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.
But can we assume there arches a single firmament even? Or that spirituality and physicality are the limit manifest possibility in a binary system? To whom or what are we referring when we talk about these things then? We’ll chart a deeper taxonomy of existence.
Lets mark a spot for the place we were talking about above and call it, “Spirit World-1”. Married to the karmic wheel at every radial point without effect, Spirit World-1 is an infinity adjacent everywhere to our own.
In the regular environment, regular reality so to misspeak, 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 almost simultaneously demanding its repetition, the wild loops tornadoing through her bedroom, back hand 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 could resemble an 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 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.”