Friday, December 31, 2010

the Embryo that happens

"Cock" ~ watercolour by me

Different societies and especially artists across history have delved into what sticks. Systems may have been built around their musings in the great divine river, but nevertheless the spirit was consistent. Little doubt also surrounds that there was an initiation point, it might be that we disagree whether that poiint was chaos, nothing, or a perfect garden.

It seems though the arguement is more of whether we are stationary or moving.

 For instance if you are an athiest, or can't be bothered with spirituality for the most part, you believe you are generally stationary. Even though to those of us who believe in movement, we think and feel you are moving too, even if it just be in reaction to other things, feelings, thoughts, people.

Movement then is immutable it would seem then.

The direction, form, and essence then leave to be decribed by the various thought streams.

Now it's also strange that those who want a certain course seem to not really want others to join them since the real requirments are left to time.

Time likes to injure belief, whether you feel we've lost our way, or need to work our way to it for the first time.

Wounding of this sort can take place in a creation myth or in apocolyptic battle, or any place in between. The truth of our alienation is always with us to one degree or another.

The pleausre/pain/god/godess/god solution doesn't really solve this as much as give us structure, and this has always truly begun in what is sacred to us personally and collectively as a peer group.

It may be a matter of heridity, taste, novelty, or something that builds from so many different components, but the vital relation of the sacred is with us, time to affirm it somehow right?

Make a law, a religion, book, piece of art, or just be a rebel or hero, do something.
Isn't that where the Wound is though?

Whether a saviour had thorns in her side or meshed in his head, was cut down in the heat of battle, decapitated in a serene posture, or ripped from our lives, minds and hearts, we feel it, if we have lived at all, the alienation.

This distance we get from ourselves. The numbness we can know. The resolution and lostness we sense in it that spreads like a cancer or comforts like a holy ghost.

It can be difficult to pick up a weapon or an offering to this thing that we only know on a deeper level, but yet so in touch with it's effects.

No doubt should be that there is death in this place. The cemetery of our minds and hearts echo a silence more deafening the a thousand other disembodied souls you would think.

Is our fascination with horror and spirits a search to embrace the suppressed resonation of the soul here?

The spirals comfort and threaten, so we erect our superstitions. Beyond this unholy law of causation can there be a hope or a plan, a unifying field, or better yet, a Unity.

We see in beauty the hues and details of something better and more. This is not the song, the dance, or the lying down of contentment. It may be part of the fun and pleasure, but doesn't there have to be more explanation than that?

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