The hero's path flees from the jaws of the dragons of regret and apathy and depression.
There comes a point where there is nothing to do but progress - burning the flame called 'forth' aloft.
The unseen cuts in both directions - invisibly imaging a glorious future and a dismal decay.
The hero rides on the razor's edge of decision, bound for the point towards which the blade's tip is directed.
Shining threads
Sunday 30 October 2011
Tuesday 25 October 2011
The manifesto of the goddess
Her beauty shines in all she does - from the tender hand of comfort to the fierce strike to quell enemies.
The majesty of her divinity made manifest in the play of humanity. Not one, never one - she only responds to the peacock fan of the many.
A moving rainbow which loves the journey because she is the journey. She loves the sequence since she is every letter in the story - she is every note in the score. Each face is a different chime of her glorious song of becoming.
From the feet of the goddess - the soil which absorbs death and sprouts new life - to the crown of her jeweled extravagance - beyond dualities - transcending suffering, tragedy, pleasure and laughter - yet revelling in abundance.
She is not the solo star of the sun but a glittering necklace of stellar radiance spread through the sky. A scattered mosaic with room to breathe.
The charge of her energy circulates through the system, endlessly transforming bodies of experimentation - dancing, metamorphosising, vibrating.
She is the field which contains many flowers, many blades of grass, many many.
In her flesh we inscribe the stories of our lives - like wax she holds the impressions of our intentions yet paradoxically remains beyond any of the pressures of humanity.
She is diversity, the plural play of people perpetuating the poetry of performance and the process of procreation, pregnancy and perspiring birth to wondrous new formulas of possibility.
Sublime is her nature - unnameable - though men may try in their unquenchable vanity.
The only resolution is to be struck by her overwhelming presence - awe-ful, endless, ravishing. A cycle of infinity which delivers either madness or illumination. A spiraling, shape-shifting, phantasmogoria of playful inventiveness. Only those who can face dazzling beauty will survive the test.
She is beyond gender. Beyond the petty framed creations of artisans and crafted letters of poets. Beyond splits of sacred and profane. Her look is like lightning, which flashes where it wills with the power of wild electricity - the devastating gesture of raw expression.
The secret - the great open secret is that she is within - present in the eyes of every being, embedded in the nervous system of all, aching to connect. Aching to burst forth.
She demands engagement - not a monkish learning, nor a wry detachment, but a thunderous cry of affirmation - Yes! Yes! Now! Now I embrace. Now I jump in.
Once the jump is made, hubristic personifications of the goddess dissolve and we become.
The majesty of her divinity made manifest in the play of humanity. Not one, never one - she only responds to the peacock fan of the many.
A moving rainbow which loves the journey because she is the journey. She loves the sequence since she is every letter in the story - she is every note in the score. Each face is a different chime of her glorious song of becoming.
From the feet of the goddess - the soil which absorbs death and sprouts new life - to the crown of her jeweled extravagance - beyond dualities - transcending suffering, tragedy, pleasure and laughter - yet revelling in abundance.
She is not the solo star of the sun but a glittering necklace of stellar radiance spread through the sky. A scattered mosaic with room to breathe.
The charge of her energy circulates through the system, endlessly transforming bodies of experimentation - dancing, metamorphosising, vibrating.
She is the field which contains many flowers, many blades of grass, many many.
In her flesh we inscribe the stories of our lives - like wax she holds the impressions of our intentions yet paradoxically remains beyond any of the pressures of humanity.
She is diversity, the plural play of people perpetuating the poetry of performance and the process of procreation, pregnancy and perspiring birth to wondrous new formulas of possibility.
Sublime is her nature - unnameable - though men may try in their unquenchable vanity.
The only resolution is to be struck by her overwhelming presence - awe-ful, endless, ravishing. A cycle of infinity which delivers either madness or illumination. A spiraling, shape-shifting, phantasmogoria of playful inventiveness. Only those who can face dazzling beauty will survive the test.
She is beyond gender. Beyond the petty framed creations of artisans and crafted letters of poets. Beyond splits of sacred and profane. Her look is like lightning, which flashes where it wills with the power of wild electricity - the devastating gesture of raw expression.
The secret - the great open secret is that she is within - present in the eyes of every being, embedded in the nervous system of all, aching to connect. Aching to burst forth.
