Between Sentience and Pure Negation

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As this deliriously exotic and unfathomable set of metaphysical potentialities shifted and
swirled in and around the sleeping souls, with hardly a semblance of consciousness to
behold, their ostensibly inert bodies lay under an undulating, purest white and silken
sheet, its folds and contours casting oblique and delicate opportunistic shadows, like
those of sand dunes viewed from high in the air, the gestating sunlight of early morning
gradually intensifying its grip on the world outside this room and therefore, within it; the
room itself almost shedding its inertness in a most mysterious way, in the absence of any
physical observers, shifting some significant ground towards a profound and mystical state of
practically observing the space within that defined by its physical boundaries, in a realm
barely decipherable, but unsettling enough, somewhere between sentience and pure negation…

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The Divine Providence of Sensual Touch

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Here is a draft of the beginning of Chapter Two of my novel The Obelisks of Remi Soul.

Remi rolled over in the bed and felt the transcendent warmth and softness of a lithe and naked female form. He edged himself closer into a delicious and comforting spoon position where both forms faced the same direction and he curved his body gently into the shape of her back, buttocks and legs. This could easily have been a blissful pure dream state and if he were not so sunken into a near-sleeping semi-consciousness in the first place, his regained alertness, on slowly waking, would quickly have assumed that it was indeed bringing itself out of dream; for it had been a very long time since he had been suffused with that particular type of soulful succour that comes from the intimacy of skin and the privacy of a close, mutual nakedness known only to lovers. This most delicate and uplifting of human feelings which strikes at the roots of our ceaseless battle with the ultimate reality of solitude and mortality – the gentleness and sensuality of two familiar, or even indeed, unfamiliar bodies, either in the gently reducing arc of the post-coital senses as sleep encroaches, breath by breath, and the quiet and spiritual glow of physical satiety and emotional connection morphs beautifully from a state of conscious awareness into the slow vacillation of a breathing rate gradually reducing to the perfect and embalming rate of sleep; or else bodies that find themselves thus entwined even outwith any recent frame of that even more vibrant and tantalising form of intimacy derived from intercourse; and which so often, time, place and the inter-step of two slowly emerging-consciousnesses permitting, will lead, like seeds will lead to shoots and burgeoning, pregnant clouds will lead to rain, slowly, surely, intrepidly and without hesitation to that most dizzying and enlivening journey up the whirling, inspiring vortex their sweet notes in the erogeny of touch and the joyful dance of neurons and synapses given only to the love of another, as our deepest and most systemic instinctive totem of being and feeling truly alive realises itself in an all-too-short but only-too-essential archetype from deep within, and outwith, the universe which we draw, so sweetly and sensually from the ether, like scoops of honey from a hive, in our truest and most devoted acts of of lovemaking. In those moments, we finally love ourselves for a brief and reassuring moment, bouyed, afloat in the atmosphere for at least a little while longer in this meandering, hopeful journey through life. These were the moments; the seeds; the warm, mistral winds of hope that Remi had forgotten and so badly needed to experience once again to give the sails of his souls one more push onwards in his quest for some semblance of reason; some explanation for the sadness and loss he had endured; some meaning to the lost lives of those he had loved beyond measure. Some kind of answer to avoid a day of reckoning descending upon which his soul was simply frozen and devoid. Put starkly- to feel and to live once again, at least for a moment or two of his remaining time. And this woman next to him, whom he had only just met the evening before, without knowing it, would be a catalyst for a chain of events – a happenchance in the maze of universal possibilities through which the paths of our lives must forage a direction of travel – that would transform both of their existences in ways which were, as yet, barely imaginable and which had they been able to foresee to any degree, would have left them with a most agonising of choices: whether or not to even step on to the ride ahead and hold on breathlessly with white knuckles in the hope of a transfiguring and ultimate denouement, or, assuming that the oft-illusion of free will even proffered an alternative choice in reality, to try to step off the rapidly departing train and return to lives of a far more certain and mundane unwinding. And how could they possibly have known that all of this lay ahead, ripe and latent within the touching of their naked bodies just initiated by Remi’s movement a mere 12 inches across the bed – an infinitesimal and cosmically unseeable shifting of organic atoms, triggering a momentous butterfly effect across the impenetrable equilibriums and harmonies of the universe. In reaching for the sublime, satin-like skin of Carmen just beside him, endorphins inside both already agitating, unbeknownst to their hosts, for the ecstasy of mind and body just ahead, Remi could not possibly know of the paradoxical and the mysterious quandary he suddenly posed to the forces of the world which we cannot grasp; of how this one touch, this one unconscious action could change everything ahead, for ever?

