Elise Rasmussen & Paul Garayo - Everything Appears Out Of Darkness <|>

everything appears out of darkness.
forest, dawn, and the mist, rising. circling, but held close.

in my mind details are forming, crystallising into focus with reverse resonance hums. i see green, i see trees, and i see the brown murk of the ground. everything appears out of darkness, with insect and bird sound from a thousand things i’ve seen or heard before, amalgamated, confused.

i take footsteps, soft crunch of leaves in muted sound. slow strides, with eyes looking deep into thick mist. curling around my fingertips i can almost feel the wrapped felt friction.

there’s a cold wetness in the air, a kind of pin-prick electroshock moisture. i can feel the innumerable small points hitting and diffusing, saturating my skin into all the lines and cracks. from my fingers and eyes i can feel the water in the ground, the cold clammy earth and the feel of it between my fingers. the trees and animal sounds bond together, a woven frame that has a life of its own shaping space, clearings, pockets of air. details hold me in their grip, thoughts of what is to come, slow-focusing and shifting while i’m hypnotised by my own creation. internally and externally i’m fixed, my mind exists in those places, a continuum, or a conduit in between.

the light is low, so low and almost dark. i keep coming back to the sounds - eerie and desolate, echoing from somewhere i can’t quite pinpoint. it’s sound that both exists and doesn’t, and haunts me.

the mist slips, coiling around branch and twig. leaves crunch underfoot, i can see the frost still fractured; up close the intricate lattices create structures so complex it’s like looking at mathematical equations, nebulae. shapes and surface bending toward me and showing speculative form.

image takes hold, takes shape. background has long memory, deep- seeded, genetic. it feels like these are timeless memories, primal things that stretch back to roots that run integral, that run deeper than i can fathom, that run through time into a memory of a trillion dead souls and the ground they walked before me, their bones already chalk

and sediment in the ground that i now walk across. my new story is overlaid, my impressions are firmed, compressed, and add to the sub- structure, sub-strata, pushing and condensing history and matter.

the shape of the tree cradles my mind, for my soul to nestle and take gravityless solace. the boughs have pressure, the leaves caress. they resist me, my mind, leaving and being set loose into an abyss that my brain can’t comprehend, can’t construct.

in this place i have no self. or rather the self that i have IS the place. i am reflected in every bough, every leaf, every handful of dirt i rake into with the image of my hand.

the roof of my eyes are dust, the edge of my eyes all around... are dust. vision detaching like broken sand, shifting.

Elise Rasmussen
Elise Rasmussen

it’s a writhing thing, independent of me. something i don’t really have any control over, something that’s being guided, gently spinning it in front of me, suspended, giving it motion, momentum. tendrils being tentatively pulled and curled, tucking them in.

anticipation, the projecting thought about what the experience would be like. almost generating an ideal, a version that houses qualities and half-submerged relics from the subconscious. the capability for every facet to be crystal clear, hyperreal in the truest sense, feeling incredibly real. with all the inherent unattainability, if you were to make a distinction between perceived reality and one independent of it. but it’s out of the juxtaposition of event and memory that something comes, some quality revealed in process and result, a fragment of random new meaning. something unseen, in the prophetic sense. the uncontrolled, chaotic. memory forming a new experience forming a new memory. ever-increasing, layered temporally.

as much as expectation exists, the event provides the transition in memory and action. allowing character, individual - the internal - to expose itself into a sea of sensory information, allow for memory to course into action, influence it, become it. the line between constructed reality and actuality blurs, the distinction is unaccountable. yet something changes, something shows itself out of the chaos.

Elise Rasmussen
Elise Rasmussen
Elise Rasmussen

things are already fusing, forming part of me... muffled sound of a dog barking in the mist, echoing slightly. sounding close, dreamlike... voices shouting, harsh, through the trees... slow exposure of day, mist being pulled back like silken thread, wound in and around everything.

Elise Rasmussen
Elise Rasmussen