3.22.10

twinkling brilliant dazzling light
flitting, flitering, falling
all is silence but for the raucous heartbeat pounding
silky cold and clear
the world never looked so wondrous fair
and i must kick up
or let my lungs empty, filling with the formless deep.
a twilight of soul; 100 years in one moment
i tarry. and even the gods pray when they see the boatmaster.

3.20.10

you are the lamb. you are the priest. you are the acolyte. you are the GOD.

and you are the dread dagger.

hold it in your hands; read the runes there; weep.

for your sad, short story has been foretold and lived before.

the moment is now. act without thought.

3.16.10

the answer comes. the great no that allows all other yeses new life.

bewilderment, pain, anger, peace. all so quickly.

and now we shall see what we shall see.

and now there is no longer any desire for any yolk other than my own. perhaps this is the lesson.

but i must follow my way, alone, again, as always in this life. i must no longer seek any guide, any protection, any institution, anyone to blaze or authenticate my trail.

i must walk it. with markers strange and in unknown script. the sky my companion.

Waiting

my soul cries out to god. yet am i not he? how is this possible? how is it i can feel such human pain---and pain on the spiritual/emotive level, when i know in my heart i am united to god, united with no barriers?

i don't understand or, rather, don't want to. i want to be a child again. ignorant of the world, ignorant of myself. happy and trusting in the world and my parents. suddenly, being a grown-up seems terrifying, dread, hideous, a horrible lie within lies wrapped in rotting, moldy parchment covered in facecake.

what is this life but a seeking to re-enter the womb? and yet, i feel that i have re-entered the womb of god----and yet, how can pain reach me here? o god, why must i become like unto thee---full of power and grace, yet capable of supreme pain and supreme angst? o god, this life is as slab upon my back. i walk on unbending stone and upon my back, yet stone, and ahead, only a crypt. and, if successful, i'll be able to carry the stone to my crypt and fall into it, complete.

why??? why??? why must we live beyond age four? why must we become beings of passions and lusts and drives and beauty and power? and yet there is no solace in death either. for do we not die and die and die and die--not only in sleep, but the agony throes of our daily grinding?

o god. i cry out to you. be just! be merciful! release me. i thirst. pierce me and let my blood and water flow forth and in the name of god put me in the crypt. perhaps after hell there shall be a respite.

i cannot face my own life. i cannot face it. i find solace only in prayer and in making this perishing flesh beautiful. my one consolation. and little enough. o god. i die one thousand times a day. there is no relief. why do you not save me o god? why do i dangle? let me touch the hem of your robe!

i cling to your legs! i spend all i have left and buy nard and break it over your head! i dry your feet with my hair. kissing your feet is my food and drink. embrace me now or let me die.

cruel lover!

3.10.10

We have another SF Orthodox saint (I'm afraid to say he was martyred at the hands of RC priests. A hideous, but unfortunately not unique event). He is honored here today. "Peter the Aleut, Martyr".

just listen

last countertenor post, but really, this is amazing.

Sweeter than roses, indeed. I want this sung at my funeral Mass. This too.

3.7.10

freedom. i had the chance. i had escaped twice from the grip of soft hands, stifled passion, firm lips. i had put on the collar in my heart. but not my body. i had taken a number in the ante-room of freedom. and i waited, but no one called my number. i could have complained to the clerk, pestered at the counter, but instead, i sat straight, while a soft hand grasped mine. And I fell.

And now, freedom is an internal working. but then, perhaps i had been in the wrong line to begin with.

I've chosen a new line. I have my number, but I will wait little. If not chosen, I will seek another place. And if the divine cannot control his servants well enough to harvest me, he should beware. i may set up my own office. and i shall take all comers. and my greatness may become the greatness we sought for.

the fields are white. There are few workers. Do we need a thresher? Shall i be the miller and the stone and the pay collector? And from the chaff, perhaps I shall spin gold for vestments.

3.7.10

skimming. scraping. i'm the cantaloupe of god. he scrapes and scrapes my fruit away. seeds and pulp long gone. i'm little more than skin. dry. dusty. not worth fodder for swine. soon, even it, i, will be gone. feast over. scraps gone to mulch.

i am truly nothing. a vapor, a spirit, ghost of a ghost. with nowhere to haunt. i look at the banquet set for others. the king enjoying the last of my fruit. he does not bother to wipe his beard of my juice.

and i swoon. a forgotten puff of dust on a rough plank floor.

3.4.10

beautiful and terrible as the dawn!
Tempestuous as the sea!
Stronger than the foundations of the earth!
All shall love me and despair!”

3.4.10

pippin: I didn't think it would end this way.

gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.

pipin: What? Gandalf? See what?

gandalf: White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

pippin: Well, that isn't so bad.

gandalf: No. No, it isn't.”

3.4.10

Roots. Leaves.
Two trunks.
One breeze.
One rainfall.
One sun.
One life.
I look to the hills, and she to our garden.

3.3.10

Go thou into all the world.
A thousand shall fall at your left, ten thousand at your right hand.
The meek you shall raise up. The mighty you shall throw down.
I have smitten my enemy upon the mountaintop.
I have come through fire and water.
Ask me not then questions unless you ask as a child. The concerns of men I step across as one does a puddle after the rain.
I stride across nations. Ask me not why. But come. You shall be useful.
Death? I don't concern myself with such trivialities.

3.2.10

Hard to believe, sometimes, that I still have the ability to fear. Yet I do. I would have thought that I would have see enough to burn it all away. But it seems a new crop grows each morning that I must mow down.

Life is about to get really, really interesting. Well, more interesting even than it is now.

3.2.10

Shall I reach, O Lord?

Shall I send forth my hand, my hand, thick and weathered and tough and knotted?
My hand who before always held a spade, a hoe in gardens of dirt and roots and stones.

Shall it awaken? Will it remember some seed of memory from another time and grasp now a sword? A pen? A scepter?

Or shall I turn my back again to the Sun, and bend, bend to my garden patch of brown and black?

My arms fall dumbly at my sides. For all the roots and stones have sprouted, and now lilacs, tall, fragrant, have sprung up. My spade and hoe lost into the earth. And my hand of its own accord grasps for the sword it knew long ago.

And I, forever now the sun upon my face through green and purple, lidless to your eternal stare. Thy chariots thunder.