[How amazing it is to look up a word and see if it has been defined. The unconscious is an incredible receptacle. Whatever draws from the contents of the unconscious, is an artist. When nonsense becomes, almost-sensible. This missive arrived without my conscious retention of what ‘Parallax’ meant. After researching it, I find: it is known to me. How does unconscious knowledge work? As an infrastructure of knowing? How does arrangement operate? There are many questions I wonder at — I wonder at everything. Does the conscious know anything at all? Does all knowledge live in the unconscious, really. If so, what is the conscious mechanism, and who operates it? To whom does it belong. How is it that anything can be known, at all and with certainty, as we so often find ourselves saying with certainty. Why does experience embolden us so with knowing. As if experience itself were an authority!
Today’s missive’s vision accompaniment was the Follower. The Holy Rogue. I could see them, moving at once from many different depths, at many different speeds, yet all in the same apparent size. Like a vibratory simultanessence, collapsing my processing of their image to a state of pre-eminent uncertainty, all while hedging certainty at every moment. I knew, and yet I couldn’t be sure, and yet I was entirely sure of exactly what I couldn’t be sure of. Hmm.. What a funny situation~ ] Received 12/10/24 | 3:23-3:39am
Listen to the Recitation:
PERILOUS PARALLAX
What is further away is closer than it seems, and
What is closer than it seems is farther than it looks
The field is moving us by, and by
The way, it moves again, and at differing speeds
To make the flattened image grow depth
A 3-Delusion transposed, transfigured, transsubstantiated
To a holy sacrament, the sight, the vision that
Unfolds before us, which interacts with us,
A ball racing towards us, head on
Collision imminent, we reach "out" to meet it
And catch, hook, something that seems something
That seems, that seems, real, as if to be real
As if to be something, something that can plunge
Into us, surface tension broken, a full sensorial
Experience, singeing skin to race electric courses
Of yes, of yes, this is! This is it
And yes, this is it. It is this:
This: and only this, as is it, which is only is
As they are, as we am, again
Not there again, but where, but here, but why
What were when and whence upon
A high built top, marigold morning glory
Dawn danzerly dilletentic demerary
Don now our gay apparel, and shine a light
On a scene, to capture in lens, to film
How can you conjure depth from a static image?
We decide ourselves so, yes we delude with
Memories of like images, that moved
That moved, oh how they moved! The background
Slower than the core, slower than the fore,
Slower than the hand, slower than the nose,
Slower than the eye, slower than the ear,
Slower than the throat, slower than the heart
Racing electric courses, up and down singed skin
Nervous circuits paralyzed by their analysis,
By their feeling, unfeeling felt feelings to find
There again, again — yes, again
To again and again, we fumble the forward fall
And land, faster than slow, on the tectonic floor
—what is static is not static, not ever
Even the flat image is alive, and moving
All parts at different speeds, relative to each
And singing, singeing, harmonic cords plucking
At each, from other to other, to same from same
And here, and there, and whereby upon
The famed follower harps on our every word
Humming wondering, will to wile, a vagabond
Like exile, like feralty, like found and lost
Lingering only in a moment's depth, before
Moving at a different speed than its neighbor
As if a rogue, holy roguery, robbing the mind
Of its clarity confidence conviction of where
And when, and why the movement could move
At three speeds at once, and more
And unmoving, same — a symphony of speeds
To confound and conflux all construction
Of place and placement.
For they are there and all wheres,
And all at once~

