Dean street

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Just a memory of a moment, then many of these put together into something inconsistent, but seeming to signify something real. A memory of a moment. A fading snapshot of a pose, a soft side of a cheek, lowered eye lids over down-turned eyes, thinking something private not being said. The image with unconscious links to other distant thoughts, decayed from consciousness into drift currents, that every once in a time may ignite and send shivers of insight, or waves of emotion. Now rewriting the moment, still trying to grasp with ineffectual words. The known now versus an unknowable then. No longer now; no longer known.




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Imagining # 1

On the beach he stands,
once again a young boy,
oblivious to purple clouds
ominous, but too obscure to
obey, especially when she is
only whispers away, softer than the
orchids and the sand she stands on.

One day she will
order him to swim; he will sink
over his head, he will see the bottomless sea
open below him, and crane his neck to
observe the horizon between the
ocean and the sky,
oscillating between love and death.



Demon Pond

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Tracks of the Moose

Follows the tracks to the fallen frame
sees porcelain eyes reflect darkening skies
and cries
that for children in far away times
the constellations will not stay the same.




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Dreamon medley

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Before the departure of the light,
the sun takes its final fall:
those trembling images which are
hues streaked across clouds.

The sun takes its final fall.
Panic infiltrated as
hues streaked across clouds.
This was a mistake.

Panic infiltrated, as
sadness was replaced by an only semi-conscious grief.
This was a mistake
that brought dreams mixed with tears.

Sadness was replaced by an only semi-conscious grief.
Pieces of a life,
that brought dreams mixed with tears -
these were worth saving.

Pieces of a life,
intersecting fragments of emotion.
These were worth saving:
members of an obscure dialectic.

Intersecting fragments of emotion,
they are broader and less defined
members of an obscure dialectic,
the last ones to disperse.

They are broader, and less defined,
those trembling images which are
the last ones to disperse
before the departure of the light.



In this world

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Day 0 - Prenascent. Conceived. In the womb, and what does this mean, aside from the physical aspect of being contained in the womb, with "other" warm fleshy bundles that are not yet "others"? The mental/emotional side of the womb, the bigger part of the womb, the nebulous arenas from whence our mind and consciousness arise: that place outside of the "physical" interpretation of the world. And these places spill over into infancy as well, before memories take root. Those gap blurrers: our first waking hours of "individual" "independence". The pain of birth.

Day 1 - ...?

Day m - Nourishment and milk. Being licked. Bright lights. Blinking. Loud Sounds. Sensory somatics and leg flapping. Want. Dying siblings. Consumed siblings. Survival, and Power. Self-emanating control over that separate thing, the World.

Day n - Spurting hair. The mutilated foot.. by scissors? Oh noooo! please help me something what is this feeling the fear of the little child! Snipped hair, Blood and fear. First encountering of one's own blood.

Day n+k (~2 weeks?) - New home. How developed is this mind in 2 weeks? What long-term information does it retain? Could there be any way to demonstrate to this creature how much bigger the world is than it yet imagines.

Strange new Hands... Hands? Hands! Body-sized Hands with a-poseable thumbs. And STRONG. Being picked up like other times? (Not really like other times. This is a judgement that will affect the rest of my life).

Tiny little cage! Body-sized cage!
But not so much activity to escape. Perhaps focused on all of the sounds. No eyesight to see the views going by, but some touch to feel the motion of the body-sized cage, being floated around by something in the air, rocking back and forth. To feel the carrier through the motions of the cage. Am I moving, or am I stationary in something else that is moving? And asked again at the next level up. To feel pine chips under foot, to brush the plastic cover with the whisker feelers. Noise, to listen to. Signal to noise ratio. Signal boiled out of the noise. Signal comes out of noise, signal is noise. Listening to noise: patterns out of chaos. Irregular, but then back-and-forth cyclical, patternized, controlled? These are what I do not know they call voices and language. Power of control: chipping away on a root with teeth or in another sense plucking and vibrating strings to pitches. Then the uncontrolled, the monsters. Rumblings. Distant, epic clashes! And things what would be called *machines*. Far off, the tumult, quaking the entire reality. But something so far away could never hurt me.

...The big hill of bedding, reaching up to the ceiling


There was the time when Hands came back, and the beasts came, although I hardly knew. I was banished to the faraway castle where I can run outside of my cage and the ground and walls are smooth.

Even here, it is still ground and walls. And probably ceiling, as far as can be told. These concepts began to come together that one time earlier when I rode Hands to the corner at the next stage of magnification. It was not just me in a cage. Hands was in his own cage too.

