Flower Of Kairos

Postcard From The Edge

Marked

 

Arcana imperii

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For those just tuning in the first parts of this project can be found at the following links:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

What's been going on? In short, a lot.

As mentioned some time ago I participated in the Foolish People production The Abattoir Pages. The project brought together an amazing amount of artistic talent and you can and should go look at some of the photographs of the production here taken by the immensely talented Yiannis Katsaris. I be remiss if I didn't also point out the folks at Guerrilla Zoo who were instrumental in the execution of the production.

I deliberately tied my contributions into the Harmony Hill project which has been on hiatus (will resume shortly) while I worked on The Abattoir Pages and tied up some loose ends. The ramifications for my work with Harmony Hill, and by extension Cell 144 are tremendous and the particulars will no doubt find there way here in the future. While I've been away at work Elise and Julia have likewise been putting in the overtime on our Hadron Project which has had some interesting results...more on that in the future too once the three of us have time to go over the notes and hammer out something that folks who are not us would be able to make heads or tails of. In the mean time here is a sampling of some of the work I created for The Abattoir Pages:

First up is my very first attempt at using the medium of video, all things considered I think it came out well:

A sort of highlight reel version of the video was also used in the puzzle page used to promote the event.

The mask featured in that video was also worn in the preformance, and there are a few pictures of that in the photo albulm for the event I linked to. Here's a relatively clean shot of the mask just before making the long trip from my Pacific Northwest Stronghold to the UK:




The base of that mask has a long history and it's been with me for quite some time arguably one of the more potent artifacts ever in posession, it was a great honor to give it over to the production.

Lastly here's a shot of the image I created as a compliment to the in mythos history of the mask:



There were several other artifacts created for the event that I intentionally left undoccumented. As with the content soon to be appearing on this site, some people based on luck and on a willingness to do more than watch will get pieces of our work others won't. One of the goals Cell 144 set for this site has always been that some of you out there will take a hint or too from our adventuring and strike out on your own. Certainly if you're already doing that we'd love to hear from you.

In any case, if you've been enjoying this site we'd encourage you to tell your friends and aquaintances about us. Those of you not already following us on facebook might want to go ahead and do that too, we occasionally add things there that don't make it to the site. The faster and further the infection spreads the sooner the new world begins.

Yourselves In Eden

The in between moments are the most surreal. Proof that paradox isn't limited to the abstract. Like how you knew you'd make it, but never thought you'd see the day.

It isn't long before the two of you are a tangle of limbs. White cotton sheets carve across their features like marble. Everything is wet and heat and a strength you have never known before. Kisses like a chemical reaction do change the substance of space and time. Their eyes are golden now. Your skin is living fire. Their lungs breath for you, your heart beats for them. Push yourselves; push until you are all the way in. You are one thing, a principle unity, the philosopher's stone.

Some hours later you're packing the only bag you'll ever need into the back of that 86 Caprice. You climb behind the wheel, and they saddle up up next to you. One hand on your thigh, they press soft lips into your ear, "I know a short cut." The key is already in the ignition so you turn it.

The engine rumbles to life
                                         and you find
                                                            yourselves in Eden.

The Door Opens

Pulling up the driveway you can see the door. Stepping out of the car gravel crunches beneath your feet. The sky is a deep blue and there is a light in the window glowing almost as soft and warm as their hands on your cheeks. Sitting on the hood of the car you take a long pull from a flask of whiskey. Down your belly, the whiskey burns then fades to embers. Before the fire goes out you take another long pull, and so on, until well after the whiskey has started to taste sweet. You'll be here all night, too fucked up to sleep.

Art in your veins, and there's too much blood to see. When you were kids you found your third eyes hidden in the palms of your hands. Close your eyes, press the palm against your brow and let that eye stare back at you.

The air smells like it's drunk on raspberry liqueur.

You wish you could kiss it on the mouth.

Turn the palm outward. Smell them on the other side of the door. Your mind starts to burn like the whiskey. A searing heat to fade before you stoke the coals again. You're a mad scientist dissecting yourself. If a body could read your thoughts they'd be drunk for days. Ideas start to feel like tactile sensations. Sight blossoming like a flower moves you through kairos. Seen through this hyperdimensional lens there is no difference between the truth of who you are, and what's waiting for you on the other side of the door. If only you walk through.

You put one foot in front of the other, and with that the door opens. They're standing there, beckoning, silhouetted against the golden light of the first new day in too long.

A Living Signpost

When you're not home much people don't call, so when the phone rang at home you never thought it was for you. That afternoon though, when it rang, somehow you knew it was them calling for you. All they said before hanging up was "Come over." Their voice sounded so far away it felt like you hadn't seen them in months.

Hopping on your bike you raced down the snaking path that connected your neighborhoods like it mattered; muscles burning and skin white one the knuckles. They were waiting for you at the end perched like a bird on an upturned trashcan. They flew into your arms, not because something was the matter, but because that embrace was home. They had lifted some beer from an older brother. The brew was shit but it tasted great the way shitty beer does before you know any better.

