The Sourcerer Treu

…walking through a misty brown-green grey-blue, path zigzagging behind a subtle logic I can barely follow from one halting step to the next—just a dim sense of which way to head, like my distant ancestors first coming to depend on light sensitive tissue—I moved through metaphors more than terrain, hoping the stimulation to motivate proto-tissue to bulge and ramify—spiral stepping down through root distinctions.

Navigating the ancient forest became an unending slipping across rocks oozing dark green moss as if from hidden organs; climbing over and under rusty brown dead fall at one stage or another of metamorphosing into seas of churning insects; giving wide berth to stinking patches of brainy mushrooms wafting dizzying fragments of thought.

It’s a soup of mysterious portent as much as any forest; something about the lay of the land, the arrangement of fauna, even the noises of the animals… the forest is hiding something for which it is the map.  Events, relations, things that normally went unnoticed were becoming decisive contours of a multivariable equation whose approximation was my dawning purpose.

Tendrils of ominous significance swirl chaotically through waves of overriding wonder as my feet sink into the dark, dank soil: (one… two, one… two).  I’ve caught the tracks of the passing of a Great Meaning—my first—yet, as excited as I am, I cannot avoid the deep and unsettling feeling that I may be heading too deep—through a one way passage.  Only slightly less afraid than enamored of my goal, with trees pressing in to crowd out my shadow, and everything around me nurturing a suspicion that there are places best left alone, I move deeper.

And always, I come to the foothills of a mountain rising before me, so dense with leaf and cliff face that I only see shadow shifting into a higher darkness.  Moving up into the depths, sweat soaked, red of skin, breathing deeply, I become aware of my body again as never before.  I can reach out to k-no-w k-new layers until I fully grasp my hands and step into my feet.

I reach an elliptical meadow with a stone at one foci, everything in sight seeming to caress the being-there of it.  I am drawn to the place as one falls towards fate in the curved geometry of space time.

Large and clearly extending deep roots, the Stone bobs in the top soil like an iceberg, giving the sense of being ninety-percent out of sight, the ground seeming to swell up to it from the horizon.  Mounting the stone transformed from prosaic into mythical: beginning a man climbing a boulder, I journeyed through an evolving phantasmagoria of mythical persona’s, from gutter rats to demigods to Zeus’—a blur of silk and fur, steel and lightning—until, as for the first time on a throne long battled for, a new Ieye was born.

My awareness of how dependent identity is on embodiment’s environment refreshes.  I imagine the evaporate deposit of a sodium ion on the surface of a rock after a rain storm—a sort of mechanical paralysis—then I see the same sodium ion take part in the dance of nerve impulses going on in my mind, taking part in the life process that is me.  First seized by the contrast and consumed with intimate identification to the process of life, my mind broadens even further and I know the inanimate ions are merely awaiting birth into a life process; is by that fact already in the life process.  Perhaps a slug will ensnare it in slime before being eaten by a bird.  The entire Universe is alive or being brought to its birthplace: the Universe is alive.

The rock, my scepter into the      unconscious, whispers: trogoautoegocratic.  All things are eventually consumed by one who exists or one who is coming into being.  A thing makes itself from what it incorporates.  Structure and process are conjugate concepts: every structure is defined by its enfolding of unfolding-structure into itself as well as its own unfolding into structures enfolding it.   Structure over here unfolds into structure over there.  The world became a vast intricately folding origami protein.

The key to keeping together in this feast was learning to navigate the many kinds of digestion and things being digested.  I looked about myself enjoying this unique view of that which is.  The rock seemed to situate both physical and phenomenal space: looking one way I saw the world, another I saw myself; from the boundary stone each direction was horizoned by the Other.  Between Self and World my perception shifted, as a Necker Cube to striking falcon focus, tunneling infinitely into: I am of this stuff which I can shape.

Implications unfolded by way of a Broadway production of interacting meanings interchanging words dissolving into stage-play-absorbed geometry.  These realities, necessarily abstract in their textual form, were in those moments seen, heard, felt, smelt, lived.

Perceptions and dreams are to the same degree cartoonish re-presentations of a reality forever beyond the artifacts of perceiving: shapes borne by dim senses mating with suggestive noise.

Part of me sunk with the sun pulling its blue cloak from between the starry midnight sky and wherever I was.  Leaving myself to become myself in a new way in the semi-darkness under eternity,  I followed the light make the days,  that single now that energizes the moments that sound the footsteps of time; but then, in setting, the stars unveil eternity remembering itself weaving the daylight’s uniqueness into statistical equilibrium.

Trees loom, starlight excited leaves flutter and dance a breeze over me in a self-elaborating language:  Yours are the eyes of the Forest, Ambassador to the Sky.  Your warm-bloodedness shouts independence.  Ride this wave forever inoutward.  The distant stars exert their subtle gravity through your curiosity to reach them.

