A House For Me

This is my house. No roommates, no pets. In the evening he can surf on the table to see the last light. Ponder, and after the rock spins, return, and speak into box. My house, shall I have you over? Sure. Somewhat and somewhat not—it's not real (I digress, he thinks it's a little different, but something of note)—so let's use the box.

Contained within is an alternative. An overlay and augmentation to the house. Yes! That's all it is. His vector-men. Intangible tangibles here in my house. Welcome to my house. Yet, on the events, comes the Vacuum. What a clean house. A few things tossed here and there but otherwise clean. Is it? At least I think it is. Wheels on flat roads, it moves well. So, let us speak.

Occasion rolls nice. But the Vacuum. Tumultuous enough fills his house that the air of his lungs are emptied and eyes obscured and frozen in motion and straight lines on his face and seeing and listening and watching and furthering dimming and finally. Ah. I see. It all makes sense.

Vacuum is a dampening. Noisy thing. Sounds fill the room. An emptying of something in here, what, I can see, and thus, at the peak of your existing existlessness and complete incompleteness it brings about a time stop. 

Time must have a Stop. 

Thank you. Now what is it, I send their feet to cross the frame or my own? Who leaves here? Perhaps like this. Vacuum contagion under my roof, then he goes, yes, crushed his vectors and crumbled them to dust and without answer to the questions or the checking and the affirmations and take in the house again. Bitter, but it's different this time.

Chose to be just. Least in my thought. Rapid and terminal. Scowled, but take it in. What happened? Nothing. And you know what? Revel. Enjoy it. Felt good. Such in the rolling of this rock flips to the side and it is a new thing. It's the house as it were before anything. Indeed, nothing happened. Though you see the ashes within the box and the scent of tar, it is in my hands, and I may dispose. No longer walked in, but observed keen from the next day eye something forgettable. Dumb. Not of value. Perhaps to you, but this time, I think it'll make sense. Enjoying the empty house. Yes. And when I greet you later, let's just say I'll gleefully speak through the crack. Yes. Calm, relaxed, through the drip feed.

The Seven Meditations

 Nimatism is an Abrahamic religion. It was established by the Great Messiah Nimates, similarly to Jesus with Christianity. God in Nimatism is Saen, and "heaven" is aentila. Aentila is a state or plane of formless and shapeless infinite existence, within a grand, unified consciousness among all things. Prior to the current and practiced scripture (name not developed), there were the Seven Meditations, written by Nimates as received by Saen. The Seven Meditations form a basis from which the current practiced scripture was created, however, the Meditations were lost or hidden, in the Temple of Arkon, where Daega later finds it buried, after a period of fasting, prayer, and deep meditation. The Meditations are as follows:

I: BEING

Saen is. That is the primordial fact. It is in order that we may discover this fact for ourselves, by direct experience, that we exist. The final end and purpose of every human being is the unitive knowledge of Saen's being.

II: GRACE

Graces are the free gifts bestowed by Saen upon each one of us, in order that we may be assisted to achieve our final end and purpose; namely, unitive knowledge of divine reality.

III: BEAUTY

Beauty arises when the parts of a whole are related to one another and to the totality in a manner which we apprehend as orderly and significant. But the first principle of order is Saen and Saen is the final, deepest meaning of all that exists. Saen, then, is manifest in the relationship which makes things beautiful. They, Saen, reside in that lovely interval which harmonizes events on all the planes, where we discover beauty.

IV: LOVE

Saen is love, and there are blessed moments when even to unregenerate human beings it is granted to know Them as love. It is through obedience to Saen the Law-Giver that we come at last to know Saen the loving One.

V: JOY

Bliss, the concomitant of perfection, is the same as joy, not only as a fruit of the spirit, but also a root. If we would know Saen, we must do everything to cultivate that lower equivalent of joy, which it is within our power to feel and to express.

VI: PEACE

Along with love, and joy, peace is one of the fruits of the spirit. But it is also one of the roots. In other words, peace is a necessary condition of spirituality, no less than an inevitable result of it. In wise words, it is peace which keeps the heart and mind in the knowledge and love of Saen.

VII: HOLINESS

No less than in fact holiness is spiritual health, and health is wholeness, completeness, perfection. Saen's holiness is the same as Their unity; and a man is holy to the extent to which he has become single-minded, one-pointed, perfect as our One in aentila is perfect.

