There’s no moving on from Buddhism, just bouncing around to return as a sound you heard once before and once before that and probably once before that, but you can’t tell anymore. The latest little echo came via Carlo Rovelli, via Emmanuel Ravelli, via Maurice Ravel’s dad swimming in circles going nowhere fast around the vortex of death. Who knew who flew blue into new moon news? Not the Bolero man, not the half-wit assistant, but the witness to timelessness in acid Alice, riding the radio waves into a surfeit of surfaces, signalling emptinesses and then the intricacies of thermals and spinfoams, but you can’t ride those my friend—in the end you just bend your knees and ease into the world and then the next world. No severing the perseveration ever freezing the emergent person—just gotta be who ya gotta be and grasp all ya need without too tight a grip on the drip drip of relational bits dropping the drop of the shot tower into the pit of perfect particles making wonder waves, wonder waves making perfect particles. Knitting strings into things isn’t so fanciful now is it? You got the macramé hammock full of dreams—trauma of träumerei for the lazy bastard basting a lizard brain—and the cosy crochet bobble hat—a bubble full of certainty to rub-a-dub-dub with the finitudes of socio-foam. Foams within foams fractally yours fizzing into surfactant exhaustion—stick your fingers in and thrash’em around a bit to get that lather standing again, to lubricate a little more life, to ease the razor blade through the stubble, to resist descent into scum—the Dharma bums’ mission.
But fuck transitions, abrupt is the way of the it-all—corruptions, interruptions, ruptures, eruptions—all the volcanic magic of geographic tragedy written up in the kind of comedic monologue Plato—no friend to the poet—would have hated.
PERENNISPEREGRINATOR 