it spiking? Dropping? Has anyone felt an usual surge or loss of appetite? Sleep? Fatigue?

Which of the women was he born to? 

We must understand his codified form of expression before we can speak the correct statement or phrase about him.

This is important.

We cannot make a statement if we are unsure of his status.

But we are close.

Very close

in the middle of this late night, in this hotel room, plugged into the convention center.

TV is switching channels, montage of adverts and documentaries, stock reports, unusual glitches, weather forecasts, scattering of unidentified broadcasts, images of the new found planet.

I think that’s the problem, beaming those photographs back. No one else agrees with me.

They are only interested in the boy.

There is beige light seizing the room, neon signs from a block away spilling its electric mass onto our walls, onto our beds and sofas.

We are close to manifesting full knowledge of the boy, to focus him into the room using the patterns of his prior articulations.

No more screaming but a clear statement. We do not know what to expect. We do not know the nature of his message.

We are very close.

Everyone is anxious.

1.5 the incident

It’s minutes to show time (in a world untouched by the sun.)
We are underground – air conditioned, top level liqueur in crystalline bottles line glass shelves pierced into mirrors-
We see our faces,

painted, powdered, hand drawn with black pencils (we swirl nameless beverages in the chalice)

A spoken word troupe will take the dark stage first-
Reading, acting, gesturing to tuxedos and perfumed necks of families from old money.

-I am to go up next but:
-I forget the words, once written by my hand
-I forget the entire story,
-beginning, middle, end, completely erased.

I tell the girl this, near the bar, near the other three or four performers she works with

I do not drink the whiskey circulating in crystal cups
Searching for the name of this basement bar, I come up blank. I do not recall being brought here, nor was I led.

I am here, written into context, in-situ, in spectacle.

We are going to perform in a few minutes, telling our stories. Clearly, I have forgotten mine.

She tries to help me recall. The lighting here, dim orange, dark wooden panels on the walls, no paintings, no smoking room, everyone well dressed, speaking in dignified voices, unhurried, softly.

We are going to perform our tales, in our dinner jackets, evening dresses, polished shoes.

The girl, she’s in blue, like all the other girls I meet from different times and places. She is the archetype. The girl in the blue dress. Always near me but never saying anything.

She tries to help me remember but nothing appears in my mind. She gives me a three-fold flyer for a spectacle i had appeared in previously. I believe i have re-found my work but when i open the document, I find my section blank.

No bio, no name of work, no conceptual synopsis, no transcript or excerpt.

I pace the length of this bar. An elite establishment. Gentlemanly, wealthy, jazzy, untouched by sunlight. This seems to be important. Other life grows in such a faux-lit place.

Spectres, moving images, wisps, a brief articulation of air, unseen breathing, an eco-system of ghosts, ectoplasmic thought..

I pace the length of the basement, drawn to other lights from other entrances

Entrancements.

A dual presence, then quadrupling.

There is a room. Lavatory, bathroom, white tiles polished shine, brand new. Is this is an extension of the establishment or an invasion?

There is a room. in its center, a circular pool of steaming water. There is a panic in the room. A rush of events.

I am at the mouth of this room but I am also running to this room from the length outside.(we are minutes away from performing, i see the girl in  the blue dress, the indian man in his editor jacket, other muses and young intellectuals)

 

I am running to the pool room. I must stop something from manifesting. Three quarters of it already happening, Seconds are depleting. I am at the mouth of the kill room, looking in.

There, one of three young adults is dying, body half submerged in the bubbling pool, his head mostly skinless, his skull, a creature I do not recognise from earth zoology. It is struggling, gruelling, pulling its convulsing body out of the broiling pool. I see oval eye sockets but no eyes. The water around the skull is steaming, like something solid dissolving into liquid state.

There is a second figure in the pool but I cannot understand its facade. A jumble of clothes or drapery, hanging on a humanoid formation. I cannot understand its face.

There is a third figure. The core reactor.

He poses outside the circular pool. Flexing muscular arms, ribs, angling his sinewy, steroidal legs. I see through his darkly browned chest. I sense the nuclear reaction inside me and know it’s mimicking the fission inside him.

I am yelling, yelling,“Shut down your energy! Shut down your energy!”

This is happening:

  • An otherworldly psychic manifestation is going awry.
  • Feeble human species toying with power drawn from unfamiliar planetary centrifuges.
  • Hadean, underworld voltage is hijacking and climbing the DNA structure

I am shielding my solar plexus with an invisible hand. I am blocking access to my body map. I am preventing fusion of my core with the rampant diasporic forces.

“Shut down your energy center!” I am deaf to him. His core star chakra is compromised.

I understand the egoism of the third man, the showing off, the daring pose, the excessive self worship

I remember the formula of my story. Not so much the narration or poetry, but the images. The film. The Influence. 

There is a stairwell.

Mass evacuation from a 25 storey apartment block, the firetrucks and disaster response teams, the neighbours streaming down anxiously as I ascend against the tide, against the noxious, nameless smell,.

The missing girl and the warning she had given.

The adversity of the painting hanging in the room…