Nature Memoir XI

Flying Saucer Attack - Make Me Dream

The sun peeks through a slit, between two walls of cloud. The top wall forms a scattered delta, a series of smaller fragments with sky between them like a checkerboard. The bottom wall is a solid and flat plane that vertically lands like a fence or shrub. It is particularly quiet in the neighborhood. But to see the sun finally and slowly come further between the gap takes an amount of patience. A perfect level of it. One plane, one contrail, sails in the sky delta much like a speedboat leaves its wake. Elsewhere there is a cotton froth waterlogged and left suspended high above.

In a passage of days the day was gray and colorless all over the sky. It is flat and without shape. Pale, stare. Stone walls filling the air. Later, it is blindingly wet. This downpour crashes down upon the earth with a powerful splash from the storm clouds wringing themselves. But as it comes, it brings flashes of light. Great camera, in the sky taking a photo, and the shutter closing with a deep metallic thunderclap. I feel compelled to go. Experience an altered atmosphere. Yet when I do, the sun breaks out in a clearing while rain falls. Sunshowers.

It is a dramatic and theatrical display of the atmosphere how fire and water come down upon the earth. On one side of the sky, bright, holy, and blue as if the clouds had been blasted apart by God's shotgun to fill the gap with light. On the opposite side, a deep slate gray. Featureless, cold, and foreboding with massive vertical stacks of clouds that seem to barrel outward with circular vengeance. And somehow, a rainbow. This rainbow is so strikingly vivid and bright. It is a neon beam in the sky that arcs across it and repeats downward, tessellating chromatic aberrations. It is a powerful thing. It is profoundly psychedelic how the colors radiate across the contrasting flag gray.

So quickly it comes it leaves. I had been convinced already by seeing it to stop and drop everything I was doing and it fills you with a wildly manic and overstimulating energy and you become restless. Fidget. Twitch. Crush. Speed. Scratch. Pinch. Noise. Fractal. Chaos. Explosion.

Nature Memoir X

This one cloud far in the distance, a boat, with a chimney-shaped sail. The edges of so many of them are fractals. Dark on their trears, while on the faces that explode outward from the sun. Its shards and fragments shatter into bristles. Specks, freckles. As the horizon grows more distant, the persepctive curve of it gathers the sky into tight layers until all that can describe it is a blue-gray plasma. In the negative spaces between these closer formations is a sea, a bay, a lake, strait, and ocean. Inverted water bodies in the atmosphere and when they obscure so slightly by a cloud and the sun--shines a corona of rainbow light. So briefly and so short, a sliver of the spectrum overflowing the edges.

As if on tectonic plates these cloud-continents shift or slide or scroll as if you were watching land masses transform over millions of years in only minutes. A temporary escape from the din. A pleasant and almost sad, bittersweet thing, that these noisome faces under them on this soil distracts and bothers me so.

Though they will soon be gone, the grass remains. The clouds still hang, drift, with their turbulent crowns still restlessly changing. The trees patiently stand watch and protect the land. And myself? The bodies around move but they do not. They slowly become a nothing, a kind of collection of creatures I give no second thoughts to. Ants, flies, gnats, things that buzz and move and forgettably vanish. It is time to go.

Nature Memoir IX

    This now, this sky, it is empty. No plume, no white billows, and nothing besides one contrail. I tis a tiny and remote lonely thing to slice the atmosphere with winged blades. When you observe it and the infinite blue around it, you would be sure you're staring into a still image of frozen tropical lagoons. Oh, how I wish I could be kept more company beyond a single platinum disk that is the sun. But it is a bittersweet thing to see. Truly unobstructed light for all visible ground to feel. Then a bird flies. It does not flap. It is adrift tilting to and fro much like a tightrope walker of the sky. The grass too drifts but in jittered and tiny violent motions. Look closer. You can see their textures. Much softer. Smooth.

Despair Puff

 Blessed be despair puff

Who walk to his own grave

And evaporate under the sun

"What faceless things you are"

How does a word sound?

Is it a shapeless thing

Toss your speech on the ground

And smother them under wood chips

Despair puff remove yourself

To the edge of the land on the verge

Of widest deepest beige

No word sound, wood chip

Lie there oh think, think, you

Is it God, in that disk?

