let there be [and it was good]

[the creation myth chapter opening]



Before sunrise, before shadow, before tyranny and war, before love, and peace, and truths, before deceit, and life, and death, before time itself, there was a Tone. It was low, static, empty; it crept through the fabric of sullen void, waiting. Mæto, silent, ponderous, still, crouched at the edge of the abyss, peering down into the shallows and depths of heavy solitude. The Tone, flat, lay as if weighted by bricks of lead, writhing against its clutching bonds.

For a moment, an hour, an eternity, Mæto stared blindly into the teeming masses of empty space, searching. A solitary tear welled, slowly, slowly, or in an instant, and fell into the abyss, fell endless leagues, and an echo began. The Tone, awakened, became a thin hum. Trapped in the limitless confines of potential, it grew, as yet unaware of endings, focused only on beginnings. It grew, building and building until it began to reverberate against itself. It climbed, swelling, until a second Tone emerged, higher and faster than the first. They continued together, for an instant and an eternity, until finally (or right away), they clashed and clashed and clashed with each other, and there was endings. Each echoed off of the other, warring for space in the infinitely dark abyss. Thus, there was Dissonance.

With Dissonance, came Shadow, welling and pooling, caressing the viscous borders of Dissonance; and with Shadow came Light, flighty, elusive, magnetic; and the Light waged war with the Shadow, an epic battle, the epic battle, pulsing, pushing, struggling, shattering it into millions of fragments. Light bled through the fragments, dripping slowly past the Dissonance, until it had soaked through, leaving Shadow tainted and murky. They fell from the shaking of sound, faster than the tear, and caught it, writhed in its splendour for a fraction of an eternity, then bounced back up through the tumult of sound. The Light, and Shadow, and Sound rushed outward, and collided against the walls of the abyss, becoming Notes and Colours.

As they collided from the walls and rushed back inward, they began to encounter each other, sometimes splintering, sometimes merging, and Mæto heard a swelling Melody that danced on the surface of the Tone. The elusive Melody continued to kiss, and wrestle, and play; the colours to merge, and throb, and dissipate; and each pushed and pulled on the other until they mounted a Crescendo.

Mæto clapped, once, as a gong ringing through an empty stadium, and shattered the cresting wave. It tumbled over itself, a riot of startled colours and sounds, and collapsed into stillness and dark.

The silence was heavy, rich, strained; it tasted, to Mæto, of the as yet unimagined scent of sodden leaves in the waning of winter, when the snows have corroded and eroded the earth and rot is ripe in the air. Then there was Loneliness, and Mæto shuddered pathetically, for the taste was of chill and solitude; the heaving gasps of one about to drown and leave behind gaping absence.

Struggling, reaching, Mæto croaked, then cried out, then moaned. The Melody shook, then lay still. Mæto, in despair, hurled curses down into the darkness, and thus was Evil created in the hollow depths; the Melody’s sharp outcry of pain mingled with the curses, curling in an embrace of terrible passion. Overcome by repentance, Mæto sat, still, quiet, absorbing the shock waves of the curses that left Evil slinking below and around the Melody. Finally, conquered by tragedy, and longing, Mæto sang a mournful haunting to the crumpled Melody, subduing the curses with weeping. At first it seemed that nothing happened, but then Mæto began to hear a faint, distant pulse. It gradually grew, until the Melody feebly began to stir again, alternately whimpering weakly and self-soothing. It rose, slowly, gradually, rebuilding itself from the inside; and while the higher, clashing Tone still pushed lightly against the first, making it tremble slightly, the Melody was now twined in the steady branches of Mæto’s song, and its sinews could no longer be shattered, scattered, and lost.

So began the Hive, which pulsed with flickering white light, heady red glows, and sinuous rills of blue and green. Stained with droplets of violet, it echoed the song of Mæto, weakly at first, obediently. But as it pulsed into strength, light airy thrills began to flicker on the edges of the Melody. These were soon followed by reedy whispers and a deep, alto pulse, lapping gently through the core. The flickerings began as idle improvisations, trilling and skipping across the entire range of sound, distracting from the Song. Then, each flicker found a pattern, to complement the sinewy heart of the Melody. These patterns became stronger, and louder, as more of the flickerings joined each other, expanding the sounds. Thus was Harmony recreated, rediscovered, reimagined, and thus was Cacophony resolved.

