Extract from the book, “Nothing Came From Walking: Surviving Encounters with the Spirit of Death.” It is a description of the dreaming aspect – images, feelings, movement processes, attitudes, personality parts, etc – that arise from severe pain and sense of death in connection with prostate cancer. 
(Hear comes all the go-hosts from the prevarious wordlings; cohorts in disastablishabituals and their magical rituals of board-play. Interlaced speechings is their kind of spooking, all of them straight and true as the spirit-level.)
This is his-story so far at the time of writing. After the diagnosis of an enlarged pro-state, the problem nettlesettled for a few weeks as the intention became less acute. However, in the underwold, over the next few moonths, the area became more pain fuelled because of the wild excited eyeknifer, producing the uncontrollable schisms – humping, squeezing, megaton pressure between a soft pressurised nerve bag and a hard lump obstruction (“Hee, hee, hee”). All this is taking place in a time crunch on the Somme bayonet field; freezing desolation; haunting pain; humanity in tatters.
It’s going well when there is a quarter of a cup of pish passed in this period. Eventually an informated allopathic gnosis arrives: prosta’tatties – flaming pro-state – often inscrutable, nobody really knows what causes the empety of it all, but I know: it’s the blight on my forefathers. From the moment the barra-cascading started there was no interest in working on the progress underlying the Can-Sir. It wasn’t like-a-bull for sure but still it roared with pain. I, the common one, wanted to get externalisations from it but I couldn’t believe how interrestrial it was in me; couldn’t believe the barnacle of it – the subjective hammer pulverising objocktivity – a sure winner. What do you do when a little girl’s polite and gentle curtsy is performed in the face of a rapist intent on dismemberment? You can do nothing; it’s all a hopeless, awful beauty.
Through different days along an unending string, I got excitable about the feeling of not working on the symp-bums at all. Spacetaker stole my spacemaker stole my spacetaker who stole my space and everybody got their space, hurrah, hurrah, the spacemaker stole the spacetaker. It made the common one and some others so happy, so pleasureabold, to give lots of conch space to doing no thing to kill the Sir, “There is this condition,” I mumbled exinternally, “let’s sit with the pain and enjoy the unfolding factal; that we will not work on it; won’t even derange it, just let it manifold out of its own sum-ation. But we will hold the conch up close to the head in no time and let the awaremess solve its own priddles” – sorry if I’m disrespeakful, I love awarecare.
But there is a pit footfall. Consider: you have to be careful with conches; they sometimes trap words and that’s bad because those wordforks lose touch with the great Oisin. The wordchains clank and bang about with the noise of their heavy claims in the echo chamber. But consider quietness: in your ear you have to listen absent-mind-attentively to the silent universal poise until it gently goes whooooooooosh and washes all the words down the whole. Do that and Can-Sir will heel-it, we belive.
On with the storfury. While listing to the poise, there was soon a focus on the symp-bums in a ‘“non-ruining’” sort of way; without windwords or any wordchains – sound bites that eat you up – that let the factual expand as it naturally, do it. The enmountainorminous pro-state that was surrounding and gar-rotting the urethra, like a stone without a heart centre, gently slid into a www.enantiadromio.bigUni. Verse.
Humility bled out in all directions
The world relaxed without reflexions
While tears and water flowed with new inflexions
The hard, unrelenting male monastery of pain can produce the most gentle and soft fame-in-in feelings: Aphrodite, goddess of love, born from the castrated testicles of Uranus.
But ‘“non-ruining’” is not always accessavailable and you just can’t say no or stop the pain; gotta live through the unbelieveable; sometimes the suffering is just too enormous when wordchains join up end to end and stand against the Bodleian. An inflammable pro-state is very painfuelled indeed. Up it is, many times a night, trying to pass but nothing can get passed – there’s so many in this bloody toilet and everybody’s jammed in squealing and raging. Loud uncontollerable roars like a cow gush out starting from the epynormous pro-centre, caused by the schismclamps from the udder. This is excrucifixion pain, and afterwords of angush you pass a thimble full of blood and water, and then mop up the sweat coming out of your eyes. Miraculously, the pain suddenly disappears when the schismclamps stop after the grand passing of a drip and you go back to sleep exhausted. The prescription: must be repeated every hour of every night – partners get suffercate trouble too!
Time passed adinfornightly and eventually there came the finalé prognouncement – canker of the Proust mate – no kidding, it’s the big “See, if you can get out of that!” Is it mortification?, I wondered? How long have I got if it isn’t? Will death mean non-assistance? Should I pretend to be warried? Do they have word combinations, or personreality combinations on the other side? Has afteritall got different idencities or is it all just one word? These are big questions for a simple country boy who works below the minds. One thing though, at least I’ve got into the centrefold of everyone’s cancern and everybody loves me, so I love dying. But that’s just a sirface word-chain. Underneath, I get beautiful orange pulp feelings of Bodleian interconnections.
The beauty makes me want to appreciate. I want to thank the people who’ve helped me in all of this objectachion. I want to thank both of the two mornings (you always bring a new, fresh and spontaneous day for me), the blessed and sacred rose of the heart too has played a whole, and, not least, my beautiful and wholesome brown bread and the kneading that continually enfolds us – if we rise (and we do), we rise together here, and forever. If I leave, then we’ll be back, if I go, I’ll follow you.
