byron. - distance

exploring the distance between and the creation of possibility "distance means separation from the things which once made us whole - separation from ...

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for Possum, who may not have liked the music, but he did appreciate possibility, awe and wonder, especially wonder.

distance “ive seen distance, far past the reaches of my reaches, further than the dreams of our searchy eyes, clear of these hills, and way past yonder mountains until the ever distant Then, There, and further still, Beyond.” distance means separation from the things which once made us whole - separation from wilderplaces, and a time when humans were equal with life around them. it means realizing the separation and working to annihilate that separation by becoming whole again, in whatever forms leads us down the trails towards fulfillment and connection. distance means mystery, myth, mythtery and wonder. its the measurement of space between us and the moon, the stars and our own instincts, our own hearts. the space between our properties, not our property. distance is practicing the skills of working and shaping conventional forms, re-membering and shaping them anew in hope of giving them certain 3

desired properties or meanings. mythollurgy. distance means seeing new ways of becoming. distance means continuing and amplifying the questions which counter this civilization and what it does to us and to the world we are apart of. it means looking at how we participate within this culture and how to challenge it. it means seeing with different vision than before. distance means a busted hope in a broken world. distance means unknown and unknowables. its means secret knowledge. distance means beauty in wood grain, polished steel, abstract technologies, ambient black metal, and tea. distance means decrepit and old, falling apart and rusting back into soil. distance means stories and the stories behind, before and after, continuing on and spilling forever into who we are becoming. distance means remembering the Gone Away and the Long Forgotten and looking for the Lost. distance means possibility and all signs which point towards it. 4

I. ineffable stories with plot lines between pages, paragraphs writ with invisible ink. secret code where even the author cannot imagine the hermeneutics below the print. the wink of pages as the spine slaps closed, when the wind blows and the pages float and flutter. can you see it? it stains the pages, glues them together and blocks up the book, but keeps them sacred, carried lovingly, loosely and tattered, slowly tortured in your backpack. dog eared and worn with care, the bindings threadbare like the wrinkles on your forehead and crows feet about your eyes. subtle signs of wisdom, hidden and marveled only by they who see and they who try. most dont see the words below. they cant see the ties which bind them to the next book, the next pome, the videos spilling across the screens at home. they cant hear those tones in the songs. they only see the flesh, never the bones. 5

but what is that quiet voice? that ache within to describe that something. that place, that quiet ineffable space between my head and heart. there is something deep there, an endless chasm of feeling that resonates so darkly with the rain and doomy clouds and atonal winds blowing outside my windows. these are attempts to bring it out, drag it about the keyboard by some word or the sounds heard through a instruments voices, the musicians compositional choices echo the noises interred deep within my ghost. i long for a proper more conductive key, a rosetta stone to let that voice roam through my blood and bone and out into these tomes i conspire to write. to distill the notion, from effervescent emotion to solid real motions, i need cold nights, bright stars and moonlight, and deep dark wood, the ache of bending twigs beneath my foot and the ethereal words whisply heard in distance but not far enough to be misunderstood. 6

i am a beast, tumbling though emotion looking for the lubricating lotion to draw out some transitive mystical quiet weird like a magic potion, so potent that it curdles my tears and draws me near that place beyond fear and out into the holy unknown night. i will discover and make aware. this is my goal and my vision. my hope for my own, for this world and to the next transition. i hope to bridge some gap that may exist and reveal what i learn before the last breath, before i succumb to the long death which dreams away forever forever more.

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II. to run, to exit and escape, explore and see through and past into some other way of being, some other means of seeing meaning and feeling the freeing which we strive for, burn for, move and wander for. i go long distances, everyday, every season, forward and always a little to the sides, meandering with a searchy eye that something will spring up and reveal itself to me. i beg for difference, for chance to emerge, as i walk through woods i pray a new music to be heard. a certain babble in the river and a rabble and a quiver in the hushed voices normally heard as i walk by on my search. is that a hope of something new? a lead to the end of this awful screw? a friend calling me quick to observe as the waters surge and breakthrough the dams and pour into new worlds!? im in the move nose down to the groove looking for the clues to find my way through archaic tomes, library books on loan, reading tea leaves and 8

casting bones - “burning for the ancient heavenly connection” - searching for home. that is what im looking for. that is where i want to go. III. what is that emptiness of the night which allows some minds to wander as their bodies might, over hills and fields, past fences and walls, scaling large cumbersome structures and coming out on different sides? which dark spirits clear the air, and make way for these weary frames and shaky thoughts to come trickling out unto their late night watch? while the houses sleep and the air stills and the traffic slows outside our homes, there is a presence that lowers on to this plane where we are carried away to a new sensitivity, a translucent understanding of the space and place between things. there, a veil is lifted, a curtain pulled back when the lights go low, as the 9

moon spotlights the wonder. we are compelled, purged from our houses to explore the deep thoughts, the meaningful magical things which got forgot throughout the day. what is that late night clarity? that free floating thought process that can be widened, and us wizened, as the stars pour over a different world than the one we stole through by light of the sun. as some beasts awake by twilight, new paths emerge lit by street light and moons shining bright, fireflies twist and turn bringing the beauty right back home. and we’ll wander out, usually alone to slowly peddle, to touch, listen and meddle, out through the dim, as the days din fades away. from the later stages of eventide til the morning comes and the mass of folks open their eyes there is a quiet time between day and day where all distractions melt away and we’ll be left with that welcoming space waiting to be filled with me, and dreams, and there we’ll race to make a note to explain to folks 10