The two of you drank fast and it was that speedy buzz that feels like a dream of caffeine. They climbed up on the back pegs of your bike and together you flew down strange streets. Laughing and screaming through the black night their voice, golden sweet like beeswax, was the only thing that felt real. You felt alive with them, so it says something that you felt most alive that night; Like how some nights are mythic when you look back? That night was mythic while you tore ass through it.

That night was the first time you said "I love you" to each other, to anyone.

This night was the first time you've said their name out loud in more than a decade, and it felt like I 'love you', felt like the gold of their voice tearing through the remaining putrescence of the all wrong old you; reminding you of how the kid you were that night is a living signpost to the person you're meant to be.

Just two more days, and you'll be home.

On The Tip Of Your Tongue The Taste Of A Heartbeat

You cut class that Friday. They rode on your handle bars the whole way back to their house. Looking out at the world over their shoulder that afternoon was the first time you knew exactly were you wanted to go. There was kool-aid and hot pockets. Their couch felt like sinking into pillows. They put Dirty Dancing into the VCR and sat down next to you, knees just barely touching yours.

Halfway through the movie you looked over and couldn't catch your breath, but somehow you asked if they knew how to dance. "Like that?" they asked, making a vague gesture at the television screen. "Yeah, like that." you shocked yourself with your own audaciousness. But then they got up and started moving; serpentine.

"You have to dance with me."

Arms draped over your shoulders. The soft skin of their forearms pressed gently into the sides of your neck. Your own hands came to a rest on their hips. Swaying. You're scared, but it's not the kind of fear that tends to paralysis, but that rare kind that pushes you forward into the unknown. Their hands dropped to your arms and then pulled up their white cotton tee; not all the way, stopping just above the solar plexus. Your body dropped, and when you kissed the gentle slope where their waist became their hips the slow burn of summer spread through your body. You could taste their heartbeat.

Today was like their breath on your neck. In a sense, you knew where this was headed before you lit that book of matches three days ago, but today is the first clear view over the shoulders of your chosen destiny. No longer broken, stitched, or scarred there is a wholeness, and from that integration a purpose.

Stitching Up The Wounds Of Time

For the longest time you put it all on them. There were never bad feelings about it, but the narrative was always about how they tempted you beyond what any reasonable person could stand. You were steadfast until they got you alone. You were in control until they whispered in your ear that they wanted you. Like you were this hapless victim right? Looking back on it tonight you see for the first time that they were the first time you wanted something no matter what. In that split second when they step out on the porch and you see them, know they are unlike any other, it is here you can see yourself most clearly. Maybe it's mostly subconscious, but you start to pull yourself apart. Discarding the pieces that will get in the way and stitching up the gaps with new found desire. The process is roughshod and you are left fragile and confused and maybe that's why you don't kiss them; why you stand in a daze trying to find shelter at the bottom of a bottle.

You scarred each other. Neither of you had ever been that raw before and you were still young enough that poking the exposed parts seemed like a good idea. This is the great tragedy, the story of loss and how you failed. A chorus line of cruelty and carelessness dancing forever through your memories. Never even dwelled on the dirt they did; but for the first time you can see that mostly it was good. Really can you ever hope for more than that?

Take heart because tonight you're that kid again. Seeing them for the first time. Only now understanding what's going down as it happens. Pick the pieces carefully and stitch them up in a new narrative. It's bound to be an ugly job, but don't worry the tracks will fade. Staring in the mirror it's like looking at a challenger. Run your hands under cool water and splash your face.

This is where you start. This is where you end.

The Art Of Drowning

The rain wakes you. How long have you been sleeping? Hours must have passed for the sky to have gone from starless black to luminescent gray. Your hands are covered in wet ash.Conscious thoughts of "I" seem fragile enough to break.

There's so much further to go. Can you make it?

If you remember, they didn't cry often, but as a gift to you, they let you you seem them cry the most.From frustration or bitter hatred for things they couldn't put words to. From fear and loss, like the time you abandoned them, the only time they ever cried in public. There was so much in you that was cowardly then, oh if only you had it to do over again...but such thoughts are vanity, because you don't. But also there were the times they wept from joy, like the when you gave them that ring; cheap plastic worthless to anyone but someone who could look at you the way they did.

Your emotions push you through the day. Feelings forcing the wheels of cognition at times, but mostly just welling up like a gale. By the time the day is half way through you're exhausted and begging for sleep. Dreams will torture you, punish you for this wicked neglect, and remind you of things so holy and beautiful the recollection itself will burn. You will drown; in memories, in emotions. But there is a wordless knowing that though you are drowning, you are only drowning until you're washed clean. The poetry of life and of this moment will abandon you and with each minute's passing and with every word that fumbles from your lips, your intellect only fails you more.

It will have to be enough, for now, to say that somehow there is joy in this place.