The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 21

"Dear friends" – he started, the first two lies- "I am truly sorry for any sadness this message will cause you; I wish that it would not" –the third, the fourth. Quid est veritas? Us. And he believes; understanding now there need be no Truths in the truth. He is the third person view, third voice in his spot-lit monologue. "This, I assure you, has not been a rash decision, nor an unconsidered one. Neither is it one caused by any body or anybody’s actions; I am simply" –he pontificates- "tired". "The eradication of purpose is the only thing I can sustain as a goal anymore. It is self defying, self terminating, and self fulfilling. I would have you all –my dearest friends- in on my secrets, but alas, they are too irrational -too cultivated- and bear no true meaning beyond the lie I have uncovered". The message is now his vassal –he would have the world believe- the final receptacle of his unformulated thoughts, awaiting their fermentation once they are released from their physical prison, their dungeon of cognitive machination and ink. He would have them spell out the truth on another’s lips –a truth he is too intimately involved now to utter because –already- he is steeped in the lie he had first to demolish. He is addicted … or corrupted … or converted. But he is lost to it, in it. "You have all –each- brought me joy in your own way, and I will remain forever –here and hereafter- grateful. As to my disposition, I would apologise, but what falsity I have I reserve for matters more viable to manipulation, lies that have a modicum of credibility. Besides, I have been unauthentic for long and often enough, and if a man will ever change, will ever seek to change, will ever manage to change, it is now, now. No, I hold no regrets over my disposition, but I bear it no love either. I have conviction of its futility –of course- but a man must learn to embrace his futility too". Quid est veritas? "I would not wish to burden you further and it is time to conclude this moment. You will forgive me –I am sure- my brevity -brevity, too, relative; only so in light of the moment approaching- but all else to say is trite". All lies must end, and as he nears his, they all become evident to him. His obscurity is punishment, his humility is punishment, his gratitude is punishment, his kind words are punishment, ones he knows will never fulfill their aim; but a lie –an open lie- too must be spoken when expected, for even the prince of darkness is a gentleman. "My friends, I bid you farewell," in his last moments he wondered if he had ever actually found himself. He had sought –fought- many a nights for this illusive self, this chimera asserted by the sheer weight of the world on the fragile voice of reason. It had filled his world, leaving it entirely empty, arid; so that on his final night -the night before- as he had shut the door on the world for the evening and another day became a grain of sand passing through the dial’s neck -witnessed only by a reaper’s ever vigilant eyes- he had failed to note the absence of another. "Farewell, this is my final note."

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 20

Then there are those rare moments, those magnificent, terrifying moments, when you truly glimpse someone; when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, veneer spread marginally too thin, and suddenly –inexplicably- you see them. Your lies of them too are suddenly insufficient; all that you would have had yourself believe –hold on to- are whispers amidst the perfect storm of abject realisation, birthed from a silent thought’s flutter in the furthest recess of your mind, aligned –to your despair- with all the wisps of memory you would have had erased, all the indefinable fragments –unspoken and unspeakable- of an intuition long since secluded, glances left unattended, gestures unexamined. The tempest irrevocable, your untruths are dust; and you realise –you are reminded- that they too are broken, they cannot fix you. And so the broken break in you –you broken wretch- what little is left to break. With inaudible sighs the cracks inch outwards a breath at a time, unseen but nothing if not felt, until they shatter, shards etching into your very sense of self with every tentative touch of examination; to understand it –this new fracture in you- you must pay, you must suffer. You know this, but as with teeth budding those thousands of years age -when last you felt whole- you cannot but caress them, suffer to feel them, pay to comprehend them. Each cut is sharp, deep, and they will not be dulled, will not be satiated – this is revenge for their internment, for shrouding them –hitherto frozen- in your lies. They are one yet more shattered illusion to be circumvented if you wish them to let your mind’s soul go unharmed, but you are stubborn and will not take the wiser man’s path. You let them cut knowing they will heal, but the scars are now many –too many- and you remain a fool. Why do you worship at these crystal idols? Why do you let yourself be lulled by their glisten? Why do you hold them where they can only fall, shatter; another illusion awaiting its revenge. And you will rage, o you wretch you will rage; you will hate and you will curse, and it will -for a time, yet once again- consume you. For a time it must, for how else do you break your broken idol’s hold? A blemished angel remains an angel, but a hated one –fallen from grace- might yet become a devil, and you cannot be called for its sins. Yet ...yet having wrestled control from the adversary, rage’s purpose dissipates. The struggle –it seems- was the function, the only true meaning; now what remains is nought but a hollow victory over an enemy never truly hated, an opposition never opposed; they merely stood some distance apart, holding firm in some existential ground no less honest. So that when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, suddenly –inexplicably- you see your Self.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 19

