Title: Colonnadium
Subtext: Midtown Direct.
Author:
Date: 16 Oct 15 (Friday in the PM)
Copyright:
Time: 2 minutes
Replies: 27
Revisions: 56
Publicity: Superfeed

From within and without, the voice of a fathomless deep pervades and contains us, inhabiting but unstruck by the reflexes it animates. And surrounding the temporal plane on all sides, from above and below, the sacred heart of the living observes life in four dimensions with mysterious concern. Some call this the Beings of the Spirit World, but they are ourselves.

Now let’s assume we agree that it’s infantile to imagine there is but one firmament separating our world, the world within, from all the waters without. And let’s also establish that we won’t imagine together some sort of situation where spirit and form so to speak are operating as opposites. All the same, we’ll want to call this place something, and that place something. So lets call that place, “Spirit World-1”, owing to the fact that there would likely, as we have already agreed, spirit worlds to spirit worlds to spirit worlds to spirit worlds and we have to start somewhere. Married to the karmic wheel at every radial point without effect, Spirit World-1 is an infinity adjacent everywhere to our own.

And let’s call everything this side of Spirit World-1, “Regularity”. Will we discover that you can get to a spirit world via regular path, potentially if not inevitably, finding yourself in say, Spirit World-23 by the regular force of history? Wouldn’t that be nice? Would it?

One thing that’s true about all the spirit worlds relative to our own, is that facts don’t add up to anything as they do here. In our world the data points are stickier; the vortex of spit, the stifled vocal eruptions edging off the last consonant of every onrushing syllable, the way the word, “again!” broke the pattern of each incensed ex post facto prohibition, like a period preceded by a brutal grace note, completing the command while simultaneously demanding its repetition, the wild loops tornadoing through her bedroom, backhand and palm in their wake, the apparent total loss of reason belied by the consciousness not to bruise, the monster inside the artist of her safety, unleashed upon her like the Cracken, piercing the ocean of her childhood. “You – never – talk – that – way – to – your mother – again! You – never – talk – that – way – to – your mother – again!

But in the rarefactions of herself, the swinging balance of circus mirrors can resemble the undulating back trunk of her older brother’s 1987 Buick Cougar, two weeks after the raw hamburger meat was left and forgotten, leading to a moment like now, when Mandy was able to glimpse what filled her cup of chatter, and the whole disgusting maggoty mess was exposed to be a sublimely knotting floor of a great grange, hosting a cosmic contra dance. The weaving worms revealed an impelling force manifest in their pattern. And she nearly mistook the synchronicity for a compelling order.

Opening her eyes as she felt her seat sink in a slight seesaw, she moved both knees to the left, clearing a path for the man who hung now hunched over her right side with an intentional smile, one arm on the luggage rack above them both. “Station Stop is Newark Broad Street. Change here for the Gladstone branch, Morris and Essex trains to Dover. Hoboken train directly across the platform. New York Penn next.”

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