The Diamond Island

Hanging out with the Sphinx in the valley.  Trees but no trees.  Mizzle in the desert.  Listening to the silence and the inactivity until I wonder if I can listen any more.

The skeleton trees sing to me with voices of nothingness.

They remind me that I’ve been here before many times, striving to see and understand.  Their song digs out of me buried and forgotten memories, prayers, and responses.

The Sphinx shows me there is no riddle and that I must create my own answers.

The Celtic New Year, a time of spirits and dreams of the imagination, comes to a close again.  Inside me, fresh life is being brought out of the darkest crawlways and unexplored cubbyholes of my failures and mistakes.

Lucerna’s training comes back to me; her wise and understanding influence has opened up in me a wholehearted casket of human riches. Expanding myself to fill those potentials is a lifetime of commitment and practice.

There is a UFO being built inside of me.

I see myself as I used to be, and might have been.  Surviving the outgrowing of those parts of me has been a chimerical nightmare.

I once went looking for Shiva in search of an explanation. Now I’m the one who will provide the explanation!

It’s as if I’m in the source of all Destroyed Bourns and simply recharging, rebuilding, renewing; and this time I and the universe are zero and one at the same time because I’ve passed through the temptation of unredeemed lust and released the power that does not belong to me.  I think, I feel the sun shining through me is an opening even as I close a circle to completion.

I have other promises to keep.

The collapse of the popular music sacrificial fire into millions of glittering coals marks the slow death of a sub-cultural era of psychic exploitation, repression, and propaganda. Beware of many last salvos as the conflagration expires, crackling and burning with a final extraction of warmth before we are free of the spectacle.

There’s been enough recycled commercialization through the grinder now to recognize the taste of the bodies being fed to us as having a same-old, lifeless lack of flavor.  To satiate our robust hunger for the flesh and bones of dreams we don’t dare for ourselves, the human fuel was piled high.  Every kind of expression, disposable and forgettable unless you happened to catch a particular body’s colorful spattering burst of color as it was consumed.

That’s just how the sausage is made, mind you. It’s true that sacrifice is what keeps us all alive.  Mindful sacrifice that is. Making an automated industry out of it—at the cost of a wasteland of the mind and the earth in its wake (never mind what those planting monoculture clones in the wake say)—hardly satisfies.  The junkfood consuming of the pRonographic never provides enough psychological nourishment.  It just gets you to the next storefront

Only the art which turns the one participating back upon themself is any damn good.  The point is to adapt us, to bring us back to ourselves with a fresh re-imagining that shakes us from our ossification of the routine. The pieces are always the same, it is in the near limitless application of those parts into a whole experience that one is reminded of their true humanity.

It’s easy to jump in the fire, throw some embers up in the air, and shout loudly.  Can you pull free the searing gemstone in the coals for us to see?  Without crying out? Look, there are glimmers in the fire.

Facing the dehumanizing trial of speaking across lines of distance has already been done, with more willingness to open the heart, more maturity about the difficulties that might arise, and more knowing when to wield the keen sword of wit when it’s time.

Untangling the hardship and confusion of speaking to someone who refuses to listen?  Been done with style, flair, and no small amount of insight.

You want ragged, road bitten humor with an edge? Quite a few gals out there know how to approach the monsters and deal blow for blow with a few human touches.

Or if its the mirror to society you want held up, then there are forces of unspeakable talent so frightening they weaken the phony system with every mere gesture.

A mountain of women have piled high whatever they could give to show us that smashing others isn’t enough, nor is it strength or smarts or even a good mock.

How many more times must one re-imagine the victim-girl as dispenser of brutality in the name of her owners before they hear the ringing of bells and understand the night has passed?

It’s time. Because we are in relation to one another.