Monday, October 13, 2014
novel excerpt || Wayne Mason
Notes On A Psychic Disposition
We start with improved geometric inventive electronic strength and weakness, load data as video fails. I have a bad bend. I see the void .... reputation in the existentialist arts .... I am almost a wormhole. My words will produce full blown interrogation. It is a pre-recorded track to play along with the endless bubbling of words around me. Trapped voices, traffic in the mind wrapped in sound. I am every day. So many people beside myself at present who walk in the haze knowing that they are not defined.
It's exciting and strange in the long run ,the same old tired psychic terrain so strange yet familiar. I was younger . The dark side of the night made way for shapes and colors carried downward and I'm walking down the dirt road and I can feel their eyes watching me . I hear the sound of the moon and various insects. The soft light of the images sometimes drifting through the white noise sound . The sounds washing over me I feel clear and crisp . I believe that these sessions are getting better with repetition. Geometric Patterns brighten and join a wide range of colors and images. In general, using the basic skills that include an emphasis on meditation , breathing and not focus on the thought . As you try to focus on anything gone thoughts come quickly . Sometimes they come in poetic language film now unconnected lines , herein solemn as the lights went out , chase imaginary paths of my brain as if it were just for me , I have power to rewind, pause, fast forward my memory. The spiral networking virtual network of hyperlinks connecting wormholes of my past , present and future.
Today I am not broken, I feel that the mind is willing to pay; is flexible and open. A dreamer is good or bad ? I , high surreal. The images came and went as I sat sometimes in my house, even when it was from the Dreamachine color filter (which was not somewhere. We almost feel the breeze ) feels harsh on your skin. For the next ... binaural no need to heed the hours , I feel sharp and , not having washed. The session clear I am now frequency. He renovated memory to repeat and try he also turned , so far down the rabbit hole deep into their own brain. The Word did not work anymore, the internal landscapes too treacherous for the fable of man. One reason to flow between them. Reading between, over, underneath, and through the lines.
I feel a kind of perfection, and scintillation wrapping over the years, the subtle effect of silly little poems. The passion of infinity surely is abandoned. There is the warm sun on my skin and I'm thinking of the fire that is not here, but gives warmth to all. The eyes of man was great in the flesh, love, evil, and after his death they lifted up their voice. So the word is starting right now? The world is slow and everything in it monotone. The voice mocks us like an angel in tar. I am well aware of the God particle. Ego of skin has its roots in dreams while career dictators oppose absolute freedom.
The a dream was as follows: a period of time, accidentally /cut/ eat decadent aggregate analog sound /cut/ the only human poem written /cut / so to speak something that is not for you to be placed with the heat, dust and smoke of consciousness /cut/ the desolate depression over the sun of things, it would be the noise of ego that is be better to observe each other heard, but only for himself but by creating a sense of weightlessness, to drink more in the morning consider these words , heat, color, stereo /cut/cut/cut.
Leave me to kill infinite time, the desire remains. I tend to relive small things and am capable of poetry. Logical precursors have escaped my lips but the evolution of the days progress. I was not the rapid advance of the sound and muscles, no one wants a concert now anyway. Time is like an old cassette tape that has been dubbed over and over again until the old sounds begin to bleed through like ghosts moaning at the agony of their own consciousness. The veil becomes transparent and you begin to wonder exactly who is operating the recorder. Not me, I am a ghost. My voice a symphony of muddy overlapping realities.