MU

Flowered tapestry stretched from the house by the dunes to the horizon, lashed by the moonlit glow pouring from his woman’s eyes. Who was she? Who was he? These questions are unnecessary and misguided, these questions are as boring as the evening news and as puffed‑up as daisies in pudding. No one knows who they are, who they will be, who they were. We have only the names of control. When we step outside our own, seemingly our own, yet in truth system‑imposed identity, we’ll understand that inside there is nothing. There is the wind that speaks with the dead and the spirit that speaks with the living, there is one transmission of night and one transmission of day, fair and square – while politicians and priests knead their lies on other, less obvious frequencies, and then those who believed their name was Adam or Eve nod their heads, pray to their little altars, and go to sleep soothed by television babble.

Nothing is as obvious as he is, when all you need is another shot of space, and the flowered tapestry stretches from the house by the dunes to the horizon, repeating its patterns into infinity, toward the rising or setting sun, because by the sea everything is the same – light, vibration, wave, sound. No one counts time, no one looks at a calendar, no one wears watches. His woman sighs. Who was she? Who was he? Who are we even talking about? Are we talking about that sixteen‑year‑old lost in the sand, or the eighteen‑year‑old lost in him? Are we talking about ego or soul, salvation or doubt, finding or losing? How many waves and vibrations are there in a single second of her sigh, and who records the tapes of dawn? How many questions of identity, what is identity, what is the “it” you call “yourself”? Who are you? Why are you reading this? Why do you watch TV and listen to the radio? Why do you buy tapes of your favorite performers? Who are they? The pseudonym “Elvis” carved into a ribcage with a butcher’s knife, the pseudonym “love,” the heart symbol, another teenage song sprayed as graffiti on her fence?

There was a Doors logo there and postcards of Morrison eating a watermelon, I remember it well. There was some Adam and some Eve, there was something in the yard of the town’s only elementary school. There were tastes, glasses, gears. There were bicycles. There was something or someone, or somehow it spoke to the source. And now what is there? The pseudonym of the flowered tapestry stretching to the horizon, the concert on the pier, the lost pair of trousers, or the cracked lens of blue hippie sunglasses. We’re talking about a crime against identity. About the cruelty of names. Wait, who’s “we”?

Yesterday I dreamed that Brian Jones and I were riding the New York subway, sharing songs we never managed to write in everyday life. In dreams everything happens faster, like in London. And London is another dream. Dreams within dreams, repeats the hallway alarm clock, clattering out the first bars of Pink Floyd’s “Time.” But time is not a curse, it is an illusion. You and here everything is an illusion. You and here everything is wind. You and here everything is silence and the storm of morning in lilies. I once wrote songs about lilies, by the sea, in that very house by the dunes, on an old classical guitar with a “Nalepa” sticker. When two 64‑page notebooks filled up, I decided to throw them away. They weighed too much, like identity, the snake skin you must shed.

And so I splashed my way to the source. There were no snakes, no hippies, no lilies, no dunes, no songs – there were crystals of night and Brian Jones whispering in my ear, “let’s add flutes there, a whole mass of flutes.” Maybe we both had a flute phase, maybe we were meant to meet in that dream – and it wasn’t my dream – it was a transmission of day, straight from New York, specifically from the subway. In the subway you will meet yourself, if you discard the Adams and Eves, the ID cards, the numbers, and the random encounters to which you assign meaning.

Wait, who is writing this? Who is reading this? Who is who and what is what, when nothing remains but the wind. If it blows too hard, the dunes will wash into the sea, and the old ancient Mayan concrete will exhale from beneath the sand. Concrete that doesn’t appear in history textbooks, and a history you won’t hear at a seaside bonfire. Who lit the bonfire, why are naked women dancing? My secret name was revealed to me, and his woman is already asleep. Who was she? Who was he? Maybe me, the sixteen‑year‑old from the beach, or maybe some other kid on vacation. Or maybe the punk bassist from the concert across the way. They really played there! Concrete washed into the ocean by a single Black drum, Mu rises from the bottom. Mu is full of songs. Mu is always you and here. Mu is always where the source is – the mirror of wind, Mu, mirror of wind. Mu’s mirror, wind, Mu’s mirror.