Monday, May 29, 2006

...and her diamond pituitary

A surf video. Brian Wilson's Smile and The Who Sell Out. Julian Cope's "Upwards at 45 degrees". A wayward, ice-spun candle. Our man Dave, irrespressible and a true 'are you feeling what I'm feeling?' kinda guy. Like kites, Steve, Dave and I (if only my first name was Lysergic, our initials would've rivalled even our 3 mushketeers days with Jordan) left Dave's rusted row boat and strolled speedy-quick to the GreenRoom. The tarmac was wetted by orange stars. A mist shrouded the forest in murk and magic as we passed and the angel was in static trip, pressing montreal close, wings backlit by construction lights. I couldn't care to ground others. To be there for others to push against, there was little to relate, because there was everything available.

we made the green room. merging with it, uncomfortable, damp and supreme. i went out to breathe through something other than others. and i saw the harp strings of the city, a latticework of time and semantic synaesthesia, like the silver chest-goo of determinacy in Donny Darko, except full and humming and backwards. prisms caught in the strands, of streaks of passing cars, in peoples' facial gymnastics, in a form of will that is normally found rarefied, but here was full and aligned, self-supporting and cohesive. i could not share this with anyone, so full of myself was i. sound was liquid, and i could focus on the slightest of attenuated detail. caught, like a plastic bag in a november tree, was the war of artistry. was i the sculptor or the sculpted? my hand hovering a crystal breadth from making the sodden surface of clay. the delicate ones on the dancefloor, too easily punished by truth. the sculpted I could become the master, a golem with a word in its skull. my abstaining hand whipped me around the material. I became the sculptor through the sculpture, by joining with it, with knuckle and nail, every pithy ounce of it I came to know through that width of weave that withheld the world.

lucid and dreaming, the night went on. us, the seekers. until we broke the clouds open the next day by climbing the mountain and upzipping the sky. the sun shone because of us.

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