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[Sep. 15th, 2022|08:56 pm] |
Feverish dreams - sleep seems impossible because something - some question - some shape - cannot be resolved.
Until in a brief movement of grounded thought or wisdom, you blurt out into the silence of the night “it doesn’t matter!”
Or you pray
And the feverish impulse to fixate on set way of analysing the subject - like burning out on a logic gate - dissolves.
As if you had been in the thrall of a black-magic spell, which you need to break to be able to see what it means more calmly.
Covid, probably, this season.
Talking about black magic spells, Inga Springe has been looking into practitioners of magical thinking, and what do you think she came up with?
She began with a historical overview of how schools of - sometimes occulted - esoteric thought had rose entwined with the pillars of the enlightenment. She continued with engaging stories of empirical attempts to investigate the paranormal (flying pianos!). Thusly humoured, she engages on a whirling dance with Gurdijeff, falling uneasily and a little blushed into the arms of a disturbingly amused Crowley. She recounts how he ordered her to retreat to a hut above a coast and talk to no-one for a fortnight. Each IR feature should be written with such abandonment to the subject. Cats screamed horribly in the night, but they always do. The IR editorial team wanted to speak to her, but the phone remained unanswered: she was in a lucid dream, the intelligence of which - she understood with a joy both primitive and enlightened - was clearly beyond her. Someone would leave her breakfast by her door in the morning.
The IR editorial team once - apparently - banged on her door, but she was dumb to their pounding, Doors to other perceptions were being opened to her, you see. Potential personalities gave glimpses of their wisdom, and vistas of free - or freer thought revealed themselves, like the smell of literature, or the aspect of the moon beneath her feet, or the weekly all-cause mortality statistics of vaccinated and unvaccinated cohorts of souls. I mean this information was free, free! Out there. It had been summoned!
She was in all honesty about to return to society, and write this article. She would write about what could set you free from the feverish fascination with this dry crust, settled-upon piece of realty, but
It approached her as she was reading her Tarot. Stared at her with an arrow about to be placed in the bow.
Oh!
Fevers broke and spread in torrents under the sheets. Facts needed checking, needed checking. The fact is a square, and the lid would not fit. Something is bigger than it should be. “Nav svariigi” she cried out to (who?). But, oh, it was not the right shape, and once again as she fell into a shiver of concern, it would not fit, would not fit. If the lid would not be placed on the box, then…. Sleep will not come, no sacred peace could be enjoyed in the lap of the night. She tossed, she turned. She missed the deadline.
Covid probably.
The IR editorial time published the usual thing about charlatans leading poor suckers who fancied they could think (like Self's Flyers) into pits of despair, probably. |
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