Notes from a monk with a poem, sweeping the chapel of ideas, awaiting the broader dawn.


[excerpt : thoughts in italics : a meditation on meditation]

                Do you see?  Peel back the shroud.  Truth will all ways shine.  Light of life.  Light of growth.  Light of hope.  Begin with the darkness.  Eternal.  Thoughtless.  Black.  No horizon.  No destination.  No tomorrow.  No stars.  Nothing is nothing.  Nothing is.

                Do you see?  You are the shroud.  Let it in.  Slow.  Let it erase you.  Let it ease.  Thyrsus.  Seventy years of the future’s passed.  Did you want to see the source of the Nile?  Did you want to build a tower?  No thing is no thing.  No thing is.  We are not.  And need not be.  Love.  Two hundred years of the future has passed.  Sewing fertility.  Memories are no thing.  Regress.  Progress.

                Begin with the darkness.  Thoughtless.  Emotion.  Is no thing.  I am.  Or I am not.  Skin.  Leaf-green intelligence.  Yen.  Are you teaching now?  Teaching of things.  To beings.  Who are.  Again I am the veil.  Blocking light.  Light that is darkness.  Darkness that is light.  Nothing is an illusion.

                Do you see?  Dreams flickering.  Ideas like chicks hatch in blood.  Nothing casts its shadow.

                No horizon.  Let it in.

                Purdah cracked her eyes to blinding white.  Momentarily it faded to become her living room.  A curtain hung thickly silent over the sliding-glass door, glowing red, refracting the calm afternoon.  Sentient air filled her, to release her.  I am the air.  I am the light I see.  For it is nothing beyond my eyes.  Slowly her eyelids dropped again.  I am the veil.  I am no thing.  I am a vessel.  I am the horizon.

                Do I see?  Without eyes.  Do I feel?  Without hands.  Do I think?  Without words?

                Do I know?

                Darkness.  One with light.  Pain is fleeting.  Pain is fleeting.  All things are.  Things.  Into me.  My breast rises, filled with the invisible, the intangible stuff of life—AIR—stuff of breath.  Molecules are fairy dust.  Atoms and electrons are leprechauns.  Words are not things.  Naming is not understanding.  Knowledge is acceptance.  Thyrsus.  Leaf-green intelligence.  Life is fleeting.  Love is not.  Air is air.  Nitrogen.  Oxygen.  And fairies.  My breast falls, releasing the divisible, the recycled stuff of life.  I am in.  I am out.  I am contradiction.

                Dreams of metaphor.  Meta for dreams.  Still holding me.  Strange.  Feel it. Coming.  Silence.

                No horizon.


                Sliding glass bumped.  Curtains split with light, and Thyrsus entered the room.  Sweat clung to him, gray curls licking his cheeks, and Purdah smelled him as quickly as she heard him.  A smile found her lips ready, as he pulled off his boots and padded softly to her.  “I’ll cook up some eggs.  Want one?”

                “Please,” she answered hungrily, her eyes still closed.  “Wash your hands.”  Your laughter is breath in my blood.  Fairy dust.  Air without laughter stagnates.



                Egg in the distance.  Sunrise.


                And that is it.  Everything.  Is.  Nothing.  In between.  Lay the horizon.  Leaf-green.

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