But the memory remained of the echoing Clap, and the simple freedom that had preceded it, and a dissonance arose from the heart of the Hive.

bad poetry? oh noetry! (re: toothpastefordinner)

[fragment of a spontaneous teamwork dream-work in the making]

A petal shower
of mountain roses,
and the sound of the rapids. (Basho)

it is still, where it really matters,
and all around it whirl the
sirens and wailing and petals
that each drift and tangle among themselves

it is the dream of the bustle
the frenetic activity
that rests, pulsing, in complementary
opposition to
or with
the silence;

activity teems and beats
so that they, still, can be
their verb is meaningless
and is the secret.

—m.m. & n.s., 2009

"of property"
our church broadcast, the stranger repeats,
come and listen. he is breathless, but propelled somehow
by misplaced devotion; zealotry.
I nod, and lag.
[forgivemefather]

the sky is the almost-effable quality
of sodden evening gown
in the heady aftermath of November rains
when leaves, ground underfoot, still bear flashes of
virgin ceasars.
it, ineffably, is the kind of blue that I imagine
runs through the veins of angels;
not the lily-tongued Seraphim, but those dangling from the lowest rafters
of a quasi-Catholic heaven.
drunk on the pulsing, heavy-lidded dusk, I crawl
through the garish decorations.

the puzzle in my bedroom
on the displaced kitchen table
is a jumble of fragments
one in particular, pasted with illegibilities
-- the kind that a left-handed eccentric scrawls on
half-finished imaginings of circulation
and skeletal dreams -- clings together,
and I stare at it. It begs for completion,
but its lonely shivers
are somehow more beautiful in suspension.

spare some change, he mumbles, monotone, again and
again
and his glasses, so black,
scream.



Smedbol, 2008.

"pagangels C: 2006"
Terra firma – they came, they conquered. Their legacy? The mile.
Castration: Chester, Manchester, Doncaster…The Angles arrived
The angles arrived
The angels...Les anges…Angelus. Christ, our savior is born – the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.You, sinner.You, pagan [the devil incarnate. burn.]

Here, we cleanse you – purify you – here, your sins are repealed.
repented. repaired.
Here, you are cleansed, and we
are your salvation. You pagan. [In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.]

Amen. Pristine – cool, and clean. Dank, opaque shrouds- who, what, where, when am I?
Why?
Rex or ritus?
(Shh…secret.)
Primordial turf, crowned in blazing green glory.
Step, step, step, step.
Wearied pacing, then hoofbeats
Hoofbeats, then a long, slow grind

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today with [insert tour company name here.] My name is [generic] and I will be your guide for today. This afternoon we’re going to transport ourselves back in time. We ask you to please respect the natural vegetation and stick to the confines of the trail. Also, refrain from littering. What’s that? No, I don’t have an accent – it’s ‘cause I’m from Manitoba. What’s that? Hmm? Well, I’ll do my best. No, I’m afraid you’ll have to stand further back. This isn’t 1978…

If these stones could speak, would they scream?
Antlers, branches - "deep delvéd earth."
Crimson for cerulean mounts Roll.
Scorched breezes caress stone monuments – the Pagan Testament.
Seraphic wingtips graze till she’s crumbled and worn
A weathered testament to the Devil. sick with sin. [customs elevated to the rank of morals]

Each shivering blade bows before the tyranny – behold Man.
Qu’est-ce que tu pense? Est-ce que c’est vraie? And round, and round. Wizard’s monument, long heavy footsteps of giants, memorial, memorial.Redemption. Barrow, and barrow, and barrow – They have shed their tears. They weep no more.

Misted hazy horizon, soaked in blood.
Here, there is honour.
Here, we lie in wait for the tomorrow of the redeemed sinners.
[In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.]

