THROUGH THE JUNGLES OF MY MIND...

“Tyger Tyger burning bright / in the forests of the night / what immortal hand or eye / did frame thy fearful symmetry ?” Something feral this way comes. A predator prowling the jungles of my mind. This cranial cave of shadows that can so readily disarm all clarity of thought and action. Freezing the blood. Paralyzing the brain. Baiting the breath into the shallowest shoals of dread terror. Doubts and fears. Collapsing consciousness. Baring the soul ripe for plucking. Till all hell is let loose!

What happens to the human psyche when it first realizes it is embodied in a thing that can’t fly? What happens to the human psyche that refuses to accept this fact? What happens to a fact when the imagination flies away with it? Is a fly a thing of beauty? must a thing of beauty remain a thing forever? Are human-beings grounded by their limitations or sculptured into beauty because of them? Is the beauty of a human-being grounded in the fact that it can’t fly, but every now and then its’ spirit takes wings, soars above this too particular occasion with a certainty of purpose that defies all fear of flying, falling or failing to be at one with everything there is, was and ever shall be…???

Is it possible for one human-being to release the equivalent energy of all humanity? Can the part in truth speak for the whole? is all life, all experience, all knowledge, all wisdom, all science, all history, all eternity always contained in the most minute moment and physique of every living being? And can this moment be exploded to reveal the workings of the universe? And if human-beings could see the workings of the universe, would this improve our relationship with our neighbor or merely condemn us to knowing that only our own illusions live next door?.

This could be my last chance. To do what? To be what? To be human? To be mortal? To be natural? Aging is the most decadent of sensations. Breeding all manner of conscious delusions. Finite possibility hangs heavy on the human-frame. yet the urge remains, the imperative remains, against all eternal logic, to experi8ence a final resolution. That one quintessential existential moment of truth that will allow the ultimate transformation of death to be fully cooperative and at peace with the transcendent cosmos. If death defines life even more that birth. No peak like the peak from which there is no descent. In which case, until that moment - a moment so quintessentially existentially unknowable to the human mind - until that moment human-beings can only hold a lease and never really own their own house…???

Dying is an art, no less than living, we must learn to do at least one or the other exceptionally well….

I speak only what my madness compels me to speak. Once a man has gone mad, who’s to tell him that everything doesn’t make sense??????