Between Leaf and Root
Wherein faceting serves emotional regulation in a notable way...
Between Leaf and Root
I'm reading this take from pondscum (of bearblog) on mysticism. Knowing all mysticism gets to the same place in the end didn't stop a couple of pet pools of rage in me from burbling. They harmonize into an emotion. My language passes through that emotion like breath, stumbling into words like oil on fogged glass. (The words there aren't pretty.)
A ring of pools from around each pool of rage offers an environment to my rage, who is open to notice me. All understandings have holes in them, each ripple infinity and epsilon touch are holes that lead to places becoming irretrievably lost to the universe, leaving rage, me (((every (ˈθɹɛ)shold) to come) and since).
My eyes (none of the light that enters my eyes ever escapes), for one. Light becomes heat, signal, piss - words. Behind my head, a shadow (from first gaze to last) leaving the universe blind carves out a place entirely my own.
So I'm reading this mysticism post, right?
I've got rage burbles. I am not taking the read for the exploration that it is. I'm reading it as a weapon - whatever my rage sees, they arn't having it. So I step out from my rage. Which I realize isn't a very illustrative way to describe what I do, so have a fiction:
A finger, from the shadow light going into my eyes might cast from the back of my head. Wherever I forgot to look and the world loses (into) me. It's a whole arm by the time I'm reaching down onto my rage's head as though rockclimbing at the summit. I fall from the shadow or step forward and next to my rage, looking in the same direct.
Sweat on my nose after a climb drips brush into words from the breeze as notice over my rage, who finds an ask as though noticing me.
The way the post is written, is what's going on. My rage, noticing levels of abstraction have opened, consents to the role, to pour, whining. A high-fructose vent goes on and on about how few dimensions this piece invited, how the material fails to seats this global moment as a conscious choice (some-deep) part of the individuals continuing to go to work do want (a global bubble is only music if there's dancers).
My race-to-the-shallowest-pool rant. Yes. I pat my rage's head, stand with them, as patina with presence, trace amines in a shared nervous system finding their levels, see norepinephrine through to the rest of the feedback loops (muffled by my audience) who still call for pupil dialation and chills down the back. The next breath my rage takes wants the escalation, or it doesn't. My rage looks at me, curls up in my lap. And I slip back into words reading, making faces, giggling here, and smiling here.
I know each time we strike a key would be silly to imagine infinity and epsilon striking their threshold with one another like a bell, the first star this forms forgotten, first collision the first near-miss provokes resonance without resolution, forming gradient, the rest of life, world, person, moment, flesh, key - strike! - a loop more for next letter.
Who writes like that? What plasma screen resolution is wanted? Thinking up words and leaving muscle memory to do the round-tripping through all existance into the next letter is good enough for me. I'm content to be a facet.