I must wander away from here for a space. I foresee that what is to come in my life will leave little room for musings such as these that I write here. Perhaps I am wrong, and there will be time for asides, but I see not such skies ahead. I imagine will return, perhaps in a month’s time, or so, but at this moment, I must seize the opportunity of other endeavors, with full force press on into other areas. These dreams I dream I feel as if they are touching down to earth and reality, that I am a conduit of electric imaginations. And I do not know when exactly I shall return to these electronic halls, but I feel that there will be a time when it may be necessary for me to do so — a writer writes, after all. Even if it is not his primary mode. Therefore, not adieu, but au revoir. Till we meet again.

Do not lose heart. There is purpose in it all.

past the illusion, there is a pattern closing like a rose
the harmony of the spheres, whatever form the outcomes
unworthy am i to hear the music of eternity alight just so
though i believe more than sensibility ever dared explore
visions of hell once entertained my notion of all worlds
now is joy in my bones, expression of such to explode
protected by holy words, i step to the edge: of forever

[Book.]

Is it now as if a beast has been let loose in the world, the quake the breaking of its bonds, deep in the earth? It is as if all the colors are different. As if someone has added meaning behind all of them. Everything strikes me paradoxically as both surreal and somehow more real than it was before the great heaving. Myself, I am bewildered. As if I had had purpose before, and now it has left me — this is illusion, I am aware at some level, that no such purpose existed. Is it so big a change, this me, to the me that preceded the prayer? And yet I look to find some kind of bearing, and before… I felt like I needed not such a thing as direction to progress. I feel something is missing, now.

There’s a feeling I get
When I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who standing looking.

– Led Zeppelin

Max Ernst: The Postman Cheval

Click on the pic for a larger version.

Night falls, wandering lights that randomly catch the eye.

Night falls, purpose suddenly becoming a need, on, on.

Night falls, torches bearing the anger of the crowds.

Night falls, torches that speak of adventure in the caves.

Night falls, and one feels around, not knowing what to expect.

Night falls, and one wishes he could choose what to dream.

Night falls, and one is suddenly nowhere, except for stars.

Bad will be the day for every man when he becomes absolutely contented with the life he is leading, with the thoughts he is thinking, with the deeds he is doing; when there is not forever beating at the doors of his soul some great desire to do something larger, which he knows that he was meant and made to do because he is still, in spite of all, the child of God.

i dreamed of a color that had no name, and a silence
invisible fire which i knew was there, borne of the sacred wood
to look into the mirror to see the light behind my eyes

The devil will tempt us with trivialities, when the task at hand is to save a soul.

I keep thinking, at various intervals, mostly on hearing about someone on the news: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” I think about the thin veneer of civilization, over my own civility, how close we all are to ruin. I think there is a very small distance between the worst and the best of us, and that contrary to what many of us think, we most likely do not represent what is the best of us. Given what they were given, would we not have done what they did? Perhaps it is to reduce the quality of man into fractions. Perhaps that is all it takes to be a hero, that we give just that fraction more. Or let slip a fraction, and we be the damnable. How unnerving, that these finite decisions echo out into infinity. That given what we are given, we must do right by the light. Even in the darkness. Especially in the darkness.

[Book.]

As I rise, opening my eyes, it is like entering a dreamtime. I scan and all down the street are the noises of car alarms that have all been set off and are honking in each their own obnoxious rhythm. There are several people around me and down the way; they are picking themselves from the ground, a couple of them bloody — as I walk past them, I feel pieces of glass crunching under my shoes, the cause of what looks to be any injury. None of the buildings seem to have been rent apart or collapsed in the quake, but I wonder if it is that case everywhere in the city, or if some of the structures have not been as lucky. The world is somehow different. Is it that not am I now dreaming strangely, but that what was going on before was the dream, and I am thus waking to face the world as it is? What has changed?

I’ve got it all here in my head
There’s nothing more needs to be said
I’m just bangin’ on my old piano
I’m getting in tune with the straight and narrow

– The Who

Max Ernst: In the First Clear Word

Click on the pic for a larger version.

i have been mixed into the dreaming
my self poured through the starry sky
silence that follows me as i descend
ground myself in words we’ve forgotten
fire dancing in my hands, and scatters
as i awake still drenched in imagining
open my eyes, borrowed from angels