- Dear Wanderer, Too much time spent in the land of weapons; too much bladed hunting, not enough ocean of mercy, and for as these are asymmetrically skewed, byMessage 1 of 6 , Sep 5, 2003View SourceDear Wanderer,
Too much time spent in the land of weapons; too much bladed hunting, not enough ocean of mercy, and for as these are asymmetrically skewed, by such shortfall of balance, cripple your gait and thus all around, reckless, unkempt brass mockery invades rest, and disquiets, frail'ing all hope of peace, which be our intent to kindle. All if luck, Sister Inspiration's youngest brother, guides us on tiptoe to the hearth of courage, here, and everywhere to source. And I suspect peace is less about circumstance and events and more about sanctuary and center.
Shall I proceed?
It would seem that the noble martial arts of survival, distracted by triumph, which in his spree of youth sports all buoyant enchantment, later loses fancy-free, compresses to expectation, coagulating at last to agendas of darkest blackmail.
So it seems indeed that acts of the hunt and of the ecstasy of 'the score', severed from connectivity to reverence, exiled from the lift of promise, abandon their earlier ballet, and orphaned of majesty and compassion, lose spice, and jaded, grow stale. All this you yourself have come to firsthand witness. It is a test of fearlessness, to behold men seethe until exhausted and bereft of strength, then wax melancholy, and their thrill dimmed of all spark, seek rescue, seek a return to the warmth of the cradle. You and I are not strangers.
Is there no song to dissolve strident stride back into wings? To furlough ourselves of our tedious conquistadorial campaigns. Song which would make us her shells to sweetly cup, to sweetly drink unbold sea-sounds, wanderer's music to remind us of what we have forgotten, that the moments when gravity has hold over us, like the rhythm of breath, must, by grace be paroled, offered leave to come and go, to depart the mortal stage, and at their own will return. Starlight anyone?
It is a fable of a forgotten Beanstalk, or of Jacob's well-runged ladder, cloud-capped in float of dream above, anchored in the hold of tread which speaks of your own journey. And each of us, God's Own Middleman, a roving minstrel who because he knows of such things, so's compelled to speak of travels and travails.
I am sorry your words have lost the round of all their soft vowels, that winter offers you no gift of snow, no mapless stretch of white, no pages of wondered silence, no deep oasis, no sacred soothe. Then come visit us, Distracted One, float a while, become Our Guest. Find spike of surprise, discover long-lost Welcome, abandon your books and their carefully-paved words for a while, wander far, till suddenly you come across what may only be spoken of, and you stumble upon ancient, unlacerated Rivendell. It is a cool and noble Pralaya which knows not of bone, neither of claw nor fang. Here in the shelter of such grotto, in earshot of the sounds of its rushless waterfalls speak in dream, bid them lace your angular cliffs in holy sovereign strum, bid them canopy you in fan of mist. And here, Oh Rainbow'd, watch your secrets return, behold them steal inland into heartspace. See! What once haunted now begins to bless. For now it can be told O Shipwrecked, that the Angel of Death is but the Frog-Prince!
What more can We share? Only that We have preserved your childhood in Our keep, stowed away your miracles, safeguarded your glow, keeping them intact, perfect, thriving, and to this day watch over these in a cinderless place beyond the hold of Must, beyond the reach of Necessity. Exhale, then, for your very breath itself's but on brief loan from the Kingdom of the Wind. Thus We have made you His Ambassador, the foremost emblem of her enchantment. In this way We, light-robed in Floorless Places as one day you shall be, who with you are one, preserve in our unseen treasuries words of acquittal you cannot yet voice, and so rejoice to shout "Well Done!"
Evening and Morning a Second Day.
Then fear neither mapless nor shoeless journey as surrounds you in perils, and in imagined Perils, which make far more potent breed of danger, and know at last, Initiated One, that it is an honor to be asked to approach Holy Ground, and upon it, to source Brave Cheer
There, up ahead, you meet your child
"Not all who suffer lack joy; not all who wander are lost."
And so it is by such caravans of Uncanny Meander exotic and circuitous, which none foreshadow, earlyfire halts, kneels, and comes full fathom five to discover the rather unsuspected, the altogether rich and strange secret of how weapons may be morphed into musical instruments, and the hunters who bear them turn to poets, which amounts to saying this: That whenever She goes undercover, Love disguise herself as Trust. Then you do the same. Thus let it be implied, if not said Trust - Truth - to each other, for each other fast be-Trothed.
(The revels of his apprentice alchemy ended, he exits backstage, whispering, "Surely this be but one of Midnight's many well-mansioned Tales, and I, Your Greenest Understudy, methinks, medreams, in bold or clandestine ways, overt and subtle, and suspect all this, 'tis all delicious sorcery to tutor, and makes for a virtually unannounced rehearsal of photosynthesis.)
"My brain I'll make the female of my soul"
At 04:38 PM 9/4/2003, you wrote:
What if I don't want to be captain of my soul anymore. I want to give it to somebody else. Splice me up and give me away. I am done. I have been done before and always had to limp on. Forever limping along... I am running a race and nobody is letting me sit down and rest. Just when I can start to see my life and what is happening. I can't handle the little moments anymore. I want to be done that is all. I know I'm not done. I feel ashamed and silly to be writing and sending this but I have to make it through this door and I just am afraid I won't and I can't live if I don't make it through The Door. All summer I have been feeling like I just want to go Home. But with no fanfare or destruction its not like that. I just feel like my work is done even though I know its not. I just need someone to go to and there is NOBODY. Thank You God that I can mail this off to cyberspace to other souls that are out there and who are having a better day than I. I don't mean to be igniting any fear in anybody its not like I am suicidal I am not. I have many moments communing with angels who make my eyes well up with such peace and love. I am not suicidal I just want to quit and not get off this chair and move my senses to the next task. This strong negative energy has been courting me for two days now. I have tried to rid it but don't want to take the next step. WHAT is wrong with me? Oh,me. I don't care I'm sending this anyway. This is some energy here now.
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"Music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind, but mankind cannot comprehend."
Ludwig van Beethoven
- Born on the wings of a dragonfly in the September sun my door opened; I walked through and will never go back. Steadfast faith in Truth that you knew andMessage 2 of 6 , Sep 7, 2003View SourceBorn on the wings of a dragonfly in the September sun my door opened; I walked through and will never go back. Steadfast faith in Truth that you knew and have always known and will be. Their movement around my body is their latest telling. Warmest reguards, chantel