darkness ii

to pass over in a plane a city at night – is this not a vision less of the indication of civilized constructs of a species and more of the stirred dreams in the human looking down?  and when the plane moves from its island of light to oceans of darkness, what then the dreams?

we may be better thinking less of darkness as anything visual and more as sound.  not silence, for only the space between darkness and light would be silent, but atonal moods at the margins of noise.

we know that darkness – like eternity, justice, love, light, goodness – doesn’t exist in any raw or pure form. thus what we call darkness is always an admixture with light and so its ratios – the amount of light in it – are always shifting.  darkness is variegated and impurified light.

darkness is less darkness and more our giving ourselves over to it.  darkness is the gift of ourselves, a yielding without object.

night is simply day made visible, for isn't crepuscularity the onset of the unknown?

enlightenment if it is anything is endarkenment.

isn’t darkness life that has not been turned into an event and so the overwhelming bulk of life?

aren’t there literatures of light and literatures of darkness?  in the former, tristram shandy, shakespeare’s comedies, orlando, aristophanes, groups and atolls of others; in the latter almost everything.  between but on darkness’ side a range from hamlet to the master and margarita.  this may make it seem as if light laughs, darkness weeps or is mute.  and this is not untrue.  but rather, to be literature, both laugh and weep and are mute.  it is more that the former enter existence through social ritual, the latter through the grave.  both are insufficient comedies, different genres of wit.

that the mystics experience light when through their circles of ordeals, that the dying see tunnels of light, that the supposed achievement of the guru and the goal of the spiritually seeking is enlightenment … all this points only to darkness containing within it its opposite, a concentration of everything, at its center, a sphere with almost no diameter, and this almost-not-thereness only increasing its potency and apparency in the overwhelming black.

what is the distance between you and i, i and i, between memory and forgetting, the unseen and the seen?  aren’t these distances darkness?

this wiring that connects light to life and goodness and truth, darkness to death and evil and falsity – only a particular standard in the linguistic-energy configurations of the universe.  what would rewire us to new standards of possibilities and impossibilities?  where might be the vision to become wireless in ourselves, all connecting to all and from all, the playful and free democracies of consciousness?

necessity perhaps is related to darkness as freedom is, in some collective-oneiric genealogy.  and light?  is light the manufactured apparati that permit screenings of the familial relationships?  the dubious, searing, and unmitigated beams of civilization and culture turned on our irrevocable and lost origins?

if i must speak your language to understand it, is darkness all the speakings i have not spoken, that have not summoned me to enter them?  if so, don’t i live and speak in darkness and my little languages, these candle flickerings, which so often seem to the i as stars larger than the universe, primarily indicators of what i do not know?

so ignorance and darkness and doubt may be the only and vague harbingers of truth, and what we call knowledge an edifice of falsities.  the human in its bulk places its bets on the latter, but the odds of time are set in obscure places, and hardly read.

in the light of knowledge, darkness is no longer possible.  i simulate it in the laboratories of the absent.  i package it in capsules of varied legalities, shoot it in the wretched alleys of god.  i visit the prostitute of art.  i am laid down in the soils of the damned.  these are my rites and sex, my semiotics of love.