the process of an image and other vapors, including sign off of terms and conditions

As it reveals an aspect of its nature in dreams, the sub-conscious mind generally facilitates the complicated,  concatenated, then suddenly immediate recognition of an image.  Previously just a blur, however highly resolved and finely etched that blur might be, a recognized image in fact is built of several carefully woven arguments, stories, and insights -- conjoined and purveyed by methods that once uncovered seem like madness before their convergence finds the light, reaches toward it, branches, and flowers into the image to justify this mad tangle of its roots.  

(Reading the mongrel discourse is like gardening, don't bother if your knees don't bend, and you'd prefer to purchase a braincercize program when you could get better braincercize, with the attending surge of seratonin, here and also plant world saving seeds.)   

The metaphor of the plant is a very effective one, as the plant  itself is self-similar.  Now the metaphor previously aligning the image with the flower,  moves to bring an adjacent aspect into focus.  The story, devoured by time, is tragic,  the root tangled and confused, the stem thorny, even the rose, she soon goes, but the image in which her eternal return is promised, her persisting in her progeny proleptic, is everything reclaimed immortal replete in the beginning forever, we are living its dream of awakening and redemption.

I hope by sometimes seeming mad and in any case unpredictable methods impossible to make sense of before the image is glimpsed to facilitate the recognition of an image revealing itself rooted at the instant of its release, the mourning period's concluding with bursts of cosmic laughter raining down glitter over everything, then suddenly gazing down to dissolve into despair in that denial of the fading of the present rose, the dark roots still in place, that denial that must be broken to sustain the dream immortally and the immortal ecstatic release -- only true lovers, the spiraling strands that suffer this spiraling,  or believers in it unwilling to let go until they find it, love life enough to sustain it immortally; whether or not these aspirations can be realized is irrelevant; we live according to them either way.

 the image absurd, yet made solely of empirical evidence rearranging itself and locking part to part as in a puzzle to reveal this work in progress, this evolving, ever more fleshed out image  transparent to its own, always lively appearance, even as it exists all at once, frozen, as all images are, but, as will eventually appear as we here dial down  the act of recognition to slow motion, they are only in the act of freezing, and recognition can be reversed, to melt them.  It's good to master reverse, so as to be able to go forward when you need to rest from novelty, as the image, or more properly, the appearance, versus the appeared (which would in that instant have disappeared) must keep appearing to stay apparent, and this process of continually appearing out of nowhere keeps it alive, to shimmer and vibrate, to unfold, to explain itself and other things, grow ever deeper, more saturated,  replete, and consummately visible, assuming different forms that are all consummately itself.  indeed by entering into and guiding recognition, appearance reclaims itself as such, vision becomes visionary, the opposite of mechanical scanning to trigger almost instantaneous and almost instantaneously exhausted rote response to memorized signs or novel ones engineered to generate such specific responses, attended by words as swiftly and easily processed.  The consummation of the visionary, the redemption of the world, lies not in the shattering of images, but in the reformation of their formation.  This process is the death of dualism, even dualism's opposition to its death, all terms undergo birth death constantly recycling toward the constant regeneration of the image from the parts it constantly fuses and gives rebirth to.  There is no other escape from dualism, least of all in professions and demonstrations of opposition to it.  It only dies where it is reborn, in a recognizable image, the highest thing if swum in, the lowest if scanned, the caveat for works of art will shortly be addressed.   Dualism ends only where there's a risk that everything else does, and it survives.  C'est la vie.  Nothing that goes in the mouth isn't kosher, only what comes out of it might well not be.  Whatever your degrees, don't toy with truth.  Beware works of art trying to help you or maneuver you into right reading, take away your choice, which is to obviate the best choice, love, which can't be forced.  I will give you an image of the world reflected in very particular works of art that encapsulate its nature, an image that is a consummate image offering you maximum freedom, and you decide whether to rape it, punish it, tease it, marry it,  ignore it... and you can keep changing your mind. How beautiful is that?  God bless Anerica.  And Renaissance Italy.  This is a spaghetti Western.

