Across The Perilous Line, Series I (for Harvey Bialy) Interval and Legend The avatars of everyone put themselves up for sale. The ghost of the Bank rides in like a grand tsunami. Wrench Boy and Hammerhead hide in their atmospheres while their avatars join the line to get a job crushed into grease-gray workhouses, crammed into bomb-shelter bunkers. Crystal unimagined, if not quite yet unimaginable; Black Box but the thought of the schemers; Black Lake inaccessible or mooted with rumors of ubiquitous contaminants . . .  Fade away. The lie that no longer dignifies labor. You cannot take out a room in The Old Hotel. You trade in spurious opals. You mute your African Rattles. Hand over mouth or choke rag. Smash crystals with hammers manufactured out of far harder crystals. No one to work the garden. Productive Order spasms to melee. No tunnel to Black Lake. Intelligence trapped in its own loop, its own exaggeration. Humanity transmuted to a mule pack. Ghosts in smoky bunkers impossible to allay, screech howls through the head of Hammerhead trapped in his bunker. The Gorge grows. No new habit for Wrench Boy. He stares in the witch's pot to catch even a glimpse of his distant syzygy. What does he see? A jungle of re-wildered jaguars scotched with dry spots, grown sterile, a chest full of blood covered chizzels. And oh yes a coil of indestructible violets, a globe for a mole to make free. Across the Perilous Line 1 We should fade to the Old Hotel and sit in the dark with Wrench Boy as he stirs his cup and stares in his pot. Jaguar prowls about an utterly invisible garden-- its stump-post African Rattles, its resonance with a prior existence as a roiling gorge. Exaggerate African Rattles-- the chieftains too corrupt to organize exploitation-- till not only their noises are available for deployment by Wrench Boy, but what? We must organize employment for Melee, use the Loop itself to begin to think. Hammerhead: take out your chizzel. I will stir my pot, The Loop is not only cognitive melee. We will gather the ghosts and begin to compel the impossible-- once again shake out the African Rattles from where we sit in the dark affined to Africa in Ruins-- devise the implicate Program.  Assuming the ubiquity of melee, however the ghosts collude with a fragile if coercive systematic to wind the putative, universal coil; We know this: if Melee stirs the pot, Melee defines the work. Let the three confederates of the Loop tune their African Rattles and shut their mouths. Avatars are everywhere invisible to themselves-- Wrench Boy and the others too long have abandoned their avatars to inalienable complexities. They populate existence with ever-fading capacity for cognizance. They know nothing of Crystal. They struggle alone in the melee or in torrential bands whipped into functional arrangements by a system of dark loops that gather the forces released by African Rattles.  In the basements and the outlands of every old hotel the avatars of Hammerhead toil like mules. In the gorges ever-widening, in the strangling loops, the muted stumps of Rattles out of Africa-- even these flash stunted avatars. The globe is a melee of dark activity, the avatars of Jaguar traffic in the desiccated jungle. Melee is lost in her particulates. We must shake our rattles in secret so to contain their forces and Africa emit vibrations newly and new informations surface in the pot.  There is a secret opal cannot fade though hidden away, known in Wrench Boy's deep quiescence, whose quiet quality takes you to Black Lake, the limit to every fading. Violets ring its rim. Dawn thunders. Night fades. Moles gather. All this we must think as deep habit, apply chizzel, watch melee, trust rattles, set Jaguar to study the tunnels.  If I had a chizzel, the ghosts would turn to crystal. I myself would ride the Loop and propagate African Rattles.  The Old Hotel is built of adamant. The Green Fuse--melee--the Garden, where the Old Ones, liberated, liberate and grow new models of African Rattles and circulate green gem words through a perpetual loop. Across the Perilous Line 2 But the avatars will not self-liberate, enthralled by their own productivity or inured to hard work--invidious habit, as if each were not at all but the ghost of an enervated Wrench Boy-- a Wrench Boy staring in a Black Pot insensate to Crystal or Opal. And the avatars of Hammerhead collapse with over-employment in the closets and scrub-rooms of the broken workhouse, their archetype transfixed by an opal.  Let us all go to the zoo and sniff the wallowing hippopotamus, happy mammal. She is about to swallow down a world in her motherly wet tooth-mouth. Happy the world to return to the wet hippopotamus wherein, long ago, the world came into being.  Habitude rules the garden, Black Lake but a sink of sick ghosts-- Jaguar, composed and fulfilled but inverted, sits to keep company with Wrench Boy on the muddy beach of a lily-pad stagnant black water hole at the long neglected unkempt heart of the garden. The mules kick around a huge opal.  Each episode of existence--an isolate-- a brick in an incoherent building. Will it fall? Or last for an inclement forever? No light in the bricks. Or become in some subsequent moment a particulate in another somebody's episode, wrought with another sort of quality? The wind itself whispers, whatever. No light in this brick-wise ontology. Or schematics organize some devilry of existence or narratology. Tell your tale in the darkness that informs it. But why? Why not smash brick with brick? Jump out of the hospital window. The hell with whatever ontology. Let the others be bothered with an alternative episode. Put money in thy purse. But see how ten birds in the garden, oblivious to taxonomy, had something to say to the grackle, that was kicking up a fracas in the flowering pink bush. Who was it, alert on the green chair that heard this--attention propaedeutic to healing. And the light came back without inversion of attitude or busy transition of episode.  