 

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Posted Missing

I read an amusing article recently about the proliferation of authors blogging copiously whilst purportedly working on their novels and well, this resonated like a church bell two feet from the ear.  And so this is a vaguely apologetic holding note to say “Gone Fishing” to my small band of readers.  I’ll be back in earnest once I’ve caught a bite ‘this big’ or more precisely, when I have finished my first novel The Obelisks of Remi Soul.  Take care everyone.

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The Cloying Curvature of Sleep

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In the dark, our senses clamour for an anchor to re-ground our drifting souls back to the realm of waking dreams; because the disembodied night-world of dreams, drifting within the fitful, diseased and cloying curvature of sleep is too fecund – too overblown – too ripe to the point of near putrefaction for our cowering souls to bear. Even a libido forged from the feral elements of lust, despair and an amoral pursuit of sensation cannot endure for long the neon-infected nausea of dream-nights spent careering, like a yacht in a dark and raging swell, between points of illogical tenor and sublime import. There are no ports in the cerebral storm of nightmares and occultish visions – only the escape of breaking back through to the surface and the corporeal familiarity of waking and walking. This illusion as thin as ice of course, but the precariousness and the imagined ordinariness of existence above on this creaking, cracking surface far preferable to the bottomless, unseen and mortifying depths beneath…

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Soul Image

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Anyone who is himself his outward role will infallibly succumb to the inner processes… moreover, the anima is inevitably projected upon a real object, with which he gets into a relation of almost total dependence. Every reaction displayed by this object has an immediate, inwardly energetic effect on the subject. Tragic ties are often formed in this way… In a man the soul, ie anima, or inner attitude, is represented in the unconscious by definite persons with the corresponding qualities. Such an image is called a “soul-image.” Sometimes these images are of quite unknown or mythological figures…In all cases where there is an identity with the persona, and the soul accordingly is unconscious, the soul-image is transferred to a real person. This person is the object of intense love or equally intense hate (or fear). The influence of such a person is immediate and absolutely compelling, because it always provokes an affective response. The affect is due to the fact that a real, conscious adaptation to the person representing the soul-image is impossible. Because an objective relationship is non-existent and out of the question, the libido gets dammed up and explodes in outburst of affect… (Jung).

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The Beauty of Time

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Synchronicity spoke to me,
Whispering corn alive with
The portent of things unseen.
And I saw the fate of all of us,
Atoms back to stars;

Our time on Earth had ended
And viscous beasts surveyed
The Land left above the water.
Rotting relics mourned for man
Lost so long ago.

The Sun still rose and
The Moon gleamed at the beasts,
Just as always.
Our passage, our loss
Before an impassive cosmos.

The tumult to our egos
Had we seen this brazen fate.
How Love and Glory would have
Drenched our daily soul
With gratitude and awe.

How pained and yet how humbled
Would our hearts have been,
At the conceit of gold and politics
As the light of an epoch darkened
And closed our eyes forever.

How we might have breathed
Our gravity so differently
Had we seen, had we known
The finite count of being
And the miracle of knowing.

For those who see
For those who know,
Look skyward, breath in
The Flow of time and
Let today begin to glow.

For it shall not last forever.

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Under the Skin

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In the absence and intrinsic impossibility, indeed, of human perfection, each of us should nurture, like a small, other-worldly pet in a cage, a deep and tremulous secret; something fevered and un-sharable; exotic and feral.

We know so little of ourselves in any case that the mirror projects an amorphous androgynous lie; a shell devoid of soul stares back. What is this mesh of sinew and calcium before me? How could we possibly know ourselves given this reality of transplantation straight to the imagination of Edgar Allan Poe, where morbid, clawing horror confronts us in reflection – a seething mass of cells, cavorting in a barely conceivable danse macabre, seamed together inside flaking layers of wafer-thin, living wrapping, secretly crawling with microscopic, voracious, amoral life. And yet, this collection of flimsily-construed carrion, somehow giving rise to impulses, connected and pieced together with devilish wires and threads; scintillae flowing in the breeze, implying hungers and desires, imploring satiety. How apt indeed, the insectoid-denouement for the blinded, shallow, masses of flesh in Glazer’s Under the Skin – lustful men drawn like flies to feed the pure and unquestioning hunger of a succubus; surely cinema’s, if not all of art’s finest exposition of the impossibility, the indifferent savagery of the human condition, and paticularly the male condition: fuelled by desire, consumed by lust, mere floating remnants of an empty-bag-of-skin all that awaits at the natural end of that path – a timeless image of terrifying profundity and truth…

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