I discovered loops inside of loops inside of loops. I lost my way, and regained it, and lost it again. Except, but I’m skipping ahead, aren’t I?
I apologize. I’ve ceased to think of time the same way others do. I know you don’t know me, but I’m actually a nice person. I’m a trapeze artist.
You see, I always wanted to get to the Yondering. In school, I had daydreams. At night I read books that brought my heart there. It felt there. Like if I only found a way to reach beyond the edge of my imagining, I could grasp it.
Um. I found it. A way, I mean. It wasn’t even very hard.
I learned to trapeze because I liked the idea of flying, but not with device. With art. I mean. What do I mean? I liked my body, and the way I could shape it like an instrument, sending power through my muscles as you'd send air through a horn to cause noise. What came out of me was music, too. Kinetic music that to others sang as an image. I flew.
I lit a candle in my bedroom when I was seventeen. In the middle of a night. I was alone in the house because Mom and Aunt Kim were in San Diego for the weekend, and I was old enough. I was a trapeze artist. People would trust me with anything.
Shadows shattered themselves against the candle flame. Everything looked weird. The light that showed on my ceiling was. Well, it hovered in halos there, and I remembered looking up at the light from where I lay on my bed, and thinking. It’s circles and circles in circles, isn’t it? It’s rings of a tree, it’s light, it's.
No, and I won’t be discredited by letting you think I was more talented, or more vision-blessed than you. I just worked harder to think most differently. I think that’s part of being a trapeze artist. You uncertain yourself of the facts others build their homes on. Like gravity. You have no still home, as a trapeze artist. Yours is not of here but of there, just there. The edge of the air you can’t reach unless. Unless you somehow.
Yes. Right. Can swing through space, catching timely bars you're too spinning to see.
When you do that, you’ll reach the Yondering. Your home can be there because that is the frontier of motion. Venturing thought.
But I don’t want to fill your head with ideas like swinging through the stars on bars of light. That's too me-not-you. What I'm trying to say is that the potential is. And I mean it really and always is. There’s a knowledge you don’t unknow. You don’t teach it, you don’t learn it. It’s in you, born wild. It's the idea someone once called wildermyth.
It’s a story you heard and were never told. It’s a time you danced perfectly to music that didn’t play. Or you started drawing a symbol that meant everything to you, and had no meaning.
Should I keep explaining.
I want to say I slipped from my bedroom that night, through a hole in the light. I also feel that’s dishonest. It’s leaving something out, but I don’t know how better to say it.
I realized the nature of not being here at all, and it was brilliant, it was pin-small, and I. Could fit any gap my mind couldn't see.
There, in the Yondering, the trees and the hills, and the mountains, and the lakes. There, these things hold such a surplus of color, they sometimes lend it to the sky. I lived there. I built a cabin where no one was, and I passed between worlds by lighting a candle, and gazing in the rings until I fell all the way through.
It's hard to keep your hygiene in the Yondering. And that really does suck for all my reasons, private and not. But anyway, I ended up staying.
Sometimes I would visit the bounded world still. To, actually, I don’t know what it was to do, because I never ended up doing anything. In that small troubled plane of people all trapped and turbid and thinkless, and sinking, and silly and.
Oh, and I don’t mean to say it was magic.
It was the loops. Loops inside of loops, they pass into infinity, which is the same as saying. I mean. You know when, if you keep drawing circles on a piece of paper, one inside of another, inside of another?
Yes I’m saying it looks like a tunnel. I’m saying that’s almost enough of a reason to use it as one.
The loops aren’t just on ceilings. They’re not only described in light, or what is seeable. See, that’s what I didn’t understand, at first, but I got to getting.
Think about. No, or just. If you want, you can imagine a cell. Remember a cell? Or.
Here, here’s what I want to say: everything is the same thing.
That means you are a trapeze artist. In order to change what is, or where is, or when, you’ve got to be muscular with the truth. You have to move it through the loops of being until it gets lost among them. There’s a point of leverage where all of your force can arc through nothing, to put existence how it wasn’t. This can take moments and last eternity. It can take an eternity and last moments.
The time of it is its most illusory and unimportant aspect.
The Maylen explained it like this: You must believe something along until it builds up the inertia to be.
Uvanna claimed in this way it was like bearing a child.
Ulstryx roamed through Yonderings uncounted, and far into the grays, and didn’t know what we meant. Hated that we said it. Ulstryx never knows why everything has changed, and everything becomes noisy and loud with motion, he steps into it, and hates.
The dragon-children found the way through yolks, as I had through a candleflame. They did fine. I like them.
The Ones Who Were had it all figured it out already.
What I’m saying is that I was flying behind. The whole time. Well, mostly, right? But anyway. What did I tell you about time?
I’m sorry, I’m lost again. The trouble with going in loops all the time is you get. Dizzy. The next thing for me to do is to be born, and I’d better not forget.
But. Oh, right, at least I invented people. So that’s something you can’t take away from me.