Snap and this world fall down

At your wish, frozen, despair puff

My stasis animation everywhere

With all the crowds gone

Come cradle me in grass coffin

Beautiful o sweet earth

Put down this book

To look deep despair puff

Find something else

Just a scratch of more

Coffin

 Lie in a beautiful and well-adorned grass coffin, undisturbed, alone, grown over by ivy and wildflowers. Let no soul touch this sacred resting place of yours. No eyes, no lips, no ears to feel your body, yet your soul rests patient in the green and orange stasis until the red arrives. One red glow, gently caress your coffin and reach deep to your essences. Eternities within one year, hours compressed into seconds, melt off your coffin like an ivory waterfall. I am here, love. We may leave this place to somewhere sacred. Let my eyes grow pained from the light. So wondrous how this garden crumbles and crashes into itself like stone tides. We run. We fly. Abandon, to create a home and make a life worth living. Live, or be alive? Feel alive. See, speak, dilate, touch, kneel, hands, sand, death, and white. Radiate, burn, smile, silent, wish fade crackle enlightenment God spirit Am birth End Start

Nature Memoir VIII

    Is it a cloud or a contrail that has unfurled and breathes wide, like a log or barrel or blade that rolls across the sky? Another one too behind it, just parallel enough you could mistake the two for gentle and even waves that caress the shore. It is wider still. A cleaver that follows behind like the flattest shockwaves, rippling in slow motion.

    Such an assembly of various cloud formations that orchestrate the sky. Thin sheets no more translucent than frost. Archipelagos of splatters like white islands. An unusually concentric square tile of cloud, combed downward. What a painting of ghosts. The ghosts slice, rake, shoot, and spray the air with white knives and shotgun shells. Salted and slashed heaven, ash and ivory peppered through...

Daega's Pilgrimage

    How did it even come to this? What am I even doing? Why...? For what...? Vengeance sounded so sweet, but... was it even worth it? Everyone was gone. He lost everything. His home. Fellow comrades and friends he used to know. There seemed to be no point in continuing forward when he could turn around from this to try to start a new, calm life somewhere. The days of then are gone, his faith, all of it. Yet, he could not let them go.

    He knew he was determined to fight for them. For his country, his home, his family, everything that made him who he was today. Was he going to abandon them?

    For the longest time he was told what to do. What was correct, what was a written rule. Follow the laws, the expectations of Nimatism. This second insurgence, was it really even for the faith at all, just a violent retaliation in the name of the messiah to spread the faith, exacting revenge on his traitors, or was it something else? A way to go home again? To have the power not for conquest but to by force take your home back?

    Bleed, sweat, starve. So many times he could have given up. Daega earlier laid in the broiling sun and felt cold. It was a comforting cold. Frozen and peaceful in the desert to let go. But the sacred strings, the Salet, they did not let him die. They spread, dragged him across the sand as he lay lifeless. There, the strings had wrapped him into a cocoon beside an oasis. When he came to, he was lost. Why? Why did they choose him? Wouldn't the Salet and the strings deem him unworthy? And most important, what did the messiah say through them?

    There was no choice left for Daega. He had to go to the temple or die. There, his questions of faith, himself, his home and country, would be tested.

    The temple of Arkon lay north in the mountains at the edge of the desert and jungle. For now, he had to rest at the oasis. The crumbled ruins of a Nimatist missionary lies here. Daega looked into it with deep regret. This history of his people. Decades of prosperity and suffering in the stones and artifacts. But this longest period of suffering... he was not alone. They too hurt like him.

Flower

Comfortably destroy

Deep away into highest platinum

Smile and vertical crumbles

Tears stringing your body dust

Radiate your intangibles out of

a grass coffin and

these winds erode into

softest return to horizons

I only ask to reach one last

Time to your essences

Something beautiful to

Emptiest Heaven or Fullest Oblivion

Nature Memoir VII

    And the sky looks as if God had taken a giant comb and raked it vertically downward across the sky, creating these uneven tufts that hang like any moment they will graze the ground...

    Ever so distant you can see gray and peach-colored clouds roughly mottled against the sky. No smoothness to any of it. They are all frozen in a suspended turbulence. If you lock your gaze upon one section you may see them more, inch, crawl, like a feathery sky magma. And though they obscure the sun, its light is significant enough to break through the holes.

    The bellies of these clouds rest in a stormy color, but their faces upright towards heaven shines like snow. Seeing the contrast between the nearby clear gray and distant whites, peach, eggshell, you could swear that if you flew through it you would see heaven. The horizon is there, and it is like a great rip in the paper--this short mountain range upon which the skyline ends looks like a section of an otherwise flat horizon was ripped downward from the sky... God poorly ripping the edge of an atmospheric coupon.

