of the Ahrimanic
Above the head and behind: a sense of light approaching his body. But
what approaches is not the light of day. It is an artificial light, flouresecent
in quality, and in imitation of natural light. Yet it is not a light derived
from any natural object, rather it mimics the natural, as the digital
image of a sunset throws off a light that is not from nature. In this
light the subject is suspended internally, and he feels what has illuminated
him as a falseness, as that which substitutes itself for that which issues
naturally from the sun above him. Images of electrical activity appear
and disappear in the space around his body. For a moment he thinks he
is alive inside a great cathode ray tube, and it is as if the images of
desire were being reflected back to him by this false light. It is as
if he is being seduced into a carefully arranged image, that is not an
image he has produced, but one carved from the subnatural-- that dim electrical
impulse that, in our own time appears to underpin nature, and is , in
its own way, attempting to appropriate him into it's frieze.
He feels a weakness in his heart. The body sleeps inside this onslaught
of artificial density and light, and further densifies inside that sleep.
There are twinges of pain in the region of the heart as the veins and
arteries lose the bouyancy of their inevitable aspiration and striving
towards the sun. The balance between density and what rises has been (momentarily,
he hopes) distorted and overcome. He thinks of blood thickening in the
veins and arteries, losing its bouyancy, its counterbalance from the nutritive
forces shining in from the sun. He envsions the walls of the arteries
collapsing a little, developing an attraction for one another, becoming
magnets for the densified light which is their mirror. It is clear that,
in this false light he has unexpectedly been plunged into, he has lost
some of the natural bouyancy in the healthy balance between matter and
It is life inside an electrically charged image then .And the light that
holds him suffuses each and every image with that charge. He sees that
every such charged image bears within it the character of a usurpation--
usurping the inevitable and natural character in the play of life itself--
obscuring that future which would flow naturally toward us if it were
not for this dense light, which is itself a relentless glaze cast over
the idea of the future.
He is tired. He cannot hold what he has seen. He notes the subtlety of
what has occurred, and the distance with which it has held itself from
him, seeping inward from perhaps three to four feet outside his body.
He turns as if to sleep, but sleep does not come.
Only that hope which is the hope inside clear thinking. Not that thinking
that is dead in the automata of one's schemes, but a thinking that is
alive with the hope inherent in experience . He smiles, and is happy that
we are reflected back to ourselves in this world. He does not concern
himself with the question of the self at all. For him the question does
not exist. It is only the chimera of a fear one feels when one is too
much inside the delicacies of desire.
He sleeps. He does not dream at all.