Iconoclast Rising … 17

 

“Tsuki no kokoro…or ‘mind like the moon'” ~ a Zen phrase 

…speaks to the need for the mind to be clear to illuminate and reflect all conditions surrounding it

 

Ch 17 ~ Minds Like the Moon

 

Pink snow lunged from the sky and tunnelled around them, creating a spiralling pathway.  Noise swelled throughout.   

On the flight of each unique snowflake came what started off as a trickle and then ended up becoming a rushing onslaught of every thought process and syllable; every proclamation of love, intention, and feeling; every hope, dream, wish, prayer; every reaction, drama, argument; every laughter, silliness, absurdity, jumbled logic, sequential rigor; every brainfart, fantasy, bad joke, rhetoric, irony, sarcasm; every babble and rant; every reality and perception; every question and so very much much more than Dryst could ever possibly describe.  At first, the words flowed on the current of a few hushed whispers, then a few levelled voices, then several overlapping sentences; then they surged forth from a bullying of vocal chords, then a multitude of languages, then the cries of nations, then the swelling yells of continents; then they burgeoned themselves into an overwhelming cacophonic symphony of thought, utterances, sensations, realizations, contemplations, unknowings, knowings and other emotions and awarenesses for which there were currently no words but for which they existed resolutely in meaning and poured out from the totality of the planet, the galaxy, the universe, the Origin.  

He froze in place listening, feeling every sound reverberate through his mind.  With its wing, the butterfly gently stroked the side of Dryst’s head as if understanding the preposterous enormity of what he was processing, of what was happening…that Dryst and Spence were standing and present within a physical manifestation of the Stream of Consciousness. 

Dryst could actually see gazillions of minds, hear the thoughts, feel the words from every person from every place:  galaxy known and unknown; languages understood and foreign; mode of speech recognized and WTF’d.  Spence turned and watched.  He did not appear to be as effected – in truth, he almost seemed oblivious. 

…Kid, are you…freakin! Amen…proposition oooooooo 69…Tsuki no kokoro…wtfmfftwomg… plehttylborkedwtf …jethroflux…illuminate questions…Christmas everyday…I love you…

Somewhere in the stream, Dryst saw Spence’s thoughts fly by.  Then more voices connected words to each other and they floated and traveled down the pathway with other voices and other words veered their way in and changed structure and context until it all became a puzzled jumble of sounds and more noise and even more mumbled thinking.  

“Kid,” Spence said again, but Dryst didn’t answer.  And so he faced the younger man and watched as Dryst wrestled with the fact that flooding all of his senses was the Source of all Meaning.  Dryst’s breathing labored slightly, and his eyes flared open wide at the absurdity and profundity of what he was saying to himself.  The Source of All Meaning.  He stared at Spence as if the old man would somehow anchor the experience and Dryst heard his own thoughts again — tumbling rapidly forth but somehow not as fragmented as the other sounds — as clearly as if he were saying them outloud.  If Spence heard anything at all, Dryst noticed that he didn’t betray it.  If he did, it couldn’t be of the magnitude that Dryst was experiencing.  He held onto himself internally and forced air into his lungs.  No one could be casual with this.  No one.  Not even a clever, grey fox. 

Spence carefully stepped forward toward Dryst and laid a hand on his shoulder.  The old man seemed to want to steady him.  The younger man slowly placed a foot slightly behind himself, then to the side of himself.  Dryst seemed to want to balance himself.  And just when he thought he had, just when he thought the avalanche of thoughts and sounds had melted together and were sounding nearly uniform like the comfortingly recognizable music of the surf as it randomly crashes against various obstructions from the planet — here and there, willy nilly and despite all that, no matter where it always sounded recognizably the same as crashing surf sounded…just as the Stream of Consciousness had developed into a flow that Dryst was beginning to be able to process and handle, he heard cackling, gravelly thoughts that commanded his viewing.

“They will go through the Source,” Ophania slurred through a growl.  “They are travelling through it now.  They will arrive here.  One has what we seek.”

“You are certain of this.”

“I am.  We have seen it.  I have seen it with my own eyes,”  Ophania edged her voice with insolence.  I do not care to have my judgement doubted.

“Oh be still, Ophania,” the other laughed, “your pride is such a frail flower whose bloom you so wrecklessly cast about.”

“Kid,” Spence interrupted and began slightly shaking the younger man’s shoulder as if to cause him to snap out of a trance.

Dryst knocked the old man’s hand away and waved his own hand briefly as a signal to Spence to let him be.  Spence started to speak again but stopped well short of uttering a word. 

“And have you seen their thoughts in the Source,” the other continued, mockingly.

“No,” Ophania snarled. 

She knows very well that I cannot, yet she taunts.  She knows very well that none of us can…not even her, and still she mocks.  It is the moment of every moment that occurred before our entry into life.  It holds the moment of knowing from every past present and future that has been withheld from all of us for all these eons.  It is the Source of all Meaning for every eon gone and yet to be.  It is not born from me.  It is not born from any of us.  Of course, I cannot read this!  No one can know this.  Not even one such as I who has created the Unspoken Language.

 

Spence had seen the insistence in Dryst’s facial expression.

Very well, very well,” the other softened her tone as if soothing a child.  “Soon, my Ophania.  Soon.  When they arrive, he shall bring us the key.”

 

Spence got it.

 

“Yes,” Ophania’s voice quaked ever so slightly.