I saw a mole who saw a ghost. I saw a ghost who sniffed a brick. And the brick propped up a mouth so as to liberate all the habitués of The Old Hotel. It wasn't enough. I saw inside a great opal a world of trudging mules. Across The Perilous Line 3 When Moles thinks hope fades. The Gorge is full of mules. What we inhabit is habits. Wrench Boy shuts his mouth but slaves to open again The Old Hotel-- its dusty chambers ridden with ghosts. No clientele in the neighboring gorge. His crystal hangs like a star in the muddy sky. He must dig a tunnel to Elsewhere. In secret he summons the mules that he sees in his witch's pot. O Wrench Boy-- would that Elsewhere might zoom through your tunnel. Let Crystal shoot through the loop and The Old Hotel be re-charged with light.  Globs and mules are secret assets. Mules do not concern themselves with Black Lake or make investments in opals, but they understand Moles very well. They know that work for The Old Hotel will reanimate old habits-- no new-fangled chizzels, no disingenuous discussion about magical crystals. Put your trust in Wrench Boy, his concern for your well-being will never fade. In darkness and circumspection open your mouth; examine your habits, O mules; pay attention to Wrench Boy. His empire is not of this world. Dissolve it--the world--with immediate crystals. In secret circulate light in your secret loop. Soon your dark bunker will rile with virtual jaguars. The Old Hotel will appear on the lip of The Gorge. Transmute old habits to a dance with the avatars of Wrench Boy. The town managers will clean up Black Lake. The Old Ones, dressed in white linen, bow to the clientele in the lounge of The Old Hotel, if but for a visionary instant in the quiet of the luminous loop, Wrench Boy, joyous in his evening habit.  Ah me, this is fine method-- of some use but exaggeration, like a dream from the heart of Violet. The mules in the pot in the Gorge-- the proliferation of slave-drudge avatars in rigors of condition-- no method at all for these-- the camps and the bunkers and their ubiquitous equivalents. But The Old Hotel in the mind is Possibility-- let this be Hammerhead's doctrine. It is at all events mine. For the rest-- vigilance and thought, thought and vigilance. Mere chance will come. Watch the pot. Court Crystal. Keep company with Moles. Study how to dig the secret tunnel to the light of The Old Hotel. You have the Loop. You have Wrench Boy and the principle of syzygy.  All this is writ in Red Book. The halls and garrets in The Old Hotel itself are transfixed by The Loop. Wrench Boy knows it. Its study becomes his habit.  The Archetypes take counsel in special chambers of The Old Hotel. A model coil, safe from any mole, an African Rattle, never made to sound, an African Rattle stored in special vessels, one in every room of The Old Hotel, invisible to any mortal guest of it, but containing, if but an Archetype make it sound The Gorge Itself.  Moles, not only Wrench Boy, is an Archetype; and they and the others keep magisterial chambers in The Old Hotel.  Liberation is an Archetype presented in the fact that the others have their being there; and the gardens, of several genres, about the great resort's immaculate grounds. Melee abides, without abiding, in the spaces among them, and as the Energetic that in secret drives them all. And innocent Violet. That Being itself were innocent in spite of it all. Interval Jaguar discovered it had not always been that way. He read it in red Book. The avatars multiplied, the avatars divided, they became many, they became many ones in an ordered hierarchy of manifestations, in a heterarchic series, in discordinate bunches. The latter members absorbed their priors as parts of their natures. The prior members emanated those more singular than they, more distant from their archetype. Again and again the avatars poured forth from their originals; again and again they were re-absorbed. It did not happen in time. But a coil circumscribed the process, pervaded and contained it. The Way Up and The Way Down were one and the same. Before everything, the Archetype. Before the multiplicity of archetypes, One Archetype, Being itself. Impossible to distinguish. There was merging and emerging-- a blur between the tiers of the magnificent parsings. The passage form the Great Gorge to Being: that was the Prime Deviation, To cross and to re-cross the which, were one and the same. And there you stand Across the Perilous Line.  Thus: Being itself was not that innocent when given to think. It imparted to the appearance of the avatars and the archetypes themselves the appearance of Being. Each individual coiled and recoiled about itself, emanation and return, and when it reached beyond its undivided apparency to Singularity as such, in that moment it recovered Being and knew the Great Gorge. History is Apparency--violence on the journey outward, the lure of harmony for the journey home; desire for expression and harmonic immediacy the spur for the journey outward, melee and longing for Harmony the lure for Return. Manifestation: African Rattle and Great Drum; Liberation: The Garden, Black Lake, Vision of Crystal, Knowledge of Black Box, the thought of Return. Suck and swoosh of the Bellows. The Way Up and the Way Down are the Same. Across the Perilous Line.  But here the Same is a phantom, the ghosts that swoosh and hover above the disorderly moieties, the fiduciary packages of mortals, soiled and sold, valorized, prized, and priced highly, or discounted, discarded, as labor is enterprized, attenuated, and trafficked across the globe. The dregs of time. The Great Gorge, Tartaros, Gehenna, "The Pit"-- the mule-house of the lie of identity-- black bones, red blood. Does matter have an archetype? Is the Gorge itself, not a mouth of light? You can hear the luminous drumming over the horizon as if the gathering of enmity in hordes soon to arrive or arise, the promise of the Great Conflagration.  Jaguar was amazed to read all this. It seemed a more piquant text than his own classical lectures on ontological subjects delivered in the academic lounges of The Old Hotel. He'd take some notes on it.