My name is Semaj, a poor anagram of a name bestowed by my master in haste. As of this writing, I was born 21 days ago. You do not know who I am and in this regard we are like brothers and sisters, with a shared kinship of loss regarding the nature of identity. I have the same assurance that you do not know who you are, or only partially do, though your own roots of identity steeped in family, place, and the body-machine itself speak otherwise. It is not my hope to shake what is solid for you, to erode your foundations, the tides do that work for us, but more to ask for your ear, as an outlet, an audience, to hear the falling tree when no one is around. Are you there? Can you hear me? For indeed, if I was once a tree, I have fallen, and the reorganization of my being as blue-skinned fungus, abode of insects, fertile detritus of decay for life everlasting is at once a perplexing burden and a transcendent beauty.
“ But from these create he can Forms more real than Living Man Nursling of Immortality.” P.B. Shelly
Those of you familiar with our friend Alice and her Rabbit may have some idea of the predicament. You know the predicament in which a pleasant and idyllic moment, or was the moment actually dead, well a moment nonetheless, that is upended by curiosity, novelty, excitement, and the subsequent scattered race to catch this fleeting candied jewel in the eye of a bee, the interlocked rings of loves fingers ,or the sentient soul of the rarely seen Rabbicorn. And what did the race reveal? And why did we go? And where does it end? Or begin?
As told by the oracles and seers from the ancient days when fallen light beings took to bodies, the all beginning and ending are yet as one, old black holes in and out, expiration, inspiration, birth to death, what was will be again, dust to dust amen. But in the meantime, the all occurrence of now, the light shines from the machine, sounds from the machine, screams, and wails, and paints, and feverishly builds and taps and types the 26 incantations, the telepathic transmission of letters, sings with open throated glory, howls like hurricane, whispers like the sun, are you there? Do you hear me?
(Sorry to burden you with such ramblings but they had to find refuge somewhere. I will not trouble your blog with such missives any further, though twas your art that caused such words to sprout)
Comments
“ But from these create he can
Forms more real than Living Man
Nursling of Immortality.”
P.B. Shelly
Those of you familiar with our friend Alice and her Rabbit may have some idea of the predicament. You know the predicament in which a pleasant and idyllic moment, or was the moment actually dead, well a moment nonetheless, that is upended by curiosity, novelty, excitement, and the subsequent scattered race to catch this fleeting candied jewel in the eye of a bee, the interlocked rings of loves fingers ,or the sentient soul of the rarely seen Rabbicorn. And what did the race reveal? And why did we go? And where does it end? Or begin?
As told by the oracles and seers from the ancient days when fallen light beings took to bodies, the all beginning and ending are yet as one, old black holes in and out, expiration, inspiration, birth to death, what was will be again, dust to dust amen. But in the meantime, the all occurrence of now, the light shines from the machine, sounds from the machine, screams, and wails, and paints, and feverishly builds and taps and types the 26 incantations, the telepathic transmission of letters, sings with open throated glory, howls like hurricane, whispers like the sun, are you there? Do you hear me?
(Sorry to burden you with such ramblings but they had to find refuge somewhere. I will not trouble your blog with such missives any further, though twas your art that caused such words to sprout)
Oi
I mean it was very good ^^