I once travelled back to Elizabethan England in disguise, the distinguished gentlemen I encountered were astounded that 1 should wish to take in a Shakespeare play. “What, that hack!” they cry, “But will you stand amongst the commoners!” In one’s way 1 learned the painful lesson that a true ‘connoisseur’ does not-dwell upon the art of the ancient, as all the slow dull minds seem to, but instead occupy the forefront of progressive modernism, however distasteful and grating to the senses it may be. Even something a week old is already stale and jars on people’s palates, for as soon as it becomes generally discovered its value drops correspondingly to near zero. Only the completely spontaneous is worth consideration, the immediate in all its flux and change, harmony and discord, the flexed images of multifariousness. Leave behind the faded definition of art, with its narrow confines of picture frames, the proletariat exalt the skies, not stale images boxed in galleries haunted by unwanted attendants. Yet the refracted melodies and jargon of paraphernalia in the ‘new’ literature may provoke savage, wild emotions, move to tears or rage or even ‘love’; this is better than watching the creaking skeletons haul themselves out of the wardrobe to perform their stilted dance, and, once out of sight, forgotten, not even the slightest hint of a memory. Even this content is no more, than the quintessence of life, distilled from so many hours of abstraction from raw experience- I might term it a ‘living death’ or ‘machine-like existence’?
When ever one meets with a person as is fascinated by their characteristics, even unto their pose, their eloquence, their ambience; more often we encounter in its place acute embarrassment at being human, an excuse for outmoded behaviour, unwillingness to open ourselves to the infinite possibilities that life may throw before us; for when it is their season, are the flowers recluse and ashamed of their bright merry foliage? Why must we drug ourselves insensible into elegant semi¬consciousness, as if facing the firing squad instead of being amongst compadres, before we expose our true rainbow-selves, yet instead, dumb as the flowers, we hide our inner beauty in vagueness.
The brevity of every expression, every innermost thought, every unabashed originality! Every moment of art, every event of creation,
contextualised in three-dimensionality; beyond critical appraisal, untouched and unexamined, unique and personal, just as we may laugh or cry as the mood takes us, every expression every instance a constantly shifting tapestry-mosaic, woven in and out of our senses and mind as the universe flows in and out of its axis.
And yet, Alas! who will comprehend? People, whose amusement consists of hollow zombies on a flat dead screen, who praise and worship the Roman fool, saying, “This is art, This is not, This is barbarian, This is civilised.” One day knowledge will come to them, meanwhile we watch and dance and laugh, though they will not dance, the very air and ground disdains them, they must constantly pretend it does not dance, inventing superstition to explain what is natural! Thus, they perpetuate their illusion of a static Universe. Even these concepts are borrowed from us and inverted, like painting the light by using shadows. For if they won’t dance, then they must surely trip on their fixity, artificial, awkwardness hypnotised into a perspective where the dance is stilled; concentrated in solidity, fixity. Their sense of permanence and security sickens me to claustrophobia. The illegitimate regardless lays waste of realities.
You cannot escape the dance, it is in the very bones and deep within each cell. Your body will dance without you if needs. Rebel against self-destruction, turn their minds against their ’bodies’, stop them from spreading their emotional plague. The unfortunate and involuntary response, sensitive to this proximity, activates the ‘anti-lives’. Jesus really meant to say, join the cosmic dance before the fabric of time and space is worn. Err not, eternity without loss.
As he thought, the wind whispered symphonies and the secrets of moonlit nymphs dancing and courting the dew laden grass, air moving in crowds of air-light faeries, born on the breeze and invisible to all but the most delicate glance, and the air pressing down gently casting ripples across his skin, blood pulsing on fire with the sweet smells of the summer, lying fully recumbent, insensible with the caresses of the wind, touched with the lunatic light of that bright night sun, his rays beaming into his mind-crèche, where suckling thought-plants under glass lay dormant, for this night his rays grinned down watering the globe with baleful intent!
No insects stirred, the blades strook by the midnight enquiries of the free earth elements, soil lurking below a cowering glutinous seed-serving anticipating the thunderous rape of the plough-blade, raging against the slow poison factories scabbing its back sides, sickly yellow invading tongue of artificial isotopes, slain demons in crystal strata.
~ How could Marlow understand, thought Chartreuse, Knife in hand, ousted from his home, jobless and electrified by a lightening strike? The very sea booms No! The sand is wracked by the gail laughter, spattered by boisterous raindrops, sun’s partner who looks down suspended!
As if gigantic brains could spawn planets like thought, each one circling the sun, tenacious elipse undeviating, moon-ridden with good karma, ambushed by plants poking from song-squiggles!
It would be so lonely here without her, cosmic distance would squash me headlong, the stars sparing up headlong at a glance, light and dark tumbling into the body of an abyss, mind disembodied by mysterious gravity, engendered by gigantic fusion entities in the fertile darkness of the milky black surround.
Under this influence new planets born into wholeness, alien life brought forth by the solar breeze.
Of a different order entirely; millions of aeons, one step in the dance, multitudes in the gleaming backdrop. To become but one graceful transition, to dance the light- infinity in the entropy jungle would be a most dear delight.
New galaxies are born and sublime, nebulous traces of streaking luminosity, a faint time lag, then
The Universe is black
The Universe is white.