Thursday, December 25, 2008

Transmigrant Journals, 1

This is an excerpt only. To read the complete story, please contact me.
As promised, something in a language better known, but not better understood. This is the first version of a story, or perhaps what might be seen as the foundation layer of a painting...

Door to a Room
Mysterious Tale of the Beloved Son

... as the smoke cleared,
And my life, no more than a tumbling down shadowy tunnels,

Kaleided across the borders of our physics
Into a world within worlds,
A life within lives, times within a time
Into a moment, so slow,
And many generations.

I stood in the living room of a little house, speaking to two people I knew well, people I had never met before. Perhaps we spoke a language I now don’t know. Perhaps we spoke without speaking.

Now imagine a kaleidoscope tumbling into a new constellation, slowly, slowly it tumbles. Or imagine a slideshow with slow, superposing transitions, one image into another. Or imagine two galaxies passing through each other. If you’ve never imagined such an amazing thing, go to the Hubble Heritage website, or find a chariot to accelerate you across these borders.

I was the kaleidoscope tumbling from one world into another. As my world crumbled, I stood with one foot here and one foot there. Then I slowly stepped, and my former life glittered away. I was the projecting slideshow. For a lifelong moment I stood in superimposition, him who I was and him who I would be. Then the former faded away and was forgotten. I am that galaxy, and I am another galaxy, passing through myself, my selves.

And as I did, so are you doing.

Who can explain? And who can understand, who has not ascended out of this smoky world? Who can imagine, who has not ridden such a slow fast chariot; who has not been a migrant across constellations?

This shell, this garment of a body
So intricately woven, so dense of warp and weft, ...


To read the complete text, please contact me.

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