Waking the Sleeping Integer … 1

November begins and with it so does National Novel Writing Month(s).  For me it is “Month(s)” because for me the goal of 50,000 words within 30 days usually extends to the neighborhood of 45 days.  It may be even longer this year, due to a series of annoying work deadlines that loom large for me until the end of this year and into the beginning of next.  I’ll try to be consistent with entries, but to those who may (or may not) be reading these, if I’m not consistent with the posts, I hope you will understand.  Now then.  Release the words.

1 ~ I Sense

The world has a funny way of making itself known.  Maybe it was the world knocking on his door.  He wasn’t exactly for sure about that.  “For sure” about that.  A funny phrase, he couldn’t help but think to himself, but the origin of and changes to the phrase over time for reasons he couldn’t imagine didn’t trouble him too much.   Still, “for sure” somehow amused his mental playground.  That’s the thing about mutation or mash-ups or morphing, if you will.   Better yet, transforming.  There…a much better word, he decided.  Transformation.   It can be joyful in its essence, filled with discovery, surprise, delight.  Sometimes fast, easy, and fun.  Sometimes not.  But in any case and in all cases he felt reasonably certain that  “transformation” was really a much more accurate way of describing it.

That’s what he would say if you should ask him.  But he stood there.  Alone, with no one to make the ask.  No one but himself.

Indeed, what was the “it” in all of this?  A reasonable query.  You might wonder about that too.  Truth be told, I had the same question myself.  And if you or I had asked him — if we had been in that space at the same time in his mental playground at the very least on the edges of the perimeter for him to know we were there and for us to know he was there…well, then, I am confident he would tell you and he would tell me that what transformed around him at the particular moment of our asking was the very wind itself.  Because the wind, at that particular moment, had foomed softly out.  It carried with it a yawning echo that lingered and verily bounced each and every time he found himself — how should he put this…”touched” — indeed, touched upon the ground.  Yes, and so it was exactly as described.  Alit, landed, bending to the will of gravity.  It was in those moments then that the wind would foom softly out again.  It lingered and bounced in echoing refrain again for each and every time he was replicated or duplicated or made whole again in the same exact form as he was made at every origin.  He had many points of origin, he would argue, although quite pleasantly so his argument would go except for in those moments when he was certain – so utterly certain – that he really had one origin of all the origins.  He dwelled on this more than he said, really.  And when he wasn’t dwelling on this, he would often dwell on other things.  Like the matter of sensory perception.  He hadn’t yet discovered anything close to ears or any other instrument that could cause sound to travel from somewhere out there to somewhere inside of himself into his mental playground, but evenso he could hear.  So he began to wonder about that.  His thinking went like this.  If he could hear, he began to wonder if he could see.  Because why not.  If one set of senses were present why not the others afterall.  And then he opened what he thought must have been his eyes and when he did, they were immediately flooded with images of what he thought must have been the world around him.  The world is what simply had to be the thing that was  knocking at his door.  He sighed quite softly…a sound less breathy but much more distinct and lyrical as if it carried the dreams of hope or the hopes of dreams or both.  As if it carried all of this monumental importance somehow gently from someplace that merged all the voices of all the hopes and dreams until they blurred together and sounded less like a orchestra of geese honking out in protest and more like a sound he recognized from within as his own one true voice.

It was a heady sigh, that sigh of his.

Whatever could he want of me, he wondered.  I am several now, not just one.  I am nearly a collection of geese about to unleash an orchestrated protest and all of that will rush forth all from the wave of his hand.  What is his protest this day, he wondered.  And then he realized, rather suddenly, that even the artist did not know what he had to say.  All that the artist knew was that he had to say something.  Because a voice unspoken is a presence unobserved is a truth hidden from view is a life unexplored.  It was in that realization that he decided to do more for the artist than foom at one with the winds that whirled about in his mental playground.  Yes, he would do much more.  He would take form for the creator and thereby create.  He would present shape and essence for the creator and thereby become material.  He would compose his various parts into an orchestrated whole of voice, of sound, of music, of clarity, of presence, of exploration, of being observed.  Of matter.  Of mattering in the mental playgrounds of all the others that would stop and see and reflect and scratch their heads and snicker and roll their eyes and lay judgement in either direction and no matter the direction it would all be fine and it would all be well with him because a judgement in either direction — in any direction — at his fooming at once and coming into being was ever so much better than the grey shrouded world of indifference and oversight.

Of sense, of sound, of sight, of inspiration was the womb that carried him forth from the often so quietly whispered dreams of creation…so very quietly whispered in fact that the elements of the vision usually vaporized themselves invisible to the heart that fails to recognize.  A series of edits, stretching and rotating, coloring and refabricating, linking the hinges of all his now many points of origin into the one and the artist’s hand released his voice into the work and expressed his protest at being unheard, unreflected upon, unreacted to…at being “un” rather than “one.”

The world knocked at his door.  He answered, listening to the sighs of creativity that surged through his mental playground from a source unknown to even the artist but dwelling somehow, he knew, in the deep deep recesses of the very creation over which he currently labored…the multitudes of many boxes he rapidly now worked to shape and form and link and meld.  He answered the knock at the door by the world while he, the artist, stood over a randomly joined pile of prims and listened to the sighs of creativity ask:  “what are you building?”  Then at the last coupling of the last set of duplicated replicated prims, the creation found voice in itself from a sense that had always been present and now was fully released and the creation used its voice in the form of its presence and said:  “A magnificent castle, the entrance to which you currently stand invited.”

And so the world entered.

Nanowrimo10 total word count: 1,174 of 50,000


2 thoughts on “Waking the Sleeping Integer … 1

  1. Yay, November Novels! I haven’t started one yet this month, and may very well not, life being as crazy as it is. I love the rush torrent avalanche of words here. And the title! 😀

    1. Smiles wide, it’s hard to believe it’s November novels time already! I so understand what you mean about not knowing whether or not to make the nanowrimo (for me “months”) run this year. If/when you do find that you have time for novel writing, I will be the first to read yours and early and often. I so love your writing. 🙂 You make nanowrimo seem easy when it is so very far from easy. Thank you for your wonderful encouragement, thank you always! :))

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