TRUE DARKNESS

I crawled down into the South Dakotan Wind Cave; it was all decked in ancient stone scaffolding and a snowdusting of delicate crystals. In the depths, I reclined on the rock, curving my back around it, and turned off all the light. I had never experienced true darkness before; it seemed like something thick and moist, something dense and aromatic that held me up. I passed my hand around in front of my face, detecting no motion. I turned around and around, finding no sense of location, losing awareness of my body. Eventually, though, I could see an outline of my hand as I waved it; not so much where it was as where I intended it to be. I believe that I saw the extension of my spirit into space down in the Wind Cave. Up here I can't see my spirit for all the light.

What kind of light is a blinding light? It doesn't seem like light at all, just some powerful intoxicant, or maybe such an excess of a quality that it folds into its opposite. What is a light that does not penetrate spirit?

The rough hewn spheres on the path to Ventura hold a darkness in themselves. It is not true, but nearly so. I went wandering in the abandoned oil refinery - through frescoed echo chambers and iron rivers. I found rust cliffs to climb, and a vast globe of shadows to peer into.

The air was heavy and bitumenous; the darkness thick and impure. I gazed up into it and saw one subtle point of light at the zenith. My eyes would not see it, but I know that the entire sky was projected through that pinhole. The hole, the mineshaft into the upper world, pulled me into an ocean of sky image.

What is up and what is down? What is light and what is dark?

I seek darkness for its promise of light. I look down because it shows the way up.