Just a Spoon Full of Toxins

Nice hat.

I look at the raven sticking out of my chest and push him back.

He's hungry this morning, and I know what THAT means. Lot's of colour commentary. Well, more like grayscale commentary, it's all black or shades of black.

I have a feeling I know who's holding his leash, but maybe I'll have a look anyways

Nice driving. Nice makeup. Nice attitude.

He's pulled out of my chest further this time, trying to pull his wing out, stuck like he's exiting an aberrant birth canal. So I reach down and pull him out - awareness is supposed to dissolve his kind, but I have the distinct feeling that today might be one of those exception days.

Not even grateful as I pull him free, just looks at me with jaundiced fire-eyes, unashamedly takes a chunk of flesh from my arm (subtle body, but the bleeding that's left there is almost worse than what a 'real' pound of flesh would be), cacks something up that crawls up to my mouth and is swallowed before I can see what it is.

But I can feel what it is. It's the leash. Ego's got this little fucker on a leash. And I have Ego on a leash, so theoretically, I can reign in Ego, and judgment will be caged as the little shitty song-bird it is but

Oh that's nice. Cut me off. Learn how to drive, fucker

but it looks like Carlos is off and at 'em. Maybe I'll just listen for a while.

But Carlos's words are becoming context now, or better put they are FILLING context around me like a jaundiced yellow pudding. It's pulling at my legs now, plugging my ears and gumming up my eyes. Every pure input I have is now subject to this, and it's a nasty plague kids. Even as I clear the sense canals out, it's STILL there, a curtain in front of perception and perspective.

And I look over at him, perched on my shoulder, expecting to be assaulted by small words of attack, but it's WAY beyond that. He's got a fire hydrant stream of yellow ghoulash coming up and he's directing it everywhere I look, everywhere I listen from.

Ego's laughing his wiry little ass off.

Interesting, that. Ego normally presents as a bloated pig, stewing in his own juices and whatever he pulls down from Id World, but today's he's all but naked. And not a pretty sight. But what's interesting is that it takes a LOT of effort for him to keep Carlos dancing like a kite at the end of the string. Lot of energy to keep the ...

Separation

up.

And with this insight, Carlos turns and looks at me, a little chagrined, but more than that, a little

worried?

About his survival. And with THAT observation, he's vacuumed back through the chest cavity, Ego fattens up, and I'm back in control again, thank the g...

Nice Hat.

shuka sha.

Incommunicado

I take the down escalator from reading a book or an up escalator from sleep and enter the lobby.

In every direction as far as the eye can see, polished hardwood flooring. In front, behind, side to side. Natural light would indicate that I'm outside, but there's nothing to prove that; just a feeling. The flooring extends in front of me to the horizon, where sky and floor mate and meld into a single horizontal line.

It's...OK...here. I've come up or down from a place of release and freedom, and even though there are some structures here, it's still an overwhelming feeling of openness.

I think Clive Barker, and manifest.

Words take shape and leave my mouth in soft jelly-sacked ambivalence. Different colours, different shapes, different levels of energy.

From nothing to something to electrical activity in the lobes to chemical transmitters down the ganglia to the voicebox and OUT the door, Henry.

Somewhere between the something and nothing and electrical, of course, there are feelings and ghosts and samskara and desire, a spinning archipelago of pre-thought islands, somehow gluing together into drivers for the thought then the word which becomes THE WORD.

And it's OK.

I watch my sires, bouncing and giggling across the floor. Some possessed of a darker energy than others, but none truly repugnant. They scurry around and zip out towards the horizon and back again, there is an invisible leash back to master.

And it's OK,

until.

Shit! On the horizon! Sally forth men, we have a body. It's impersonal, this is good, don't know them but on the other hand that means that they are up for free flowing jugdgemental poppycock from Idworld, and more disturbingly, from closer to the surface from the cognitive centers. Ouch. Can't blame darkness for everything.

The thoughts aren't all mine any more. Mined but not mine. 4 out of 10 of them keep on the leash, but pull hard to sniff and wonder at the stranger. The other 6 are hellbound for glory, they've slipped or broken the leashes all together and are glomming onto the stranger to suck as much as they can out of them and then return.

And return they do, back down the rabbit hole to ganglia to chemical to electrical to ... SOMEWHERE.

And this somewhere is where the trouble lies.

By the time the stranger is up to me and wanting to talk, any purity and openess has been sullied by what's been brought back. And by what I've augMENTED from what's been brought back.

Our words are more like septic ulches now, meeting midpoint in the air and collapsing into a puddle around our feet.

I don't feel so good.

But wait...there's more.

Sally forth men! On the horizon again, more people. That's right - it's plural now and they're gonna gitcha. the words that are still out on the range break leash without much problem - I'm tired now, and resigned. And this time they don't even bother to try to reintegrate into the Somewhere inside. They BRING the Somewhere outside myself, and pull the other's words in as well.

We continue to talk, and the room up behind and above the cortex busies itself with the paradox that the more we talk, the less we communicate.

Sha!