Twelve Easy Minimalist Pieces
Piece Three.
Nobody Is Holding Anyone Anymore
They invented the el and we cruised from at arms length to a world apart. We don't sleep together at night, but dock like devices each in our own layby.
As if the world were a 13th Century map and this doesn't know how to reach that.
Some of us born with something to lose must live intensely to preserve and carry over to the other side. They step into liquid light left there by creative deed. Any handling of our stardust in this illumination lets this liquor of succour seep, but to pool it in a scintillation of spoken word takes the dance on one powerhouse toe. No buldozer can scoop that up.
a credit free photo from Pixabay
The Melee and The Fray
We would like to hope we have thrown down the battleaxe and the halberd, banished the mace and the pitchfork; our battle cries refined into grunts of remise and reprise. But boys will be boys. And the men dressed in manchettes had better have their mock battlefields upon which to intimitate their historical teachers and have their relevant stake in the worlds that matter. It doesn't matter that our textworlds are not interesting to those as immature as soft cheese and carbonated glena grape. We have our own sustenance.
To sustain us there are private cornerstones and foundations bedecked with dreamscape collages. Here we can put the past underfoot, and work it till it agglutinates into something intelligible like Finnish words, difficult mouthfuls but not impossible.
En garde!
On Steemit, we fence with our posts the corpulent opponents that are indoctrination, favouritism and oppression. This in turn attracts the lost, the homeless, who in turn baste the heartless. It is not your destiny to become a link in their chain which is plugged in to play like serfs and factotums to false idols.
Hace el camino!
Only the life-road under foot, can give the sense of gravity which floats your boat. Relish the upwards thrust of the downwards pull unequalled in a virtual world. May you stay in touch with your surroundings. This is to survive and live and thrive and dance and play in one. We love you for that commitment to mankind.
The Inherent Metaphor Must Be Redrawn.
God’s face has stained into a tired icon on our walls. We try to protect the wattle and daub of our home but it is futile. The ranks in the rear can only slow down the ball and chain battallion for a while. They will reclaim our dominions and use the rubble to command a reinforced build up. Wisdom is to step into the fields beyond. Let us follow a new map.
All we can be cannot be yet. How then to access it? If we keep on casting projections we will only learn to find ourselves in a cave (cf. Plato’s allegory). How to become our screen minds in the flesh? It is said, love will lead the way. Watch the rain enter the willing earth and smell the grass after the clouds have shuddered. Follow its length of roots till you can sink no farther.
The mapmaker doesn’t tell you which bends to turn around or what incline to take. She tells you nothing you need to know you can’t already see. The trees to the left, the woods behind, to the right a stile and a trough yonder. What more do you think you need to know? Since when is behind the new forward? She leads you on to your destination.
It is the bane of my life that I know what is says but it doesn’t say it. We live in a consequential world. If we didn’t we’d be in a loop of our own making (or some kind of autistic, as the word implies). My kind of language is cruel. I can hear myself. It speaks of Us when there is only I and Mine.
I mix weather conditions and climate control like Professor Higgins† in a high-flown mood. Of course, it is bellicose to confuse the rabble. Of course, I, too, am at war with the puppets whose limbs seem neatly straight by their sides, turned to the front. But I am underground and throw no bombs but neither shall I wave a flag in surrender. I need no ammunition, nor supplies, for love sustains me.
I know it all seems futile. But watch them turn as the good ones deftly leave, the phalanx unnerved after all. Turning away to follow us with their binocular vision from the line of the sky to a new horizon. I hear them clatter as they all tangle into eachother with baton strikes.
Where sight is dim and belief cannot adjust, I will settle for trust. Or less, for in the Pantry of Perhaps a humble vat of on-the-go-maybe-so can be brewed. There is no place for the kind of white lightning that strikes you down and stops you think.
It takes a lot of writing on the wall, and then some more in cyberspace to learn to feel what wine to pour Shams, the Beloved, and toast to your Self. But mind, it remains my obligation to prohibit drinking when yet under-aware.
We wish for you the blessing to be initiatied by what your lovers craft for you. May their love behold your truth.
May we all become lovers to our own degree and not insist we do better. We wish you well: that is enough to be a lover.
Peace,
Your lovers,
The corven, the groom, the soldier, the lion, the man of the moon, the sun-runner and the shepherd.
footnote
†The Rain in Spain
endnote
My bone carving pendant is a Maori Rebirth Twist and Koru combined.
The Koru (Spiral) form represents the fern frond opening and bringing new life and purity to the world; and the Pikorua (Twist) the many paths of life and love and as such is regarded as the original eternity symbol. You may find more on the symbolic meaning of Maori carvings and a wide selection of examples here