The madly driven, but as if through molasses, revelatory, visionary text, evoking, where applicable, the usual often dire and prohibitive symptoms of withdrawal from addiction, including, if endured, attacks of dangerous elation that often signal imminent relapse, unfolds sequentially in time, yet must be understood interactively in space,  requiring suspension of judgement and disbelief, and develops in darkness only imperceptibly mitigated for some time, as the brain chemicals do their work soaking up all the angles equally and thoroughly until the exceedingly recalcitrant, in this case, photograph begins to appear on the film.  

Unlike surrealistic texts that imitate the unconsciously directed dream, this one is related to what is called in Tibetan Buddhist practice, lucid dreaming, but that practice is applied to dreams during sleep, although the Buddhists teach that when awake we are also dreaming.  I do not affiliate particularly with Tibetan Buddhism, but rather I avidly practice, in fervent faith, among any other more official affiliation, roamin catholicism (peripatetic all inclusivism) and by this faith and the complicated practice of roamin catholicism, involving much study, initiation rituals, pilgrimages etc., assembling and integrating forms of knowledge, purveyed as memoir, philosophy, poetry coalescing in a language of its own, spontaneously formed to the necessarily circuitous and densely woven, layer on layer, revelation of the aforementioned image, and in the practice of this language and in the unfolding of this image, one day my waking life, including you and me, began to reveal its nature as something like a lucid dream, mine, and maybe everybody's.  I have not been able to tame the mix of genres and moods, and I am too close to it to see the whole as it curves around, like the universe, to complete itself, to judge it.  I feel that because it is dictated by the untamable truth it must be un-tamably beautiful, in the romantic, versus the classic vein.

Please read this preliminary introduction, including this paragraph, a few times and keep it in mind as a kind of map, however the map gives about as much information about the land as a very carefully written, honest bio on a dating app prepares you for the actual man, and by now you should definitely be on your guard, ready to expect anything, however a year later you might say -- I was ready to kill you on the first date, not to mention the tenth, but actually that bio is pretty good. 

Professional artists are admonished not to wait for inspiration, just get to work.  By that definition, I stand a chance to be a professional painter, but I am in no way a professional writer, too inspired.  This writing is driven by inspiration, and when inspiration stops, so does it.  Not that it can't work the other way around, as words and paint, say, are very inspiring if you just start laying them down.  But when I'm not inspired to begin to write, I just thank God I've got fifteen minutes to clean the house, or paint! uh oh too late.  I'll never be a professional!  sigh

Perhaps that's enough for today.  Rome was not built in a day, as they say.  And even if you could get this over with soon enough and still get it, which you can't, you don't want to get this over with.  You want this to last forever. 