As first they crossed him in that beautiful place of desolation they believed him yet alive. He stirred to their approach, neglected body uncurling beneath a willow weeping, gaze passing to meet their approach, a smile gently crawling its way onto his lips. Greetings and peace they bestowed forth upon him, but no love for this fellow man could they muster in their hearts, an asking too far for a stranger in this profaned holy place, where ghosts too seek absolution. “And upon you, travellers” came simply his reply. They asked him if he knew where he was, where he had chosen to set down whatever burdens he carried, “here” he started “and what burdens would you believe I carry.” Many and more - they thought, why else would any man lay down his head in this place; and since he carried naught else -they saw, what but burdens could he have. “Have you no shelter old man? This is no place to dwell. We are not long to stay, but you are welcome to our company as we away.” “A dwelling? Aye young nephews, many and more. Wherever I went my head would rest and wherever next I go too; and though no man may, the soil remembers.” Patiently they said “we mean a home old man, a family perhaps, companions; somewhere you would have us return you to?” “Ah, trinkets and kinfolk you mean. Aye, even a wretch as I was born to kin and has his baubles; some of both already lost, the rest of both someday will. I held on so tightly once a time, thinking fear would keep them both. But all it did was curb the joy I felt to have them flutter through my life, and the joy those who could feel may have felt. But I am some margin less foolish now, and joy is easier to my heart. Here this willow and stream would be my trinkets and you my kin if you would have me, for as long as you’d wish to stay.” “Not just kin and hearth then nuncle; what of your memories? Some childhood place you would revisit, someone you’d wish to see once more?” “Of memories I have a hundredfold my life’s days, nephews, too many to dare test. Some are true I’m sure, many are false. Some are fragments held together by nothing more than the mind’s grace. Some are half truth, shaded and jaded by the life between them and now. Some are dreams seeped to waking, some are real recalled as dreams. Some missed what they ought have seen, and some mistook what they saw. Of my memories I remember most, but of my life little. You too may be a memory yet more, and I would remember you fondly as the men who sought to help this aged man though you may mock me once your backs are turned. But will I remember five of you or seven; will I see your faces in my mind; will the sky be clear and loving or overcast and cruel. Or may this will be what I doubt as a tale of another old man I overheard and let become my own. I know not. But I cherish them all, false and true, and could not bear to see them unmade - so I would not return to them but in my mind, where they are safest.” “Onwards –then- nuncle, to some place anew, where you might make memories yet more and share whatever you will with the living. Come along in our company, and depart where you might, away from this accursed place”. “But how would I walk your path young nephews and keep your pace? I know you must journey away yet more as once I did. Once too I would have abhorred the wraiths roaming this Here, once too I would have baulked at lingering in this Now. I wandered every place I could, seeking serenity - lest it had a home some hidden where. But only ghosts yet more found I, and young men who would not bear to stay - for the ghosts were theirs. Every step taken by them and I birthed ghosts more still, no matter the course we took; the death of all paths not chosen refusing to fade unmarked, etching their demise in whispers, regrets and doubts. You think me mad -I know, but mark me nephews lest one day this day serves you well, and may you then consider it payment for your kindness in stopping. We leave no trail unprofaned in our lives –with our lives; we leave no place unghostly. I may not remain here to my days' end – perhaps, but my departure will have marked my ghosts' return to me to haunt unto their eternal rest what memories I held of use to them, so that I may –too- have a peace of sorts; here in some future now, under my willow.” “As you wish” said the most righteous and forthright amongst the band “Let him be, brothers. He is already dead”.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 18

When He arrives, he will find him waiting with a smile. Of greeting, gratitude, relief, remorse, embarrassment, appeasement, and many thousand other conflicting intertwining roots dug deep in the dirt, rocks and boulders of this particular experiential plot; each touching at its deepest a singular tale, each in turn a chimera of fact and fantasy, a mind furiously filling in gaps and hailing Marys when needs arise. To think, this laughable shamble of shreds shielding Ego -this porous soil- holds within its folds all these and more, clamouring then to show their fruits upon weary lips, coaxing themselves back to consciousness away from their darkened and unattended cage, seeking –one last time- to be made alive, or minimally remind any who cares they were once lived. But none will care –and nor ought they; so He might take pity on this lingering layered smile and sit a while, give it time to unfold itself, have it tell its tales, its half truths and lies. Where would it begin? Perhaps it would start with unfulfilled passions, confessions made too late and distant to matter; it would speak then of her having ever stood an hour away, at the other end of the world; reachable and unattainable, sought and avoided. It would mock all contrivances, declaring how dutifully was fought the fray to stay altogether away rather than get drawn into a fatuous platonic play; how her contentment did nothing to ease the frustration, how the memories only added to the alienation. But even at this, when least compromising, when least willing to delve in grey, she was not denied, could not be denied; she was a weakness unconquered, an urge never subdued. For her, time was inconsequential; the passage of months and years did nothing to her status in this plot. Her spot always remained, an invisible corner refusing to dissipate –‘that wasn’t there again today, but wouldn’t wouldn’t go away’. Yet the end was never in doubt, a time -a single and singular time- was always to be the last; the last she was met, the last her voice was heard, the last she wrote. The sorrow was in the ever-waiting, knowing that, not knowing when; each time for it tormented and savoured all the more, cherished and suffered. A single time would be the last, but only becoming thus when that very smile unfolding ends the play. Perhaps this would be the smile’s first tale, the first memory it completes, the first story it ends; might its candour keep its audience, conjuring its own Shahryar and have him share in tales yet more? Because when He arrives a smile will be waiting, awaiting an audience so that it may complete its memories, and its memories are many more still.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 17

