No form. No shape, no breath, no mind, no form. Greyed out, and heavily.
You remember when the earth was warm. You savor the nothingness, the no form of it all. No nothing. No words, no touch, no taste, no tongue, no nothing. Nothing was hidden, you think in retrospect, because perhaps the body, in its unfathomable intelligence, knows everything.
And yet. And still. This no form-ness. This no form.
No body, no soul, no past, no future. Only the now, curdling gleefully in its nascent, no form. No time, no space, no form. So delicious. You groan in delight and leave your body. Velvety nothingness. So smooth, so cold. Everything encapsulated in nothing. In no form.
You remember there is a road: a mountain pass that leads you from the bottom of the Uintah basin past the petroglyph caves, across switchbacks up into the Bookcliff mountains until finally, you are dumped out onto the high plains of Wyoming. You drive and you drive and you drive: past the groves of quaking aspen, past the Flaming Gorge, past the Sweetwater Detention Center, past the bearded hunters outfitted in plaid. Flags turn into eagles and this is the place where it happened. It. The thing. The no thing.
This is the place where you heard a voice say “You will only ever be alone” and you returned to no form, for only a brief instant. And you were floating, you were free, you were embryonic. And you were nothing, no thing, no where, no form. And you are haunted by this moment forever. You never forget it: you dream of it every night, caressing it tenderly in the dark. That no thing. That big, dark, flapping, formless no thing you swerved to miss. It is now your thing, your telos.
And now? You yawn backwards. You take long walks at night and drink coffee during the day. You sweep floors and pack boxes, you feed hungry animals and petition the gods you once abandoned. You kill time consulting infinity scroll godhead on LCD screens. No, you murder time. Because every minute you waste brings you closer to the moment when you will meet with with no form again, and nothing else matters.
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Today: A potent bead of jet, music in the key of A, the insatiable hunger of WD 0816-310, and the euphoric spunk of ceiba pentandra in springtime.
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Waning Gibbous
The moon is 20 days old