Sunday, February 9, 2014

The Act of Thought



I am trying to turn my mind into a repository of the most exquisite memories. To collect and curate beauty, turn it into something porous and arborescent. When I think, I image a tendril creeping skywards up, up reaching for something. But the moist tip turns transparent, swelling into a wobbling, lustrous fruit. The tip droops low, low… until with a small twang, the fruit detaches from the branch and falls down through the webs of my semi-sleep. While falling down it takes the form of bird droppings, pigments, antlers, pug marks, a track winding away into the woods. While falling it starts growing shadows, develop bioluminescence, here is a trembling eye, a trunk, a pair of majestic ears, a mammoth ambling through the pearlescent nubecula of consciousness shape-shifting as dawn grows brighter.
All my scribbles have no moral message, no greater end, they do not address a social issue, no rhyme nor reason, just the pure tingling lyrical abstraction tip-toeing down my spine leaving behind a mist of goose bumps.

An almost inaudible tintinnabulation vibrates the air. I awake, I wonder.


Image: Karin on the Shore by Carl Larsson (Wikipaintings)

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