Walk with me a while down this road and don’t look back. I promise you may return once our stroll is done, though I can’t promise you’ll want to. It’s a barren road, with little demarcation; its purpose is not to show you new things –nor things anew, but simply to put distance between you and all the baubles held invaluable, all the spectres you hold true; to shield your eyes so you might see, to cover your ears so you might hear. Breathe now, and cast aside all that you know –intrinsically know- is superfluous; keep only with you what is vital, essential, of the essence, the essence. Throw away all the baseless beliefs, feelings, ideas and identities; all the incidental, accidental ties, bonds and memories; all the baggage you were made to carry by the world and told they were ‘You’ –don’t worry, you can re-collect them upon your return should you choose to return. You know what they are, you’ve always suspected them; if you don’t – if you haven’t- turn around now, perhaps this road is not for you. Perhaps you are too sane, too clear minded. To be sure, this road’s side is littered with the mind remains of the insane and the clouded; so who is it that ought turn back? Too late for me I think, I have sought to build my home at the end of this road. If you are with me still, walking beside me still, you ought now have held on to the essence of all experience, you ought to be naked, ought only have your body, and an awareness of world synthesis through it. All else, all you have shed, is what could have been else wise - the permutations that were, the fractures in time expanding, the cascading cracks in the composition of all that could have been; perfectly logical, feasibly traceable, and entirely meaningless. You ought only have your body, and a sense of world synthesis through it. Be still there for a moment. You are rid of all the categories ‘You’ are said to be. You are free of ties and bonds. You are neurons and synapses, chemistry and biology; you are the experiencer and the arbiter, the process and the product. You are the thing through which reality is made, Actuality is hidden, meaning becomes. You are a livewire of Life, a conduit, but you are no longer a vessel; Life passes through but does not sediment, emotions and sentiments float by, but they are un-anchored. ‘You’ dies with every completed moment, at the synaptic event horizon of your Being. Be still for a moment and tell me –I implore you- what you’ve come to see; the vapid emptiness of it all, or the overbearing fullness? The static silence or fearsome cacophony? Did you find your unconditional and unconditioned sense of self, or hopelessly lose all traces of it? Do you mean to hold on to this moment for as long as your mind would let you, or burn away the faintest traces of its memory? Tell me, are you beside me still?

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 16

As the wind whispers through him and the sentiments of those around blend with it to echo and reverberate, he thinks he is alive. Only what is absent hints at the truth –evidence by its lack– a collapsed self forming a singularity horizoned by all events, distorting as they demise –processed not experienced, they are malnourished– as they fade away, leaving only the processioning vacuousness to bear silent witness and testimony to his existence. Not being, never quite Being, but always the potential thereof, a momentary embodied field of the feasible ... of a feasible, aware of its viable collapse, of all alternatives it could have been, it could still be, it might as well be, it perhaps ought to be, only that being too knows nought but frailty. Becomes then –he– no more than the voice of others, of narratives he has little to call own, of incoherent rubble held together by unisoned voluntary unhearing, ineluctable modality of the audible subverted, sheer will to comprehend overriding, a wounded matrix healed by its incompatibility – none can look at it, none can see it. Only ... only mirrored in the eyes of others that is all he sees, the chasm that is his Self, the rip in the place/memory continuum funnelling out all else that could have been and could –in time– be, feeding on them to sustain its seeming being, distorting as they demise, as they fade away. Vicious violence on the harmony of Being done in order 'to be', shattering the vessel to get at tiny seeds to nurture only but one. A broken joke, fragment at best, funny to none but the inane and the insane, and –though committed– perhaps he is neither. What waste, what unbearable waste; all the permutations they might have had to savour, to cherish, or even lament. All the feelings that may had become had their Self not, all the anguish and ecstasy. Yet, what lament has he, what ecstasy? Only the sentiments of those around blending with the wind as it whispers through him -agitating the processioning vacuousness- makes him think he is alive.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 15

