Just Writing

Just writing invades me now. just writing. Just writing as the key and only injunction: invade the noospehere with your army of words, your battalion of metaphors, your phalanxes of figurative language, your small platoon of facts. Each cluster of lit-troops packed into the paragraph and setting sail for the beachead, the beachead where self-censors of all potential lie in weight like a million Belgian gates, log ramps, claymore mines and beds of razorwire, waiting to trip up all meme invasions who dare penetrate the self-selecting temple/template of though, which decides which thought-armies will tred upon the mind-ground, and which will fail and die. Yours will tred, will run from foxhole to foxhole, firing volley after volley at recieved opinions and stabel worldviews, a million helpless minds sitting in the cafes in the market reading what they believe to be "innocent literature" only to find a live snake waiting for them on page 23.

All has written. All has been read. All has been thought. All has been thought about, observed, collated, collected, ransacked, analyzed, critiqued, hagiograpehed, appreciate, depreciated, fictionalized, serialized, signified, created, conjured, conquered. And yet still you write.

Write like its the oldest and only habit, as natural as the atom's electron cloud spinning, as the amoeba's pseudopods assimilating, the pit-python's coiled carapace lurking, trucks trucks, hitchikers hitching, clouds clouding up everything. Your natural activity keeps the air clear, keeps feet planted to soil, keeps eyes watching, keeps lips drinking, the fundamental substances-soil of the glue between viewer and object, percieved and perciever.

But at a certain point, this natural activity grows cold, and it is time to dance. Even if they have never moved together before, throw your limbs out onto the cheap beachwood floor and submit to the air-sound patterns rumbling from the PA and into your shins. Create in your mind the illusion of drunkeness, using words if possible. A slurred phrase -- "I'ma soo wasted, hic!" -- will do. The vertigo of the drunk-in-movement destabilizes gravity fields (only to make them stronger later on, requiring an even more ferocious Dance-Attack), and puts all local property at risk. Human artifacts become contingent entities, held together now but luck over habit and deliberate construction. Should all sentient forms come to drunk-dance on the same day, we will have a revolution of dust and wind the likes of which common worldviews have yet to see.

See the ants following each other across the floor-seams? Do not take their micro-noises for laughter, the chatter is one of appreciation of the Gods exercising their Will far above them and, if the ants are lucky, spilling a drop or two of microbrew down the tiny tunnels of their domeciles. On this occasion, the ants too have pause to dance, and even the queen can be seen shaking her egg sack to the alien harmony-armies falling into her tunnels like the waves of a distant shore suddenly uprooted and dropped on top of a landlocked town.

And then we stop to see ants holding hands, and ants making business promises and exchanging info-cards, and ants kicking in hubcaps and keying car windows, all is right with the invaded world, at every level.