Peaches En Randalia #50

Improvisation isn’t a choice. It’s a way of Life handed down…well, Latin: ab aeterno, from the beginning of time, or ring that Bell: “before the beginning”…

Wilfred decides to invent a way to preserve his memories of his beloved—a series of paintings that represent her compassion, their union. Beautiful, exotic. Wilfred is not satisfied. Quite contrarily, the paintings make him miserable. Something is missing. The mind of a Maker briefly enters the thought-patterns of Wilfred. He is moved, shaken, and humbled. As great as Wilfred imagines he is, he cannot compare to this powerful presence; however, the unified consciousness shared by Maker and Wilfred feels more like the hand of a friend on his shoulder…simple language, simple command…shadows of a perfect idea form…The Door of the Group Mind cracks open…

“Help her break free from the place you once lived.”

“I cannot.”

“You must.”

And so he goes back.

Wilfred returns to the black hole where he once lived: in the middle of yesterday and tomorrow. He brings his paintings of Melan-ec-Holy. Colors and imagery burst into a billion different enchanting giant trance photographs of everything that she once was. Wilfred twirls end over end until the paintings disappear. The Kaleidoscope of Melan-ec-Holy spins and leaps within the walls of the black hole. Wilfred is bathed in everything that she held, that she experienced, that she desired. And as quickly as the Kaleidoscope came with its wondrous pictures, IT disappears. Wilfred returns home, and raises his daughter by himself. One day, he finds a replica of the Kaleidoscope, and understands. In the distance, a Maker smiles and Life continues…twirls end over end, until the paintings disappear: artist into artistry, a brief flash of empathy, simple beauty.

Forecast doom! Radiate sinister pathos! Smooth, oblong tubes; neon-ghosts culminate gestures, snickering contempt: fearful meadows breed dew along the steely windowless metropolis—jutting harsh jagged stiff resolute timeless silent ominous angles collapse into knives splitting atoms nearby; sand holding stone after stone of theoretical space building blocks: hidden and deformed—opens her doors to no one, everyone is not invited. Can you go too?

I’m not sleepy. There is no place I am going. I am ready to go anywhere…

Wilfred floats through deep space, wondering where to go, what to do next. Thoughts sift through the dreams of far away…Smugdrifter, his daughter, dives nearby…

Space: an oblong tube>Difficult>Vague>Pure?

Windowless metropolis—out into what? Another dimension? another universe?

Space houses the many doubts and possibilities of a thing that never ends, that never dies.

Pure? Maybe. What is dark energy? When do I find out?

Windowless metropolis—out into what? To find the Lonely Astral Border?

Another dimension? Do the Caretakers of the Vision live in another dimension?

another universe? Shepherds of Intellect Gold hoarding the answers?

Answers hidden in questions.

Questions frozen in TIME: elusive, intangible, deadly?

Floating along; neverending story; vaulted mirrors reflect inaction. “Hello, star. You’re looking quite lovely in this fabulous millennium.” I want to be a star, I want to float nearly forever, stroked by the Makers, the ultimate end of all of our fate, to be a star, an everlasting star, to be loved and nurtured, to finally, FINALLY love and nurture all within and grow and expand and die and be reborn and to live off all of the energy, the dark energy…solid and pure, windowless metropolis, another dimension, another universe, another level of hellish existence, another barrier to break, another renaissance to gallop within, gaze upon the mourning dew, cry awhile for those that spread too thin—

Another soul to follow, another soul to watch, another soul to grab, another dimension, another universe, a Maker in another land, posing as righteous, exposed as evil.


Jacob, give me a ladder—I am ready to go anywhere.