Fallible flew above the wing. Midday direct: JFK to LAX. Leave at noon, fly for six, land round three. To Fallible’s left, two men streamed reality TV as she watched her only fathomable in-flight entertainment, the sky. Once she too was so spoiled she’d forget. I’m flying, Jack! The wing outside was pigeon grey. It was real, right, there, before her! Beckoning, Fallible smiled, like a plank to be walked.

In the car, on the way to the airport, Fallible was Fear. She was Terror in the face of Surveillance. She was Heartache and Expectation. Glutted with new memories, all veiled in unreality, she was Vulnerable, Angry, and Lacklustre. Seeking guidance, Fear texted her Rock. Felicity replied right away, from 10 hours and 7,860 miles away, dinnertime in Uttarakhand, India. ‘Psychologically kill yourself in the air,’ Felicity advised. ‘Thank you,’ Fear texted back, feeling immediately nearer to Forgiveness. By the time she made it through security, Fear had become Fallible. And now Fallible is about to suicide.

Hello! Nice to meet you. We are, for the purpose of this story, Felicity and Fallible, Fear and Fire, just two girls, typed by one. We met via the interconnected web of underground tunnels and clouds of airwaves etcetera. Many of we met there. This is a story about our expanding beyond that realm and into: the Real. Call us Mad and Fad, Give and Take, Happy and Lucky, Delusional and Illusive, Desire and Sex, Beat and Pulse, and Being and Being and Being and Being!

Illusive knew of Delusional before Delusional knew of her. That’s the way things go etcetera. Their first flesh meet was enlivening with an edge of mania. Illusive had just been beaten by her boyfriend on Canal Street, while Delusional had just moved into a loft where she’d be poisoned nine months later; the vibes were already awry. We smoked weed on the new roof, and sized each other up. Illusive’s Arien energy overwhelmed Delusional’s Virgoan control, which Illusive read as uptight, though not cold. Illusive didn’t feel welcome, and it was true: D couldn’t wait for I to leave, but once she did, she missed her. A year later, best friends.

Best friends who’ve hung out in meat form but a few times. We keep coming and going. Now Happy is in India and Lucky is sososososo lucky. She sees the signs all around. Like the word ‘Alignment’ which decorates every other car service station in Los Angeles. Lucky can’t drive. She walks LA, or takes the bus, Happy ever in her pocket. Her Rock. We text. Up to hundreds of times a day, heartfelt and heady, and we send and receive concise, lengthy audio messages. Voice Memos. Happy will whisper, ‘it’s so Real’, and Lucky cries in reply, ‘Oh Diana! The heart has wings!’

‘Hello! Nice to meet you’, is how Fire greets her friend, the Rebel, the Guru, the man from Colombia she followed to India. Each time they meet, he replies too, ‘Hello! Nice to meet you.’ They do so to shut the fuck up. Cos there are no such things. No the Rebel, no the Guru. Theism is more like it. Nice vanquishes prejudice and comes from the Latin nescius, ‘not-knowing’, literally. But that is just a thought. Catching herself in thought, Fire feels she’s not there yet. Then she remembers there’s no there there. Then she laughs. Fire is Fallible.

We are One. Alone all one and embodied. Our flesh is miles apart, forms differently propor-tioned. One taller, the other older and comparison is a fiction, What-to-what? Everything contains its opposite. One of us experienced this epiphany yesterday—that everything and nothing are the same thing. We are nothing. Not things. Ditch the the.

Duh. It’s a set-up! We can’t but fall short. To concretise the ineffable lol. Rebel Babel. Still, we strive, well-knowing ‘It’ is beyond our words’ reach (there is a there there). This is why we recommend reading aloud. Our culture prioritises the visual. Listen. Speak. Sensate. Shhhhhh. Sound contains meaning. There is infinite meaning. Meaning meaning matter, vibes, energy, whatever you will. ‘When you have names and forms, know that they are provisional.’ The Tao, duh. You know Wittgenstein tried real hard to figure it all out. His conclusion was silence, and that is truth — there is no silence. Hear your breath. I hear a car, exhaust, birds. My puppy hears more. The human eye can detect but a blip of the electromag-netic spectrum, which the human mind has defined as the electromagnetic spectrum. All thought may be tautology. Loops looping holding meaning. Reason is lololololololol. Like zeroes and ones. Binary. Coded.

Anonymise. Delete. This week, Fallible deleted Instagram. Felicity is almost offline. We were addicted. Like many of our age, we’d forgotten that reality is greatly superior to every story, mythology, deity, and super-reality. Reality being experience.

This is a story. To be experienced. We believe in stories. We’ve been guided by them. Felt shimmering glints of Love luck happiness peace and freedom filled with perfection performance whatever spontaneous flowing growth grapes global green grass and what is given. This story holds intention. Goosebumps. A smile. Knowing. You’re here now.

