Pane of Glass, Mother of Pearl
Hi Olivia, it's nice to meet you. Is my voice deep enough? I like your dress, and can't help but notice the perfect symmetry of your face, centered on a jaw that's perfect I think only because of your height. Did I tell you I love your dress, but its gray background reminds me of the feeling I'd get from crying on the carpet as a child - was it the dust? It felt like blood.
There's an odd space to be occupied in this life - how else can you understand the experiential, the experience, existence, in terms other than non-coincidence of the coincident. To be "not what one is" doesn't not only suffice, but misguides. We are precisely what we are. Our existence is suspended, trance-like, not separate from itself but held in a a pocket of distortion where we must necessarily be opposite ourselves, apart from, away from, other than, but the object opposite is not only identical but entirely coincident with itself as is everything. I understand that contradicts cannon dear to my heart, but I don't know that it acts fatally, or is contradictory at all. Perhaps my move is to place non-coincidence behind a veil, an aberration not meant to be seen. But isn't that the feeling - I'm not supposed to be here, to see you, to be with you, but yet your separation is essential to my being. We've ripped open the heart of being, transcended, all without movement - that's the utter incoherence, but it feels... wonderful. To be in communion with yourself non-immediately, is, euphoric.
It reminds me of the linear-non-linear sequential transformations that might give rise to semantic landscaping. To the extent that we are immediate, we collapse, and the entire experience becomes incapable of realization. To the extent that we resist collapse, we do so (or rather it is done) through transformation that manages to propagate the landscape into higher dimensions. Yet the feeling - the feeling - it is so thin, so precipitous, it feels any aberration is ready to steer this into collapse, and yet, to my knowledge, it is incredibly robust - so much so it manages to veil even itself from itself, though this might be a sign of fragility rather. Who is to say.
Non-simultaneity perhaps captures the phenomenon better than non-coincidence, to the extent that anything can be its own referent it feels necessary that a separation between them persist, and a delay - with the present referring to its past - feels permissible. But the caveat is that in this case non-simultaneity must remain contemporaneous, in other words, simultaneous non-simultaneity, which perhaps is itself non-coincidence. We dance in a circle with instances of ourselves, gravity wanting to collapse these instances into inert being, and yet the existentiell persists in its being - is that what existence negates - itself?
Communion not only with ourselves but with the world. A rippling disorientation - when you are in, better, when you are with the world, it's like edging the lip of the cave - the world appears to you as it appears for its inhabitants - you are in communion with the world are in communion with all that the world is are in communion with yourself to the extent that you, the world, its inhabitants, are transcendent upon, constituent to, one another. And then the recess - a tug on the rope round your waist, and like the cat, you're back just at the precipice of belonging. That, in itself, is a feeling profound. I felt it today, a rippling, bouncing, in and out, knowing for just moments what it might feel like to find simultaneity with the world; belonging. There is a purity in this world and it likely exists in community, in communion.
The verge of a fundamental shift if my orientation towards being is coming; drug-induced, entrenched in crisis, I am not what I have become and as this new being erupts alongside it are dying so many maladaptions. I've been here before, but I remain hopeful. After all, I go on.