Gino Severini: Armoured Train

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my work has not been in the sunlight hours
instead to dig in the mines, in punctuated darkness
wondering about the fantastic luck of us all
now factored into every of our equations
i look for the rarest rose, that blooms only at night
my collection of flowers have long since withered
as i dream and am frightened of its brilliance
for time is digging me out of the earthly depths
and i must prepare to live again among mortals
wondering about the fantastic luck of us all
the glance of which once made me mad
the thought of which now heals my frailty

He drew on himself, every day: strange symbols, lines leading nowhere, circles with no particular inclination. His pens were continually running dry of ink, and if he took a bath, the water stained a blackish tint, as if he were washing away sins. The patterns he drew were a mystery of asymmetry, an ode to chaos; these markings were a war paint to a battle long over, and he had been on the side of the the defeated. No one ever asked him why he did this — there was a certain unknowable poetry to it, and people… people don’t ask questions when they think they already know the answer: he was a sign that the universe was as odd as they imagined. But if they had asked him, “Why?”, he would have answered, “This is what the whole of the world means — this is the way I see it. Each day the pattern changes, and when the old one washes away, I draw on myself what is new… like a reflection of it all that knows what it reflects, a world rewritten in abbreviations.”

Sound Bible exposition is an imperative must in the Church of the Living God. Without it no church can be a New Testament church in any strict meaning of that term. But exposition may be carried on in such way as to leave the hearers devoid of any true spiritual nourishment whatever. For it is not mere words that nourish the soul, but God Himself, and unless and until the hearers find God in personal experience they are not the better for having heard the truth. The Bible is not an end in itself, but a means to bring men to an intimate and satisfying knowledge of God, that they may enter into Him, that they may delight in His presence, may taste and know the inner sweetness of the very God Himself in the core and center of their hearts.

What does it mean, born not of the flesh, but of the will of God? Firstly, we are being born at every moment, that it is a constant of our existence. We are being created at every point, that flow of being what makes us what we are. From where does that flow come? There is the point: either it is of flesh, that which is of the world, or it is from God, that which is above the world. When we are born from above (also known as born again), the flow of our beings are not governed by the worldly, the fleshly, but come from higher motives. And so we become strangers to this world. And where we come from, and where we go: we are like the wind, about which you cannot know either. Because now, it is of the mystery of the God who is love.

An honor that is convenient is not honor.

I dream of hills drawn in crayon, of watercolor skies.
I dream of forests colored in oils, deer sketched in magic marker.
I dream of a sun streaming down ink, and a whole world to paint.

Be bold — and mighty forces will come to your aid.
– Basil King

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.
– Abraham Lincoln

One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done.
– Marie Curie

Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
– Mahatma Gandhi

When in doubt, tell the truth.
– Mark Twain

There are many things which do not concern the process.
– Joan of Arc

Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real, and you’re just a reflection of him?
– Calvin and Hobbes

Richard Dadd: The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke

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And I remember one moment of epiphany, watching a gauge returning to its center as I sat in the car listening to Mozart — how the piano’s keys sounded like touching the chill of leaves after a spring rain — as the dial eased into place in perfect accompaniment, and I marveled how beautiful it could be, the delicate slowness of ordinary things. This is what life has for us, sometimes, plain elements that are remixed in some way that is startlingly creative, as if such things are meant to be: something to hold within you and wonder at the grand design, wonder at the miracles that must happen every day, most of them which we don’t notice for the simple fact that they are all around us, happening at will, maybe only to catch us off guard every once in a great while. This is God saying hi, leaving no signature except the feeling in the soul that there is some meaning to it all we can never quite express, yet somehow understand that such meaning there — for us to touch the garment of love itself, and be healed.

Read and read again, and do not despair of help to understand the will and mind of God therein, though you think they are fast locked up from you. Neither trouble your heads though you have not commentaries and expositions; pray and read, and read and pray; for a little from God is better than a great deal from men. Also, what is from men is uncertain, and is often lost and tumbled over and over by men; but what is from God is fixed as a nail in a sure place… There is nothing that so abides with us as what we receive from God; and the reason why Christians at this day are at such a loss as to some things is, that they are contented with what comes from men’s mouths, without searching and kneeling before God to know of Him the truth of things. Things we receive at God’s hands come to us as truths from the minting house, though old in themselves, yet new to us. Old truths are always new to us if they come with the smell of Heaven upon them.

Many energies were spent in the creation of what you are. Do not let them go to waste.

[Book. The previous is at alquemie.com.]

This must indeed be a strange place. Magic has passed through here, I can smell its smoky traces. How have I been folded into these alternate patterns? Vague memories pass through my mind’s eye, as if I have haunted these environs sometime in the recesses of my past, as if these are places where wanderers such as I go when… there is no where else to go… or is there? The white door of the room is not locked, and I open it. White halls, white lights overhead. The tiles below I suppose have speckles of pattern on them. Other doors along the hall, some of them open. And there are people standing in some of the doorways. They are dressed in blue and white inconspicuous patterns, all of them. And looking down at myself, so am I. I am one of them.