Untitled ~ Claude Verlinde
It comes to you in the interstitial rooms between awareness and sleep; tantalisingly close to language but impossible to forge into words, it reveals its shape to fit perfectly into the tactile moulds of your unasked question.
The interstitial rooms: where doors open and close with the uncontrolled traffic of dream-logic; where light switches do not control lights; where the absence of the day-to-day protection provided by societal masks makes for bestial interaction with that which lurks in the recesses of the psyche.
Clues may be stitched into the hems of the myriad patterned curtains that billow in the wind from the great desert of the unknowable - scraps of paper on which fragmented notes have been scrawled by your unseen hand in the day’s passing.
And you suspect that, were you able to decipher these glyphs, you would awake to world where the weight has been lifted from your chest of stored treasures – treasures as yet unvalued by the assessor of all you heart’s desire.
And then you would, perhaps, be able to seat yourself, without obligation, at the table of emptiness.
The interstitial rooms: where doors open and close with the uncontrolled traffic of dream-logic; where light switches do not control lights; where the absence of the day-to-day protection provided by societal masks makes for bestial interaction with that which lurks in the recesses of the psyche.
Clues may be stitched into the hems of the myriad patterned curtains that billow in the wind from the great desert of the unknowable - scraps of paper on which fragmented notes have been scrawled by your unseen hand in the day’s passing.
And you suspect that, were you able to decipher these glyphs, you would awake to world where the weight has been lifted from your chest of stored treasures – treasures as yet unvalued by the assessor of all you heart’s desire.
And then you would, perhaps, be able to seat yourself, without obligation, at the table of emptiness.
11 comments:
Sitting table among the incurious, sated, know-it-alls can be no reward nor fit for dining. No hunger, no food — the stagnation of perfection.
Better to realize vuja dev, the feeling that one has yet to fully arrive at being in one's life long habitat.
Even at the table of emptiness there is obligation.
Yodood: think I'll take my plate and eat outside thanks :)
Walking Man: the obligation to wash the dishes I presume.
Me thinks the Fates had a hand at the stitching of those clews.
Subtorp: When i look at my fates in the mirror it sure looks like the stitching is coming apart - best to clews my eyes and not look atoll :D
Pisces, I feel the same way, at times. Especially the top most stitches. My tapestry 'tis most barren of threads :O
I really like this picture you have chosen - quite the illustrator sommelier.
O: Thanks (I had to look up what that meant)
what - thanks? haha
I'm going through your letter of dread graveyard looking for resurgam. I do really like your picture choices though
O: k - I had to look that one up too - you're looking for a 19th century submarine over at the Dread letter Office? :D
and what we suspect is perhaps what we suspect... if we only knew! i love "be able to seat yourself, without obligation, at the table of emptiness." with it all off one's chest... the only way i've found to even approach this state is through tears... dreams turn into nightmares, but tears leave you truly empty.
all love ~mama wawa xooxoxoxox
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