Soul Power

The light pours in, an awakening, a beginning, a being. An abundance of inexplicable sensations alter the light and a pattern emerges.

In the beginning, the Goddess of Everything
rose naked from Chaos

The warm watery night turns cold vision. A fog is lifted and anxiety is increased. Surviving the night requires heat. Light provides the stimulus that keeps life going through the night, stored in afterimage. The nourishment lasts from daylight to daylight, from sunset to daybreak. White light on the shores of dream.

Sparks are flying and ignite the terrestrial regions. The heat has a force of its own which grows steadily, a juggernaut. Light and heat can be created at will. The ambitious mind has started a fire that will burn the world. Insect culture grows stronger. It takes over the daylight and would have everything the same. But it is rotting at the core. The darkness is the refuge and brings forth strange visions, strange vices.

It comes with Clouds and Fire and Cooling Rain, with Ocean Calm, Cleansing Winds and Burning Sun.

Left lonely in the darkness, peering into the light which has been robbed, appropriated, stripped, debased, and made cancerous, the night holds its promise like my marker which I mean to make good. I must find the source. I look under rocks, in alleys, in doorways, in empty cars. In desk drawers, in tight jeans, in controlled substances, in movie houses and strip shows. I hunt down leads found on park benches, library shelves, on candy wrappers. I let myself wander, hoping to come upon it unaided. I try to let go, to gain a better hold. And yet elusive it is. Hard to find, hard to know.

When you're sure you've got your hand on it, a firm hold, it is your member you are grabbing. When you think you understand some basic part you are turned the wrong way. Moving faster drains your strength. Slower and your head turns to stone and your feet to lead, your lions crumble and blow away. With no support, what remains falls into the dust. The desert engulfs you, accepts you, loves you. The desolation wants company. Its numbers are its strengths. None can ignore the mass. All the stones murmur at once and you fall in slow motion.

Stirred into Motion, the Shadowy Murk divides in Desire.

I feel myself going down, my head going down as if pushed from behind, pushed down to the ground. I see the earth moving slowly towards me. A black hole opens up and I fall in.

I am aching, champing at the bit. I am naked. The pressure is building. I am grinding away at myself, marked for death. I've got it coming and I like it. In every moment something sacred is at stake. I cannot sit and wait, I must pursue. I am rushing the cosmic delta. I am after the thing in the night, the fuel to burn through it. I seek the black fire that soothes the soul.

I am excited but a bit uneasy. I am hoping my action, my energy can outdistance my nausea. I must put it behind me, I must move away. I am racing, blood pumping, arms pumping, muscles straining, lungs gasping and yet I cannot move away. I am further and further behind. With every step I become less and less, the nausea becomes more and more. I am near the end,

I can fall no more.

From out of the Deeps there arose a Circle shaped in Spirals.
Coiled within the Spirals lies a Snake

Steam rises from its coils, with slit eyes cold and impenetrable. I approach it with head bowed, eyes averted. I grope towards it. I try to feel its presence. If I see it, it will change. As my eyes focus upon it, its skin petrifies and it secretly moves on. So I stumble towards it arms outstretched. I bow to its glory. I worship its mystery. I am breathless. I know this must be annihilation.

I am Born in the Infinite Disorder of Prayers*

But this was not the end. Voices saved me. Music saved me. A simple memory saved me. An image that was impressed in my mind. I could not quite recall it, grasp it or resurrect it. But its presence gave hope. It was all around. Behind all things, all moments. All visions and all vices, all joys and sorrows. So powerful was the vision that it was ringing in my ears, like the mother of voices. And the image, almost forgotten yet ever present.

Afterimage, soul power in the darkness

— Daniel Voznick ©2000

*from "A Thousand Thousand Times" by André Breton