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please, on completion of this paragraph, read the disclaimer and terms in the second post in the list, "the work in progress as such". Then sign, indicating you have done so -- our connection is touch sensitive -- above the line at the close of this paragraph.  Keep in mind that the truth everybody is seeking, or should be, is constantly camouflaged,  like the marvelous octopus with brains all over its body, transparent to everything, everything itself, on reflection, a kind of self-similar swarm of starlings rising into forms that dissipate in the instant of coherence, forms that cloud readers may identify without failing to distinguish the identifications from the starlings, however startling sometimes the resemblance, as when literal starlings took the form of a giant starling when gathering over Rome*. Admittedly, mainly for psychological, but also for physiological reasons, it may be hard at first to follow a servant and cipher to the forms instantly dissolving in the instant of coherence, and the starlings already swooping into new ones. but just remember that you are a true captain and this medium is your true home. You'll soon -- perhaps you need to throw up and get it over with -- find your sea legs in the rising and falling ever re-forming swarms as you warm to the text's texture like, or as, a mermaid washed ashore finally making it back, and flopped into the water in great relief, hopeful that your beloved will follow suit.  So to imitate life, as mirrors are both as beautiful as what they reflect, doubling the beauty in the world, and useful in its correction, just imitate the octopus imitating the contingently identified starlings.  My sacred calling is to bring the octopus etc. into view, it's up to you -- it took a long time for me to rustle up this posse of readers born for the rodeo --  to wrestle it down and find a way to feed it to the people.  Not that I'm saying you should necessarily do that to its mirror in the lowly, fallen realm "below".  Did Plato ever say that the realm above is literally above?  I doubt it; at least some perfect circles and hexagons clearly arose and linger "below", hidden inside the imperfect ones, intermittently sneaking to the fore, but slipping behind their imperfect masks before anyone can nail them. Just so, the perfect octopus just putting up a show, but actually unresistant to constant recycling and rebirth is among us,  but the perfectly coherent image of it only appears sidelong, and the frontal view we're used to is an intractable blur.  A more intelligent being than we are, one watching or one that we are cobbling up, might one day comprehend the mechanical principles of this three, four, or more dimensional anamorphic surface. This voraciously evolving, typed up text, still boggled, but working on the problem, is beginning to look like such a distantly imminent animal. All children stray to the side and see the octopus transparent to the starlings translucent to the things themselves,  they climb on its back as it soars through the waters; but moderns or adults teach them that the octopus etc. is imaginary, and so is the coherent oceanic world it swims in, outside of time.  In a vicious trick, facilitating this shattering of the faith of children in their own perceptions of the actual truth, this shattering that the sacred text finds so deplorable, adults having banished the real one once upon a time, dress up as Santa Claus, from the land beyond the authorized angle of vision, so the children will believe until they are old enough to notice, and in debunking the imposter, debunk the original, long banished Santa Claus himself. Admittedly many play Santa Claus for less cynical reasons, in nostalgia for the banished one, who intermittently occupies them when they imitate and play him, like the things do the starlings and the starlings the octopus, spiritually, which would mean somehow materially (e=mc squared) when they assume the disguise, so that, for their health and happiness, children may float around in their primordial knowledge in this confined, controlled arena until they're big and savvy enough about the "real world" to get into, or even make, serious trouble.  Among these less cynical adults, some viscerally remember the actual perfect octopus seen sidelong in their childhood, and various cults extoll it. Though the preservers and restorers tending the blur in the frontal view have no idea of the full extent of the good they're doing, by the not yet cracked code of this advanced anamorphic translation, this also preserves and restores the perfect octopus and the oceanic world that never blurs at any resolution, however these commonly identifying as blur exclusivists might well deny the existence of any other monkey (as opposed to artificially categorically consistent property) business and scorn all but the most vaguely, innocuously, only personally reverent to their childhood experience, as these blur exclusivists humbly intone -- it's all a blur, but don't worry, we're majorly micro-managing the situation.  You may scorn them back, if you happen to be a member of an octopus cult of one or many, but such membership, however active, does not suffice, and could even, if that's become a comfort zone, be fostering resistance to fostering, in relation to all the others, the commensurate quantum leap that would bring the perfect octopus etc. into at least fleeting public focus, instantly revealing the underlying reason for the blur's blurriness and all its formal features, releasing all the good that could come of this. Indeed to execute such a leap, a public glimpse of the perfect octopus in the sidelong view is rightly demanded in a scientific age. Yet it's hard to get past the guards at the boundary of the frontal angle of vision, beyond which, so secular legend holds, based on statistical analysis of billions of examples revealing only a few exceptions due to the explicable intervention of artistic caprice,  the blur otherwise bursts into a new level of total hopeless blurriness resistant to all micro-management, quite beyond the focusing potential of the human eye; to claim you've more than speculated otherwise, you, an adult who, like ee cummngs, still believes in, and makes cogent arguments for the existence of Santa Claus, must sacrifice your so called sanity credentials.  