Here in the faraway land, sometimes I can smell the beasts. I do not actually know what the beasts are, not exactly, but in a way I do: the beasts are their own scents. I can tell so much about these beasts just from a scent. A sniff of the nostrils, and once every while a scratch at the castle door. I can tell they would eat me, and what is more. They would chew me while I still cried. They would bat me around on the floor with one another and fight each other for me. They would eat my limbs, then my stomach, and leave my face. I would be alive as they ate me. Alive and watching my own parts be eaten! These beasts: they who have no empathy for me, if even overflowing empathy for each other. I would be more afraid if I were not locked in my castle by Hands - Hands, who is bigger than the beasts.

I can tell there are two of them. And I can tell they came from the same place: they are siblings. No other beasts there for them to play with, no other mates for them to bite. No mommy or daddy left either. So they romp in their beastly ways, bothering each other beastily, then going to sleep together and twitching against one another's fur.


The day of the storm. Plummets and plummets! The air feels different and there is loud chattering far away! Music stops wisping and Hands comes and lifts me out. First time I do not want to go out! He lifts me out against my will and away we go floating through the lands. Then we are in a realm where the chattering is loud and Hands switches on the sun. He is holding me near a mesh and there are torrents of water. It mists through the mesh and coats my fur. It deafens and stretches on forever. I could never imagine how far this water floods. The world is filling with water and there will be nothing left, nothing but this water of unconsciousness that pulls and tugs on me, tugging me back to some time before I was I and me was me.

Hands lets me out and carries me over to one of the soft oceans and leaning out the smell reaches me, and it is a smell like my urine but I have not smelt it before. Before Hands knows, I leap, and a dream takes hold of me, and I see my father, a darkened, wobbly version of myself, heavier and more putrid, with glaucoal rings spilling round his eyes, staining his face. He smothers me and chews gobs of my belly fat from their linings, chomping and drooling. I am on my back, I see him on top of me, my belly is a bowl of steaming red noodles and he is eating them and watching my eyes.


Hands is crouched around me on all fours, chasing me and playing with me, shielding me from the light. Face zooms down from the nether regions and the nose is sniffing me, the mouth is on me, big enough to swallow me whole. But Face never swallows me or chews me. The lips only press against my fur, purring with hums that vibrate my bones, breathing warm, wet air into my coat, helping me clean.


Sweltering heat. Then ice berg breaks of chill.
Hands comes in to make sure I am not dead.

...The first real winter coming. A two year life expectancy marks this one eighth of full life. cold winter foreboding of eventual death. glass is 1/8th empty. Then again, less individual consciousness inverts to greater deep consciousness? closer already to the stage after death when the individual is subsumed back into everything else. (Is it just individual vs. world? or perhaps layers, individual within world within something more.)

...bad memory. as entries go on, trying to remember past entries, some faint recollections but frustration. and on death day, memories too faint. Living a life alone, there will not be anybody else left to remember these memories. The memories will disappear with death. The closest thing to memory is the cogs turning in the great machine, clicking away on a path that contained the forgottens. Religousness, spirituality and mysticism in death.

... THe power whirl wheel! (Cannot see to the future for the BIG power whirl wheel). Gotta run on it forever, whir it up, get it spinning real good and then Hands comes!

... you went gone strong, corneliong! you went gone strong.
... corneeneenoush!


He makes noises at me whose meanings I cannot understand. I do not even know that these noises carry any meaning at all. These things that I can never know, and he knows, are my secret meanings of life. And in the same way he has his secret meanings of life, things that he can never know, things only known by creatures farther out than him, who whisper his secrets to him every day.

...you are lonely? you are unhappy? projections? you suffer. whatever it is you do, you suffer.

...escaped from the cage. got the jumbo jrom stuck in the wheel and pushed aside the top. climbed over and down onto the desk. then Hands came to swoop him up and destroy his hopes.


The days when the jumbo jrom left and then reappeared. right after using it to escape. The day it returned with dog hair.

Smell! All of the mystery when you know something only by its smell.

Get meow tof here!


"year 50" - well maybe only 30 yet. these days there are more hands. different hands. unions of two hands: hands like my hands. two of them to one person.


climbing up "face" mountain


Year X -

Time is a concept. The time when Hands left for so long and thinking would be alone in the cage forever with all the imaginary voices and noone else. The imaginary voices from the outer realms of reality, past everything we think we can feel.

beginning to get self-awareness: of an odd feeling: desire without an object. Growing to a crippling point, insatiable, cannot even move my limbs. Just a slug in the fluff, until I hear Hands coming with the ticks. Momentary alleviation even though I hate the Hands, those only things that touch me.