Swaying in the breeze as I read it I nearly jumped out of myself seeing someone seated sinisterly to my left.  Head tilted, paralyzed, like a deer standing frozen on a leaf-strewn autumn road as headlights bear down, coaxing guidance from vast and turbid foreboding.

A massive Self had ensconced itself, never minding the odd way it seemed to recede into the distance whenever I tried to focus on it in some way.  Nevertheless, certain details asserted themselves, such as the suppleness and density of the skin and a miasma of significance.  The corners of the eyes curved upward in a cunning permajoy that proved more unsettling than the appearance of the being itself.  A word popped into existence like a virtual particle in the vacuum of my mind: “elf”.  Seated beside me, and for all I could intuit I was not projecting some part of myself outward (having often frolicked in fields of figuratively flowering fauna I’ve found solid distinctions between reverie and reality), was an elf.  A big one.  A small one.  One not quite there while definitely there.

I was looking directly into the eyes, amazed in their black, sensitive mien.  The face and the eyes were self-similar in a nearly decipherable way and it was some time before I accepted that the eyes were gazing back too, seeing.

Moment of horror.

Clasp your hands in front of your heart and prise loose one last breath from fate, dear reader, for the same dragon’s yellowed teeth cradle your skull under jowls curved upward in a smile.

Forward and the world shifts ninety degrees from where it had always been before, into iridescent dimensionality.  Higher fate… meanings not bargained for… too much knowledge… too soon… the Seeker’s secret fear.  The elf’s eyes spoke: fear the mastery I bring to overcoming.  It was left for me to complete the circle: through me you will overcome, via struggle and hardship, the difficult obstacles in the way of your rising into new layers of existence. 

What have you mastered I was led to wonder

I have mastered mastery.  My approach is exponential.  I shorten the distance between things. I bring everything together

Who are you?

The Source-r-er, Treu.  A sculptor of perception to your marble of high quality.  Welcome to my workshop and my chisel

…the elf sorcerer Treu decomposed into perception-stuff, wedging into the very that by which my meanings are meaningful: perceiving perceptions.

___________________

Who’s this’elf poised just beyond everything particular?  A sorcerer?  An alien?  A psychotic split?  I’ve entered into Socratic kata with a dream of what I may be becoming where…

… are building into something.  Each step adds to an already ungrasped whole: I’ve no idea where to finally find this forest’s secret core or how I found it ‘fore…

6 thoughts on “The Sourcerer Treu

  1. […] it now, it will have perhaps an even more powerful impact.  I have a natural talent (even if my other writing doesn’t always exemplify it to you) for appraising a context of information with respect to […]

  2. […] too much paper?]).  I wonder if this means our paragraphs diverge in purport?  Perhaps it is a shortening of the distance between meaning?  If so, perhaps one could travel through the noosphere at a faster rate thereby? […]

  3. jeromeyers says:

    Actually, I have edited this thousands of times, and in reality, I can barely read it. Overall, it has become terrible. I apologize. There are pockets of what it used to be, but in all, I’ve mangled it beyond recognition. I could fill a book with past revisions.

    • jeromeyers says:

      I mean, revising the story IS a doing OF exactly what is described by the story. It is a story of writing itself (writing as experienced/done by jeromeyers).

      • jeromeyers says:

        Most importantly, the story has shifted over time and the real story isn’t this or that version, but all the versions taken together, to see the halting steps and the tissues ramify. The title is a place to organize a journey under. Perhaps the shifting content can be combined at the edges to form a continuous novel. That’s a thought.

  4. jeromeyers says:

    An analysis of this story looks something like: author describes his experience of searching out slash creating significance in a desolate world seemingly devoid of it. This is a cyclical process that kneads the same material over and over, thus why the story begins and ends with ellipsis – there is a continuation assumed – a ‘down through’ that keeps popping in the top and exiting the bottom of a chamber that slowly moves because of the action. The story is thus a sort of self-powered vehicle. But what is the ellipse and who’s the sinister elf about and what’s that about digestion and the stone and the mountain and the dragon??? The story involves ascending a mountain and perhaps the unendingness of the story is involved with the fact that nowhere in the story was it stated that the mountain was scaled, merely that a clearing was happened upon. Ascending the mountain seems to have something to do with the author stepping into his own body. The whole adventure likened to approximating a multivariable equation. With the multiple passes it is like each time through the story the clearing is a new clearing. The approximation is closer. The mountain is that much closer to being scaled. Hands and feet are that much nearer to one another. Who’s the elf? My shadow, the face of my unconscious, my unacknowledged parts projected outward – my blindspot. He’s to my left. He’s close. He’s far. He’s dense. He’s scary. He’s ambiguous. He jumps back into my blindspot, but has opened a dialog. We have some kind of communication now. We’re more aware of our mutual roles and that awareness advances and propels the journey.

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