This used to elevate you in the childish artist community, but today, given the no longer cold war between the blur exclusivists and the octopus cults, both behind closed doors instantly exiling from the back room, any harboring compunctions -- one doesn't defeat Hitler by playing the good guy, that comes later, as Hitler assured everybody -- the blur exclusivists have managed to lasso and corral almost every sprightly colt in the art community, constantly target advertised to by game changing, life altering tooth whiteners and anti-aging face creams that can only take you back to yet more grown up middle age, anything but ee cummings' cogent arguments for the existence of Santa Claus that I'll bet you nobody but I by now has ever heard of, or if they ever did, they forgot.  The effective prohibition of investigation, on pain of exile to the realm of  madness no longer honored -- indeed, when the authorities start arresting us, you will likely be squeezed like Chinese sardines in the public swimming pool up against millions dishonorably pouring their hard earned cash into highly successful corporate enterprises run by gurus that make minor or major killings selling this manner of madness, when the octopus prohibits this, and yoga with Adrienne, among others, including actual Indians, is free and just as good, but do send gifts, as is traditional -- into the validity of the octopus hypothesis compels even potential believers to allegiance to the blur exclusivists. To protect the public, any such statistical anomaly, such as the occasionally unveiled -- and quite constantly visible beneath a quite diaphanous veil -- physical appearance of a perfect octopus to the incorrigibly roaming eye of an idiotically inclined individual, must instantly be dubbed an enemy of science and dispensed with accordingly. Until you're ready and able to fight away the fog that you've been hypnotized to observe the instant you stick your hand outside of the authorized angle of vision, you must learn of the outer realm by hearsay that can't hurt you here, so hear it out.  To it, everything here is turned inside out; what seems at first amusingly then soon exhaustingly superfluous, is essential.  Hang in. and in and in and in. The message is in the medium, and  your littlest toe knows just by the sound of my voice and the rhythms of my sentences, that I speak the truth. Forget the rest. Trust your littlest toe.  Your littlest toe recognizes and surrenders up all its prejudices and preconceptions that this could never happen in our lifetime, if ever, fully to embrace in abundant joy the amazing fact that the delightful. almost purely musical music of truth has once again occupied lowly language in the living vernacular tongue, however somewhat Victorian, but if the king's English is contemporary enough for Bob Dylan, it's contemporary enough for me. The purely musical music of truth, like, and as, Mozart's is "able to say the most serious thing in the lightest possible way" just as it exists more to hear and share the twinkling sound of its own starry voice than to burn Don Giovanni in hell,  however the music of truth is irrevocably driven, despite all attempts at delay, to that end.  However baffled be the rest of you, check in with the axis of energy in your little toe.  Does it not vibrate in affirmation of all of this?  Is it not keen to hear twinkle twinkle little star sung thousands of times on every different piano in the world a little differently, as is already transpiring, yes, the endless concert of littlest fingers has begun, as the grown ups that even infants have become cover their ears, and only the fetuses smile, as when Mozart went out of style, but all the little stars still jiggle and giggle so sick of seeming only great balls of fire flung into the void as envisioned by a madman who cut off his own ear, called visionary because his vision concurs with the telescopic views of the blur, in concord with its authorized preservers and restorers, however emotionally elaborated, and in this, possibly, a Trojan Horse, which theory would explain this sudden barrage of enemy soldiers raiding the headquarters of the blur-exclusivists. Ask your yoga teacher, who will affirm the ultimate affirmer. Reclaim your littlest toe, however it feels for a while itchy and annoying, and you have reclaimed yourself. The last is first.

I have carefully read the paragraph above and the post entitled the work in progress as such and understand (no need to deny it, only I can see the signature) and agree to the terms.

*or as when one of the starling forms, formed of a some slow (to us) moving, ignited sparklers that are the starling stars, culminating in the ship guiding North one, so persistently appears in the form of a soup spoon, accompanied by another, little one, mama bear's and baby bear's, given the corresponding sacred text spiraling in on that same point -- with the failure of humanity in this department its greatest, least advertised shame, until it finds a new target, and by this, an actor like a mother looking and thus getting excited too, or maybe it's vice versa, is able briefly to interest the toddler in a new toy, only Bono keeping his eye on the ball and resisting this mildly effective, but un-strategic tactic, fortuitously doubling as self-advertisement, while further weakening the public moral fiber  -- a cloud reader like me can't believe the octopus isn't trying to tell us something. 

the reader_________________________

Parenthetical Welcome!