And then -right then- he stopped. Seemed only appropriate under the circumstances as he watched the world become unmade, undone, unwoven, falling apart. The coveted Rapture no more than a rupture undoing the illusion of the Whole, of coherence - but none are saved. Turns out it -too- a Fall, an unholy transgression, the unmasking of the horror of Being, hyper-reality, meaning’s infinite regress, and only the polyphonic signs remain, mocking the manic efforts of those who seek singularity. No, but that’s not all, much else remains unsaid -necessarily so; to speak of the rupture is to denounce sanity, to join the Mad, to embrace the broken, the fragmented, the murder of Reality ... but too late, his hands are bloodied. First he fell from His grace, and now he falls from his own, lamenting what’s left ... what is left? Hands of a clock that won’t turn back, visions of what could have been, and a fenced heart – and all to find that nor is his mind free. Ought he will them turn back? Would that much difference make? The foolishness of the gamble whole heartedly conceded, but with so much already lost little option remains, cash out or go for broke; end result seems much the same but the latter offers adventure, revelation, and perhaps –perhaps- redemption, or a measure of salvation. A fence becomes a wall, a wall a tower, and all the less certain shall all become; with a mind so widely scattered all bets now a Hail Mary, but Mary answers few and only sheer blind indifference can heed that beseechment. Besiegement of the worst kind though it be –self inflicted and arbitrary- the ivory tower is not without its charms; not enough to conceal its prison nature to its singular occupant at all times perhaps, but enough to make the bundled etches of five seem decorative. 317. And that is all.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 14

Disconsciousness, those twilight moments when the ‘un’ flanks awareness in an act of defiance, destabilisation, fleeting usurpation – ‘you shall not silence me’; when clarity breaks ever so briefly into the Self’s dimly lit hall of mirrors -a dust spangled beam of sunlight through darkened clouds of familiarity- spot lighting a singular truth, ephemeral and magnificent, all too soon dissipating as a whisper in a cavernous hall. Not gone –never gone- but spread so thinly as to thereafter linger, unintelligible but present, incomprehensible but heard, and it is all the more tortuous; just beyond the finger tips, a beloved behind the final 3 wooded inches. But then –perhaps- a glimmer remains in the mind’s eye, that final reflection before only the dust remains, a whisper’s shadow: that ‘Happiness’ is a compounded effort, a lie to enact, tricking the mind –your mind- but no less real for it. Like grief, blind fortune moves us not - we seek a reason for what befalls us so that it matters, Life’s indifference a tonic and poison to all we feel, yelling in the corner of our mind ‘it happened, but not To You’ ... perhaps that is as it should be. Perhaps seek not happiness in the external, but only the sentiment dwelling within, that compounded lie – it is no more real, nor less. Outside your windowpane are only trees and grass, ‘Life’ is the mind’s creation –created by it, for it, forced upon it ... it matters not, it is neither more nor less true. Perhaps not, perhaps that is the lie, awareness’s vengeance, a blind undiscriminating retribution for the transgression it suffered, eradicating disconsciousness and its discontents, clarity be damned –the lie of many is truth, the truth of one heresy- and damn your insolence. But away now, so many more fleeting truths to stumble upon only to miss, and I am weary. Peace now, I am emptied.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 13

A major. As the resonance fades away the silence becoming is pregnant with eternity and everything it is set not to be; a world of missed connections and near hits, what could have beens and what will not be forgottens. Somewhere one had earnestly spoke, words fluttering from his mind with as much of their own volition as he had ever permitted; boulders of consciousness thrown into the very space between them – raw, unfiltered, only chiselled into form by the hands of intermitting silence. Stuttering, cutting, stammering, honing, blathering, sanding - the ideal form in the mind’s eye struggling to be manifest, to bring a moment of perfect clarity to bear; destined ever to fail. He speaks of regrets, willingness to compromise, changing, but he is no fool, knows his life’s too short to be two different people ... to be one coherent person. Yet his willingness is truth, to chip away an inflated ego, curb unyielding convictions, compromise, do what he must ... for her? them? him? Another faces a monster he so lovingly created; every strand of its consciousness laboured over, tomes distilled for its tapestry’s threads - first lovingly then obsessively, a blind wheel set in motion, and madness descends not as thunder but as nightfall. Wonders if his vision was ever clear, if he has truly stopped caring; as an act it was permissible, a front to wall off the winds of existential discontent, a layered lie to hint at choice, illude mastery. But to breach the lie and become the illusion, what then? And a moralist moralising, a standing livewire of the psyche’s dirty and depraved little secrets constructing a self and actioning a moral code – for only then is it made pertinent, questioning the value of an instinctive morality whose enforcing takes not an act of active will, a well narrated fiction. There too are the vacuous and the ignoble, the fierce and the fearful, all as real; and as the resonance fades away they are made anew in the moment’s image, their own creator: a god of hope, despair, or final chances. The world teetering on the edge of a note, a last breath exhaled and a first inhaled, both laced with tears ... parcelled ... a neat little bow, deep purple, matching the dress of the bride’s maid and the violets around the church; vows serenaded from miles and miles away by the next note too. C sharp minor.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 12

