X Marks the Spot

Opening installment of completed novelistic ScriptureX.1, interlocking spintegral parables.

 

I’ve been out here a long time. The long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing didn’t even correspond to my emergent magnet of intent till the autumn of my mortal years. Weary of wishing for welcoming warmth, I’ve wandered in realms of possibility.

 

The vortices, gelatinous, funneled the souls’ incarnations. Will-o’-the-wisps into pulp wars. Where dull demons iconized Jesus falsely. Where increasing others, though, danced in the sunlight. I witnessed our myriad rebirths.

 

I found the holes in everyday flesh reality. Burrows to heal from the wounds of inflated ordinariness. Entries to elements heretofore unknown. Answers to why people favored illusions to truth.

 

Out here means far away and close as breathing. In the wilderness of the heart.

 

I was forced to be a sanctuary unto myself, for the outside of the wilderness was inside the glittering chattering cities as well. Many were the faces and forms, forces and fames of the Kosmic Goddess’ human aspect. The kisses from enchanting strangers blossomed into ravishing flux. Safecracking salt mines financed delirium. I knew the women were chimerical vortices in the never-ending stream of mystery, as myself, as everyone, but their fierce nests prickled with controlled hysteria -- the normal intonation in the karmic maze, in the hive mind. I knew the value of full intertwine, the desired gene-splicing of souls issue, but the binding truth of poietai was elusive.

 

Bane Savage is my handle on the sidewalk. Park your piquant aura ‘midst the neon glow. Wildings should show savoir-faire.

 

Some take time, some make time, some spend time, some bend time, some sell time, some bell time, some do time, some rue time. I steal time.

 

The cubicled jibber-jabber of Mammon claws at your survival, but you learn to carve your initials in blood on the screaming archon’s face.

 

Space-fu fighters are out again today, their moves mastering a whirlybird effect in the sky, aided by rotator blades on their helmets.

 

 

The judges sat purposely recycling the perceptual gilded cage of subject-objecthood -- profaning the divine singularity in their amnesia. There was no place for the shattering of the siege of history, so gnosis was inscribed in invisible ink.

 

 

“You’re my absolutely obscure object of desire!” I cry, my laser gaze keening the trembling perfection of her inner thighs.

 

This will intoxicate her in recurrent waves of timelessness until she discovers I am an incubus. Then her eyes will smolder darker, and her lips screw into a wicked smile -- or she will shriek “Begone!” till her terror turns her catatonic clam.

 

She licks her lips while my lion’s loins stir.

 

Scriptural libido ensues. Howling bliss in the eye of the cyclone.

 

No, she is not mute, but nuanced in silence, intriguing in discourse, divine in intercourse.

 

 

One moment we are luxuriating in a king-sized bed, post-coitus, and the next I experience the strangely familiar shimmering dissolution of the scene, and know that the time-space continuum, the shamanic assemblage point has shifted again. Intent was largely subconscious, so awakening is gradual. “By passion bound/also released.”

 

 

Through this slipstream in time, I frequently do not know where I am, or how much time has passed, for I seem to be living longer than my contemporaries, the years stretching into eras.

 

No doubt I shall attempt to hold on to my next great love, full knowing the moment will come when the time-space continuum will shift, when I shall claw at her chemise while it turns to river flux.

 

Older younger freer lonelier I abide. Lonely becomes happily alone only when I allow the Eye of the Storm’s naked beauty.

 

 

The Eye of the Storm, not time’s elusive joker, finds the long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing.

 

I’ve rushed about, wind tearing through my hair, exhilarated by the sprint and the tranquil swaying trees, only to find I was always in the same spot, no matter the shifts in the landscape, the movement of the body. Always molecular awe. Being’s indifference to antiquated frivolities, or virtually everything a karmic mortal thinks important. God’s not dead. We are. O but we are that field o’ god as well as escape velocity particle-phantasms.

 

Poignant are our eternal moments of zombie transfigured to godhood incandescent orgasmic. Let us devour one another ecstatically in this stupid hellzone. Velvet vortex is our yab-yum union. Your eyes a glaze of interdimensional stars. Yes.

 

 

Sartre said "Hell is other people."  Twofold, it seems. First, undue emphasis on feeling separate from the other leads to hell, and second, ramshackle narrow societal standards lead to hell, so it sure as hell ain’t my broth. But then Blake reminds us, walking through Hell, of "the delights of genius, which to the angels look like torment."

 

It’s those interdimensional pit stops I make that account for the “lost time” -- where this lifetime is five to tenfold more than a typical span. I become a virtually immortal marathon man during the pauses, after the time-space phase shifts, the assemblage point movements.

 

So does this give me any zeitgeist intervention skills?

 

What is the long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing?

 

 

In my soft moments I long for one to come whose smile and flowing chemise shift in the continuum with me, much to my delight, for the wind howls louder on even calm days when you are ultimately alone in your intimacy. Every place I touch her is the blessing of being, unbound by time. X is everywhere, the mystery, immersive, omnipresent. Assemblage points shift effortlessly with our coital breathing. We live in the immortal “curl” of the wave of time, cradled by the power of emergent conscious life. Ares-Aphrodite born on the sea foam together, surfing the vectors between dimensions, worlds.

 

 

The long-buried treasure under the grassy clearing is the Heart, awesome core of being, and the vital natural capital of utilizing erotic fireworks for personal and collective transformation, via neo-tantric understanding of whole systems. Or it is a bomb set to explode at your glance. True alignment is recommended. X Marks the Spot of Reality. That show is a melting and a shattering of point-of-view. All you win is Existence.

 

Sign here.

 

 

Author's Note

Initial entry is anchored on an Octavio Paz/Jorge Luis Borges sensibility, then subsequently fans outward into psi-fi, erotic, postmodern political elements. Cumulative grail: Iconoclastic novelistic scripture of interlocking spintegral parables.

Reviews

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Brilliantly elusive and enlightening at the same time. A prophet of years to come I should say. A funny thing happened to me along the way to the fair once where I was pulled over by police and given a sobriety test - the first of which was to say the alphabet from c to z - ironically, I began with X - again and again as they asked me to repeat it. I am reminded of this occurrence in your work. It does mark the spot - yes? Truly a delight to read. Thank you for sharing so much of your terrifically creative mind.
Light,
Siddartha

[Nik Dendera]

You certainly pull no punches; this is intellectual brain food for me! I hate when people dumb things down, sacrificing intergrity for the masses.

You don't lose sight of your main goal-hats off for a tale that weaves so seamlessly. I look forward to the rest of it!

[JustAnotherDay]

I think this is very good. I think you use a lot of good details...even if I couldn't understand some words. Also, thanks for the review on my work.