I’ve been outside of the ident-in-the-city enough now to not really be feared about shaking hands with the drevil. Truly, there is an easel in me about dreadth; I know so much about it I could paint and recite its chasmcism. However, the www.unabletostandanothermomentofpain.arse is a very different story entirely: I just have to keep address it. Various can-tankers create secondaries in specific ports of the Bodleian. Pro-state consumer cells like to spread to the skeletal mid-section for a pelvic dance floor. This type of canker (pro-state) is usually a good one to get; doesn’t smell for one thing; moves slowly or stays in one place. Mine, however, is mean-ing, aggressive; possobsessive. If it has spread to the creakers, the wild-eyed bayonet thruster will go ha, ha, ha.
Talking about fury eyes, he often comes along the trenches with his Proust mates shouting:
“Shoot the coward, shoot him now!!! Put a bayonet through him, go on boys, keep sticking it in, twist it – thrust, thrust, go on THRUST! Leave him there, make sure he’s lost, hide him, leave him to die, the bastard.”
He can make us, all of us, so scareified, so terrorfrightened that I have to make sure that my wife is near. “I must go to work, darling”, she says, “I have to”. With that, Bodleianwords come up from my stom-ache, get shaped in my throat and blub out through trembling contorted lips:, “No, stay with me, I’m petrified, please don’t go.” But pain can’t stop life; it has to go on, nothing, no-thing, stops him.
We came to the point of waiting for tests to find out if candour has a spreading chestnut tree inside; if it has, it’s conkers for us, we’ll all be gone down the wordless. Everybody eventually received the news: according to M.R.I. scam, it hasn’t spread to the nymph system or Namibia yet, but it’s on its way. Because the spreading canker is slightly outside of the giant roaring nut, they will be unable to remove the phosphate by surgcutary; some consumer cells may dally behind, and you know what consumer cells do! It’s going to be radiointoxication and hormone mistreatment instead. Which-doctor mumbo jumbo is all that’s required, nothing more – no awaremessages from within needed, no teleoknowledgeable updrafts from the poise. No, just which-doctor machine-ations. Hormone mistreatment restricts the spread of the kanga by stopping the production of Toss-testerone. You get to live with this mistreatment if you’re lucky – an idea that I’m warming to – but you definitely lose sex drive, body hair and potential. On the gain side, you get more weight, develop diddies, and receive sympathy, even when you don’t want it.
Several moans went by and the First World War eventfully merged with the second. Now, on the bad days, I’m on my own in jail – the prism, with the wild-eyed Gestapo torchbearer who loves to ram his knife into my gro-in, twisting it with delicious wild excitement, while saliva dribbles from his teeth. This is my personal coach; the pain-maker with his dark krow. He broke me and collapsed me on the floor so many times and never got bored – he loved breaking me and I tried to be Humpty Dumpty but I couldn’t. However, eventually I had a trick up my peeve; I stole him for myself, I shipshaped into him; I occupossided that Gustapo menace and became the pain captain myself and the pain suddenly vanquished. I shifted identi-pritty and what was a sadistic torturer became sweet ferocity. I loved being the wild crazy eyes with a knife in my hand, joyously sticking it into a plasti-cine effigy of the Bodleian. The pain turned to excitrament, to joy, to flow, to estuary, to the triumph of Beethoven. The nasty pain-faker turned out to be nothing more than my own echo; and the pain, my shadow. The three of us together – the echo, the shadow and me, combined to become the captain; I shapesloped into myself and entered a continuum that led from suffergy to ecstoplasm. Pain and ecstasy turned out to be the same drama but resided at different ends of a perspectrum.
Say the following in a low, slow and gentle voice: to follow pain into ecstasy, one takes the trail out of this dimension, staying with the dhrama of the pain to get to the pain-maker. Then one makes one’s way into a different non-local locality; one that is joyous and where you can play in big rooms. Stay slow: you can turn the mesh of tragedy into the mesh of comedy by entracting dream impressers in illness, such as a Nazi figure, in my face.
But let’s make a shift back; back to ‘“here I all am’” and talk directly to the unforeseen.
Let us all say “Away with the common dominator – hurrah.”
Come, come depression and harsh wild-eyed self-cydisism, let’s hold you until you transform into emptiniousness; it’s our holy habit. Let’s go heeling and wholeing.
We dare to go beyond the can-can event horizon and travel spaceishly.
We offer ourselves to our natural predator, the larger Univessel; the real capstain.
We are the deadpath that found the wisdom that unfolds objectivistence.
We follow the body, knowing it is healing our mental tribles.
I know that I, and a hundred million voices are the illness being cured.
That our illness belongs to humanility
We follow the physical droaming underlying illness, not an accidental process of a manicaled body. We do it.
With fly’s eyes, everybody’s escaped the www, and now we’re all gathered in manifold, all compartments working tomatter.
Windwords like Canfer or dreadth have lost their mean-ing, there are no windwords here anymore; all is calmity.
Let’s go, let’s go through the stream streaming, the brook broken, the burn burning. Run, river, run till we get to the deepwell.
Wait…stop…there is movement in the water, something is moving. We can see it, we’re luminating from the light in the pool, it’s the laughing fishes! Joy, it’s the laughing fishes…ahhh, the laughing fishes; the fishes from the bottomless have surfaced.
“It’s the new pattern forof the future”, the woman, ; the universal seer seated by the black lighted, bottomless pool, says,
“Your work is accomplished.”
Such joy, such panamorious joy, such conbinious love – a hundred perspectentities: all is harmogeny – the future has spoken, HOORAY.
“Yes, weloveus”, came the certainhuminous roar,
“Yes, weareoneall, compantaineous, synthamorphous.”
And with certitude and agree-meant suddenly all that is manifold is bodinious deepwell. All that is manifest is continuous and wholeing.
(From the book “Nothing Came From Walking: Surviving Encounters with the Spirit of Death.” by C McKenna. A book about cancer and fluid identity.)
