90

Next one. Full of grey space. Shapes move throughout. There is no emotion, there is no particular spirit in any sense that he can recognize. There is no place for it, here, within this person. There is no noise, either. No sound of any kind. This person has some strange shit going on, he thinks. All is numb except for the shapes. It is hard even to say that all is numb because numb is a thing of comparative awareness: numb does not exist on its own -- it is the absence of feeling. He does not know that there has ever been feeling, here. All is shape. All is movement of shape. There is perhaps a language of the movement of shape. A dance. A choreography. A geometric vocabulary. Perhaps there is none of this. He doesn't know. This committee member has not spoken, so far as he can remember, although perhaps she has spoken before he became a member. But he wonders whether it is possible to generate language with an interior self such as the one he is seeing. At first, he thinks that there is nothing to talk about, here, except for the shapes. But then he realizes that there is something fascinating to ponder about these shapes. Do these shapes generate language? Here is the puzzle: is the force that originates language linguistic or a-linguistic? (Or could they be pre-linguistic? And is pre-linguistic linguistic or a-linguistic?) Are these shapes a component of language or are they something else that comes before? Are they an alphabet (and thus a component of language) or are they a non-language system out of which, perhaps, a language awareness might arise?

89

This guy's not too interesting. All the clinginess, all the hurt. He hasn't all that much sympathy for him. Grow a pair, he thinks. He turns his attention to the next person. Rage. Blistering colors -- bright blood red, radioactive greens. Blinding whites. Pain and joy combined into one sensation that is as repulsive as it is alluring. Complete self-interest combined with complete lack of self-awareness. Ego without superego. But very little in the way of intellect. And almost nothing in terms of spiritual acuity. The woman has powerful emotions but, at the same time, is overwhelmingly devoid of any deeper sensation. A nerve both raw and numb. Motivation without goal. He looks for pathos and finds none. He cannot understand. Here is a person, perhaps, who knows nothing of introspection. She could be a giant tongue -- a device for tasting yet not for discernment nor aesthetic appreciation. And there is nothing to speak of as desire. Neither love nor lust. Her self-interest has more to do with an ill-defined insecurity than with a will to succeed. Her rage, similarly, arises not from hurt but from a sense of entitlement based on an amorphous condescension that is, so far as he can detect, entirely irrational.

88

He chooses the person nearest to him. Parental abuse. Drug addiction (his own). A history of self-loathing that reaches back into his early childhood when he is yelled at continuously by his parents and his grandparents and his brothers and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts (and his brothers and sisters and his cousins and his aunts). Jeez, this guy is a pathetic schmuck, he thinks. Not his to judge, he thinks, but then, well, actually, now it is his to judge, isn't it? But hold on -- he watches the man's life unfold. There are a series of personal relationships: familial, professional, romantic. The familial: a submissive father and a domineering mother. The above mentioned verbal abuses. An aunt who loves him in more ways than one (eww...) and then berates him for smashing the mantel urn that contains her late husband's ashes. She says he has done so on purpose, and he agrees with her. Her dead husband is too much on her mind, the man thinks. Three's a crowd (double eww...) He plays for both teams. He has girlfriends and boyfriends. Some of the relationships have been serious, but all have ended at the point when he has become obsessive. He has scared off every one of his relationships by becoming, as they say, clingy.

87

We must execute. I do not know why. Why must we execute? Because you have been elected chair. I don't want to be chair. It is not your choice. We must execute. I must execute. We must choose. I must choose. They are executed at o(m)u(y)r pleasure. Is this the duty of the chair? It is. It is y(our) duty. Look before you at the members. Look through them at their histories, and make the decision. How many must w(I)e choose? Y(w)o(e)u will know. It will be plainly evident. There will be no doubt. I will not do it. You cannot yet say that you won't do it. I know that I will not do it because it is not my nature to kill people. You are hunter. You called me by that name. It is not a name; it is a designation. Why do you not then say "you are a hunter?" Because you are beyond names. You cannot know what you can or cannot do, what you will or will not do, until you do it. I will not kill people. Your duty is to look over the histories. Why is it my duty? This is not a question that you may ask, at this point. You must first serve on the committee, and then, when you have served an appropriate length of time, you may be assumed into the order. But you may never be assumed into the order if you do not carry out the duties of the chair. There is more to this than you are able to know, at this juncture, and because of this, you are in no position to judge. You are to carry out your duties, or you will no longer serve, as chair, as committee member, or as hunter. Do I serve you? You serve yourself. Am I you? It is not that easy, hunter. Now, look at the members and let their histories come over you that you may pass judgment upon them. Be confident in the propriety of your duty.
He closes his eyes. He opens them and begins the process.