Most peculiar is he, this omniscient third voice of mine, oft leaves me pondering who in this magisterial comedy plays the fool, audaciously transgressing The Tenet - that most fragile membrane of sanity, a murmured whisper housing the chaos; bless it be, thy sanctioned solitude and sanctuary, convent and confinement, pasture and prison. Grieves he –our Yorik- as He had grieved before him, watching them as they stood, alone, that once alone, then forever -once at a time- alone, each alone by the other’s side, likewise alone. Creatures of heaven where they defying The Order and falling, only then stood they, for the first time together, alone, awaiting a judgment already befallen; and there too, bellowing and gathering in the immeasurable space between Before and After was their sentence and prison forming, a word, alone. The indelible chasm their one worded sentence formed they fought to fill, silly children, with words yet more – manically paper sandbagging a firestorm; to justify and qualify, defend and pacify, ultimately –futilely- to reunify. But first a word they sought to give their sentence word, to turn its obstinate to the mere absurd. ‘Anger’ they fancied, but thought it ought for a more general use, most ideally perhaps to justify each other’s abuse; for they feared not torment, but their torment alone –our intrepid Yorik would claim- the scorn in each other’s eyes no more than reflected shame. For it was ashamed they first became, of their nakedness and –far less - their nudity; the latter so very easy to solve, the former – a humanity unfiltered through a grand aesthetic- destined were they to spend eternity flailing to absolve. For how long can one be despite oneself? Shadowboxing at all times, unfaltering zeal it be the guard against the insanity of its underlying paradox –the First and Third staring the other down, each hurling indictment of ‘Clown’; each blow strategic, mental fists magical, erecting in their trails mirror after mirror, each trapping the other - spiegel im spiegel - refracting truths like Arvo’s tinkering bells; echoing extraneous conditions, reflections made perpetually less familiar with each examining glance -normalcy far less real than initially thought, truth far less real than ought- each glide morphing them mid flight till they cease being quite what they were, thoughts that once were no longer quite so. But how to trap gliding thoughts, how to freeze their moments to take them apart? Call them Truth: the shepherd of misery. Through it reality made, profanity of incertitude repelled. Call it Truth, the prophet of faith. Call it I, denier of All.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 11

Is it all theatrics? Talk of the indefinable, expositions of obscurity - all pillarless clouds of rhetoric prone to dissipation with the first encountered destabilisation of significance? Or is there more merit to it all, the fragmentary remnants of what had always been, seeming inadequate only to a majority opposition so overwhelming, mistaking disrepute with falsity. Does it even matter now, is there any more will to care; besides, how is one to rejoin that to which there is no recollection of affiliation? Vague memories flash across inverted eyes, sitting alone in a concrete grassy knowl an old hooded leather jacket visible in the distance, swaying contra breeze as if to make some futile, facile point of defiance. The sounds were his alone, shared by none; a glass cage of immediacy shutting away from a world it has neither claim nor interest in. No one would have guessed at the auditory repetition augmenting this ersatz solitude, soon there was no actual listening, just an appreciation of what momentary isolation is afforded, swaying not even registered; there was no point being made, no statement of rebellion, objection, opposition, discontent, nor was it a valuation of some abstract notions of outsiderness; it was just abstraction, a hollow disputation of the certitude of self. In truth, he was not there. That hooded shelter might as well have been unoccupied - be the stuff of dreams, let what little wind is mustered carry it to its will, swing in the breeze all the same, in acquiescence –to be sure- it would have been, but no different an outcome. And yet -all those seeming centuries ago- it all lasted only till the ‘stop’ button was hit and the world rushed in anew, filling body, sleeves and hood alike, ushering with it a victorious self mocking such feeble resistance, but ever aware each victory a Phyrric one, etching its formidable armour a mighty, insignificant scar. Now jacket and button are gone, that is the only real difference to be found; armour all the less formidable, resistance all the less feeble, battleground no longer confined to that concrete grassy knowl.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 10

