Presence of Thee Infinite is

Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Presence of Thee Infinite is…Absence of Thee Infinite



I feel like a change. The neat haystacks are slowly burning embers, dismembering truths forgotten like intricate robots falling apart as part of a diseased program. Some days one might wake up as such, in that mode [paradigm shift].



Some days you get those vague snatches at the infinite, the key to the universe – maybe try to fit the pieces of the presence of the ethereal puzzle and that's gotta be wrong, 'cause if you knew everything, you'd figure nothing on the scale from everything to infinity, obv, whatev.



So I feel like some divine inspiration of degeneration like some clean and stupid space-monkey in the absence of the belief I got born into…



…time for some heavy smack.



The apro-morph analogue bar (it doesn't have a name as it still pretends to be a Javanese dry cleaner's) provides such a service; albeit digitally and without the true degeneration of pure addiction smack used to have, a healthy simulacrum of the way we were when production, dollar and degradation were still all rife and plausible.



I walk down the three steps on 42nd street, Smack Avenue for we have and have-nots alike. Few tea-headed first timers plucking up the courage in the heigth of Flemish fashion. Pussies and pussy all lined up for the opportunity to degrade themselves for the greater good of switching off enough to make their stupidity bite-sized enough to make some subtle difference to the qualstats of shared data, rather than waste everyone else's time and energy with defenestrative acts of bored, effete terrorism. It's all good.



I walk up five steps and jack in to the temple nodes, sitting again in a comfortably familiar dentist's style fetish chair, the nodal disruptors set, seemingly magical, to tweak dopamine and serotonin production; before typing in a few choice digit codes on the rubberized keypad to shake the backlog and shape the afterblog…'Absence of thee infinite'…



…like Henry's Cat writing down what he wants to dream under his pillow, good Godfrey.



So I mash play on this tidy trip, gouch and I'm gone.



The thorn in my spine switches gear and dashes giddily up and down my spine, twitching gentle, top to bot, base to almost plot, gathering speed until it shoots up the medulla oblongatis and I know I must be drooling.



The program has DMT's mixed in like some shamanic progression of trance, staved off one, two and ¾ like some rinky-dink malenky shuffle beat, man.



The apro-morph merely serves to lengthen and heighten the trip to several mind minute miles. Groovy.



So the DMT side of things means I start out in a foetal ball spinning on a disc, kicking out gnarly sounds and gyrating, ever increasing circles; born into a massive snake train, writhing and hissing, disk rotating in horivert and throwing it's ozric tendrils far and wide, shooting up into space.



I'm floating out here, tripping the heavy phantasm.



Spinning out of all control, I reach event horizon and implode in a sea of colours; first rule of nanoporting: you have to be destroyed to be reborn.



So I take form and begin to drag the white dwarves and black masses towards me 'til we're rotating in a locked groove of safe orbit. I am the key to my universe, lengthwise and horivert; drawing lines of energy for zetalightyears around me, fantastic light and sleight.



My perception shifts and I lose my orbit, poles flip and I'm bouncing off the satellites, all out of all control…I'm flying now my friends are with me…now I'm alone again and the spatial paradigm shifts less; as one with the infinite, I punch through the so-called outside of the univerts, inexorably going now-here, fast.



My big chance to get away from it all.



Even now I'm outside of the united horiverts we know, angles melted and gnarly, my special spatial communion looks exactly the same on every level as I zoom out and see my trip diminish but not finish in fractal paisley swirls; same as the everyday spin-offs I see, eye sea, icy plains; and as I reach the very outside of the outer limits, I explode and gently punch through it…



…the needle tears a hole.



As I snatch vague, gnarly glimpses at the ethereal, the other world, the plunger sinks in and I shoot back down the dropper's neck and fly, fly, fly.



Back in to the spatial familiarity of thee known horiverts I float, passing dark clouds and bright clouds aplenty; this time orbiting in ever decreasing circles…



…I am not the centre of thee univertseas, nor even an important cog within thee machine that is…



all snowflakes are beautiful and varied but they, we, all fall together and form thee slush, only to repeat thee less than vicious cycles; fly-cycle/icicle hanging down into the depths of such great heights we ebb and flow, rise and fall, make what we can of the absence of the presence of the stalactites and stalagmites and that's just cool and dandy with me.



~* *~



So I come down from my horse-highness, yr highness; spin back to earth in my comfy neo-fetish chair of graciously yielding leathered temperfoam hugging me, thank you very nice.



The tea-heads from before are drooling now, gurgling like newborn stupids in the nodes and temperfoam thrones, thrown into a life infinitely more vast. I know I'm barely a speck on the infinite but these tea-heads remind me why I don't come here so much these days.



Wasting away into bite-sized chunks of cerebellum and detritus is not my regular cup of tea-headed bliss.



As I leave by the eight steps, I pull out my receipt, now bearing the legend: "Presence of thee infinite is…absence of thee infinite".



And the single tear trickles.



~* *~



Counting To Zero,



8th & 9th March 2007,



Spixworth-Lowestoft, Spixworth, Spixworth-Thetford,

(Alan Partridge Country)

Currently Listening :
The Fragile
By Nine Inch Nails