It is supposed that the original site was first constructed around 3,000 BC (before Christ, city-states, cars, commercials, cigarettes, computers, conditioner, Cutex, Cheerios, Communism, Capitalism. Before Christ, and Caesar, and Cujo.) There are many myths and legends surrounding the histories of the circle, and even now there is very little we can say for certain about the potentially highly colorful past of Stonehenge - Sir, please stand back – and the people who rolled the massive stones – Sir, I really must ask you not to continue – to their oft-construed “magical” formation. No, Ma’am, they can’t really say for certain.

The flood – God’s precursor
Struck by a star from the heavens (before this, too, is sin. It’s Heaven.)
Millenia to rebuild, and the scars remain – never fully heal, do we?
Midsummer sunrise – unparalleled? Eclipsed.
Mystery is magic.
it says so, right here. on the label. down. look down.

A starry night waits to shine through after the sunset – it is crisp and cool.
It waits to be repealed, repented, repaired.
Purified by the Second Coming.
Cleansed, exorcised, christened. The holy land – sacred. I am that holy land. I am yours, and I was theirs.

I stand, fragmentary remnants of what was, and is.
Defiled, defaced, destroyed, but never defeated. I am my holy land. I need none of your science. I earn none of your commissions. Tell me again – why?
You pagan.
You pagan. [In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.]
You pagan(gel.)
Amen.

also c: 2006 "epiphany"
Bliss.
Euphoric; and divinely aware
A melancholic drizzle as the sands shift
Wheeling shorebirds
Silent, and aware. They dream…
Deep breaths hushed
Shifting shorelines dip and swirl.
Step, step, soar.
Sorely intense: exquisite,
And rest.
Whispers, faint and pure
[Divine. Sublime. Illumine.]
Lovers and loss, high arched pillars disguised by painstaking fingerprints
Turrets; invincible
And gone. Washed deep in memory.
A glorious tearstained note.
The laughter of soles, faeries and souls
In, and out; hush.
Hush.
Her cathartic requiem:
His stooping agéd shoulders reach towards his limp
Straining to barter peace; breath
Cerulean calm –
She watches, silent, caressed by the rain
She waits, and breathes, and this is right.
This is good. [doubleplusgood]
Bliss.

A russet swatch of spirit stops
She whispers, and they walk.
His pads graze the earth, step, step, step, step.
Glowing; and she kneels
And waits.
Secrets, and oh, so soft.
Veritas: he too knows the truth.
A moment for the soul
And the two strangers tiptoe back home.

Warner Bros and MGM

Today, I offer a blog-post-y sort of post. Strange, I know; medium-appropriate? Me? Never. It was just one of those remarkably non-event eventful days, so you get a taste of biographical history from a stubborn aesthete.

The aforementioned Brad Warner made his appearance at the Tuesday night open Zen meditation sit at the UVic Interfaith Chapel and was bequeathed Venerable Eshu's normal space for Dharma talk. It was a fascinating audience inversion; Ven. Eshu (as I learned in my Intro class) directs his speech traditionally to the butsudan (sp?), modelling a sort of practical dialogue with the universe -- or this is as close as I can come to approximating the experience as I understand it. Warner, though (Venerable Brad? I'm not sure, so I'll pretend this is an essay), faced the community practitioners and deferred as quickly as he could away from speech. His approach gave me food for thought (as much as that may have been what he was trying to avoid) in a way that is actually much less comparative than it may at first appear.

My impressions were reinforced when, in the tea circle afterward, he touched on a Zen interconnectedness in seeming opposition with the divisive manifestation of tangible reality. He spoke of them as more or less unfathomable intellectually, deferring instead (much deference, I see) to what I understand as an emotional, impulsive (in a more literal, denotative sense than it is usually applied) understand of insuperable interconnectivity of all things. Inter- and intra-personal relationships, human, nature, culture, biology, ecology, thought, action...all of these things are interconnected and indivisible in a sort of fundamental existential sense, and yet...and yet there are individuals, and they can be distinguished (and extinguished, for that matter), and the words "you" and "I" exist, so we must be able somehow to differentiate.

