Thursday, December 27, 2012
L. Edgar Otto
December 21, 2012 03:36:32 PM
"In the blizzard with the snow between us we cannot share the first or last of suppers nor afford to risk the travel let alone share gifts under the guiding stars, but I have one gift in mind to a child if that would not show favor, a toy harmonica that he awakens to the world by making his own music..." The Pe Sla
The father of the gods, the personification of time and space, of the river bend of time itself... more ancient and beyond the half divine and half mortal children grand comes before the instars of the moths in the progression from egg to wings, aligned vertical to its time-ship box on the clouds of chloroform, bandages of satin, beds of cotton as if some mythical beasts half forgotten save the artifact now written in the seeping pearls of stone shadows of our dreams.
I have no need to paint his face that he may lie in wake for those left in the the flowing river to view, to remark what a great and good thing he was or laugh in judgement at his follies, lament the struggle and dangers, his as tragic- nor to return him into dust and ashes, scatter them into the waters. He held the case of instars as if a sacred text and passed on to his children the sense it draws unto it our worship.
For as we live we lose the reality of time in the living and it is not the only description, of our minds, of the cycles of the stars, of the boiling water high in the thin air of mountaintops, of this change of state, of instars of time. In the measure to the end, the double face that really knows no clear division of Janus, old and young his direction at the ritual change of years, imperfect measure where our engines of our hearts can reset the clock, skip a beat, or the strength to go through motions, rebirth with wings or that false comfort we are in this world born again.
Time is only to be measured in the falling sand between the measureless silence when in the rocking ship the keeper of the bells forget a spell to turn the hourglass, perhaps to wait until the next shifting of the sky and winds the cycle comes around so errors of omission resume, cannot be seen. But this is not the only distance we put between our lives and their intervals of living, footprints in the snows and mud, and stone, between each other.
The reality is that the time grows short as it expands, rivers break into the deltas, the errors accumulate until from some far source the rains bring floods again, or the great subjective sea wipes the fertile volcano soil free from oil and wax, grass huts, dried fish and wine. The villagers fool enough to be surprised at the once in a hundred year monsoon that their world is safe, the storms are for others far away- that they are fools enough to work their dreams.
We do not take from each other the right of way nor block the effort to move, tacking the wind or rowing hard upstream, impose on both the river boats and the bridges some toll, be it in barter or in riddles or we cannot pass. These are only the air that makes way for the falling sand and in the end but objects pointlessly moved from room to room in which why go there needing rides when one is in anywhere already there?
Does it matter then that someone has vanished from our sight beyond the immensity of night anymore than in the rivers of the virtual data stream, or that they move far away in real space or time, the new homeland out of reach and sight?
These are the same thing really, in the wide but finite world of which the wheels may flow against each other but no gears can with clarity be arranged to solve the day's tides.
So when the links between us are broken in the freedom from their unreal so broken vanished chains we feel against that hidden and pointless cloak of lies, of the projecting the inner demons that they make the guiltless bleed as proof in profile or the return of anger the cleaving of the children and not the custody is chosen over Solomon, the wise the pointless and yet not selfish act can have no eyes- for while the living some souls or without souls in the wide seascape just do not matter.
But it makes sense, the nothingness beyond wings or not, that some far away broken people, at this instar have moved on absolutely, only a black feather or two falls off as we spill drops of our dreams in minor accidents so I rejoice they have their reward they put as roadblocks alarming others- claiming the kingdom built on their own sacrifice when they need slaves and secrets, demand the sacrifice of others, the more the virginal the better. That I was in their kingdom and as it all there was so craved its fellowship, brought appeasement, found ways to not to like that I would not confess the sham of truth before the world that takes to them a false line and name, I was there but only a ghost in your presence waiting for escape.
It is not the myth of jailers and those who would deny access or judge the hearts of others, decide they are irrelevant expecting thanks for their gift of tolerance, that time is said of the essence- taking then in bonds as if the cage can hold them, confessions for their pardons. How long can those of moral conscience play the acts and curtains and pay the cost of freedom within the cycles of their games of time?
Nor is it in the broken bones and fear of broken wings while the living that handicaps the child to say to them they shall have a rude awakening, now the demons rudely surprised that they must go to sleep having not known life at its best or in abundance save some rare moments that like the least droplet of holy water or the rays of morning sun will burn their skin more than some shadow distant myth of sin- of that I know in the relative flows of time, and in the greater scheme of times beyond acceleration that ages us or keeps us forever young - I too will face the reward with regrets but not for that as if some whip from the other worldly.
I regret having not noticed while bereft in this life and in this life alone the pentience of affliction staying the sky and keeping me blind that the demon souls worse than the false laughter of the drunken or the insane mechanical men who have kept me awhile from your instar you lost in their black holes of their dreams- that time subtracted in its essence from my own in the freedom of time seas they left for my sentence and its term their ghostly prison. They take from us more than we take from ourselves and each other while we could not be watching, while the darkness in its own limited light worked equations.
There is no record of this nor wound that would hold you down in your own life with forgiveness or forgotten memories, nor loss of faith in the bubble of myths you need for nests and shelter. For such as these lost and unredeemed souls know not of the time on earth or in the heavens. That in the great instars of being, living, the gods and time and mortals are one thing beyond the existing and the being- let us not doubt it is the victory of living and it is good. In our hearts alone, even in the utmost spark of a moment of origin and end, the record is written in the wider world becoming- as if known its truths only by some higher God.
"And a twenty seventh bell rang for one more tick of the clock, only it was rung in the sanctuary of our silence."
The Pe Sla
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