PHOSPHORIMENTAL

The difference between loving outwardly and going deeper and deeper into the anthology of my life is that of a need for a lover.   Of outward and inward, one is always a lonely journey into the past, the other, a paired journey into a future.

There is a sublime beauty to all this – to still deeply taste the ingredient of sadness and other times gone by in my life. Even were my lover to kiss my lips, I’d not think their flavor gone, but, rather I’d imagine traversing space and time as the culinary nature of love and friendship and joy and blessing and mysticism, and all this.

Lovers can experience the ordinary in the most extraordinary ways; each being both the sculptor and the granite of their attraction.  Disrobing the lover, in a metaphorical sense, is the removal of that unnecessary rock, which leaves the most beautiful and unique form within the granite. The amazed lovers are the consummate artist of their own lives; each to enjoy the immense pleasure of their form within the formless.  Each bowing to the artist within the lover and the lover within the artist.

Love does not come to rewrite the past, fix the broken, and right the wrongs.  It comes to embrace them, to cup them in steady hands, to shape the wax around the burning wick within and not blow out the flame.

As love’s wayfarer, come sit by the warmth of the fire that consumes your lover’s pain… sway peacefully to the lilt of a pining voice that quivers from the trauma of self-healing.  Come wayfarers, to fly on open wings through the still canyons of your lover’s wounds.  We meet so we can accent the stark nature of life, to revel in the greater beauty that consumes everything we fear, desire, loathe.

Nothing goes missing; pay attention to what is not there to obscure your vision of true love.  Those, with whom you belong, see the same ray of moonlight from different places, east and west, north and south.

tis nothing if not heard

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Hence this writers jihad… We’ve become modernists of belief, infused with the fear of punishment taught to us all our lives; we take the whip, milk, and honey from the “hands of God” as if those were the gifts of Creation; as if we were given 7 billion arms to wield judgement. What of the consequence of pure being – a single self with many facets of being-ness? Isn’t this more palatable? We’ve imposed this metrical juxtaposition of humanity and divinity where “distance” from self to God becomes more important than God or Self, “themselves”… the harder we strive to rationalize a “whole,” the more we distinguish the parts – till each part becomes a whole. I admit fault for dumbing down bliss into 0’s and 1’s so that I might churn it all in the Turing machine.

Everything is flow…everything is rhythm. Four billion years ago earth, wind, fire and water ever so slightly stirred and then an explosion. Rains fell from the sky, water gushed from the earth, earth ran to the sea, winds unleashed across everything, sea to the heavens…and the symphony had begun. We’ve over-structured sound, undervalued silence. All that is left, is what began, the harmony before there was a melody. How do I sit at the oceans edge and undo 4 billion years of growing audial complexity. Put the jets away, turn the buildings back into dust, quiet the creatures that fly on the wind, roam over land, swim within the ocean. Let me, the writer, return man with his voice, back into the primordial womb. (cannot remember if I even published this before!)

tis nothing if not heard

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