Holograms in the Field

My mind exchanges data with holograms in the field, then waves of quanta, narration, distribute where I walk.

MEI-MEI BERSSENBRUGGE
Hello, the Roses

There was never any chance for the flowers
To ever be about flowers.

KELLY CALDWELL
“In the Course of Our Days”

I arrive to the field a rendered composition; my fragments & frequencies congeal onto a single animal heart.

The foliage accepts me as palimpsest & instrument.

I am a collectivity of waves. The woods is a collectivity of waves. We form interference patterns where formlessness can live. 

The invisible chaos in the heart of this negative is generative.

* * *

As a light through a lens, I pass through the woods; my edges catch on low-hanging branches.

Slowly, I am filtered by layers of cicada soundwaves.

After a while, I walk without thoughts, perception without interpretation, as if I am just awaking from a deep sleep.

I am a formlessness through which the forest waves pass. 

I arrive having made myself into a center, which the woods will soon uncenter.

Perception mirrors things around us; by seeing a flower we double it. We are mirrors moving in an already sliding landscape.

Data accumulates as in a basin overflowing, shimmering, silvering.

Memory becomes, in the glittery motion of these accretions.

* * *

In one version of things, I am one of the forest’s mental images.

A thought travels across the land, riding on water, air, bioelectricity.

My image, like everything else, is made of memory, narrative, symbols.

When I walk through the woods with my lover, our combined presence registers as an immersive surround-sound of visual & auditory mental imagery.

We are the forest’s musical hallucinations.

* * *

I try to shed my machine parts, the systems my heart internalized. I can fold one up into a flower, but it stinks; I consider whether there’s beauty in the stench. 

My eyes collect data & organize it for me, but I tell them I don’t want it organized: give it to me all messed up; try to sing it to me with style. 

I hear a voice in my head that is supposedly my voice, although the source is beyond the horizon of my internal sensory detection mechanism.

I fold the mechanism into a flower, the center of which is a horizon.

I touch the system & feel for whether I feel touched; I set the system on the ground alongside the others.

The outward-inward binary gets in my way; it happens when I think of my breathing.

I try to remember the space that holds me in place constellates me with everything around me.

Breath is a light that constellates.

Everything is waves: molecule, light, brain, sound; the senses organize these waves into a stillness, an image.

Motion pretends to freeze; there is a sequence of frozen moments that pretend to motion.

Waves all around narrate the world to our senses. Experience & perception are story.

Night is an inhale; death is an exhale.

* * *

We are all born as holograms in the field, every part reflective of the whole.

A light passes through the ancient mirrors; patterns interfere as color, memory, darkness.

Waves are the language of matter.

Late winter winds animate the pond; furrows of bending light, their quiet traffic to the shore, appear as waves, making ripples on the surface of our experience.

Wind rises; a smattering of geese. I whisper to you something about their conversation.

Forest air scoops the exchange between birds into a brief bouquet; green chatter, blue-white serenade. Expositions on home in counterpoint with songs of change.

Our dual perception of the pond makes a hologram. We are lasers, mirrors, lenses all. We encode the lights & sounds as love, here & now.

A memory forms a loop. I take my time with subtle shifts, imagine my body flowering in ice.

* * *

A world is made when I look at a rose; the rose & I thread light between us.

Invisible flesh generates between us; there is no between, only fullness & touch. 

Our contact is in full bloom.

* * *

In the dream field, light borrows me for a time; I surrender my form to its data so it can deviate from straight lines, play in circles a bit.

My gravity bends this strip of space-time continuum for light; light wants this at the moment.  

My body remembers a space it once moved through without me; it was a plant then, a molecule of water, frost melting from a rose.

Strange things happen when we combine nexuses of experience like this; planes of perception overlap, intersect; the scene changes, a shift occurs.

Two bodies grow at different rates in one dream consciousness: I am viewing the world in seconds; it is viewing the world in hours.

A split: we realize we are already in a separate dimension, composed, this time, by the intersection of different fibers.

Another dream begins with what is not a beginning in what is the same realm under the influence of alternate stars.

In one dream, I show you the clouds, their dark gray swirls channeling ocean whirlpools; you take pictures; we go to a friend’s house to do drag.

To keep from dying in this alien atmosphere, I try hard to breathe.

* * *

Sounds play outside the window. Each one happens separately on the geography of river, asphalt, concrete, air. In the room from which I hear them, they happen slightly later.

Together, the sounds imprint themselves as a single field on the surface of my experience.

The cat is asleep beside me on the desk.

I imagine the sounds from outside travel into her ears & get translated into a dream of the barn where she once lived. 

Suddenly, she looks up, toward the sunlight. 

She checks that the outside is still contained by the window.

* * *

In the rain field, a certain timbre of light where sky & land merge, where the consciousness of wind emerges; wind, born as a river of sound, animates the downpour.

* * *

Snow flies in chaotic currents, their pathways carving light in patterns like van Gogh swirls with three-dimensionality, each with its own transience, body, temperature, & finitude. 

The sun speeds their withering midway to the ground so that more snow has fallen than has landed.

A molecule of winter still contains particles of spring. The sun inside a leaf is an older sun. A signal stuck in the brain is the soul of a plant desiring the dirt, the dead leaves from younger trees.

* * *

My visual horizons diminish toward the center. My radius of perception dims at night. 

My body lets go of its awareness of things outside this selective visual field. It becomes more & more unpredictable what will arrive from the sides.

I wonder at how light lives in what Berssenbrugge calls an invisible thickness, since light is travelling all across the spaces we inhabit, but we only render the light that sits on objects.

There is so much middle space. I want to see the intersecting vectors, the web-like fabric of light travel.

Maybe this eye is a rose. Maybe this eye resists these given forms. 

A rose resisting structure doesn’t have to fall to pieces.

* * *

In the center of every flower there is a field; here, our patterns interfere, further beyond death.