“The key that connects all worlds and all thoughts.  The beginning and the end.  The circle. The spirit.  The will.  The ultimate in power…”

“It will be ours,” Ophania inhaled excitedly.  It will be mine…

“We will control all thought.  Beyond what we have been able to control with the Unspoken Language.”  The other turned to Ophania and bowed her head deeply in acknowledgement.  “What you have created there is held in the highest esteem, of course.  And it is powerful in and of itself indeed, dear Ophania.”

“But it cannot read all thoughts in all worlds.” Ophania begrudingly admitted.

“No…sadly no,” the other agreed.  “It cannot.  Nor can it reach through all dimensions and all beings within a single thought.”

“No,” Ophania gritted her teeth in agreement.  No one knew the limitations of the Unspoken Language better than Ophania, but still, she indulged what felt like a relentless ongoing comparison from the other who, Ophania knew, actively closed her mind off from Ophania…the only one of her kind (“or somewhat of my kind,” Ophania thought with some disdain) that Ophania could not access at will; something Ophania was loathe to admit.  

“When we have what we seek, dear Ophania,” the other continued, “We will bridge that divide.  We will enter the galaxies and we will claim rightful ownership.  We will command all free will, all thought, all knowing, all existence.”

“And seize our power from the Bright Light that has denied us our rightful place since the eve of the origin.”

Dryst rocked and rolled as the words and the thoughts and the snow fell in tumbles around him.  From the left part of the snowy tunnelling pathway, Dryst could have sworn he saw a colorful burst of melodramatic music that appeared to be sounding off a warning from somewhere.  And when he studied the left wall of crystals that cascaded from the sky – the place from where the dramatic music had emitted – Dryst nearly buckled over in laughter.  But that was only in his mind, even though he clearly saw himself doing it as if he actually had.  And that was also before the melodramatic voices pulled his attention back again into the flotsam and jestam of the Stream, which they did powerfully so now.

The other pondered and contemplated the Stream.  It twinkled playfully in the night of the day.  For all the vast and overwhelming power that it contained, it flowed serenely through the evening of the morning, through this land where time seemed to have no sense or reason.  Where little to nothing made any kind of sense.  Because in this land the origin of consciousness, the Source of all Meaning, the Stream was born and gathered itself all up and into itself – as chaotic and random and immense and miniscule and unimaginable as it was…it pulled itself away from the edges of the world but still flowed through every corner of every world in every dimension.  In this land, the Source of Meaning gathered itself into some kind of surprisingly coherent but at the same time excruciatingly complex structure beyond the comprehension or control of any person or any being from any world in any space. 

And yet — the other’s thoughts flew through the stream and into Dryst’s mind with such rapidity that he found it nearly intriguing — the Source is here.   In our land.  In our time of timelessness.  Before the dawn of time.  It has been here for eternity.  Right before us, surrounding us, and still, we have never mastered it.  It has flaunted its power despite our feeble attempts to hide it.  We can cloak it in purple-grey mist and darken it completely with even more intense opaque blackness from the depths of our minds.  Ophania and her clan excel in this regard…but it is always present.  It is always horric in scope.  It is always serene in flow.  It is of perpetuity.  And it has always eluded our conquest.  Until now. 

“We shall have it,” Ophania hissed.  “Soon.”

“Yes,” the other whispered. “Yes…we shall.”  At once, the other’s mind halted to an idle the moved with curiosity within the Stream.  Dryst watched her thoughts glance quizzically near him, as if searching for him or searching around him or searching for something, when at last, the other’s words bumped into a voice that Dryst had felt like he hadn’t heard in more than a million eternities.

“Dryst,” Mya whispered.  “Are you here, Dryst?”  His heart thudded within his chest wall.  She is alive, he nearly screamed in his head.

The Stream fell into an unusual silence that nearly gave him vertigo.  He panicked suddenly, his hands reaching slowly through the snow, his eyes researching every particle, hunting searching wanting to see her words.  Where did her words go?  Where did they all go? Dryst nearly yelled the questions in his mind but he needn’t yell anything because on the heels of his searching, his questions were answered.

“Dryst!” Mya’s thoughts burst joyfully into his mind.  “You are here!  You are here!  With me with you!”   The voice in her thoughts rolled in powerful waves over and through his being.  He felt her words grab ahold of him and tug in desparate overwhelming joy at him.  She felt his relief and joy seize her in his arms and pull her to him.  They each felt an avalanche of emotions and questions heaping all over each other but then with an intensity of will, Mya resolutely held all those thoughts and feelings bounded closely to the two of them and spoke through them and with them in a clear and steady voice.  “Dryst, I see you on the pathway.  In the snow tunnel.  With that man.  I don’t know who he is.  He looks to be one of us.”

“He helped me get here.  Helped me get to you.”

“Dryst,” Mya continued calmly, urgently.  “There will be war here.  And that path leads you to the middle of it…to the Non who want power.”

“The Source,” Dryst mumbled. 

“The war is between the Non and the Believers.  It is a war for the Will.”

Dryst frowned and held Mya’s thoughts as tightly to him as he never had before, and felt Mya embrace his thoughts to her as tightly as she never had before.  And they spoke wordlessly in what seemed to be several eternities but not nearly long enough before Dryst said, “It is my will that we will find each other through all of this.”  “And mine,” Mya said immediately.  “And so we will,” they said together.

 

National Novel Writing Month:  Chapter 17 total wordcount:  2100 (not including this notation).  Total total count:  29,430.  (still behind gah! and still determined and gah yes this is still really hard, but I am so happy to be doing this, truly…or trying to anyway, smiles)  

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