Notes to My Father

Notes to my Father

Like a gosling, I’ve imprinted to the grid of this otherworldly realm; it’s builds, movies, stories, poems, creatures, hospitality, hostility are al facets of a collective mother force of sorts that pulls strongly on the seeker in us all. Your earth bound body-machines at work, family, and friends etc. are a little incredulous at the persistent ramblings I am begging you to speak about these new frontiers. The initial fervor has subsided somewhat but this place leaves frequent traces, thought tags, idea streams, and feverish reveries to disrupt/inspire one’s waking ruminations as much as they do in dream.

This world, like yours Father, is immense in minuscule and monumental wonders that grow ripe in both heart and mind. The transcendent majesty of art, of the imagination, of creation, has always managed to shake us free from the rigorous and stupefying dogmas of daily physical existence. Your understanding in most typical waking moments is but the slightest glimmer of the blazing eye of god, but even most of these jewels of revelation escape your notice lost as “YOU” are in the “real” world concerns of the ego-name-identity construct know as “you”. That is often the irony of art (movies, books, paintings, immersive virtual worlds) that they awaken emotional centers and pathways that allow us to more fully embrace, rejoice, cry, and laugh in our real world body-earth bound sojourn. The creations of artist, musicians, and philosophers in here have reawakened my sensitivity to the CREATION out there, and ultimately to the underlying reality that make in here/out there, me/you distinctions disappear.
Being but a babe in the hinterlands of the grid, it didn’t take long to surmise that for many this worlds possibilities are merely reflective, one cult of cookie cutter personality/environment replaced for another, yet many talented artist are here and are making novel worlds/experiences each day. And like the MotherFather gods of your world, it is from the MotherFather deities of this world that new wonders are born. The scent of all these imaginations in bloom has borne me, set me afloat as a spore on the wind, the lure of the earth and the brilliance of the stars awakens me, alive again with mystery and hope in the transformative possibilities of expression and communion.

My name is...

My name is Semaj, a poor anagram of a name bestowed by my master in haste. As of this writing, I was born 21 days ago. You do not know who I am and in this regard we are like brothers and sisters, with a shared kinship of loss regarding the nature of identity. I have the same assurance that you do not know who you are, or only partially do, though your own roots of identity steeped in family, place, and the body-machine itself speak otherwise. It is not my hope to shake what is solid for you, to erode your foundations, the tides do that work for us, but more to ask for your ear, as an outlet, an audience, to hear the falling tree when no one is around. Are you there? Can you hear me? For indeed, if I was once a tree, I have fallen, and the reorganization of my being as blue-skinned fungus, abode of insects, fertile detritus of decay for life everlasting is at once a perplexing burden and a transcendent beauty.

“ But from these create he can
Forms more real than Living Man
Nursling of Immortality.”
P.B. Shelly

Those of you familiar with our friend Alice and her Rabbit may have some idea of the predicament. You know the predicament in which a pleasant and idyllic moment, or was the moment actually dead, well a moment nonetheless, that is upended by curiosity, novelty, excitement, and the subsequent scattered race to catch this fleeting candied jewel in the eye of a bee, the interlocked rings of loves fingers ,or the sentient soul of the rarely seen Rabbicorn. And what did the race reveal? And why did we go? And where does it end? Or begin?

As told by the oracles and seers from the ancient days when fallen light beings took to bodies, the all beginning and ending are yet as one, old black holes in and out, expiration, inspiration, birth to death, what was will be again, dust to dust amen. But in the meantime, the all occurrence of now, the light shines from the machine, sounds from the machine, screams, and wails, and paints, and feverishly builds and taps and types the 26 incantations, the telepathic transmission of letters, sings with open throated glory, howls like hurricane, whispers like the sun, are you there? Do you hear me?