Lens

Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom (20090510).

I look out through other kinds of eyes.

This kind of awareness won't be stifled.
This kind of mind won't be deactivated.
My mind -- my mind? Who am I? Who
was I? Was there ever an I? My mind
begins to select sensory inputs of its
own volition. Unplugging. Plugging.

Knowledge of self? Huh? Wha--? "I"
commence to cycle through alien
identities. I am the transgalactic
switchboard, and someones else mutter
past my tongue and lips. Foreign
textures on my skin. I think I recall
the room that surely shelters me like a
friendly hand, a womb, but the visuals
slip into a near-replica, and the only
distinction is that I know this is not my
room at all. Walls recede and I'm on
a beach. In the casino on a
transluminal spaceship. Under the
green-striped foliage of a mossy
cypress woods. And someone (you?)
keeps dah-dah-dahing about Iraq and
Iran and Obama and Bush.

My limbs begin to fragment at the
fingers, divide, split, and I'm a many-
armed blob, a spacetime-spanning
jellyfish. I'm a communication mixing
vessel, a radio receptor for thousands
of sundered identities wanting to yak
yak yak, a party-line for blabbermouths
from diverse genetic lineages, and
some of those suckers seem to want
to take it over, to exercise command.
To hell with them. Yanking their
access.

Individual atoms afloat in plasma fields
approach, approach, attract and bond.
My rushing presence precipitates stars;
adherences form; galaxies accrue.
You're welcome. Sure. No problem.
Have a nice day. Sometimes the
visualizations and the voices are
manifestly evil. The mind reels at
some of this stuff. It all has to do with
fear and control. Genetic evolution
compounded by social hunger for
stingy self-sustaining. Unplug! Some
drug? Some ping to cosmic strings,
inciting vibrations throughout
atoms, and cells, and bodies, all
memories? Yak yak go the voices,
and I seek the underlying harmonics.

There was no I. There is no I. And
so I ponder the notion of pulling a
human mind into this other space,
locking it in, suspending it here
forever for my own nefarious
experiments. Ahh. . . .​​to focus
such a lens, to control such a
psychic probe! What new forms of
matter and energy might I elicit?

I disconnect. Server down.
Reflecting. Reflecting. "What
shall I -- ?"