86

He looks at the Committee. He can see its make up much more clearly, now, and his mind, though still filled with hallucination and visions of inner histories, is less confused. Running a committee should not be so difficult so long as there is a program, and so long as you don't try to push something through that no one on the committee wants. Better to run with them than against them. And if you do have to push something through, best work things such that they think it is their idea to have the particular item or items passed. Best they push you. He doesn't think this way. He is thinking this way, but he doesn't think this way. This is his first committee, and he doesn't think this way, but now he is thinking this way, and it feels comfortable as he sits in this chair. He is hunter, and hunter doesn't think this way because hunter -- and hunter is who, or what, he is -- is hungry and out for something, though, of course, he has not yet figured out what it is that he is out for -- or, which is correct, that for which he is out. But he will, soon enough. And this committee which h(I)e chair(s) will lead him into it, directly.

85

AGENDA

THE COMMITTEE

I. Approval of Minutes

II. Comments from The Magnificence, Coordinator at Large

III. Election of Chairperson

IV. Execution of Chosen Committee Members (at pleasure of Chairperson)

V. Discussion of Assimilation Program, Recruitment, Events.

VI. Scheduling of Next Meeting (please bring calendars)

VII. Other

84

And now, noble hunter, new amongst us and bearer of great perceptions, do rise before the committee and accept your elected role as leader of this committee.
A force lifts him, and he moves toward The Magnificence. Again, as much earlier, he knows he can resist this force, knows it is fully within his power to do so, and yet he does not resist. A calm has come over him -- the calm of a purpose and of a role, although he knows not what that purpose nor that role are. He approaches The Magnificence and notices, for the first time, that The Magnificence is itself the form of a chair. He sits. He is enveloped, his body conforms, his mind quiets. And yet, far in the back of his consciousness, a voice that is his and yet removed from him speaks to him -- and he has heard this voice before, as well. The voice reminds him of the presence of anxiety. He knows there is anxiety, he knows there is something to cause this anxiety and to validate it. Yet this knowledge is now more an intellectual recognition that a visceral feeling.

83

And then a further silence cuts the air. His thoughts, the collages that surround him and add to his confusion dissipate with an arid clarity. It is the voice of The Magnificence, no longer internal, no longer non-symbolic, but now verbal, audible, and terrible. We shall have a vote for chair of this committee! it says. I nominate the hunter, for he has a foresight and an insight that the rest of you lack.
Motion to accept!
Seconded!
All in favor?
AYE!
All opposed?
(silence)
So passed! Hunter is the new chair!
Shit, says he.

82

Is it possible that the committee is no longer meeting? He has gotten nothing out of it. He has more or less been unable to keep track of its progress, so busy has he been with his various extended perceptions -- that which lies beneath rather than that which is on the surface. Thoughts and feelings rather than business. He looks at the people around him, and his thoughts are so energetic, so, well, busy, that the people themselves begin to disappear in front of him. Which is to say he sees their thoughts but he does not see -- or rather, he loses track of, the physical presence that houses those thoughts. Does the committee continue to meet? He has contributed nothing. Are people talking?

81

There is a poetic beauty in the most ludicrous of surroundings and within the deepest levels of chaos and violence. Haiku fly about in the air as he tries, unsuccessfully, to put himself entirely into one frame of mind. He is unable to focus on anything for long. He has never been able to disguise his emotions; he has never been able to wear the mask that he sees those around him wearing. It is a gift newly received that he is able to see the disturbed thoughts behind those masks. Perhaps he has also himself gained the ability to be opaque; perhaps no one around him recognizes that he is experiencing his own parade of anxieties, his own perpetual haze of confusion. But that's what has been happening: haiku have appeared to him in the air -- as haiku would appear if they were not made out of words. Synesthetically. And can he now do this? Can he taste sound? Can he sense words as colors? He does not know. He thinks he can. No immediate matter, although he has a bit of an insight: perhaps his purpose in this place is to feel confusion. Perhaps this is his power. Perhaps his muse is his hunger, and if he satisfies his hunger he will no longer be inspired, and perhaps he will lose what little identity -- what little cohesive identity, anyhow, that he still possesses.

