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back Mysteries and Visions by Paul Garner, Peter Wilson Number of episodes: 9 Words of previous episode revealed to each author: all of story Written between 6 Aug 2002 and 17 Sep 2002 It is incredibly beautiful, indescribable and it is that is thou, and is that thou indescribable incredible beauty, it is, it is, it is beauty. Thou, beautiful, thou, that indescribable isness... ...pours serene on twilight sunset, a companion to day. Broken sit thou, dressed like a flower that smiles peace on that on thou, it leaf indescribable incredible beauty, embrace is indescribable. Onto your summer lands a girl, a bright tender bird. The serene flower of sunset lights pours girl on broken grass, girl on the broken grass. That thou, thou, becoming beauty, is in bloom inharmony with isness... ...smile... ...understand... ...sit... ...peace... skin earth touchdown new planet explore mind sky can't touch it it's all around there are universes everywhere touch me the core is heavy touch me I... always broken off gravity skin earth touchdown hold on ...learning to switch off... ...you worry too much... ...let your subconscious do the work... ...only think on things involved... ...in your immediate experience... Life is a series of habits. Do nothing. There have been several times in my life when light has had a different quality. Luminous, particulate, golden, but more than what I can explain. Like it has weight but is weightless, otherness, mercurial but real. The light surrounds people of great significance or during important events. I remember Jack Kerouac talking about a similar 'golden light' whenever he was with Neal Cassidy. He had is own theory, I don't know mine. Preternatural autumnal light, reminding me of my early childhood when there seemed to be more of the light then, or perhaps it was just that I could see it more clearly. His plastic head was high, drifting apart from the double-decker bus morning, on a quiet route. He looked at the walls... white or grey, what contrast. It was a hard-textured town where, through fickle weather, went his drab ugly hope! But much comes from the off-white time that tilts, shaped, flying in streaming noise. "I'm back," he thought, so perfect, content with it. The sun shone, fantastically man-bald in a hollow sky. "Oh hold me, hold me," not so much a thought as a longing for touch. Bright money-echoes dart the morning, above a happy-lonely pavement, hot with its past. In his mind he feels the surfaces again, aching back, smiling, warm and laid. A life of scattered sketches. A train passed in front of the sun, its skin polished for the light-pushing penumbra, all metal and dark falling-down harmonies. In the shadow of its sound the relief felt orange and diamond, fundamental as dust, berries of light hanging on the tree, and behind, shadowed beats winning the dark. He looked at his watch as he walked... late for work again. My mind drops, drips off, unoticed by the passing traffic, the wheels that turn. It is picked up as static on someones mobile phone or PDA and perhaps glitches it for a moment before being blown on. I can't drink anymore. Skipping down past the violets, stomach rumbles in quietness... we look out - where? and what is this thing? No good, no good at all. I'm disconnected from something, reality is very small once again. Small rooms, so many small rooms - it's hard to focus on the immatierial. I forget my own philosophies as fast as I experience them, understanding is fleeting - existence is a persistent fulcrum. Speak clearly? I find a strange flow, composing erotic eulogies in the middle of the night. In my head. I'll never remember them, never speak them. Reading a passage - for long moments understanding seeps in palpably. Understanding as emotion, as something felt, something REAL and therefore appreciable in its own right, not merely the self-consistent comprehension of transient stimuli. The understanding itself can be comprehended. It is a powerful thing, a thing so powerful it needs a new word, a pretentious word, perhaps a word appropriated from another language as if to say: this concept is so remarkable your culture didn't invent a word for it, but I am so educated and knowledgable I know a word from another culture that fits the bill. Preferrably something German. But the word falls short, it is meaningless in a sense, nondescript, it is a non-description. I don't know what the word is. I was reading a book and I understood, was inside the meaning of the words and appreciating them fully and entirely in all the ways they had to offer. Yet I did not learn from them, did not take the understanding itself away with me, only the memory of the understanding - the understanding was a feeling, and experience concurrent with the act of reading itself. Like listening to music. Life experi-ence. Experiments with, in, sensation and time. Within time, out of time. Playing with words and meaning in times of high physical, psychological, psysiological stress. Re-reading what I wrote then, later, does it make any sense? Does it reveal something, some-thing I garnered from the edge? A gem of the unconscious heart-mind? In the late nineties I spent some time in Brisbane, Australia. It was summer, it was hot. I wasn't eating much in those days. My main food was bananas. I ate bananas, sometimes some bread, I drank water, I consumed very little else. One night I got a taxi home. I was staying in a rural house on a hill; it was my uncle's home. The taxi had gotten me a couple