https://youtu.be/MUzbrv-gJ0E
The headgame of politics goes on whether the Reds or the Blues reign. The poor still starve, children are still sold for sex, the bombs fall, the people still sleep. It is a frightening thing to enter that place. Who dares go there? There is no real truth without its inclusion.
There is so much we don’t attend to. We are distracted by the noise and can’t hear the truth that has no voice. Listen. Be still. Give it voice. Your voice.
She took my hand and led me down a path strewn with fresh fallen leaves
Beautiful waves of blonde curls adorned her regal head
The fragrance of fall followed after her
There was a twinkle in her green eyes reflecting the setting sun and the intent of her heart
But I did not miss the deeper layers there, hidden within the flecks of chocolate brown
Like a finely cut gem the glory of her eyes were found in their depths
A portal, a door, an entrance there at her core
Pouty lips pursed with the hint of a grin at their corners
Hopeful yet cautious, willing to give but not to be subjugated
Wild, dangerous, powerful was her beauty
Only the true warrior might find the way
She adorned in the Celtic tradition, blonde hair braided, scarfs protect against the cold
Her warm hand steady as she led me silently down paths I have never trod
She had spoken of a rose, a chalice which holds an elixir granting one eternal life
Not eternity in the pedestrian use which seeks a state of unending time
But rather that existence where all moments become one and makes time irrelevant
Where the deep Soul is quickened, where energy’s frequency transforms matter into spirit
Spirit into matter, where flesh mind and feelings are changed and rearranged, broken and remade
Where the Incarnation again walks the earth in worship and praise and thunders it’s hallelujah
Together we sought this sacred mound using the signs she had been given
She knew the way if I could but follow, learning with each step to walk the path
I am slow of wit and the lessons were sometimes pressed from me like fruit under a wheel
Sweetness made strong and the lees left behind but only after the ferment and the stillness
She guided me to a fine alabaster column which watched over a pool at its base
Here I learned to listen, to sense, the feel the heartbeat of the land
She led me up the mountain pass where we lingered at the summit nursing the weariness
Renewing ourselves, finding new strength and motivation to reach our goal
We found ourselves more in sync and in rhythm, increasingly aware of the strength and the pounding pulse of the place
As we made our way down the mountains and into the gently curving flatlands, instinct taught us the geography
Our steps were sure, firm here, lighter there, as need be
Our growing anticipation moved us toward the mound and the hopes held hidden there within the valley
As we neared the place, breathless from exertion and anticipation, we slowed our movements
Deliberate, gentle our steps as we entered the valley
The muted light required touch to proceed if we were to find our way to eternity’s passage
The exploration continued until, there behind a slightly parted curtain of the finest silk the Rose was revealed
Trembling, I gazed, pulse rushing, pounding in my ears
I beheld a flower with moist petals glistening with the light from my eyes
I was humbled and filled with adoration, with love
I brought the flower to my lips and as I did I felt the place begin to quake, a storm raged
Thunder, lighting, tempest winds blew, yet my kiss was true and held till the elixir washed over me
To describe what happened after would be to desecrate that holy ground for it was beyond words
And if one would know they must go find the thing for themselves, words would profane the sacred
They must step away from the common and join the quest
Seek the Grail cup and give themselves fully in both seeking and in the finding
And there one will discover themselves in the Other and the other already inhabiting them
She held me there out of time till the trembling stilled, there was only quiet rest
We breathed in and out, slow, long, and deeply, remembering that which we had always known
And the waves of time finally eroded the sand walls and called us back to the place from which we had come
She smiled and took my hand as I led her Home
To have been found worthy humbled me, for it was from no virtue I possessed
But only by and through Her grace was is made so
Plato’s Groove with Aaron Dick free-styling on the keys
A little over two years ago I began to feel in a totally new direction. Ego shattered, directionless, like falling in a dream. There was nothing solid to cling to. I began to slowly try things that seemed odd to my old self. Something called me into a new way of being a me. My hair grew outside the older restrictions I had placed on it along with my Soul. In this new and strange land I began to find solid and hauntingly familiar steps to take. It was like coming home to a place I had never been. I had written this piece some years before but it had no voice. I had some vague wish that somehow my very talented children might take up my writing and give it life but that was not for them to do. I remember how nervous I was when Aaron started playing how strange it was for me to attempt it. A couple glasses of red wine helped and we created this together. I began to find my voice, even if it was timid and unsure, it was heard. Now I do this and more on a weekly basis and think very little about it. What was dangerous and new has become comfortable. What I know though is that there are new worlds I need to explore and inhabit still. I also know that moving from this horizon to the next will feel exactly like it did before I came here. And I will never figure it out before I get there. It is only in the going that I will know.
Time winds down. . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .
The clock ticks.
It fades in and out of my awareness.
The clock ticks.
Marking Time as It winds down to finally rest in Eternity.
The clock ticks.
Independent, without regard It plucks the very strings of the Cosmos.
The clock ticks.
Time now divided makes meter possible and cadence contingent.
The clock ticks.
The fabric of possibility is woven, lining the womb that is time.
The clock ticks.
Sacred Space emerges between the beats of past and future. Seeds can only be sown in the Now.
The clock ticks.
Slumbering Soul, never at rest, seeks completion of Its’ chord unresolved.
The clock ticks.
All existence is in motion, potential, moving toward harmony or dissonance, creativity or chaos, Life or death.
The clock ticks.
The metronome beats out the call to choose or not to choose. Both require a choice.
The clock ticks.
Whether background or fore, whether conscious or dreaming, It makes possible the awareness of Plato’s Groove.
The clock ticks.
Out of the shadows Life calls to life. There is underlying order within the chaos. The pilgrim seeks that which has always been hidden within view.
The clock ticks.
The artist’s heart does not create ex nihilo but rather chooses one and not the other, manifesting particular harmonies that resonate and call them into Being.
The clock ticks.
To act or refrain from motion is the artist’s prerogative. Variation ads pigment, or not, to the evolving tapestry.
The clock ticks.
Soul becomes more harmonious; at rest in the body, powerful its resonance with the Real. Dissonance no longer a mystery to be feared but rather consciously strummed to accentuate and more clearly articulate the Soul’s growing chorus.
The clock ticks.
Oh, Traveler strain through the dissonance to hear the notes which resonate with the pattern of your soul. Choose it at the cost of all others.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
Each Soul’s resolution is to cultivate and balance It’s own polytonic sound in preparation for joining the romp with all other pure souls in harmony, dance, in art, in mathematics, and all other lenses through which we glimpse the mystery of the Eternal celebration that is Life.
Consonance. Congruity. Harmonious. Original. Authentic.