Monday, February 25, 2013
Confluence XV Pe Sla Nova
Confluence XV Pe Sla Nova
L. Edgar Otto
*Monday, 25 February, 2013
Lyrae and Lovers Of Wisdom:
In the sacred place mapping the sky in the Black Hills the bald spot of a star gone nova, something is left of my spirit more than the ghosts of departed quantities.
That place is also within us in the depths of night, as if a holy city only the awakened can enter therein or that lost but seeking souls go there seeking refuge they find it only while their meditation.
You who seek pilgrimage, standing on your dust storms for feasts or fasting in the flesh know that you are already there even if the sacred ground has vanished long ago.
That the medicine is greater than the medicine man and the wisdom of the herb gatherers in long in generations their making.
For she gives as much as that within her own soul when you are off alone recovering from the betrayal of your wounds as if her healing hands knowing of your pain earns your trust and magic in her heavy journey thru another world.
Though even he gods cannot come back without forgetfulness that they too must learn before transcendence of growth and death, of doubts in times of darkness, their universe gives you care and home again even if not asked for.
She is the artist who traces the branches and rivers of your veins and dreams, applies the salve, lights the incense, makes the candles against the immensity of night for like the prophets who visited the levels of suffering and heaven, tho godlike she washes the blistered feet of tragic wanderers thru no fault tho they may own our imperfection of stumbling.
The great geometer who spoke the world into existence once and always many times around the sacred cube of pips and doublings, the fall of dice, can only give you simple stories spoken to a child, the child whom knows in the ancient tongue the theories of everything.
Yet in the panorama of the cycles of our souls, she the creative one thru a thousand generations and ancestors to come, the face as well the canopy of branches, the rain that comes thru the ice and ocean streams and wind from deep within the volcanic heart, salt for the earth that spring can be fertile.
I would write of a thousand images that comes to mind as if in the drowning of desire, in the thin atmosphere of far and rare villages in the mountain tops, not just my life unfolds before my eyes but the living flash of those of others- if I could eat of the poetry and it fill me a thousand fold as do such lives as best we can express two by two against the flood the earthy songs and hints, the many handed world that is rather than is not because its made of double rainbows and closes in the spinning hours in ephemeral blends somewhere in magenta.
Of what do we sing then, and what do we strum, the reel and the dance as she dances with her partner, tends the children or the half child back from the call of war, the moody fickle calm or raging sea but of new constellations, of the Lyrae, with its vulture or soaring eagle in this sign of Apollo?
Or menead in her mystery dance her cloak of leopard stars drunken with the arms and spin of seed and milky way enhanced her mystery dance, her finite yet oceanic stupor savored in the courtship, fulfilled in the wombs fruit moment to which as great as the Redeemer she gives her breast in sacrifice?
If you are confounded by the lyrics or soothed only by the tune that knows no mumbled words or lands, if you cry out as a baby penetrating screams wheels not oiled on Charles Wain, seeking the bond of blood or watered wine the distant chords umbilical, the dipper of water someone in compassion gives the condemned in a hot box confining him in the noon day summer sun, you will not understand in any language tho we share the same tongue, mouth dry because you are one with your desires but cannot dare to reach out for them at the simple frontier of the reality of it or its trap as myth higher waters drawn inside against the cold and vanished wetness too long in silence even to yourself, and in your guilt or shame, a false confession it your fate and belief so justify your burden that you are a victim and not at least a lesser god.
Yet I mourn the lesser earthly lives that pass before me, that seem so real I could hold them forever in the echos in my hollow heart, thence evaporation and the granite maze that is recorded in the caverns, center of our world, continents, dwellings, other creatures in the aethers as confounded as are we of different waves we do not touch or notice, returned spiral shells the beach made of their broken wave tossed sun whitened endlessly divided dust.
I carve these runes for new generations who will learn to share their dream windows as we do now with our beating hearts, and build again after the struggle of the larvae their fragile skin of pearls set and seeded from something that seems a beginning.
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As Kea said- so easily she understood the wider sea of what I was asking: but first we have to learn what is the next level of symmetry even a child can understand - not some fairy fields or particles in the surface only so to explain the physics, patch up the anomalies as we do not have time to learn whole new languages- that music of the spheres.
The lens grinders with their scalpels of laser light probe deep into the body, the veins and beads of fat, the detach or repair the retina that leads to the brain as does the light and cycle of sleep in winter night or summer's day directly into what leaks on the way inside to the city of our mind, its third eye, its campfires and angle play as a higher sun peaks behind the corners of its gates and buildings.
Our compound eyes, crosswise sees the illusion of depth as well as gravity of span five fold in the material dimensions as if somewhere the rays align, the hedgehog parallel its arrows. Only the Mother One can braid her glory, weave the baskets, make the nets that catch the fractal miracle of the theory as if dark lines in a spectrum telling of the body dust or between them the shift of colors, the mournful sound that goes both ways of starlight and locomotives.
In the depth, outward or inward from our eyes, which does not matter each of five levels hide a further five and so on... the floaters or motes dance as if crystalline in the unseen globe of liquid. Yet that leaves the seven notes of scales we may not see at all if hidden, as if broken from dimensions long ago, as if structure wrought in this world by the silence. The symmetry tho different is super and complex, strung out, looped and braided, and knotting the nothingness that it holds together as well as breaks apart, or that it returns into its self in the paradox of eyes beholding an eye, touching the brick walls or self touching so infer the wall exists, half sensitive perhaps- so too our black hole sockets of our eyes bend the light or is bent by the light.
What then if more than the wide dimensions beyond dimensions in depth and span there that we may seek of the fifteen intervals of numbers into the structureless part of the entropy of singularity or between the lines and return to signs whistles and staccato to our sharps and flats, 14, describe the music?
In this last illustration note how the stars, these too an optical illusion filled in by the proximity and focus of our eyes, the ignored dark spot and chaos of that projected on the dark spot a the optic nerve half processed already, the totality turned upside down as I gaze reaching out that things move, Aristotle's rays and nonnecessary reflections and negative refractions, the hyperbolic as well the spherical harmonic lens thru the dark cloudly... the simple folk scale of the plane song that can capture the blues or thru time as if the rise and fall of voices go thru the notes, the streams... according to style and divergent points of evolution what is rarely so close we do not discern if we do not look direct focus of a distant and scaleless scene or that responding in another's heart or soul love's intuitions - yet dimensionless tho in proximity no sweet note that far away as the quartet takes up its parts to play the piece together- or in the high and low notes we do the double spin as our hands dance in different directions of the fifths or fourths, our glides or alternate plucks played smoothy, our own universe that within the known can forecast as well as improvise what of all that may become written. So too cross your eyes and feel as well as view the first five levels of this seeming substance of higher symmetry and space.
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Thus the growth of nature is sustained as well consumed by its quarter roots, and what a great step of wisdom it is to know from year to year how much to reserve for next spring's seed corn. Or in the planting know as well the thirds and fifths deeper but always close to the foundations in symmetry.
As the old indian chant at the counting of the kernels in hopes of the sprouting plant,
"One for the blackbird, one for the crow, one to rot, and one to grow..."
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