|The Lost Head|
The visionary eye is not as much accustomed to account for death than we
I look for my head and it's gone. It got lost during the last stage of reappearance. There's no question of identity, there's the question of bone and tissue. Where's my fucking skull? No hair to cover it. Simply gone. Tibetans go shopping early in life. They'll be equipped for the rest of their time. They buy on instinct. They'll have anything they need. How can I go on living without a head? What is this bent shape running down my spine? What about this slippery feeling around my ankles, the weird angled lines in front of me? Do I have a sense of vision? I don't dare to think so, yet there's a tingling feeling at the back of my neck. Above the oddly shaped structure attached to my back, a ridge passing through the valley that is my vertical body.
The visionary eye is able to see life in its different aspects some of which can be experienced as related to death by higher primates. It will not allow to put an end to things or to let stifling narcosis take over. There's no apocalypse in paradise, little green death twinkling behind my brow. And what of the mouth?
Death is an art in Tibet. It grows and grows until its delicate patterns cover the very texture of life and society. They mingle and become inseparable each in its own colorful way merging with the other. A shaman can get up and tear right thru the tissue of deathlife when escaping but it'll grow back in no time. It encloses the dome of air hovering over the mountains. My thin long legs reach down into the throat the tongue curling around them. Blood, not mine, is pumped up and down inside me. Whitish softmatter wetly worms its way into all of my orifices. I'm jailed. I'm caught in someone's head , not mine, mind you.
Day and night are spent with recitals and hallucinations. The heavy one is expected to descend soon bringing personal discomfort. Then all things will be disassembled, collapsing and losing definition and form. The squishy feeling of uneasiness will disappear and gracious gaseousness will invade us.
Of course, I didn't make it long inside of Lydia's head. She soon died of a brain tumor and became someone else's curse. My underdeveloped eyes are closed facing the next step.
The visionary eye recites and hallucinates what it owns. The sound of one eye closing fills my head, somewhere.