80

Energy takes form

An alphabet of metal

Great Machinery

79

Apply Sappho's words:

"If you are squeamish, do not

prod the beach rubble."

78

The Magnificence:
Mechanical or Human?
Good? Evil? Other?

77

it is what it is

it is what it is it is

what it is it is

76

language of vision

images without symbol

excrutiating

75

power, forever,

must reproduce its sources

or face extinction

74

collages of pain

(anxious and disordered mind)

the soul's private art

73

Gradually, he is able to struggle his way past the clutter of the collages such that he can hear the continuation of the meeting. The members argue back and forth as though engaged in an extremely important battle. The current topic: should a new committee be formed to overlook the process of new committee formation? He is taken aback by the level of internal conflict within each member and how this level of internal conflict is masked by the performance of bickering and petty administrivia.

72

Whether the others around him share in his ability to see personal history, he cannot tell. What he does come to see is that his outburst apparently has little to no effect upon the meeting. Perhaps his psychic epiphany is itself the response of The Magnificence to his outburst. Although he had first thought that the members of the committee feared for his head after hearing his outburst, he now thinks that the members of the committee share with him no particular empathy but are rather too bound up in their own memories to react to him one way or the other, except as it might affect themselves.

71

It's truly amazing what he is able to sense about the people -- his recently met fellow committee members -- seated around him at the table. Through some bizarre shit, The Magnificence is able to put into his mind, collages of personal histories, emotions, prayers, and dreams come flooding into his head. And the overwhelming conclusion he gets from all of it is that, despite the differences from person to person, each collage of personal history is somehow disconnected, somehow shorted out... somehow wrong. And the people themselves are aware of it. But they don't know what is wrong with the memories because, although attached to the memories are real feelings, undeneath all of these memories that seem real is a things that says no. And this thing bothers them more than the memories themselves, because they don't know where or what the thing is. But, for himself, he feels no such doubting thing. He is sure of his own memories, completely. And perhaps this freaks him out as much as the doubting thing he senses from the other committee members freaks them out.

70

There's one guy who was living in a shack
in Pennsylvania, somewhere. He drank
a case of beer a day and on his back
were faded blue tattoos. In dreams he sank
and woke up here with all the rest. He thought
himself a fellow charming, rich and bright
but he mis-reads the stuff his mind has wrought
and knows it, too, somehow. Another's plight
of memory reveals domestic strife
but all that she remembers feels like joy
and hatreds smell of happiness. Her life,
she knows, is full of stories ill-retrieved:
her trust is gone, and pleasures have deceived.

69

Immediately, looking round, he sees
or, rather, feels, or thinks, or hears (or smells?)
a slew of histories, and none to please
but all are full of fresh and sundry hells.
'Tis true, he only sees the sitting men
and women, only hears the grumbling room,
but in the theatre of his mind a plen-
itude of people's secret lives in bloom
with nightmares. Every one has lost his way
and every one has memories to patch
together of a former life and day.
Yet never do these scattered mem'ries match
completely what had truly been. And this
they know and, therefore, never will see bliss.

68

He stops, and all about him fairly gape,
for such an outburst simply is not done
if speaker wants to keep his mortal shape
or any mortal shape, since everyone
around the table has been oft transformed
or mutilated fairly at the limb
and left for dead or just to walk half-warmed
as he has. All have memories gone dim
occasionally flaring who knows when.
Now, as he shuts his mouth and looks about,
He realizes that these other men
are just as he is. There can be no doubt
that his is not the only spirit caged
nor his the only soul to've been enraged.

