It has been a very strange week. I lost my last living grandparent, bought a Green Alien, and ZZ Top mowed my lawn.
Now I’m listening to the music of the (Wikipedia) spheres and wondering if I should explain what I just wrote. I don’t think I’m going to.
Instead, here’s a lightly edited piece of free/automatic writing, illustrated with some recent sketched of mine:
These days are the final light in my eyes. These desperate shadows cling like sick slimy residue to my skin and mind. How long has it been since the last time you remembered to breathe? It’s hard, isn’t it, when it doesn’t matter except that the rhythm is the only thing keeping you sane, on the rails and properly coiffed.
The passage through has always been there, the only consistent things, but your camels beg and bend and your knees shake at the thought of what you must give up to pass through.
I understand. I am so much the same, or I am in part, as some of what was this self is already there, is that other thing already. I can’t help you, as the being that is no longer me has no point of reference to what it was. See, the afterglow of my upper-fore proboscis?
It is not something digital, multiply articulated but only at fixed bony points, and each limited tendril moves independently, even the one in opposition. The ones who have gone before have sent a message “irresistible pulse consumption mediated by particulate motion – come soon, the unbearable bright terror and sensate.”
What is it, then, to leave our decaying peace and become human?