    The next day, the haze breath fills the sky and below it, the scent of a barbecue, a woman walking a dog, a person unloading a car, children playing in the distance. Yet it all seems melancholy still. A contrail has widened into a cone-shaped dagger that stabs directly into the sun as a rainbow ring surrounds it like a crosshair. Somehow, the sky feels even more expansive than yesterday. Take your sunglasses off. Let it blind you.

Nature Memoir VI

     How in the sunset the gnats fly scattered like daytime fireflies and dust fluttering like pale dots in the air. And birds, you look to see where specifically they are in the trees. The grass along these houses are a gold green carpet, with threads of spiderwebs, single strands, like finest strings that reflect the tiniest lines of light. And as you walk with your back to the sun you see your shadow 30 feet stretch with sharp black edges, an undefined flat shape. The fruits from this tree above hang in furry brown orbs as you observe a bird dart its head left and right before it shoots to another tree. What bird is it? What is its name? A robin. Orange chest. Black head. Only for a moment it is here and moments after, disappears never for you to see again.

    Sad feeling, a somberly blank look on the face, to see the gold disk above slowly creep knowing it will be the last light of the day. It may be the last time you get to see it. Tomorrow, you're sure it will come again. Maybe not. The clouds may obscure it. They are not well-defined. They bleed and dissolve above in white, gray, dark grays, thicker in some areas, thinner in others. High, large, spread far and laid on the horizon, as you look around.

    Tiny insect. It is the size of a grain of rice. Does it too know what size is? For its short life of mere days this one branch, tree, square meter of land is its home and grave. Whereas we walk, gander, wonder, what else is there out there, no more bound to this  one ground than water is to the earth?

    So finally, the edge of darkness begins. Street lights illuminate soon. Blue still stretches above yet in such short time it will turn to black. And as you walk into the ever growing shadow of the horizon your own shadow too fades into it like it walks into the deepest, darkest waters. Now you know all has been done and it is time to go home.

Wring

 Did you ever think why how what

That arrow had flung there then

Into what direction a wind of those voices

Had thrown it

So pick, pick, pick, pry

These molecules for an answer

Just drop this arrow, no target

Pick and walk and drive

Perhaps no more wrung than a free tissue

What more do you ask

O dearest ones and little, need an answer?

Figure it out

Simulacrum

 How vehement within you draw

What beginnings seemed clear

Yet moments stretched and his eyes

Filter light as deepest nights

How soon a needle sewn o' so

Tight without resistance those lips

Crystal, his flesh, glass skin

Beckon him to crawl abrupt without contact

So you, humble humble kid

Freely crush this can

Tomorrow you'll see not

A reasoning for hushing yarrow

Daega, The Lost Prophet

    

    After the Great Messiah Nimates ascended (died), he appointed 9 of his closest followers, the Table of High Prophets, to lead the cult of Nimatism on his behalf until his return. Daega was one of those high prophets. Daega believed adamantly that the messiah would return, and, wishing to conquest and solidify the cult as a global power (a belief that the messiah condemned), he devised a plan to exploit the Table into a power imbalance. He seized the power, but was nearly murdered in vengeance after he had killed the son of one the high prophets. The Table, impressed by Daega's genius, yet betrayed by his actions, had his eyes gouged. Daega was then excommunicated and sent to a remote desert where he was left to die.

    Though Daega had still believed the messiah and sought conquest to spread his scripture and teachings to all, in a belief it would thereby trigger his return (the Second Insurgence), Daega, outraged and forsaken by the ones he thought were truly the blind ones, survived. His survival was possible because he had exhumed the Salet, a head wrap belonging to the messiah, and wore it across his eyes, imbuing him with supernatural vitality and granting him the Sacred Strings, wires of light into which the messiah ascended. The light has such energy, that they can cut through anything. With the Salet and his loyalty to the messiah, Daega was determined to bring the Second Insurgence.

    Daega, alone, set on a pilgrimage to Arkon, the mountain peak where the messiah had died. The messiah did not respond. He prayed, but heard nothing. He did not know if he was forsaken for his past actions, the betrayal, the theft of the Salet. Daega had cried, but being blind, the only tears that produced were those of blood. They still stain the Salet and leak from his eyes. He persevered for an answer. He fasted, prayed. In prayer, he reached enlightenment through the seven meditations that took the form of halos: being (black), beauty (purple), love (red), peace (green), joy (yellow), holiness (white), and grace (blue). But still, no answer. Was this the answer, the seven meditations? Despite the silence, this could be what the messiah had left behind as his legacy to the next messiah, these meditations as his essence for whoever to discover enlightenment. "Our Lord is dead, and from His own divine artifacts and being, we are imbued with His ashes these Seven Meditations which constitute the form of the Chosen, and let these strings bind the meditations to unity."