She demands engagement - not a monkish learning, nor a wry detachment, but a thunderous cry of affirmation - Yes! Yes! Now! Now I embrace. Now I jump in.
Once the jump is made, hubristic personifications of the goddess dissolve and we become.
Wednesday 12 October 2011
Revolutionary lips
Our lips must become poised to be sculptors of revolutionary statements.
Each touch, each kiss, each word charged with erotic majesty to set worlds on fire.
Loaded with light.
Each lifting of a finger and cycle of breath done with the awareness of our embedded existence
in a realm which can be lifted into love.
Matter is neutral but in its manipulation we show our colours.
Those tones and shades we choose to be our markers.
The flags we wear for others to identify who they are dealing with.
Nervous systems register instinctively when we are connecting.
The electricity of life resonates at fine frequencies between lovers and friends.
Energy tickles, insinuates and surges through and between.
This eruption has no singular source
but will be the outcome of a collective yearning and dreaming.
A period of gestation with brief manifestations and flourishes over the years
but only Now come to full fruition.
Let's burst forth with the open confidence of people who know not precisely what is to come
but are willing to unfold the process with every step of our dance.
Each touch, each kiss, each word charged with erotic majesty to set worlds on fire.
Loaded with light.
Each lifting of a finger and cycle of breath done with the awareness of our embedded existence
in a realm which can be lifted into love.
Matter is neutral but in its manipulation we show our colours.
Those tones and shades we choose to be our markers.
The flags we wear for others to identify who they are dealing with.
Nervous systems register instinctively when we are connecting.
The electricity of life resonates at fine frequencies between lovers and friends.
Energy tickles, insinuates and surges through and between.
This eruption has no singular source
but will be the outcome of a collective yearning and dreaming.
A period of gestation with brief manifestations and flourishes over the years
but only Now come to full fruition.
Let's burst forth with the open confidence of people who know not precisely what is to come
but are willing to unfold the process with every step of our dance.
Thursday 6 October 2011
Two - one
Two steps forward, one step back.
Poised in between white and black.
We are the flow, we are the ebb.
We are the weavers, we are the web.
Poised in between white and black.
We are the flow, we are the ebb.
We are the weavers, we are the web.
The portal of now
Massive trees flash the subtle sparkle of their cells.
We join hands. The connections go deep.
Now.
The portal has emerged.
Walk forward.
Everything that ever happened is dead.
Only the steps you take matter now.
We join hands. The connections go deep.
Now.
The portal has emerged.
Walk forward.
Everything that ever happened is dead.
Only the steps you take matter now.
Wednesday 5 October 2011
A space to breathe
A space to breathe where you can breathe space. Inhale the stars.....dust coursing through your veins.
A space to see what your real vision is, besides this construction we've been walking around in.
A space to leave the memories and assumptions of neverlands behind.
A space to weave new dreams from the cloth of the imagination.
A space to breathe where you can breathe space.
A space to see what your real vision is, besides this construction we've been walking around in.
A space to leave the memories and assumptions of neverlands behind.
A space to weave new dreams from the cloth of the imagination.
A space to breathe where you can breathe space.
Tuesday 4 October 2011
Skating on thin ice
She's out there, skating on thin ice.
Seeing how far one bodysoul can travel into translucency.
This game is only for the light and those willing to risk all.
She has heart but also an imperative not to melt, since all would be lost then.
Skating on thin ice, on the outer regions of lake-life, just a tiny layer separating the air from the deep cold depths.
The sharp, clinical, metallic edges cut gliding lines into the icing of nirvana.
Circling and pirouetting for an audience of birds, she's here for a while, a spectacle for the sky.
Then, her luck vanishes and the lake opens up to receive her.
Forgotten apart from the trails of her skates, etched on the icy mass, soon to evaporate into the warm stare of the sun's gaze.
Seeing how far one bodysoul can travel into translucency.
This game is only for the light and those willing to risk all.
She has heart but also an imperative not to melt, since all would be lost then.
Skating on thin ice, on the outer regions of lake-life, just a tiny layer separating the air from the deep cold depths.
The sharp, clinical, metallic edges cut gliding lines into the icing of nirvana.
Circling and pirouetting for an audience of birds, she's here for a while, a spectacle for the sky.
Then, her luck vanishes and the lake opens up to receive her.
Forgotten apart from the trails of her skates, etched on the icy mass, soon to evaporate into the warm stare of the sun's gaze.
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