A Love Supreme
Part One: Elation
The city seemed to move—swelling, as though engrossed and enraptured by its own primal rhythm. People, shapes—figures and cascading blurs wrapped among themselves—drifted and were shook apart as though figments of some imaginary lightplay, distant memories of a fleeting and forgotten past. His mind lingered and fell into the crowd. Shapeless figures, structures, bodies, minds; a ceaseless intermingling of beginnings and ends, of unspoken thoughts and voiceless passions, the epicenter of some distant sanctuary, the birthplace of idols of that vastest of pantheons, the workings and doings of creation.
And from this place, he woke.
Under the arid sky of the metropolis, a network of winding tributaries buzzes with the frantic energy of humanity and its works. Man-made shadows drift over the figures of nameless forms, who fall into the cracks and passage ways of this self-containing sprawl, cast in the all-enveloping shadow of immense and brooding forms. Inside, a man sits waking in a char. He stares forward, his face in his palms, gripping at himself with the inward fascination of a man still dreaming. His tactile senses point him to the imagining of a distant world, a lifeless planet on which his facial features mark the contours of a barren land—his nose: great ridges; his cheeks: an empty plane. He can feel the light of its distant sun, illuminating its arid fields, its lifeless deserts, warming and stirring the planet within. Above him, the still-closed window stands brimming with the conductive sheen of frigid glass, illuminating the blue-lit room with the blurred shapes and contours of an imaginary Beyond.
Beyond the window, vast columns pierce the sky in tight-knit regiments, a phalanx of metal and glass stretching outwardly beyond the comprehension of the eye. Beneath them, a vast maze-work of streets and pathways roar with the cumulative rush of feverish motions.
The coldness of the glass runs through his cheek and down his spine, sending a nervous pulse of energy running outward through his body. The noise of city is muffled through the glass, its constant bass-tones resting in the space within his chest, a sinking presence, everywhere, rippling from the core. His mind echoes inwardly with the rippling of ceaseless machinations.
Hours later, he walked among the labyrinthine passageways of the city’s streets. Dazzling lightplay reflected from the sunlit husks of the monolithic buildings, as a cold flux of movement enveloped the fast-moving grounds. People, everywhere, rushed in accelerating movements, their bodies in unison—a network of transient forms. He watched these figures with an unreflecting gaze, his mind staring blankly at the ceaseless flow of moving bodies. He watched their forms meld into one another—trading spaces and occupying moments—until he could no longer trace the lines connecting the beginnings and the endings of their movements; all had become a blur of simple motion. Something, invisibly, had occupied his thoughts. He stopped moving. A subtle sound, of sands lifted and rising, whispered outwardly from the surroundings as though spurred by the warming influence of a distant sun. There was no visible source, no identifiable force of agency on which to attach the sound. Just the rhythm, which—building upon itself as though swept by a gust of spontaneity, of vacancy of form—was punctuated by a central point of sonic pressure erupting into a singular multitude, a divergent evolution of sounds. He stood transfixed and watching the fast-moving forms.
That night, the city commenced its descent into an uneasy slumber. Faceless shadows stalked the streets, the exhausted dregs of the day’s activities, lost in the kaleidoscopic matrix of their wandering minds. This was the sleepless nightmare, the side effect of the chronic pace of the city’s movements. He watched at a distance as the ceaseless energy of their elongated days slowly gave way to the encroaching tide of madness and decay. Their broken minds wandered the streets, pursued by their bodies. This was the breaking point, populated by those who no longer sought the dawn, but instead paced evenly through the city streets, their dormant memories weighing heavily on their still-born minds, marching helplessly amidst the darkness.