Woke up a different man today; received some candour in dreams. The absurdity of a figure head to the many; the purpose of arcane knowledge; and saw a man intoxicated though never saw the intoxicant. Walked streets, entered stores, all along standing aside to let life pass by. Then he sobered and people one and all were gone, clothes left stranded in the streets like so many snake skins shed behind. Walked alone then, nothing else to do. His eyes open to Truth he had no wish to bear; a rubbled (did he chuckle at ‘crumbled’?) civilisation of missing humanity where all else remains, including –he notes- the X% of manmade fibres that constitute the total amount of fabrics produced globally per annum since 19XtyX and he cried a single smile ... or perhaps smiled a tear; was hard to tell. He couldn’t bring himself to touch any of it lest he taint or be tainted by the overwhelming absurdity, not knowing if he was crazed or these the early signs or emerging sanity. A pair of Levi’s caught his eyes, cradling a shirt and a scarf, a ‘circle in a spiral ... a wheel within a wheel’ but no shoes in sight. He bursts out laughing. ‘Circle in a spiral, a wheel within a wheel’, why would he recollect that now? And where are the shoes? ‘Never ending or beginning, on an ever spinning reel’ ... he shudders and his eyes glaze over with emotions till then held back by the wave upon wave of preposterousness his mind was facing; was this the soundtrack to his insanity, was he hearing it whispered on a breeze not strong enough to shift a single silk scarf out of formation- or was it blaring inside his head? How will he know when there’s no one to confirm it, dear gods, was his now the solitary sound of Reality? ‘Like a snowball down a mountain’ ... it’s in his mind, must be, must have always been but too quiet for him to hear before, only now the elsewise oppressing silence making it possible; that’s the sound one mind raving makes, a thunderous clap of something not altogether relevant. Standing there amidst a civilisation frozen in a tableau of haberdashery, its centre at that very moment a blouse, skirt and a hemp dress, another realisation shakes him, ‘or a carnival balloon’, HE is the centre of humanity now, his every gaze dictates focality ... runs back to find the shoes, doesn’t make sense there not being shoes. Some sanity must hold, some things must make sense still. ‘Like a carousel that’s turning, running rings around the moon’ clutching desperate hands to more desperate ears, why would these words animate his madness?! Why not any other? Knowing others would have driven those desperate hands all the same; standard wonderment of a clutching mind. Can’t possibly take much more of this, trailing a phantom resolution the only option, ‘like a clock whose hands are sweeping, past the minutes of its face’; walking by a store saw the only clothes left standing, draped so very elegantly on mocking mannequins, indifferent to his rapidly evaporating ... what’s the current purpose of words -another gut punch- when no shared meaning is to be had? Still, he notes with glee that the mannequins all had shoes, meant he’s right (?), there had ought been shoes centring that spiral of madness event horizoned by a pair of Levi’s, a shirt and a scarf. ‘And the world is like an apple’ -he stopped. A worm in a rotten core. Only survives because it is so. Purification leaves it an empty husk. No use- ‘whirling silently in space’. He runs somewhere unknown, this ulterior self’s secret hideaway, but how can he know it if I don’t? Saw no intoxicant again, but he’s reintoxicated, not sure if it’s sanity or its ‘in’ he just imposed upon himself but doesn’t care. He rejoins the world of empty facades outside, anticipation birthing premature relief. ‘Like the circles that you find ...’ ... could he hear it still? Where is the ungodly pandemonium to drown it out, where is the rot to house his insignificance? Or is he accustomed to madness now, humming its theme tune to himself? All around discarded skins are back to life, but no snakes returned; only empty Levi’s, skirts, silk scarves and hemp dresses going about their business, as though ... as though ... is there a metaphor for a world reborn in his unwanted image? Mannequins still standing- he notes, implacably modelling how the exterior will look once they are hollowed out ‘in the windmills of your mind’.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 09

I died a million times. With every memory that fades away, every word –once so full of meaning- now forgotten, and every dream that slips my fervent grasp like so many grains of sand. Every song lyric that moved me so now a distant hum, every piece of art that griped my heart now an empty frame to the mind’s eye. Every smile smiled and tear shed for a joy and pain no longer felt. Every scar and bruise now healed. Every height of elation now descended. I died a million times yet here is I standing; a million dead things and everything else. So who is this imposter claiming ‘I’, exerting a will on a whole host of nothing? Who is this shadow announcing presence in the broadest light of day? Of what ‘whole’ does he speak, this clown king, asserting lordship over a nonexistent land; what foolish pride! His domain a shattered mirror, in it the memories, the words, the dreams, the songs, the arts, the smiles, the tears, the joys, the pains, the scars, the bruises, the elations; but of what whole does he speak? Does he crave to crawl on hands and knees picking shards, every misstep cutting his very will -fragments breaking all the more- parading his task’s futility? Or will he look upon these broken reflections and by the tyranny of routine claim to be seen in them the whole and clear blue skies of self, and I soaring in it, undamaged and free; free to effortlessly glide to wherever whimsy would yearn. But how far will I fly before illusions dissipate, before jagged edges mercilessly rip those paper wings, worthy for nought but flights of fancy. Battered and beaten –as he deserves to be- will he learn? Will he be humbled, will he bend down and pick –from amidst the resultant chaos of his folly- one piece at a time? Will he finally look at each alone and see what has always been reflected in them? That I was not happy, I was happiness; that I was not sad, I was sadness; that I was the words, the songs, the smiles, and the tears. Will he come to understand that ‘I’ died a million times, and will die a million more to come? And will –in time- his I eventually come to understand it too?

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 08

'No reprieve' writ large across a mind mocking what little clarity residing there in the face of such overwhelming absurdity. Not for lack of introspection be it so, his a self-denying ego, perpetually turned in on itself fervent for a resolution of its defining paradox. Times come when it sees the smell of a whisper of something not altogether unreal, only to mourn this lonesome wisp of smoke’s fortunes amidst the cacophony of the Otherwise grand fire, mourning with it the inch farther towards Manhattan. Mind a bundle of raw nerves, a sword unsheathed, ever exposed to the elements; its gift and curse, for all the burdens it can truly sense what Is, sanity undulled, lies and links apparent. A borrowed gift be it though, fated by time to be weathered, rusted and blunted. Tired. Weary. What would wisdom want with withered, winter worn wanton will, where worthless worries warp whatever was -way when- worthy? The time to feel anything is pressing, to caress truths and lies alike, will and want, purity and sin, and fade home to all the greys in between. To touch futility in the very act of hope and smile in the grips of sorrow, only then will meaningful colours appear. But in the distance will they be, far beyond reach of any who see them, and hidden to those near to touch them. And he will crumble amidst the agony of yet another meaningless compromise. The trade made unbending –heart for mind, warmth for fire, hearing for the devil’s fiddle- what finer punishment for whimsical arrogance? Standing then on distant hills, surveying all that once was so very immediate, the realisation of what was done marked only by a single shudder, then silence. Patterns and meaning will find –he- in those surveys, but to him no avail, they are etchings in the dust. No songs to despair will there be, nor odes to joy, only a reminder; laugh till you weep or cry till you smile, either way there’s no reprieve.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 07

