23 May 2009

Variation on Vision, Re: Fields

Reading about the concept of a Zero Point Field on a AA flight to New York. Sitting in an isle seat while the orange rim creates its own coastline outside the windows. Telling myself to trust what fabrics days weave. How, standing in a Barnes and Noble, the weight of my feet seem lighter because, surely, there is a reason for the tingling in my fingers, the underlying feeling of breaking open.

Dread, in the Kierkegaard sense, taps it's words against my collar bone.

If particles are always moving, uncertainty is certain and God has a favorite number, I'm sure.

Someone asks if I'm feeling alright. Did a bad feeling pass through me? No, I say. I'm fine.

But longer things live in corners, bundled like a snake-coil in their own mistrust of themselves. So, leaning forward in an airplane seat, 33,000 feet above You, I'll let it out that it feels like Dread, unraveling the mistakes I've made, containing myself this way.

I will write:

A field is a region of influence.

Standing aloft above the second, the feeling of seeing beyond what is normally seen.

Messages of other worlds move into the Self. Flashes reveal moments of great weight and importance to ones projected action--that is, one's future. For the field of projection is already in motion (one's future vibrates in spacetime) and so there exist moments where something unexplainable is able to reach past the deaf walls contemporary concepts of time have built around the psyche, and, at once, projections and lines of projection into the "future" are in the same plane as Now, circling the Self in swirls of energy.

Messages can come through. One feels dazed by a sort of emptiness and connectedness, both present, passing away and eternal--both fixed in a destiny and multi-dimensional in possibility. How open one is to the field determines recognition or simply a queer feeling of malaise and momentary confusion from what has been imprinted in one's mind as "reality."

After writing this, my blackberry hums with a message from Prince Edward's Island, picture in JPEG form, attached:

"I'm hiking here tomorrow. The formation on the end is scoured by intense current. How it looks almost like stone henge. The rock is basalt so it's very hard. As you can see from tree on cliff top, the cliff is 200 ft plus. Every year or two "somebody" gets too curious and topples over the edge."

There's a section of my brain that stores images like this. Each sentence is a new born world, opening JPEGs.

I'd tie a rope to each end of a language of stones. Islands are themselves because of the surrounding water.

Energies are fields best bet we're even here at all.

Someone asks if I'm feeling alright. Did a bad feeling pass through me? No, I say. I'm fine.

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