THRESHOLD SPACE / by grace mcgrade


Scotland felt like home before I arrived. Halos of golden light descending onto endless aisles of plush soil, pathways to cathedrals of trees; Spraying color through leaves like champagne. prisms of shadow threaded through the morning ether.

The Mossy troths and moors and freckled with dew and silver lichen, hollow tree trunks and mushroom caves, plush beds of sprouting emeralds and limes, dusted with wild flowers and yellow cacti that smell like coconut.

There is an air of change about. It is the bridge between seasons, unsettling, flickering boldly with the spark of possibilities. The summer sun begins to shorten, leaving a shading of uncertainty across the land. I am on the brink of immense change, and my body can feel it.

In the space between fragile memories I speculate all the things I could have said and done but didn’t in my time here. And I decide everything is just as it should be.

I have been given the gift of restored imagination and vision- the space for me to dream up all that life could be, something free of the structures and limitations of anything manmade. I yearn for something that mirrors the impossibility and connectivity of nature. To be in communion with nature, and therefore in communion with pattern, the organic ebb and flow life follows with fearless improbability.

Once you wake up, you can’t go back to sleep. Even if you want to.

I believe there is a part of everyone that is all knowing, perhaps even existing above time. Perhaps, aware that in waking up, we have to take radical responsibility for everything happening in our reality. This is no easy truth. Suddenly, every thought, subconscious desire, even atom thin, buried in the tumultuous folds of the psyche - is weaving our worlds. Intricate and massively intelligent, propelling faster than the speed of light.

Everything is symbolic, even the most microscopic of details will mirror your macrocosm. Everything that has happened and will happen is within your control. You are a complicit designer in the tapestry of your ornate life. The story can be your own.

Take back the story. Be your own salvation.

I am in threshold space, returning to Los Angeles, following tethered threads that connect me to a past that has lost it’s allure and color. I worry about this barren wasteland of endless entertainment- the compulsion to be a part of the show. To do your part for the distraction. I don’t think most of us realize that we want to create rather than distract, but we are regurgitating and repeating culture. We are being entertained and distracted into the apocalypse. Lubed up to numbly accept our planets demise, assuming the only thing left to participate in is the show, the grand illusion.

So we wait, giggling and drooling with glazed eyes, speaking less, feeling less, escaping more. I don’t want to contribute to this illusion any longer. I don’t want to put the fucking virtual reality headset on.

I want to leave having fought and expunged every last breath of resistance against the rape of my planet. I want to have immersed my senses, to have explored mysteries and drank unknown waters, to have cried out for the truth and wept for consciousness.

Not to imitate some half-lived 2D idea that has been vomited on a loop by Hollywood.