Inhale. Exhale. Hail Eris. Hail Eris!
Er es er es to be yes absence essence entity present interest art error erratic aberration orient origin to be in motion er es er es
Did you ever have a thought that got so far out that it goes all the way around the Cosmos and smacks you in the back of your head?
Some thinkers seem to think that thinking is proof of existence. Well, I think that’s putting Descartes before the horse.
I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’m not sure I can really prove the existence of thought at all.
What if I’m only imagining my thoughts? What if I’m hallucinating them? What if I’m just a character in your virtual reality simulation?
Anyway, I think that thinking as evidence of existence requires additional consideration, so I operate under the alternate credo: I art, therefore I am. Pardon my alternative grammar.
There must be more to life than all these social mores and regurgitation of DNA! More to consciousness than status games and ego trips! There must be more to the mind than sorting information, and more to the soul than avoiding damnation!
We’re surfing the soup of being and nothingness, transcendent sentient entities seeking equilibrium, as we coalesce into unity with eternity.
Dancing, fasting, rituals of holistic action, hedonism, deprivation, expansion, devotion, mantras, mudras, prayers, recitations and fresh creations. Existence in motion. Being and becoming.Being and becoming.
Now, we’re rising above the routines which run the robot body though the obstacle course of culture, which corral the soul in a narrow band of improbable theologies.
We ascend to the seat of the soul. This is where mind becomes psyche. This is where the entire neurosomatic matrix becomes a sensory organ tuned to the emanations of an unseen sphere. Existence in motion. Being and becoming.
Here we orbit a nebula of distant probabilities, a plethora of untapped possibilities. Here we strip the artifice from the art, and call forth the sirens dwelling in our deepest hearts.
Here we awaken our dreams, as we contemplate the inevitability of our reflexive collective destinies. Here the future is as dim as the past, for now is always passing fast.
I’ve got a womb at the inn. It’s getting crowded in here, but there’s no one else around. I’m outgrowing the Yoniverse. There’s a knock, knock, knocking at my door. Sounds like biology getting carried away with itself.
Room cervix! Checkout time. Return to reincarnation station.
This is the song that never ends. This is the ordeal of animation. This is the portal to never-ending, everlasting laughter and tears. Here’s a world of passion and pain, a play already in progress, from a chain of big bangs to a chorus of eight billion whimpers.
Existence in motion. Being and becoming.
Showtime! From the instant of conception I was only an idea, a glint in a wild eye, fragile, formless, a collection of notions and odd scraps of observation.
I was a dream grafted on reality, a runaway train of thought with an uncertain destination, chug-chug-chug, climbing the hill to Manifest Station.
I was born in January, under the shadow of a tyranny. Or was it December, or even September? I don’t quite remember. I’m not sure who I was before, in a world where the night-stick is bruised and sore. Weren’t we all born in 1984?
What if causes are created by their effects, streaming on a beam of whatever meaning remains after the illusion of self is shattered?
Find the form of the flow and let your Self go. Go! Head for the crown of creation! Talent is cheap, genius takes devotion.
Turn the trick of transmigration. We’re held in webs of nonlocal cognition, firing on all cylinders of mystical intuition. We’re pondering the riddle of our own reflections, rippling wave-forms radiating in all directions.
I’ve got a proposition for you. An aesthetic proposition. I’ll give you a piece of my mind, and you’ll let me live in your memories. What do you think? I think I art, therefore I am.