7921. BELOW THE WATER LINE (pt. 192)

BELOW THE WATER LINE

(pt. 192)

-[beware, a confusion dwells here]-

Another thing about this issue  -  we

never called it anything but 'Security

Steel.' As far as I ever knew they made

metal filing cabinets with locking

systems and automatic latches and

such. The sort of thing you'd find in

rows in any big office or large corporate

setting. Before computers I guess, and

all the modern ways of storing, archiving,

and filing information now. Shows how

much the world has changed from my

shadowy and half-dark Avenel Netherlands

time. How outmoded is the very idea of a

physical, hard-goods presence in an office,

a place for filing cabinets. What's that?

Most of it's gone anyway  -  there always

remains a certain percentage of need for

the 'proof' of existence. Lawyer's offices

still show deeds and contracts, multi-paged,

sign and attested to, etc., on white sheets of

paper, as but one example, and I guess the

originals and the copies too still need to be

kept and filed. When the point arrives of

needing nothing physical, someone let me

know. It will sure present a new conundrum

for me. I've lived my entire life  -  read this

carefully, because it's factual and it's also

startling  -  under the impression that my

own reality was not physical at all. Will the

world catch up, then, to me? Is that the way

it will be? The dogged determination of my

life has mostly been in the accumulation of

'information' - stuff kept in my head, sorted or

unsorted (not sordid, just sorted), things read

and then 'kept.' My personal inventory of non-

physical things. Knowledge. Information. The

stories and references of others. Memory. All

the sorts of things there are (are?) which are

non-physical  -  so non-physical that I even

hesitate to use the word 'are'. Do you see?

In the context of 'Security' Steel, what is

anything anyway? We never called that old

factory anything but, and then, one day, all

of a sudden, people began saying 'General

Dynamics.' And then 'General Dynamics,

Electric Boat Division,' and then that they

made (made? Do you really 'make' these

sorts of things?) tracking objects and

info-panels, and electronics, etc., for nuclear

subs, for the main factory which was in

Groton, Connecticut. How'd all this ever

get started? Then they said the ground

contaminations precluded any further use

of the property, but they only said that

AFTER the factory complex itself had

long been shut down and left to fall apart.

That was probably for twenty years. They

let the bullshit clear, the people leave, and

they let anyone sick and dying from the

factory days go to their deaths, and only

then made the deals needed to have the place

'built' on. Get this! Housing! And that's where

we are now  -  with the heart and guts ripped

out of some chem-soil cheap-shit town with

nothing left to itself but roadways and trash,

and the powers that be running circles around

themselves trying to fast-talk the double-deals

done so as to get construction started on 60

acres of trashland. Who even owns this shit?

What kind of country is this when companies

can simply buy and sell their filthied-up,

exhausted properties, for gain, at the ghastly

expense of the cancer-wards around them?

And then go ahead and cut down every living

factotum of tree, shrub or bush, while lying

and stealing, and dissembling over what to

name the fucking place and whether or not

it's to be an 'arts community' or a welfare

row of coat-hook slum dormers. Like they

even know the difference. Maybe

someday. You tell ME, OK?

-

Slam me shut, then, with a fist. The only

security, I guess, about Security Steel was

in the insecurity of the 'dynamics' that

replaced it. We somehow went from Mike's

subs to nuclear subs, without a care.

-

So, one day it began being General Dynamics,

and that was that. Long ago, right smack dab

in the middle of 'town', what they called it,

next to the train station and on the little 'main'

road that took you to and through the place,

they built a strange-enough looking pile of brick

and glass. Truck bays and storage units, brick'd

rear-sections and a garage and a power-house,

a campus of something like 70+ acres overall.

There was also, central to it all, some strangely

proportioned tower rising up from the main,

office building. It seemed to have no use, really 

-  there were a few windows, and what looked

like a staircase, but to what, no one knew.

Square-topped, flat, it just ended. Like so

much else  -  an ending without a story. I

watched it come down, even took  few photos.

Lots of people treated it as a momentous,

end-of-era, thing. It wasn't nothing like that

at all; double-negative intended, so as to

underscore the real paucity of what happened.

The world had left this place a long time ago,

and it no longer mattered at all what happened to

it. Places have vibrational frequencies, the vortex

of their energies, from which people thrive, take

strength, revive themselves, maybe. This had none

of that, it was all long gone. Vacant and drained

of anything, it deserved its own death. They should

make it a cemetery. Avenel never has had one.

-

If I had my way  -  if I was Governor or President

or something, I'd have made a monastic, university

complex there. A real one, no the kind of crap that

gets called 'University' today  -  crumble-heaped

Kean College type places warehousing marginal

people, churning out shit-bonus degrees for fat

nobodies eating cheeseburgers and fries and being

corn-fed their socialistic reasoning skills. I mean

a real place of learning  -  deep and silent and

serious; wherein the fabric of Reality is studied,

changed, gone over. Wherein 'Philosophy' has a

meaning again, and people work on it. Wherein

writing is once again a skill that delves, and from

where people never leave. But they never want to

either. It would not need a parking lot, and

it would not have an exit gate.

-

Actually, it would be more than that.

Avenel could be made to need it, would

become one of those legendary places from

it. Selected scholars, allowed in, with no way

out. The only way out being the hoped-for

discovered inter-dimensional portal into which

too you could only enter, but never return. To

other dimensions of space and place and time.

Where the varied and many possible 'Futures'

would be running, or, if the 'Past' was your venue,

where the fields of Runnymede and the gates

of ancient Assyria or Egypt Babylon or Atlantis  -

or just the open fields of King John's Runnymede 

would be yours. All time and all being, known and

yet unknown, through this inter-dimensional portal,

somewhere between maybe Yale or Harvard Avenue

and Avenel Street, or the spaces over by the train

tracks, or the end of Dartmouth Ave. Wherever that

unsettled portal was landed at that moment   -   it

would of course change slightly within its own

parameters by density and spin. Slightly different 

each time; to be found. And then, of course,

each time an individual was lost through the

portal, one after another, over time, the physical

space of the 'University' would be lessened by an

amount in accordance with the psychic and

intellectual presence of the person just lost  - 

growing smaller each time, UNTIL, at long

last ! POOF ! Nothing left! Nothing.

No University, no 'General Dynamics' site.

Maybe just a negative space-hole in the middle

of Avenel, one where not even memory dwells.

Or, just maybe, NOTHING at all.

Nothing, in all its ramifications.
-
There were mysterious and disappearing islands 
in the Irish Sea, a long time back : when powerful 
and spiritual types still roamed the Earth. I've 
studied power-matrix grids, high-intensity energy 
locations and all that  -  in my early years and 
now too  -  and I know that I could situate the 
foundational effort needed . In Avenel, in light of 
the spiritual and intellectual life I lead, I KNOW 
it could be done. And I know you will scoff. That's 
what Avenel's about. Nothing good comes from 
Nazareth, and all that crud. However, take it from 
me, prophecy spins a powerful web. In 1325, west 
of Ireland, was the island Hy-Brasil, or Hy-Breasal. 
You can look all this up yourself, I won't belabor  
the point. It disappeared gradually. No, not by
sinking, but by gradually, and with all its 
accumulated powers and logics, but by 
de-materializing itself, until there was no trace.
Like Lindisfarne, and Hy-Breasal, 
powerful energy-vortices contain the 
sensitivity-warps necessary
 to change all things.