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.
* * * * *
*2:10:44 PM
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.
* * * * * * *
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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