Wake up! Dreams are great when you wake in them. Lucidity. Remember when you thought you could never be smart enough? Now you’re too smart for your own good. What good? The word praise finds its root in price meaning value like goods. What value? We have praised prices and likes. Followers, budgets, size zero, C-A-P-I-T-A-L. It’s pretty funny actually. How far we’ve moved from Source. How signs eclipse the Real. The Total Lunar Eclipse awoke us. That’s when Felicity met Rebel, on a bench in Washington Square Park. September 27th, 2015. Fallible recalls sitting on the garage roof of her adolescence. The moon was obscured by clouds. She texted Felicity, Sleepy, Craven, and Marjorie Cameron, feeling Restless and Alone.

Now Fallible is on another plane and there is free ‘Fly-Fi’. Fallible could log on. She chooses not to. She chooses to stay on Airplane Mode. She’s been choosing this option often. These days we don’t do much talking. The silence is Golden, a sign we’re just being. Being is bonding with Gaia in India. Being is remembering suckling on Mother’s tit. Being is transferring her trauma to a Black Onyx dildo. Being is growing her bush out long. How long? Long. My bush is fulsome, a field, Eden ripe, eat it, slow dance on my clit. Growing it out is not a statement, it’s letting it be. Statements are lies. Lies we experience. What do you want to experience? THIS IS UR EXPERIENCE. UR TRIP. UR LIFE. Being is typing like her keyboard is on fire. Being is Kundalini rising. Being is being in Love. ‘The meaning of life is just to be alive,’ says Alan Watts. ‘It is so plain and so obvious and so simple.’ And yet, we forget. Wisdom is remembering.

KILL YOURSELF.
KILL IT AGAIN AND AGAIN.
KILL IT UNTIL IT IS ANCIENT HISTORY.
KILL IT UNTIL YOU FORGET IT.
FORGET HISTORY.
HIS STORIES.
KILL THEM.
KILL IT.
KILL YOURSELF.
KILL
YOUR
SELF.

We don’t mean slitting wrists. We don’t mean jump the bridge. We don’t mean crash the plane. We don’t mean hurt. When we’ve overexerted ‘our’ ‘selves’, we’ve craved violence. Firing insults, self-immolating. It’s all in you. To die all you have to do is let go. The only organ of contact with existence is acceptance, Love. Those were the most important words of our voice memos, after all our talktalktalktalk, we’d always close with, ‘I love you.’
I love you I love you I love you.

Shhhhhh.

Surrendering is the hardest thing we’ve done.

The More you seek will not be found in material. The most profound changes are internal. Why we say deep. Under the skin. Why we can’t show you the meat of this story. What happened within Fallible which transformed her into Being.

You know the intensity of being ‘in’ Love, the everything meaningful you experience? How his touch on your knee, your thigh, his eyes, even just the thought of him. Just the thought, his name, utter it, it makes you feel. Just the thought. Love. That’s It! We believe you can experience It infinitely at all times, across space and time, astral project without object. See, he is not It, not a one & only. Take has used many hims to experience It. Give expects It in return. Those are conditions. True Love is unconditional. Abundant, generous, an end in itself, the only ouroboros we know that does not strangle. Love loves to love Love. Why can’t Fear just say it?

Fallible finally fell asleep. She dreamed of her mother as Regan in The Exorcist. She recog-nised that this was not her mother, but a so-called Shadow Self. She battled the shadow until she realised it was immaterial. Then, she woke herself up. She walked off the plane and back to her yoga mat where she sat and lay for four days. She cried and she cried. It was deeply personal, banal, bourgeois. Then expansive, touching, psychedelic, like psilocybin tea; crystal, quiet, easy on the gut. She thought to tell Happy about it and she watched herself think and she experienced the mind as instrument, how it is meat, how its meat connects to the meat of her flesh, to her bones and blood, her nervous system, bilateral, innards, how inner and outer feedback and back and back, how she is.

Fear used to have this fantasy of spying on her friends hanging out without her. A fly on the wall, she’d voyeur, and so get to know them better, without her. Holy facile fallacy, Fallible! There’s no without you. You are It. And it isn’t yours to know—their It, their all. Coupling is natural. You can’t look more than one person in the eyes at the same time. Something happens between two. A spark of recognition. I see you. Fire was this for Fear and Fear for Flux and Flux for Fluid and Fluid for Sex and Sex for Death and we are dying all the time—that is time. Tangled up with him, Take feels like she could die right now and it would be fine. Love making eternal. Union, communion. Communication—it happens in between the words we share, in silence (our breath, it syncs). The Third Mind. So it goes with our relationship with God, the Universe, Love, Experience, call it Whatever. Words are provisional; text, a tool. Do not mistake the tool for the action, the finger for the moon. The proof is in the pudding we can’t eat for you. Say it. ‘I love you.’

***

Photograph by Julien Langendorff

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