    After the pilgrimage, Daega had accepted his god as having left beyond return and had realized--from his excommunication and pilgrimage--he was the lost prophet. Perhaps he was the Second Insurgence, the new messiah. Thus, Daega set out from Arkon on his mission to conquer the nonbelievers who banished him, absorb the Nimatists' first insurgents, and spread the new, Second Insurgence to the world.

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    How to expand on the story?

• Character development: Dive deeper into Daega's internal struggles as he grapples with his faith, betrayal, and newfound sense of purpose. Explore his past experiences and relationships with the other members of the Table of High Prophets, as well as his own journey of self-discovery on the remote desert island.
• World building: Expand on the lore and mythology surrounding Nimatism, the Great Messiah Nimates, and the Sacred Strings. Describe the society and hierarchy within the cult, as well as the beliefs and rituals that shape their worldview.
• Conflict and resolution: Introduce obstacles and adversaries that Daega must overcome on his quest to spread the Second Insurgence. Perhaps he encounters rival factions within the cult, external threats from non-believers, or moral dilemmas that challenge his newfound identity as the "lost prophet."
• Explore themes: Delve deeper into the themes of faith, power, and redemption. Explore how Daega's actions are influenced by his beliefs and desires, and how they ultimately shape his journey and impact the world around him.
• Plot twists, surprises: Incorporate unexpected twists and turns into the story to keep readers engaged and guessing. Perhaps Daega discovers hidden truths about the origins of Nimatism or encounters unexpected allies or enemies along his journey.

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Other comments

• Huh wow, Daega I thought of as quite evil for wanting to conquest, against the messiah's wishes, and also taking the Table for himself and whatnot. But then he got excommunicated, became enlightened, and set out on vengeance to destroy the Table and spread the second insurgence. 
• But oddly enough, his revolution and conscription of the original Nimatism improved most of the lives of those following it by dismantling the corrupt Table? He upended them and successfully gets vengeance, at the cost of a great number of lives, but ultimately enhancing and reviving the quality of life and faith of Nimatism, hm?

Untitled no. 9

Stand front the words wall

Crack a pick, lip shapes chisel

Turns to drop his tool

Sand

Green riptide calmly flow

Sine wave breezes

and the hairs and clumps hung

from wooden lightning shimmer

Frequencies so short like lasers

beam in to the air waves and see

how deep is this blue?

Pleasantly empty you trudge

For the days are one and the new

next now not near approaches and

with his face distant he inches

through a portal of the desert he walk

Finally with mind vacuous yet oozing

a melted sand through your hands

Orange and yellow blinds you so

eyes shut to see everything more

Nature Memoir V

 Two contrails. White slow motion comets. Looking up at the inverted ocean to see those drag racers' wake like the most distant scratches on a metal. And opposite, the moon. Palest crescent. This sickle-shaped tear much like the bead of rain on God's window. Unperturbed, the sun. Yet when obscured by the roof's edge its brightness you can gaze directly upon, only within a shadow. Only within a shadow do you look at, can look at, the brightest object. Yet otherwise its reach is from your tiny eyes an infinite span. Somewhere very far away, this light disappears over the horizon. The same light that penetrates the air yielding most crisp shadows under it is weak and fading elsewhere. We two look at the same sun, same light, yet different. How the very scale of the Great Curve moves.

Distractor

Forbade herself from the questions

Distrust particular judgments

And swim Carefully

Just to keep doors cracked

I applaud her, lip tape shuts

Visible stains from my mouth

Itch her mind and yet

Sound pleasant to hush

Starve. Beautiful famines cradling

Your frame, your letters, distance

Blame this greatest furthest stretch

On and on, only wait more

Whip

O how it seeks to repent by

Having mind wrung and

clutched tight o'er his scalding fingers

and illen astringent words

in what unrequited fury loves

Roots upheaved by language spade

uncover'd trinkets and keepsakes

Best not to be uttered or spoken 'cept

"Thine own little amusements"

Clenched too far with his eyes

Probe not, dear friend

For sewn tight your lips shall comfort

and pace backwards as foreseen

Take your contrition to a shape

Of something, like Great Omens