selvkonspiration

Jeg står her bagved kulisserne og venter på min indtræden på en scene, hvor jeg skal optræde i selvsamme stykke, der begynder med min indtræden til selvsamme optræden: det er sådan, man prikker sig selv på skulderen.
Ude på scenen står jeg med et ufærdigt manuskript og reciterer alle de manglende replikker:
"..." og "..." og "...". Publikum, tilsyneladende uberørte af situationen, giver mig en stående applaus. Så går tæppet og suffløren hvisker, at jeg glemte at bukke. I sceneskiftet sminkes jeg om til en klovn og får en hurtig instruks i jonglering. På scenen står jeg nu igen uden ord eller ting til at jonglere med, men en venlig sjæl forbarmer sig og kaster en lille...

involuntary memory vi

We decide to take a seat on a promontory reminiscent of the White Cliffs of Dover, to celebrate the cerebral conversion from archipelago to peninsula. I tell the Buddhist fox that the least we can demand of this world is a ladder and nodding in silent agreement he paws me a return ticket: it's strange though, our itinerary is spelled out in mirror-coloured ink and the specifics of its issuance doesn't read at all, it simply plays as a melody. I pause as I try to read the reflection and stumble trying to orchestrate the name of the travel company. Meanwhile the forest exhales in a deep bass and its breath darts frantically out of the canopy to stamp our tickets only to evaporate in a steely blue howl: 'We're on the pulpit of an ancient tundra' the fox says simply, 'we're pilgrims' I add. The first rung of the ladder is a bridge nearly submerged by an overflowing stream, or maybe it's a shallow stream violated by the kiss of an offensive bridge. Maybe the stream never wanted bridging, maybe it wants to peacefully enjoy the caress of seaweed and the flavour of water mint. My soul head dives into the gentle conduit raising a chalice with its foaming waters as my body swears an oath to the other side of the banks: "Do thou cross all waters as we cross this stream today and cross them the more as thou art greater and stronger?". The fox is pouncing on the bridge in a shrieking affirmation as the ground before us is transformed into flint and a red, strangely acoustic hue reminiscent of Jupiter's great red spot settles on the horizon. Justice is exerted in a canine grin with a lur fished from a nearby bog immediately producing the tonal frequency by which we finally perceive the judgement included in our oath. Vulpes vulpes is a great dialectician of course, destined never to be caught, even while blowing a hunting horn to attract its own detractors. And so, raised to our hindlegs, we pass two huntsmen, fowling pieces at the ready, only to be greeted by their doffing hats and coiled dogs. From here on music starts playing beyond the north wind, which is sweeping in from across the marshlands, and an eternal, arctic light shimmers forth through the dense fog. 'Every piece of grass is a compass and all the dunes are fossils' I stutter. The fox has taken all the appearances of an ostridge and is head deep in a bush of seabuckthorn, munching away happily, grunting all along. The music is reminiscent of Ravel's Bolero, inherently sexual, but otherworldly in depth, and it's not the kind of music you idly listen to, it's the kind you play by existing, it's that thing in itself which is greater than itself. On this platform of absolution we turn in unison to see the heavenly loom weave the wind and canopy together.

involuntary memory v

Well well, this rectitude of a reality is begging for a reboot, craving a caress of cacophony to stymie its self-indulgent stagnancy. Now, this stagnancy, ironically, is nothing but the utter lack of spiritual self-compliance and as such, judgement against it is bequeathed in real time and the charge brought up against a reality pregnant with careless conformity is immediate. The measure of spirit is the unity which it presents for itself, in itself, sort of like a baker kneading his dough and folding it back upon itself. As such, the dough provides eo ipso its own court of law, and even under oath the baker would be hard pressed to justify kneading and folding in mid-air. Conversely the loaf will never become and the dough always remain, if not for his hands' divine retribution. 'You are become life, the creator of worlds'. As to the verdict on the fanciful feud with flour, both 'hand and glove' admits culpability in lieu of each other. Thus justice consists equally in an internalization of the external and an externalization of the internal: as seen from the dough, justice is served in the kneading and seen from the kneading of the baker, justice is served with the dough itself. And therefore absolution consists in reality being in communion with itself, instigated with the breath of life. Heck, even going on the lash possess its own immanent rhythm granted by the contingent Bacchanalian revel and resulting necessary rearrangement of brick and mortar. According to Corinthians 15:39-45: "The first man Adam became a living being; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit." and we, Lilim, are the absolute progeny of this instrumental interplay and the Lance of Longinus our manifest sacrament. Destiny is two-pronged in execution and infinite in institution, but in our hand it becomes Eucharist.