67

The tongue that starts to speak with angry force
Gains power in inertia. Words on words
come forth from him in fast then faster course.
And as the words continue, strong, he girds
himself in courage with the sound they make
until that sound, which all are meant to hear
now makes him deaf. The flow of words then take
from him the sight that wisdom would make clear
and make it clear that he has lost his head
-- a phrase which soon may not be figured speech...
The Cold Magnificence moves not. Instead,
It keeps its peace, though peace may not remain
When all his words have passed, and passed in vain.

66

And what about my fuckin' hand!!! he screams,
-- a man who generally never swears --
but now, all bets are off, in these extremes
of strange hallucination that impairs
the sense of social consciousness and calm.
It's all been much too much for him -- a fact
that now seems obvious. A bitter balm
is madness. Fantasy is left intact
while reason takes the road less trod upon
and disappears to regions not yet mapped.
In madness is the soul soon woebegone;
in melancholy is the spirit trapped --
between a parody of happiness,
and fury that the self is powerless.

65

Though first he thinks to wait his turn to speak,
His temper gets the best of him and Rob-
erts Rules of Order temper not his pique
of indignation. He can't keep his gob
from shouting out in rage: "What is this place???
And why am I entrapped and wandering
from void to shapeless landscapes?? Show your face,
Whatever demon force is squandering
my memories, my history, my life,
else send me back to where I was before
the Darkness puked me out. What subtle knife
Has cut both flesh and spirit to the core,
And severed me complete from everything,
That now, there is no sense to anything???

64

Next, on to matters of the current day!
The welcoming of members newly joined,
And Yon Magnificence claims final say
o'er any wit or witticism coined
when introductions make their way around
the table. Well then, sputter, hem and haw
and verily foresooth the furied sound
of conversation 'scaped the horrid maw
and Yon Magnificence who spoke prentent-
iously though yet with non-symbolic noise
and image, too. (Now, he was sore intent
to ask his questions, get his thoughts well-poised,
and finally, by damn, to get somewhere!
A voice within him said... It's only fair...)

63

But first, the minutes are discussed in full,
As is appropriate committee work.
He takes good note of all -- non-sensical
and sensible alike, of who's a jerk
and who seems civil, prone to graciousness.
The contents that comprise the minutes, though...
Are wholly alien to him: a mess
of terms and phrases written more to show
officiousness and pride in finding fault
with everything as though approval meant
a job ill-done. Consensus brings to hault
the bickering, O joy! Do all assent?
A motion's made and seconded, at last
And all say aye. Thus are the minutes passed.

62

And who should be presiding, after all?
The Great Magnificence! That's who! ... or what...
He recognizes This Great Thing and Tall,
yet no sick nerves now clench him in the gut.
Again, he sees the varied shapes that move
and hears the noises, human and machined
and feels, in non-symbolic speech, the groove
in which his path was set, his hunger keaned.
And when he saw it, Terrible and Grand,
He nonetheless began to feel relieved
(He also noticed, now rejoined, his hand...)
For here could answers start to be retrieved!
His heart began to sing with joy: "Ha-hah!
"Tra-laa, tra-laa, tra-laa, tra-laa, la laa!"

61

The music, now subsiding, clears the air
And, thus, once more, his thoughts come back to him
And he becomes a man, again. So, there
he is with other once-more men. And, dim,
the memory of why he's here returns.
Around a table, they are all now sat
as an agenda is now read. By turns
each member -- chewing slowly on the fat
of items -- of his own importance speaks
portentiously. Ahh! Great Committee, Fine
and True! Your voicing, doused with import, reeks
of air whose notes, though recently divine
in harmony are now discordant squeaks
and squawks. But it's unseemly to deride,
So, call to order, You who now preside!

60

"Now give the unearthed Instrument a hand,"
a shouting voice demanded, half in jest,
and thus the shell of man received his stand
amidst a dozen shells. And of his Quest
the man -- the Instrument -- now barely thought
but full embraced the music as it came.
As into the ensemble he was brought,
he knew how great It was -- how great the Game
of Music: improvising melody
while following the voices that surround,
and losing self to wond'rous rhapsody
while cares of any other things are drowned.
While Music played, all shared in noble fun
But now it's stopped, the Meeting is begun.