Words are nutrients for the lone poet. She who, in loving devotion, asks for revelations from God, is shown the brilliant design in golden fish-scale scapes layered as soft pearly flakes– rising miracles from the cracked crust of the earth, with each new world existing both for, and because of, divine love. She dips into one pool and each ripple is a new-born dream, manifest as human on earth, as star in sky, as song in space.
In another, she simply sits as a ledger line, supporting all notes that wander off the scale, searching for the extremes. Floating freely among them all, she walks on water. But one world –the Noise—threatens this freedom.
It is the sound from the entire universe: bird whistles, pulsars passing the planet, planes tearing through the sky, ads on the stereo, car horns and the drone of distant traffic, clanging and banging and OMs and fucks, brass and trashy novel readings, voices commanding and voices submitting, shouting kids kicking a tin can in game, shouting kids with guns, waves crashing and water splashing on rocks and kitchen sinks, fires cracking, rain tapping the umbrella, fingers tapping the keyboard, symphony and irony and cacophony, and breaking glass. There are riots and thunder too. There is all but silence, all but harmony, though there is somewhere, a little of both. And this very world of swarming free radicals and decibels, is the very one that leeches onto her free heart. She begins to sink.
As any mountain climber knows, the route down is a whole new journey, and though she is still on the path, the scenery changes significantly. Light is reflected from a new perspective, gravity seemingly works with her but actually controls her. The direction has reversed. The poles have shifted. Self-consciousness replaces freedom and she forgets about love. What was once the delicate work of the fingers of angels is now optics and mirrors and rational explanations for what has been termed a hologram. The chime that once lifted her into eternity now vibrates as a sharp pang by the noise distortion and enters her brain as a devilish voice, letting her know she is enslaved.
Oh! From our perspective we can see the simple way out of this fall. “Transcend!” we cry out to her, “Remember the vision, the tapestry. Remember love!” And somehow, and by some miracle, she finds a pen and paper in the darkness, and can find our voice. By writing, she remembers.
I’ve yet to hear a true angel admit she’s been sent. But she will cry for you when the music no longer moves you.
Jesus not only inspires, he moves. I need some sunglasses for these fucking cold bright lights on the subway. I am almost at the horizon. What will be there I cannot say, but I shall not turn my head. I am so sad that this river, or train or whatever, carries me away to utter abandon. Maybe it will lead me nowhere at all. Where is the faith? Parallax is apparent displacement of nearby stars against the background of more distant stars, when viewed from opposite sides of earth’s orbit. The greater the parallax, the nearer the star. I want to go home. Heaven home. Chongyang miwai [worship and have blind faith in things foreign]; wanyou yinli [gravitation]; huanji [return to one’s native place].
What system are you going to fabricate tonight? A clear way to discern black from white? In which all spoken intuitive fiction becomes once and for all clear conviction? Or will it be a new solar one in which bodies of mystical mass ‘circle’ a serene and older sun on mountainous elliptical paths; they walk in warm times, and in colder, run? Yeah your mind shines by the grace of your pretty eyes hiding behind a scope of some scale. Oh those pretty eyes…
There will be a time when we will reminisce from home about this last mission to earth, how crazy and beautiful it all was even before leading up to the last suffering cry. I long for that sacred toast, so near I can already hear the chime, our touching crystal.
© 2011, Amaya Engleking