Stream of Consciousness:
These mountains of the west, these rocks and stones and car wheels over gravel and even the soft rain comfort me no end. Yes, there will be an end – as all things break down, burn out as the Second Law of Thermodynamics proclaims. All will be consumed away and what will be the significance of these scribbles then?
Snow-capped mountains and hills and valleys and lakes and all things small and tall, and here in my soul is where it all happens, and I’ll write to reach the centre, and be re-centred and re-centred and ever re-centred. My heart breaks, melts, thaws, and opens itself to the mountains, the trees, bare with winter truth, a bitter fruit. My heart grows, explodes, opens its arms wider and wider and will embrace all in a summer truth of blossom upon blossom upon blossom. I ache for stony places – ageless rocks, sheer cliff, for shingle under foot, for the long lost strands of youth and for the sand that tickles the toes, for ancient slopes, for valleys, for snow-capped mountains, for trees climbing jagged slopes, for the crack and snap of tree limbs breaking, for houses nestling among the trees sheltering from the wind, for the shadows of mountains on mountains, for spring promise, for girlish giggles and for the brash shouts of boys, for old bridges that cross streams, for roads that twist between lakes, for a sun that searches out the cold corners, for rain that falls soft and gentle, for rain that lashes on panes of glass, for a primordial silence, the womb of life, for a silence that comforts like a blanket and that catches me safe in a harness of protection, for a wind that shakes and breaks and destroys as well as refreshes this beautifully various valley of life. I long for mountains I could never hope to sketch except in words, poor substitute for image.
Now this mess of thought after sleep and this riot of the unconscious and the rain still beating the glass panes and me wondering about who or what I am about. Am I just shivering in the primordial slime from where we came and the semen and the sputum and the stuff of life and the vaginal fluids on my thigh and me rubbing her pubes and feeling her tits and dreaming of what or rather who could be if we were to solemnise our unity in birth? Deep, I say, down where thoughts grow in primordial slime, beyond the tramp’s spit and yellowed sputum under an old bed and the smell of decaying vegetation; beyond the sputum and suppuration and puss that oozes from old sores and a splinter under the skin the sunshine breaks through and enlivens, brings life from seeds. Somewhere, some time there will be something that will surprise us, take us unawares like a sudden shower on a summer’s day.
Bird song and cold stone and winter ways in spring and bird song again, and voices carrying through the trees and I attempting to enter a still space, a place of stillness, a place of peace. I’m still trying to plumb the depths of soul, trying to put some shape on the shapeless, still trying to be really me, still trying to find out what is true and what is false, needing to say things twice or more like a mantra to bring me deeper, deeper to stonier places, to deeper story places, to places where stories begin. Crouching in the heather, cold on damp rock, solid ground around and voices still carrying where the birds sing and chirp. Let me be true to self, true to me, unafraid to be, unafraid to speak my truth. Let me go beyond abstractions, let me go beyond the so-called Truth with capital letters. Let me go further on through the mists, up through the stony places with no traces of direction, past old fallen branches, dampness, heather, moss and wild flowers and bare limbed trees. Let the lens of my truth be my honesty, my ability to face myself all in all as I am with all my legions of weaknesses. What is my truth but my very breathing, my very breath, the taste on my tongue, my bowels rumbling, piss and shit, hit and miss, come and go, in and out, up and down and around and around – cycles upon cycles searching out other cycles. We cannot square the circle or circle the square. It’s the cult of experience now – back to the self, into the deep down ever deeper self – deeper creeper, seeper, peeper and leaper from rock to rock. Sometime, somewhere some ooze of self will meet an ooze of another and we will beget another consciousness.
A frog at Delphi, Co Mayo, where I wrote this stream of consciousness one morning in March 2005.