The wall stares back at me. It is a border, an imposition, a barrier of some thought quality, and I see within it ripples of outward scene. Ripples, that is, like the rub of my hands, the center of my palm; all bridged through by creases, as if I needed to drive a staff squarely into it, mark my point and grip it tightly; but in its crumpled hide I read out a sea of seas, little ornamental pillars, sets, branches, trees!

I describe here the acts of current, of booming emergence, glory and expanse, arranging leaps of rot into neat little words, phrases: the concepts one holds in their hands like bleeding pearls, seizing their architecture, structuring their boldness, and entering into form as an act! How does soul, the thrust of tilt, manifest so brazenly?

Indeed, it is obvious to me that within all this dialogue, the graaand oratory tradition, some actual nascency continuously hums, some wondrous being continuously churns, and thus be this an engine: of process, of received Wittgenstinian zeugmatics, of spindly hands fanned out to soothe thinking foreheads, of amphetaminic minds blasting open to infinity; philosophy, science, art; all this great burning edifice makes a dissonant choir, whose repulsion we delight in! Counterpoint and contradiction, the ringing of reason’s clashing blades, may we cheer at from the stands, and truth, our emperor, our strange attractor, watches reservedly, assessing subtly the gladiators, his favor wavering at the lip — and perhaps from some dance of the blade, or some trance of the pomp, worthiness, acceptance, may appear as a glint, in his archaeoentertained eye.

My energetics reinforce with gudgeon cycles! I cannot help but see all this axis and spiral, in every instantiation, and not dive towards its origin! My shirt flaps, the winds stretch out my face, but I fly with kept determination, to find that thing — origin — as deep as I must plunge. What is core? What is source? Perhaps, then, what is birth?

These mountainous statues, colossal minds, look to me a good climb. Whose thinking will be hardest to surmount? Whose language will be hardest to speak? Whose architecture shall I transfigure, generously, when I stack up and meld rocks of my own? I see, in this vast ocean, islands, built by pensive hands, and I see technique, style, precision, craft, mastery, all of which I am itching to perform; to step into the arena of alpine builders, surrounded by my most respectable interlocutors, of roaring pride and twiddling glee! I look to my left, and then to my right, roll back my shoulders, stand with fortified posture, and then suddenly go limp, slack, letting the fabric of reality tear open and falling backward into the flood of open theory!

Color and form unfurl onto me, in angular polygeometrics, logical voidcorners, blasting my conception into the depth of a far hall filled with operative bookshelves, there being a hyperlucid horizon point that the whole scene, after it snaps into a print on a cloth, sinks into — then pulls out into a vacuum — leaving but a handkerchief flying erratically in the black, morphoagnostic yet emitting a faint smoke, a faint white trace line, drawing out circles, sets, smooth overlapping curves with iron order, quickly shuddered into melting by the grand sweep of an arm; a conductor’s wand rippling through the space; then the resonant gong of a crouched monk; he fades, and I am enclosed in a sphere of voices, yelling, brawling, fighting, throwing torches and madly shaking papers in the air — and of all this I am lit in the soul!

And yet, at some sudden click into place of the cosmos, maybe once I have integrated enough of these preachers into my consciousness, I may form a vast interweave, so boundless of a tapestried network, such interlinked Geist and reasoned being, that perhaps, a colossal heartbeat, a deep thumping under it all, will boom, seismically, once, and I will feel it. My eyes will widen, and my face will come alight, as the heart of this planet of thought, whose last tube has suddenly been linked, will start beating, each thump loudening, rising, this great mosaic of mine shaking as it ascends, still thumping, still loudening, and through the drumming thunder I will see a white — it will pierce suddenly out at me before I have time to comprehend it — and then it will fill everywhere! I will be hypnotized, having seen the sun outside, having seen the logic in the leaves, and I will be compelled to find all and remake it into me, into that something new, that something I have built, that something I am, of profound concept, of a birthed revolution, who will shake these “stable formulae” and “iron laws” until they are lost to the euphoric current! I will burn all these pastures down to build a new bubbling twist of a hyperworld! My creed, my authorship — and may I humbly bow to my counterparts in gratitude, with profuse thanks — is rising to me, as a making of mine own: birth, creation, invention; and now I hear the cry of life!