Chapter 1: Dates.

There are no words written in the world. If you were looking to tell someone it is a well and not a door, only the proof of moving through a door and not falling down the well was the primacy of language’s downfall.

You sit in a car and each tendril of the mind’s consciousness fills that car in a sane and healthy relaxed state. It fills its invisible crevice of the steel aluminium and plastic without a care to design or aesthetics. It only notices things that feel off. A rattle or rhythm unknown. Yet how did we know these four points of the cars front and back and side as we drive and avoid in some spatial morality not to hit things and dodge and weave.

This is why accidents seemed to be something beyond the mind’s ability to harmonize with the shell of transport that was too detached or distracted from the human skin that contained the payload of consciousness.

The first thing all Military infantry find almost irrational is that someone is shooting at them. As if primacy of self in war was somehow a gift only afforded to the Defence department personnel.

The car, the husk, the mind, the body, the attack of everything in the obtuse angles and curved shapes that from above actually look like symbols and sigils of some alien culture. The word Pareidolia was invented to stop us realising there might be faces in the trees and rocks. Language then constructed a sign in five languages: French, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese and English. It points to the rock with the clear bold black on white text “ROCK” with the recognisable arrow universal symbol for direction as if the stone age was easier to communicate the obvious.

So as I stand in winter gear at the top of an old staircase, scratched dark stained patina of a million hands, scuffed bags, gripped fingers and possible tears of frustration that had absorbed into the balustrades and wooden polish.

“Yet as I looked around there was no language.” I said to myself. Only doors that lead to past histories that didn’t exist. I thought about removing all the doors in the hotel and spelling out the word door in the carpark. Yet it would look like rubbish unless seen from a crow, or a drone or, low flying aircraft.

“I am not stuck on an island.” I said. Reminding myself everything on earth was an island. Hence why we were 90 percent water traversing like upright slugs looking for lettuce and being tricked into alcoholic traps or salt that turned us into beef jerky.

I didn’t have a problem with language I just wondered before we talked before we wrote these sigils on a page into the server tower of babel making the eschatology machine manifest without having to do much more than live the 9 to 5 life, mow lawns, go to wars, eat food, see doctors, have children, visit friends, watch movies, cry at funerals and praise whatever brand of lord, god or sky thing there was.

Yet what is this selfless reference to self that we are beyond the sun and star and sky. Where we question why.

Why not?

We can always ask

“Be it so.”

And stay there in a state of everything as just another and another and another. Without time, place or definition.

But without language permissions disappear and the gristly demon appears like a freed snake or tiger poked and prodded for too long that its last movement will be to rip everything to pieces.

I look up see the sign.

‘Toilets.’

On the skull of a goat. With the green neon glow of the Exit sign pointing the opposite direction along the wall.

xoxo,