the eye of the mind interjects its conical vision midair

an-.  without.  without onymous.  without bearing the author’s name.  a pebble, written surface, or nebulous mineral striations that appear to be writing, over around both hands and also skated between my dry, flattened palms, inquiring.  do i  decode meaning in the apparent marks, upsideflip along the planes and facets, my churning, blind fingers and eyes never can tell, writing, or something in the rock?

I traveled the remote, moon-pressed night with paper edition of ACIM, pen and ink journal, and white plastic mac.

and a switch by the door that controls every bulb in the suite, except the bathroom, is not the self the only authority? the only test for sense? grasshopper tells Sensei yes i know miko tells veronique, in curls of remembered self,  both are the teller, then, both the maker of sense.

The full moon skwozen through the rounded windshield corners of the economy-sized rental car pulled me from in front of the too-small steering wheel like how the Seeing feels, and not usually so strong.  i came to the hamlet to see. and to come to see. i drove the ribbon road until it widened and spilled into a large blacktop intersection with brand new street lights, and pizza huts everywhere, and turned into the Suites compound, rollerbag and checking in, offers of microwaved cheese appetizers in the lobby at 5, electronified key card, rollerrollerclick rollerrollerclick, the room sagged in the middle, furnished with an anomalous round wooden dining table with colonial, dowel turned legs, four hefty matching chairs with scrolling handle holes in the crest rails, and floral seat pads tied in bows for job interviews at the mall cookie store. the couch was another decorating style entirely, a little sleek, but so tired that I used scratchy hotel towels to cover the arm and back where i planned to install myself for writing. I was supposed to be turning the adventure anyway into words, that was the mission accomplished.

i was reading and underlining and writing outside the typesetter’s grid in the margins, making out of the paper book, leftover from all toil and hell, making it into another book, a real time codex for what happens. I sat on the couch, knees up, writing, or reading, and did it begin to rain or was it only in the memory of lightning, an unbidden vision overlain on my first floor window, flashing in the dark, the [illegible]. pshaw. i pulled the thin unappealling bedspread to the floor and set everything out for sleep. in the morning I was going to record the conversation. meditating, meditating, which night the first. the first night the lights the bright new street lights in the tinytown intersection were flashing. I was getting ready. I didn’t have any good questions. the lights went, the electrical was out at the Suites, someone was stuck on the elevator. was I scared? i wasn’t scared, it was a call to meditate. my white plastic computer had some battery. storyworld

The outdoor work announced itself, even with silks stretched for painting, in welded or brazed brackets suspended from the  natural environs, a light installation deep in the woods, motion activated, solar powered, and somehow stored in the triangle striations of quartz inside round, brown, karsty geodes in the woods. the work and the woods… what is the intersection? batteries from potatoes, batteries from the steaming compost.  What is the probe, the harvester of the energy? I am shown the endlessly slurping pond, the algae, the teeming goop of life, and lights in the woods. I need to ride the border, to understand it, and to see both sides of it, all around, and let me say now that there are hermit strange people wes craven made movies about living on the southwestern edge in sanctioned and unsanctioned ways. we will all go around together, me, the forestry guy, the righthand man who used to work for the studio and now trades watching the place for hunting rights, and his righthand lady, the two Amish brothers, and their retired, Clydesdale team pulling champion who comes along for everything even though he is only paid to drive the Amish in his immortal Chevy. that makes seven of us plus our three accompaniments: a german shepherd, a shotgun, and a can of pink spray paint. Let an idea proof for a long time and watch it grow into the unexpected.

machine and i both declare that today has not yet arrived, and to make space on my startup disk. and I assure machine, duh, Circuits, not only space, but energy. momentum.  everything laid out in advance and stacked and polished and ready to roll.

the whole blank year in front of me. my whole blank life in front of me.  thank gods.