ORGANS WITHOUT BODIES: William Blake's

  

     If it were true, in the provable sense, that each being of any of us is multidimensional and that multiple/infinite dimensions exist, simultaneously (so that, everyone (you, me and everyone we know) could be and actually (presently) are in attendance at Leibniz's funeral -- rather than only his valet and the grave-digger, which historical records suggest) then it might be visible: the veritable genetic strings of who peoples be among the drifting skins of am.  And even I, in my anonymity, might be apparent, evident, knowable, visible, to all, for everything I've experienced, read, heard, loved, hated (grudgingly) and thusly known, named, taken from anonymity into nymity. All my experiences might be redeemable and "made good"... And these words at last -- understood.

  
     I used to believe in God, in the sense that the above might be true, even if unprovable, as if God could guarantee the truth: and maybe, back then, as a believer, I felt more free, more able to take risks, God only knowing the truth, within me. But the fallen angels continue you to fall into the heat death of the cosmos, I suppose, I surmise. Is this Walter Benjamin's angel of history? Like in one of Blake's paintings, that myth of regeneration (see above) as Chris Burdon pointed out, brilliantly waking me again to the woefully forgotten fact there is #Blake the painter and #Blake the poet, and how often we read one Blake without the other Blake, and each of us, in our complex music of being, similarly lost, depends on muses to orient, the isolate figures of who we are into one feather on a duck's butt...

   
     We are one weaving of feathers in a duck's ass or we are nothing. 

     
     We are all, somehow, the inter-weavings of one substance (albeit fracturable) and the work we do brings us to either love this special wonder of occasions and be thankful, or we find it ludicrous and irrelevant -- or we all is some lonely narcissus bending to the unreachable pond water. 

      I don't know how many markers make a path but the Gypsy pathetan thing is about seeing the patrin (forest signs) or laying them for the people of one's kind... (I do this, here, often, and I find they are removed, I know not where, by the enemies of our people, no doubt -- and it's painful to learn, that racism exists, that we do have enemies and that the people who do not recognize that there are those who want to hurt us also expose us to the danger... aha, that's the mouthful) -- But then again, one meets the maker, so to speak, alone. Charles reminds of Whitehead's take on the body, the organs themselves forming a society (Artaud is grinning over my shoulder). And so the body, of Albion Maybe, goes on dreaming. If each figure is itself a created being and has a soul... who is to say what's lost or saved by being released from the mortal coil?  The friends who might surround me are on permanent vacation...  Revolutions come and revolutions go -- orbits, bits of orbs, its, orbits -- whirl around absent hunting center -- the revolutions orbit true North in the absolute uncertainty of space being place... 

      "Reality has touched against myth
        Humanity can move to achieve the impossible
      Because when you've achieved one impossible the others
        Come together to be with their brother, the first impossible
       Borrowed from the rim of the myth"
              _Sun Ra_
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