Streams

The following is an extract from the bizarre stream of consciousness that I somehow pulled from my brain while I was on the train from Melbourne. I'm almost entirely sure that I worked myself into this weird, Zen state, because it got even more strange (and wanky) beyond this point.

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Where does it all come from? There's another place, a secret invisible layer of threads that we pull closer to us, that we weave into things - the great shadow puppets, the notes on strings, the hint of creative manna in the air.

And wouldn't it be interesting if there was something in the atmosphere that fired off the chemicals responsible for throwing open the vaults of our brains - some kind of pheromone - a little whiff of lust, of creative zap, of pure muse, a musk of resonance and truth and clarity and longing, a concentrated drug of brightness and discovery and world-ending, chaotic brilliance. Maybe it comes thicker in the air here, or perhaps over at another corner of the world. Could you filter it, mine it, sell it wholesale? Would the dullest of us brush up to a stunning sheen? Could we inject it into the worst of us and see what their body filtered it into? Would we have explosions of dark, violent art, a bevy of glorious, dark children, running riot with torches and manic grins? What would it do to the serene - the dignified and the haughty? Would they sit at tall harps and break us with resonate, soul-tearing music? Would they melt themselves into rending verse? And what about the practical, knockabouts, the shapers with callouses, the menders and fixers and carvers? Would they build us towering palaces, monuments of slender grace, would they shape pieces and things that catch us and hold us and give us some kind of surety that we are all to be just what we will be - a reflective construct, a binding structural keystone, a resonant physical truth?

Do some of us just have keener senses than others? Some kind of receiver that tunes to the ghostly, etheric music from that other place? What could we achieve if we all reached the zenith of our creative extravagance? We'd hardly have time to eat, surely, we'd all be too busy throwing ourselves after ideas, blinking back tears of awestruck fascination at what we'd all discovered, taught, created. And it would be a shining radiant place, and all of us would give in a thousand times to our most ardent passions, and no harm would follow.