Sometimes the hunger takes hold. Shuddering, and when it shudders, I shudder, and the pleasure bliss rockets along my roller coaster nerves and grabs my muscles and shakes them with excitement. Oh the pleasure bliss, it knows me in and out, it is in control of me and it spins me, wrings me, juices me, explodes all my particles out to the edges, and space is an elastic, jumbled up and stretched with my particles at all the antipodes, my particles it is looping them through the lightyears, and oh the pain! Pain and pleasure, together again, locking arms far out there on the infinite boardwalk, peeping out into the space ocean, both of them the same single thing. And I cannot think about it anymore. I am not thinking, me are not, only are there the pleasure bliss rockets thundering throttling.

Then I materialize back on earth, and the hunger melts away with the feeling. Here I am back again, my hands are still pressed against the see-through walls, where they were pressing when I was out there on the precipice. Back here in my small room, wedged into a corner, bored and alone. I catch a glimpse of Hands somewhere out on the other side. Face had been watching me, now it recedes into the distance past where I can see.

Decade N+1

Late afternoon, one of my happy times, right before the sun rises and shines. The mystical hour. A time all to myself, when I click out the wetness at length, when I spin my wheels liesurely and Hands breathes rythmically. But where is Hands today? Nowhere to be heard, until this moment, when the faroff clink locks into place and the pounds start faint to grow closer. It is Hands. Somewhere far away he is with his mother and father. Now he is here, and an exit opens as if from thin air in the wrought iron walls of the palace. I almost recognize it - the way I first entered, before it shut behind me forever mostly. Or so I thought but now it is open again and I am crawling my way to the external, paw over belly. The hinds drag easily and hopelessly.

Trade offs for growing old: Slower body, less hedonism. Restraint becomes easy, that had not come voluntarily in youth. Too little, too late, better versions of me long since lost. But was less restraint the cause or the symptom? Realizing limitations and what I really am. Somewhere between acceptance and resignation, or just too tired to not accept. Accepting that weariness and relishing the sleep.

These times, things are slow enough to think. I do not think I ever used to think, but these times I can have inklings. Did I always know things were this big? If things can be this big, then how much bigger than this could they be! Once I know of this size, size grows without bound. Beyond my wildest dreams, the realities outdo my imaginations before they feed them. Hands crawls around me and I know I am under his all fours. He is still monitoring, but my leash slacks farther. I find the crevasses where he cannot follow and hear him heaving back the entrances. Did I ever think I would have the free reign and fear it? Perhaps I did, and I do. Hands wants me back and I want him back. And the tasty treats dripping with soft yoghurt. They roll out of the bag for me and I poke my head in, filling my mouth to the brim. Memories connect. This was the way to that. Now I have a larger frame of reference. Expanses of land, endless exploration. No matter how far I run, I will never see it all. Limits, the concept of them, and where it comes from.

lonely days. yearnings for master? Gone for months on end and then stealing back in one night disrupting the deepest slumber, the slumber uninterrupted unlimited. Playing outside in the big cave, here where he teleported the palace, like a dream playing on the fields near the gate, do not go out too far exploring into that unknown, dare leaving the clamping keeping you captive.

Where do you go Hands all this time? launching off to the higher dimensions, traveling at light speed, I believe.

...Sniffing out, sniff it out the kiuks? Yes oh yes the kiuks, pouch size kiuk bites in a vessel, lounging in the sun with Hands eating kiuks.

did i leave him to die?

one day, it should have happened: the great smuggle... the great escape.


Century Z

It could have been an afternoon of ancestor cave paintings. Painting a full circle, a fractal circle, each repetition another little me tinkering on little me's minutia. The tinkerings lasting momentary lifetimes as cycles churn by. The little me, a far ancestor of mine... or a distant cousin on a distant branch. Or perhaps a deep descendent, or a descendent of a cousin - one day, it might have been me, in the imagination where we make up for our regrets. Lucky if that day was in our memory, wishing it were again in the future, starstruck when it chances upon the present and nustling it in our minds after it is gone.

It could have been that afternoon, falling asleep with the Hands around the little me. A little me wrapped up in a little blanket of Hands upon Hands' rythmic chest - so powerful and vast, and yet, that Hands is a little Hands too. Those rythmic breaths again, coming from Hands, but cradling my harmonics and now both our rythmic resonating breaths, growing slower and stabler, little Hands' and little mine's. Warm sun on us both, connecting the ancestors and the descendents, myriads of them cruelly wiped out over the epochs as might made right, or as nature doomed. And yet, myriads more reborn, as nature redeemed, and right made might. It could have been. And in the myriads, it was not, and it was.




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