of corners, a couple of hills away from the house. I looked at the fare, I didn't have enough money. I told the driver to stop and started walking. The taxi turned and its lights zipped off back down the road, leaving ghostings on my retina, dancing neon in the black humid air. There were no street-lights. I couldn't see any houses. Throughout my stay so far I had fought to get any sleep. It wasn't only the stifling, oppressive heat that kept me up, but the noise. My uncle's house was a pole house on a hill, banked in gum trees. The trees were home to thousands of roaring cicadas. I do mean roaring; the noise they made was not the static-like hum of New Zealand cicadas, but a nightly roar of screeching high pitched hiss. My first night I couldn't believe it, maybe I was imagining the sound. But on the road that night I was far enough away and behind enough orange Australian dirt that the noise was a light, background frequency. I could hear frogs creeking, croaking and other strange scratchings from unknown marsupials foraging in the black night. Of course it probably wasn't that dark for them, they would have had eyes designed for it, perhaps to them it was just a dim grey sepia. It wasn't for me. It was black, pitch black, darker than I had ever experienced above ground before. I stumbled along the road. I was tired. Dehydrated. Very hungry. It must have been thirty-something that day, which I had spent walking around near my cousin's house in town, exploring. I was incredibly drained: by the heat, by my physical exertion in the heat, I hadn't eaten much all day. I hadn't eaten much for the past week. I started to become genuinely nervous. I didn't know exactly where I was going. I hoped I was on the right road. I thought my uncle's house was just over two more hills and around a bend. I couldn't gauge the distance; I couldn't see a metre in front of my face! My anxiety increased. My imagination kicked in: beasts, demons, poisonous crawling predators springing from the air. There could be a hulk of evil, two steps in front of me. There could be a cliff or an abandoned mine shaft in my path, I'd never see it. I felt blind and alone. I felt very alone. I remember my uncle talking to me about some local dogs that had eaten one of his dogs. He said the owners knew but didn't care. There was no proof it had been those particular dogs. The way he told it the owners sounded as rabid and irresponsible as their vicious hounds. Was that a dog I heard? Panting at my heels, springing forth from some undergrowth, its teeth about to sink into my flesh? Rain comes in like a clammy spirit, the air is chill, the cycle complete. I have perceptions, it's in my mind. It's not rain, droplets of water - it's a field - an ether - damp chill electromagnetic grey spirit field, getting me down. There's no one to touch me, here at work. I type like a mouse, eight hours a day, five days a week, at the end of the month I get my cheese. I'm a lazy mouse. Sometimes I only pretend to type. Summer's over, the cycle complete, I've arrived again, back where I started... progress has been made, it's okay. I hope it's a crisp, clear winter like the last one, I don't mind the cold, it's this grey-field that gets me down. But oh blue sky and green leaves, all pretty in the sun, fills you up, up, a hand in hand, and the crisp shapes of grass in extreme close-up, lying on the ground in fact, looking up, at patches of blue through golden green leaves, and all is pretty in the sun. Warm sun. Warm soft skin sun. Pretty food and warm sun skin blue leaves of green smooth soft grass blades crisp, each perfectly formed, warm smooth pretty blue golden green sky taste and essence and touch, on a sunny afternoon. All is one dream. Time: past, present, future is. To exist is. Eternal life is. All things that exist will exist and will have existed. All that happens - happened - will happen. Is linear time-flow a mass delusion? Well it would explain a few things for me. Is it all one? Does time loop or Pop, pop, pop! Fishes cut free from the water. What do they see for that brief moment? \ somatic and psychic stress causing a shift / - experienced the world in other states of consciousness - meditative, hypnagogic, psychedelic, lucid dreaming - a wider consciousness; direct perception peeling down the sky, the shell of what you thought you knew. - cut free the rusted dead roads - becoming like a new born tree in the sun. (a person looking for god is like the needle looking for the haystack) - Thousands of aphids on the steel frames of roofs, what are they feeding on? Why? - Somehow the energy, the matter, that could have combined to be anything: a plant, a dog, a rock, came together to make you. Isn't that amazing? Isn't that marvelous? Existence, hmmm, Wow! This is incomplete. At the time of writing this I have a heap of notebooks, papers, recurrent thoughts and dreams where I busily speculate, appreciate and illuminate on what I've experienced in life. But they are secondary now, abstractions which I feed on, revisit and re-use, but they can hardly compare to the real thing. The firstness of the real thing. The joy, I see anew, whether it be a new experience or something I have done and felt many times before but now feel-see from a different angle, in a new frame or without a frame - exploding in infinite firstness, a new way of seeing, of thinking-feeling lifes visions, lifes visions and mysteries forever. back © All work herein copyright the stated authors.

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