Buried somewhere in the collective unconscious of our species, there’s an immense greasy centipede squirming through the deepest recessed organs of sensation and being. It’s black as crude oil, has no beginning or end, and gnaws eternally through the psycho-intestinal passageways of the midbrain with slimy cold mandibles and a train of unconscious mechanical legs. The centipede’s body is an underground river of black tar and primal memory. Prehistoric organisms live in the slow currents. Trilobites. Centipedes. Roaches as big as cats. The first elements of body-consciousness begin to coalesce in the silent dead space of millennia. Five hundred million years pass like snowfall. Nothing happens, but their imprint remains forever, buried in man’s mind. The fathomless depth of life’s history on earth is his heirloom. Centuries wash over a stone when he touches it with his hands. Millennia fall from the eyes as tears. If called upon, the centipede will rearrange continents, work back through the eons, reverse-engineer the planet’s topography until everything clicks back into place. Pangaea.
March 11, 2009
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