who would never come out to elaborate the details as to what its all about to be seeking by a different route, a different time, at the edge of night… while others are snoring in boring bedrooms and homes, we’re on loan to the world where darkness shone across the fields forests trails and roads. late in the night til almost morning and that terrible pre dawn light comes on, pale first, then bright and strong, and rips apart the dreams we scheme in the late night region in that great between. day and day have split the hours and from dusk to dawn there is that power where dreams come real and ready to grasp - it is a task for those who accept it - to reach out and grip, to take hold and let slip away the tangly noisy rhythms of the day. the dark. the dim. in night we win. there is preciousness as the stars come out revealing light, ever bright, sent through time to grace the minds and eyes of them who try to stay up late to plot escape, leaping out windows, to the fence, to the ground below, 11

and quickly go to that outward zone - that which is not home - in search? in discovery? in escape? in liberty? that night parts laws, legs and limits. to fuck, to fuck shit up, to go beyond, within it. IV. get into the deep, the swirl and the sounds of distance behind trees and the north growing moss. there is life out there in the steam rising from flared nostrils of deer and quiet scurry of the mouse. deep nests and high echoes not far enough from the city but close enough to the edge. get into the dark, the wondrous unknowables lurking and looming, over hills, down the stream, over the fallen limbs and snarled in the dams collected leaves and trash. get into the muddy banks, the heavy dirt collecting on the soles of your boots, impressions kept with you as you study and listen, watch and know the signals of the crows to the squirrels to the ducks to the dogs to the 12

people hiding below the cover of the storm. get into the mysterium, the blood of histories which tumbled down the sides of valleys, flooded come spring, washing away the present loam exposing the past paths of dinosaurs, mammoths, indigenous, settlers, elders, bones of the recent wanderer caught between the twigs. remember the witches and the magic spells chanted and crafted poems with meaning behind meaning, words behind words, intentions behind the mentions, lore and knowings spilling from the tongues of taught to the willing ears of the eager observatorians - listen, look, watch! remember your dreams and the river overfloweth with possibility and wonder. wander the high water mark scrying for secrets and hidden treasures bare and baked in the broad light of day trickling through the canopy, luminescent succulent sweet green, decaying chlorophyll tracked through the forest floor. sweet melody and music of the wild ringing your ears and ranging from the distant calls and too close buzzzzz of the flies and bees, mosquitoes 13

and wasps, the crashing of limbs leaping from tree to tree, and the silence of alarm, the quiet void for the intruder to pronounce their entry. “i am lumbering beast!” crash though the undergrowth snapping branches and stomping out the moss below. i know, i know, you might have to do it alone. no one wants to roam when they can just stay home. but if you have to wander or else you’ll explode, the way to do it, and im certain you know, is to just get out and go. so, just get out and go. V. are there places in your world where possibility reigns? the crest of a hill along flattened valley where you can stand and see things plain? is there a place, upon the land base where the silence breaks the noise? a stillness echoing quietly reverberating warm and shimmering with joy? 14

this is the occupation of uninhabited space. this is the taking of a squat. the development of that which is not, the emptiness within the clay pot, this is diving off the edge and the landing you forgot. this was the dream of flight before the planes took over. this was the dream of all the kids i knew before they grew jaded and got older. it lingers above horizons and across vast distances. it burns inside my hungry ghost and my soul screams its insistences that something else must be found and must be found right quick cause the present world and its inhabitation is making us all quite sick. this is the charting of a course, the part of the book where the plot thickens. this is beginning of that something, that somewhere beyond just living. the place where the gas and dust come together swirling in their hustle, tensing and releasing, magnified by working muscles, burning out and 15

condensing space, when finally a world is mythollugically shaped into being by the legends whose stories we will sing, carried far and away on by movements of the interstellar winds. there is no backwards, there is no forwards just the constants of creation and dissolution of what there is and what we might just be making. this is a time of exploration, scrutinous inspection and wondrous revelation. now, and there is only now, will be the continuation of the adaptation and amalgamation of all integration from the experimentations of life. this is where it all comes to be. this is where you grow further into thee. to explore deeper your determination has to be harder. to feel the thickness beneath, between and through it all, the heart has to be keener. to understand and honour all that we learn, our minds must be greater. and as the power from conventional sources, all them oppressive and negatorious forces gets to be shortened, new power must emerge. 16

so, seek out the histories of travel, the myths of distance, the stories of flight and the inwise reflexive visions. this be the adventurist prayer. be open, be aware to the mythtery stalking through the darkness in that long unknown night. be open to the openings which quiver and quake, fissure and break through this blight. hear what you must hear. see what you must see. say which only you can say. and feel that pounding in your feet. know your blood is thrumming, the forests are humming, and only by deepening connection can we encourage a change coming. these be the means by which we’ll achieve a dream: build the outback for the runaways with their backpacks, for them tired folks who are attempting to throw off the yokes. we need a string of bright lights to guide they who decide to take leave from this devastated life. we must build the homes to 17

echo our desire encoded in bones. work that narrow path, that harrowing track and make it just wide enough to slip through without disturbing the brush. make that place the in fence where there is no fence. get into the forests again. get in and get down, get going, rooting around for different ways of knowing. go on. get into the forests again. never be still when they know where you are. keep moving, hiding, listening. other worlds are never far. breathe and move and sneak and crawl. these skills will come in handy when we seek to make things fall. the felling of a way of being, a tower, or a state - intelligent cuts are in order, with precision, we’ll undo all them borders. politcal, social, spatial - get out up and away. break it all apart, find new ways, new space to play. just get out and go. 18

like the music on this tape, most of this was written over a couple of years, edited some place different most nights, and inspired by a short life time of experiences. if you would like to get in touch, [email protected] works. thanks to home, and my bike, for taking me away from home. - byron. autumn, 2013

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