He observed one of them in a park overlooking a large body of water which stretched out and reached the blackened horizon. Its surface glistened with a multitude of miniscule, moonlit flourishes, rising and falling in cyclical motions atop the still, rolling waves, which drifted easefully amongst themselves—unmoved by the silent forces whose currents swirled dormant and invisible beneath their depths. Something old and powerful—direct and inevitable—lingered stalkingly behind the stunning symmetry of his eyes. And yet, buried deep within the powers of its reaching grasp, its wrestless longing to be felt and heard, beat the heart and soul of non-power itself. With these eyes, he stared ever-forward, passing slowly and evenly over the horizon, illuminated by the lightplay of distant waves, the ink-black darkness of the sky whose star-lit luminescence bore the portent mystery of an infinite expanse, an unceasing frontier beyond which there can be no further imagination: the boundary-point of ponderings, of measurements, of Knowing itself. His gray eyes danced with the quantum interplay of innumerable photons, as he sat transfixedly, staring into the beyond.
Part Two: Elegance
He awoke once more to the sound of that undying pulse. The light of the sky—cold, but not dim—cast a softened halo atop the streets’ blue shadows. Waking, he stirred. His eyes caught the soft glow reaching outward from the window. In the shower, water poured over him in sheets and layers, clusters of moist particles, self-containing harbingers of a vastness of prospective tomorrows, fusing and exploding in pockets of energy—an accelerating symphony of matter, manifest. The walls, tiles, fabrics of discarded clothing, all carriers of that sacred message, expressions of that pulse whose sound holds the birth-weight of innumerable worlds.
He sat and gathered his thoughts. Beneath the surface, his home was founded on a bedrock of faceless artefacts: photographs, human records—shadows and distant dignitaries of a bygone world. He sought solace in their shadows, their fleeting gaze and displaced meanings, which floated, groundless, deprived of a world. They are lost seeds with no soil to bear witness to their relevance: formless apparitions devoid of a context, place, or time.
He started at the photographs, and his eyelids quivered as though swayed by a distant wind.
Part Three: Exaltation
That night he dreamed of spectral illuminations, images bursting through the floodgates of his fast-opening mind. Fire, fire, coaxed by wood and rock, by scraps of shrubbery, dried wood fragments, leaves, crushed with boulders, moulded by hands, twisted and raised, sputtering from the smouldering Earth; he saw animals slain by men and scarred fields interspersed with rows of pooling water; he saw stones being stripped from the sides of colossal mountains, the movement of boulders by great lines of forms; he saw cities of wood and cities of stone, cities of marble heat-warped beneath the searing energy of a vibrant sun; he saw steam rising from the banks of rivers; vast migrations, their ranks stretched for miles; he saw the movements of millions as though driven by a sound, marching in unison, coordinated movement, driven by the pulse.
He was caught in the elementary graspings of that all-encompassing sound, echoing and resounding in the corridors perception.
His ears filled with the formation of words, distant utterances heralding the genesis of language, as the birth-song of evolution rushed powerfully through his veins. He heard voices in unison, rising and falling, but converging on the pulse. He felt it ricocheting and rebounding off of figures, thoughts, and dreams: a unifying message articulated in a single, all-pervading sound whose body seemed to move and glisten—perpetually shifting, eternally in flux—with all the motion and energy of creation itself.
From the unknowable ether of his mind’s eye, his city appeared. It breathed with a life and energy unknown to itself. Its people, broken and darting through its thoughtless streets, appeared hopeless and unknowing beneath an immensity of sky, permeated by wind. This sky, this wind, the colour of their eyes as they paced unseeingly about the city’s long passageways—all combined to illuminate what had been a shallow armour, the unloving resemblance of a civilization which had once arisen—with passion and sacrifice—from the fertile soils of the Earth.
Their presence carried with it the semblance of a bygone time, of a force of energy whose workings transcended the boundaries of rational forms. Their bodies—moving, unmoving—traced the contours of a once-vibrant paradigm whose structure had collapsed under the weight of its own creation, its own deliberations and wrongdoings, its excesses and secret passions and the hidden weight and terror of its vast, internal void.
The city stood radiant beneath an open sky.
And from this place, he woke.