Am I alone? The echo of Henry’s words haunt me now more than ever, in a vacuum of context they are all the more troubling, all the more disheartening; it’s as sitting in the dark, suddenly aware that all which elsetime and elsewhere illuminates is intrusive, and all the more the senses are perturbed by this; the audible ethereal, the tangible unrecognised, the tasted unanticipated, the smelt disembodied, and yet they are all the more real, all the more pervasive. “You have no meaning” he bellows and echoes in those hollowed caverns of memory where his charge reigns unchallenged, “you're like a ghost pointing an empty sleeve and smirking at everything that people feel or want or struggle for. I pity you” I don’t retort, principally under the crushing weight of there being none “Isn't there anything... what touches you, what warms you? Every man has a dream. What do you dream about, what--what do you need? You don't need anything, do you”; I instinctively protest –you err kind sir- but on what grounds? It ought not take a moment’s pondering to invoke a need and yet there I stood, a blade of grass pleading neither sun nor rain, adding nothing but the grace of silence “people, love, an idea, just something to cling to. You poor slob; you're all alone” ever gluttons of a convenient lie over an inconvenient truth are we; never shy of self deception, perpetually mindful of a convenient cover story, a maintainable narrative. But time comes when we all meet our Henry, and this was distinctly looking to be mine “When you go to your grave, there won't be anybody to pull the grass up over your head, nobody to mourn you, nobody to give a damn. You're all alone”. I sigh. Not the hot, heavy angst laden sigh of Lawrence, nor the flustered tired one of Austen, not one of reminiscence or tedium, nor any of the hundred meaningful sighs so oft mused; it was no more than a breath having nowhere else to go, a corporeal existence -bemoaning its forced solitude- moving to second his motion. But was it me in that court room listening to him after it had emptied? Was it me in that gray suit and flat top straw hat smirking even as he spoke? These will be pondered, but not now, not today.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 06

He is as he has long since been, jaded but fighting to remain optimistic. His inclination is to denounce the world but his single mindedness on its singularity cajoles him to make his peace -uneasy though it may be- with it. Still, the sheer fact of his being weighs heavily on his shoulder. The supporting role in his own story, struggling to find the joy in life because there isn’t enough life for him; what there is is existence. An extra in a film, him ‘being’ made meaningful only by the story of the stars, only purposeful to tell their tale. A clouded mind, a weak will, an aimless passion; vying to accept any excuse, but knows the truth won’t be found in a reason, it’s firmly grounded in reason. He’ll try, and fail, and try again, always knowing meaning isn’t found because there is none to be found. It takes an act of will, self delusionary will, to form one, mould it out of nothing, bind it by hope and sustain it by unrest; yet those who do are the stars of their own existence, the main cast in life. An ensemble piece to be sure, more stars than extras, but the few remain. So his hope is to find those to whom life is not a script; those who grasp that “life is a stage” is no longer metaphorical in our state of play. Those who can touch the precious few real things in life and not turn them into props; those who can say “I love” without becoming every cliché contrived; those who can stand on the edge of meaning and tread softly to the other side because they are always anchored to everything there is, illusions extirpated. Those who no longer fear their inevitable demise because it is the ultimate reality; the one last thing that will stand uncorrupted by pretence. So he may not hold much hope for mankind’s sanity, but still fancies a flutter on its persistence. A god gave fire to man, who made it a spotlight; he’s still holding out that some will give it back because they are no longer afraid of the dark.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 05

For a few moments it was just paper; with it a fleeting sense of freedom, no longer bound by its fundamental triviality. But fleeting it was, soon drowned out by the realities of us, what we chose to build, how we decided to operate. A curious word ‘freedom’, so nebulous yet so vital in the conception of the self. Being free; free beings. Is freedom having the cage bars far enough for the canary to choose never to fly farther? Bound by fear, perhaps inadequacy, ravelling in its bordered freedom, singing its pleasure. We sing of it too -what we can say, what we can do- the freedom to be who we are. Yet is that not our cage, who we are? Eric Blair understood this; force and brutality can suppress the few forever, but the many for only a while, and a restless one at that. Thus real control is harnessed by those who let the many be free to be who they are moulded to be. Shape the self and let it stifle the mind, let who they are smother who else they could have beens. Power is the power to mould the self, that flux product of the nature/nurture duality -the grinding plates of the innate and the socialised. Herein ties the Nietzscheian bootstrap; it is at the fault lines that freedom can be gained, wrestled from the grasps of the ‘is’ by the mind’s emancipation. Let not the self restrain the mind, rather let the mind be free to form. Let it evaluate and revalue everything; beliefs and disbeliefs, loves and hates, virtues and vices. Let it view the self for what it is; a part of the greater else, a product of that which binds it. And let a decision mark its liberation, a single decision; a choice to accept what was rejected or deny what was held, a choice to denounce a loved or embrace a hated.The self looks at the shadows in Plato’s cave passing judgement on what they do. But the mind freed recognises one’s own shadow entangled in their midst too, its causes and effects; only then can one gain control of their part in the puppet show.