Ripples of love

In this stubborn concentration my eyes run a marathon between sentences;

my mind thoroughly edging out faulty judgements in a meta-narrative sprint.

All of a sudden my world is flooded by a vast streaming sensation of pure longing;

my intense be-longing rivalled by the extension of perplexity when you’re be-gone.

But soon I will hear a panting trepidation and turn to face our earnest infatuation;

And from the pitch-black grease of doubt will shine a beacon of floating trust.

Hitched in her throat are all the words that paint the expression on her face;

We will talk about it later, but tonight we lie naked at the riverbed of our deluge.

As we walk hand in hand I turn to see in the horizon the sanctuary of an industrial sky;

And here, fire-imbibed, I promise to remain at home dwelling below the starry canopy.

3 retter

Du er rettet mod mig, men retter aldrig ind

Du har retten, selvom du ikke altid har ret

Du er ganske ensrettet i din modsatrettethed

Du har dog også modsatrettet din ensrettethed

Du retfærdiggør altid rettidigt din ret

Du tager til efterretning enhver uret

Du flyver smilende med din sjæl lodret

Du vandrer berettiget og bestemt vandret

Du udretter og opretter og tilretter

Du indretter i kasser, men anretter dig selv

Du er min forret, hovedret og efterret.

involuntary memory part IV

I certainly did enter the labyrinthine beauty of the powerful now's palpitations; my mind a virtual instrument for the palpation of pure presence. Funny thing this 'now', it seems tenseless but carry within the withering ripe fruit of a bygone past and the budding seed of a future to come. Come late summer in amber orchards the entire human condition is revealed in the prophetic fall of an apple; but what of its landing? This seemingly hollow thump never gets any fucking credit and Eve's favourite for emergence from self-incurred immaturity is left on the ground in self-fermentation: stupefied in wanton self-consciousness we slither away from the richness of its subtractive sensibility into self-immolation. But in this instant no such discard concerns me. My now is within the firmament spewing snow over the deep silence of the forest; I imagine these flakes of contingency cover the pine-trees much like fresh, white sheets touched by starlight honour her naked curves completely. Sometimes the most truthful unveiling is an envelopment. As we penetrate further into the precipice of civilization this awareness ricochets on the back of my skull and I realize that the present itself is a ridge between revelation and concealment: this 'now' is an investigation into the apparent contradiction and these shards of internal time travelling track along the apex providing a limit to time itself. Suddenly time's tides seem to have turned and finding myself in nature is replaced with losing myself in civilization. But this voyage demands a new beginning.

Dobbeltdrøm

Jeget fortæller historien om sit selv
Men det er ikke længere selv sit eget
Det genfinder sig selv udenfor i en anden
Og denne anden er pludselig blevet det selv

Selv-følgelig inviteres jeget indenfor
Og den anden er nu udenfor sig i mig
Her bliver historien genfortalt af jeget
Selv-om det er den andens jeg i mig

Du siger dit om dig og jeg siger mit om mig
Men du siger også mit om dig
Og jeg siger også dit om mig
Det vi siger om os selv er hinandens

Jeg vågner i min egen drøm der er din
Og du fra din egen som er min
I virkeligheden er du og jeg hver sin
Selvom vi virker sammen som kun én