L. Edgar Otto 01 April, 2012
(revised and added to later that night)
At the edges of the Emerald Isle, far from equilibrium, civilization safe from the Dark Ages from outside and up from within, the monks continued efforts to illustrate the world
For that was easier than the layers of the hierarchy to which in time and exploration the expanding mass of man found its work, and the building of pyramids made of runs in myths of the why or the layers of stone in reflection of cycles of the sky, of the myths of beginnings and worlds end.
There, Monopatrix, not knowing why he chose this path, not spending long on self reflection as to what his self nee soul was authentic as a dream while still in the casting of coins in the East lesser enlightened ones still struggled with their divinity.
Monos dwelt in the tower so as to warn of the shore clinging ships, the wrath of the Norsemen in search of babbles for their brides, in the the trade of brides for the markets of Byzantium.
There he could come close the the faces of the emerald in his turns and twists, his castle of the world as centered, he in the loneliness and doubtful vows essential to the direction and vertigo one finds in time, isolated yet a part of all knowing beings.
There to reach from the depths beneath the circles of stones and the compression of ziggarats that only hint of more in the babble or on the way when the land was fertile and green the replenishing of each generation in the freehold of the endless spiral full of jumps and echos of the clockwork sky (to their hanging gardens of Babylon)
He spoke to himself a thought high in his tower where he felt in the presence of the gods or at the unique place where all the world comes to the source beyond all vanishings, as if he knew the heart of God.
And the thought passed from him outward over the great sphere or startled him again its echoes around it but in a fading memory, or that it passed through some souls as if outside of time itself, they could not see nor reach beyond the vanished dollop and place that shows events and effort of the vague Deity. (even beginnings and ends outside events and effort felt or seen).
While in his secret imperfections Monos consoled himself against the uncertainty even of his dreams, that in the enclave his work as if it somehow was the work of God.
Not clear to himself of what souls or deity he was speaking to as again the magic in the source as if all the mystery of his being met the hint of higher things ....... to the solid ground of dust and the spin albeit slowly of the stars he thought aloud as if someone could hear him or even he hear himself.
"Know ye not your soul is finite but boundless no matter if the dust and its clockwork is unknown if you find the center of your being outside of time and close to the center of all things?
Know ye not one should not mistake the world for God, nor make Him the dust, or a principle of energy and scale,the claws of the scorpion removed into a house of distant balances, nor simply that we see with our hearts so touch with our minds yet distinct from another soul in its irresistible motions and vibrations, its space of lifetimes that dance in the universe in its shifting scales, to the utmost mote its relative but proper span to the visual world a maximum, its privileges even beyond but not forever far from uncertainty?
Have you not imagined, head above the near drowning of your moments of awakening, the third and fourth and fifth time under in the review of life passing in review on the tunnel walls before him- those runes a life so carves or paints or scribbles randomly in the dark that not resolved until some end that is yet the beginning some emptiness of events where even the dark cannot be distinguished from the light and time with any awakened one at the core of his being but one event without some rise then fall to his own expanse, that we creatures subject to endless time, the realm without intercessors, comforting spirits, creators, or those who would paradoxically eat of dust and take on our imposed sins, one with the endless walk and integration through time and all times, our grounding in the fivefold godhead, still an artificial thing to some, each the SphereDream.
For as the arrow of time and devalued love or war flows from endless long ago into contraction to the center now unto the endless expansion of the spinning space, each chooses his gods and cannot do so in isolation should he go on the mission to spread some gospel to cover the earth. For if the world is so contained vanishes what in the word is the new frontier to which it is never clear in ones self or wider sphere if in the higher symmetries the mystery of the world is conserved by design or default or by darkness in the face of our world of higher exclusions in the count of souls gathering that the abacus makes sense, and each soul an event as it seem written, we who enhance our naked skins with robes and furs of lesser beings and uniforms plastic nets made from the fibers of sun drinking plants, runes, and symbols mixing colors of the blood splattered flags of one design not shown its hues in the night.
Whereupon Monos reverted to his first love, somewhere before the ink was placed on his parchment scrolls, and somewhere before the maps became true to the landscape that all things can be done with illumination and awakenings of art, identity in the hollow eyes and bones and catacombs, and his life long walk into the light with his color-box of dreams to paint the canvass of his soul, and leave great lost poems behind but a breadcrumb record of the way.
He waiting forever, perhaps, that the new age begins and the rapid spiral horns we see speaks of the ram that resets the sky after the twilight merge to dawning. The fisherman born again must learn from man how to fish, and man can multiply the colors and the flavors of the dish, or commune with it simple and plain.
Woe to the monks without child for they have no perspective of the depths of life while free to ponder the cosmos the scales cannot be balanced with the tragic loss of love. They know not of what they speak, nor that no words were needed.
Monos grew tired awhile under the candlelight, forgot the meaningless hour and date, gaining or losing them in the moment or across he phases of the moon he once kept watching to set the bells and hourglass and morning rituals, until, as the cycle of gears computed the tides this incarnation in the sparks within his eyes and brain the bright colors no longer thrilled him, nor the compassion for the lesser monk in his vows of natural silence and discipline of earthly labor, his servant for the greater dream still felt all could be seen in the yarrow casts and coins of cash, life's vague irreversible yin and yang where the ink was not a limitation it was for Monos longing long past his own ignorance for all in the wheel of wear and meat respond unto seizures and mini-strokes not seen as nature resets herself with or without the dreams we are given in the god-game or what styles we arrange our colors and music, what smoke we fill in our pipes of last words and rites and revelations, in what we hold as much a real purpose less than the desired perfection of Heaven, our glass bead game.
Then come morning it was the great day and he waxed poetic and loved all living things, the season has played the all fools day on him that winter did not bring spring snow as some jokingly prophesied on the morning of that day. He walked by the mare maid enjoying some time alone who waved to him.
"It was already a most beautiful day." he told her as he passed by not to disturb her continuum or paths of fear and love, " Now it is even more beautiful." and she smiled goodbye to him.
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