Dweezle

Dweezle sat on the park bench at Baker Square, across from Filini's. His thoughts had been racing all day and he was in field mode. He was Hyped up, retrieving data from the Stream. What surrounded him, the sounds mostly, resembled something in minor, something deep into it with five flats or something. Certainly not seven for that would be closer to something more familiar. And easier to distinguish, easier to play. Like 5/4 time, its easy to get a hold of once you get into it, but 13/8 is sequentially open to fault, mistake. Its deeper into the whole scheme of it. Dweezle ushered his mind through this realization and switched on his shades. Lighting a cigarette he pulled out a manuscript notebook and began scribing into it, ledger lines enabled. At first it was patient, cautious. He delicately placed his pen down and drew a staff, running his hand above the paper, imagining, feeling out the notebook as a whole, recognizing the full potential of the emptiness that lay before him. He focused his mind on the outer source. Building a channel from the infinite cosmos into the specificity of the world that lay before him, a world that passed through him, as did this channel, this stream of information. It used him as the Conductor, flowing from everything through Dweezle McCoy into nothingness. A blank manuscript behind the curtains of the Euclidean realm. Everything began to quietly phase out of existance. Being reduced to nothing but a simple hum, eventually dissapating. The Conductor set the stage, quieted the audience. The world was now empty, the people, the sounds it was all patriotic towards the darkness. Dweezle emerged in this darkness unable to use his eyes and quite invisible, as it all had come to be. He had endangered his life by coming here but he knew this place well. It was where he thrived, were he existed, his chamber of creation. He had no fear. Fear could not be processed within him. It had been disabled. As for the other people, buildings, streets, trees, garbage cans, lights, elevators, monitors, the sunset, parking meters, it was all stuck in it's own blind vision of time, unable to reroute, trapped within its velocity. At the mercy of the fear of what they are not. Dweezle had become the messenger for all things, embracing them all as what they are, abandoning the human paradigm that laces our perspective, coating it with limitation. Dweezle could remain here, in the completion of time, for eternity, but as soon as he had placed his mind into this dark realm, this vast amount of emptiness, this blank page, the majestic conduction began. At first nothing. Then suddenly, a twinkle. Something very small that is portrayed as being in the distance. Slowly shapes will form . At first they are flashes, glimpses of something familiar. The sound is that which is important, each flash accopmpanies a tone, echoing off of one another, spastically placed at varying distances. This continued with patient timing, Dweezle lowers the wand. The tones, now having established some presence within this world, begin to magnificently compliment one another. At first it is a simple, single toned progression, the shapes attached still resembling something not quite distinguishable, not quite real. Long curves and billows of light circulate around, reflecting and iridescent. Shimmering and forming new shapes, creating a steady flow of light, constantly morphing and turning into itself. Again and again, each moment one of inertia, and yet each moment the Conductor would force it all out of it's equilibrium, probing, massaging. Dweezle again lowered the wand and let his creation be. It pulsated for an instant before he continued.
At this point there will not yet be human specific objects. In other words nothing recognizable will be happening. The world is a place of specific, delicately balanced material that happens to occupy a space in our cerebral allowance. We accept things as either real, or not real. We either fear them, or we do not; accept or refute. The ironic factor at play in this whole game is that for everything we know, there is the true meaning of it that we do not and will not understand; or be able to rationalize in a tangible way. It is only in the final phases of this tonal process that human reality is formed. Only in the top layer, the thin, outer crust of it all, are we allowed any perspective. Dweezle is building this reality that we know from everything it ever was and is. It is all here, as a scene in a movie, a musical score. The infinite moment, spread out, making distance it's bitch, a zero mechanism at the mercy of the moment. It was all being reproduced from the nothing that lay behind it.

He creates light.
He forms matter.
He identifies shape
distinguishing form.
He builds perspective and in the end
He creates himself.