~Alarm set to 8:03 exactly~

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 04

In the recesses of his mind are the remnants of the air of a dream, wisps of a fleeting thought, fragments of the notes of a song, and a voice he daren’t pay too much attention to. He glimpses from there the limits of language, the boundaries of imagery; all that can be found there is the sense of things, the sense of being. It is stumbling down the deepest caverns, ever aware of the darkness, the emptiness; they are all there is. Engulfed by dread, the aloneness, stumbling ever deeper, seeking ... anything, just something. Fighting to suppress all that fear brings to the light of the mind, back against the wall, arms outstretched; an unuttered mantra: all there is is that in reach. Fighting delusions with delusions. ‘Thunderous silence’ no longer an oxymoron, it’s all around, oppressing the very notion of sound, daring it to challenge it. Fighting an inferno with a spark, every whisper -every escaped whimper- hollowed, magnified & emboldened; audible blood to the terrors all around, inches from the fingertips. How much to push forward before turning back, how much to risk sacrificing? Is there anything to be found, anything worth finding? Go back to the light, live on the surface, sanity is there. Normality, safety, mundanity; there escaped whimpers can quickly die away. But how long can the urge be unheeded? When will the brightness start to blind; bury the remnants, smear the wisps, let fade the final note? To tread the darkness he must embrace the darkness, acknowledge the whimpers, reconcile the demons - as only he can. They are his.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 03

Lost in his mind’s creation, newly found, paradoxical even to him, he’s frantic for an exorcism. Doesn’t know what to write anymore, maybe never did; such aimless passion, riling against a non-existent foe, tearing at itself for a meaning. Words no longer sea worthy, too deep in and under, all that’s left are emotions -irrational, chaotic, intangible- doing nothing to heal a phantom wound. How would it have been for the firsts finding themselves; curl up in a ball, all their up-to-then fears becoming trivial in face of realising they are afraid; did held back tears clog their heart, numb them. They have him. But he keeps writing because it’s something to do, hoping for inspiration salvation, willing his muse to arrive and his words to find their purpose. The rarest phenomenon in the universe, the most extraordinary product of nature, the pride of creation, a conscious -self conscious- mind; yet all around him there is only the ordinary, the mundane. His eyes shift and catch life; part of it all yet so alone. Eyes unfocused, mind weary, craving sleep but won’t allow himself the pleasure, his muse is yet to visit. He closes his eyes and sees music, light waves, the abstractness of creation, they open and his sight catches an upside down pendant. Heavy hands, heavier eyelids, and a heart heavier still; but his muse is yet to visit. His thoughts too absurd for writing, imagination too inexpressible, feelings even less. He envisages a supreme being, a single consciousness alone in all of existence, it IS existence. Utter solitude with not even the notion of company, a pure awareness with not even the notion of physicality. His eyes close

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 02

Slink away when it's time, go quietly, take your leave with the dignity rarely afforded you till then by her demands pressures and expectations; you're free, the wailing is not for you. No longer need pretences -don't gotta be a whiskey priest no mo’- nothing to lose now, no more hold to bend you to her will; sweet irony of a cruel mistress -dominant to the last- her final act a Pyrrhic victory. Would you rather she kept you chained? Her play thing, do her dirty work for treats; gets you salivating at the ring of a bell even when you well know nothing is coming. Maybe you do, nothing wrong with that, the treats are worthy; just a shame how hard her whip cracks. Got a touch of the Stockholm you do; suppose we all do, maybe even she's got a touch of the Lima … sometimes … who knows. I always want to be part of her, life; bury me next to a tree -outdoors is nice- scoleciphobia be damned then, disconcertion is not for me. Well, I say me but of course I'm no longer I when I slink away, but you get my drift (just a thought, why the angst over such an infinitesimal cosmic shift?). Stand by me then and look around, how far out will you see? How far out do you see now? Curious how we always see but don't often look. When did you last push your vision to probe the distance? Squint if you must, use your hands to block the sun. Now close them and listen, or smell or feel or even taste; strain them all, they won’t break. There is no pleasure in the distance, just rocks and clouds and trees and flowers, but in the perception -the joy of the senses- o my dear, that is your soul.

How far out do you see now?
It will be less then