To me, it makes more sense to think (yes, THINK -- sacrilege!) about our place in the world as cells of an organism. Each functions as an individual, differentiated from the others, but is also intimately intertwined and inseperable from its role within the whole. Yeah.

On another, though related, note, I had a tarot reading on Sunday that was particularly inspiring. One thing that Lion said that stuck, though, was his description of me as guided by a polarized sort of life path, explicitly (in his analysis) at apparent odds with that of the Buddha. This was completely unprompted; he has no idea that I have taken up a personal practice, so his analogy (wrong word, but it's late and my brain is fuzzy) was unintentionally apt. What he said about it, though, was especially interesting to me: he explained that each individual's path, even if not "the middle way," was potentially harmonious within it. That the extremities or poles could potentially be incorporated, rather than merely cast aside or studiously avoided, was conceptually very appealing to me. Thoughts to chew, swallow, and digest, I suppose. Warner meets the Lion -- film conglomerate orgiastic success!

oshozentarot - mm

"First meditate, be blissful, then much love will happen of its own accord." And you know what, Smedbol? Faith, not fear.

VII Awareness: The veil of illusion, or maya, that has been keeping you from perceiving reality as it is, is starting to burn away. The fire is not the heated fire of passion, but the cool flame of awareness. As it burns the veil, the face of a very delicate and childlike buddha becomes visible. | The awareness that is growing in you now is not the result of any conscious "doing," nor do you need to struggle to make something happen. Any sense you might have had that you've been groping in the dark is dissolving now, or will be dissolving soon. Let yourself settle, and remember that deep inside you are just a witness, eternally silent, aware and unchanged. A channel is now opening from the circumference of activity to that centre of witnessing. It will help you to become detached, and a new awareness will lift the veil from your eyes.

2 of Water, Friendship: The branches of these two flowering trees are intertwined, and their fallen petals blend together on the ground in their beautiful colours. It is as if heaven and earth are bridged by love. But they stand individually, each rooted in the soil in their own connection with the earth. In this way they represent the essence of true friends, mature, easy with each other, natural. There is no urgency about their connection, no neediness, no desire to change the other into something else. | This card indicates a readiness to enter this quality of friendliness. In this passage, you may notice that you are no longer interested in all kinds of dramas and romances that other people are engaged in. It is not a loss. It is the birth of a higher, more loving quality born of the fullness of experience. It is the birth of a love that is truly unconditional, without expectations or demands.

Knight of Water, Trust: Now is the moment to be a bungee jumper without the cord! And it is the quality of absolute trust, with no reservations or secret safety nets, that the Knight of Water demands from us. There is a tremendous sense of exhilaration is we can take the jump and move into the unknown, even if the idea scares us to death. An when we take trust to the level of the quantum leap, we don't make any elaborate plans or preparations. We don't say, "Okay, I trust that I know what to do now, and I'll settle my thing and pack my suitcase and take it with me." No, we must jump, with hardly a thought for what happens next. | The leap is the thing, and the thrill of it as we free-fall through the empty sky. The card gives a hint here, though, about what waits for us at the other end -- a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, rose petals, juicy...c'mon!

And hey...you always were Mem, anyway.

hardcore zen?

Tuesday and Thursday Brad Warner brings hardcore Zen to the southwest of Canada. I'm drenched in Zen at present (preZent? fitting): just finished an intro to Zen meditation course, acquired Zen tarot cards, and am preparing to meet Venerable Warner this week.
And yet...
And yet...
I've never been so physically committed and so mentally and emotionally uncommitted to anything in my life. I can only commit in the immediate practicing present, and only with responsibility to others. The rest of the time, I'm a skeptic.
So it makes me wonder generally about the state of spirituality in my generation. It seems that elder generations expect apathy and noncommitment...k, I have to come back to this. I'm enmeshed in the "stealth hetereosexual[ity]" of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.


...but actually.