It began with nothing more than a simple and sincere curiosity. A spark way down deep inside of my heart to know that which is, has always been, and forever will be unknowable yet can be directly experienced if one can find the courage within him or her self to do so. As I brought the small glass blown pipe to my lips and inhaled, a thin cloud of smoke diffused into my lungs accompanied by a scent resembling that of a rarely opened closet full of mothballs. I began to feel a very strange sensation, like a warm transparency rapidly undulating through every nerve cell of my physical body. It felt as though each and every atom of which the body is composed was completely disintegrating, like I was dissolving into a limitless sea of psychic dream energy, impossible to know if the physical eyes of the quickly disappearing body were open or closed.
And it all happened and didn’t happen deep in the heart center of an otherwise lifeless desert where, hidden within the innermost chamber of Silencio’s solemn solitude, there stood a slouching dried up and withering ficus religiosa. It was a leafless and tired old fig, very tall, and very wide, but upon which no bird had roosted nor weaved a nest for many a vast millennia. Although, from each and every branch there hung a most ornate and intricately fashioned antique bird cage made out of tin, iron, lead, copper, mercury, silver, or gold and inside each of the cages, upon a six inch wooden dowel cut from the ages old wood of this very ancient tree, was perched a deeply saddened lonely white and cooing mourning dove. Circling seasons of incomprehensible epochs had rendered the tree awkwardly asymmetrical, partially uprooted, and arthritically angular. Still the hopeful manifold of Lilliputian buds that shone in the light of the desert sun adorned the tips of its seven hundred seventy-seven sanctimonious solar-striving branches like emerald, jade, and agate. Another curious characteristic of this most peculiar portent was the exhibition of the frayed and fragile blood-stained fishing rope that had been tied securely around the middle of the highest of these branches. Dangling in equal intervals along the length of the rope were seven apple-sized weather-worn livestock bells. Each had been knotted to the rope in increasing degrees of firmness from top to bottom and was embellished with strange etchings that had clearly been carved into them with focused intention.
The serpentine helix of the mysterious zephyr of the divine eupnoea arrived as a glissading soliton at the base of the sacred spine’s energy sphere. An invisible solitary wave-form glissading along the twisted vine that spirals up from the roots, around the trunk, and to the carillon of seven oxidized bells of liberty green patina. It seemed as though the bells were magnetically attracting or magically summoning the animation of the vital exhalation to them like a ship to the song of a siren or a sperm to the hum of an ovum. Its invisible silent presence whirling amidst the tintinnabulation of the halcyon tintinnabulum evoked the unraveling of seven silent sonic resonations that expanded outwardly in concentric spheres to the farthest reaches of the desert and beyond. The elaborating soundwaves delicately intertwined with one another composing symmetry of greater and greater complexity upon the surface of the sand like the hypotrochoids and epitrochoids of a spyrograph or the shifting geometry of pendulum sand designs. The markings resembled several diverse forms of pentatomidae and certain symbols applied within the esoteric domains of high mathematics and occult ritual.
The visual field was transformed into a softly illuminated tunnel which gave the impression of a structure both ancient and futuristic, a wormhole without beginning or end altogether transcending the linear dimension of temporality as it traveled interdimensionally through limitless complex weavings of space and time. It was a hybrid of the interior of a hallowed out tree, the inner hall of a space station, and the mucosa, muscle, and fi