PERTURBATIONS

This blog has ever been a regrettably infrequent indulgence of mine; and my mind would plainly benefit from indulging it more often. A good friend of mine read my palm on our first meeting many years ago, and told me I'd probably never finished a thought in my life. There is all too much truth to this, hence the countless fragmentary, unshared ramblings which litter every notebook digital and otherwise in my possession.

Lately I've been passionately pursuing my once latent interest in all things metaphysical, spiritual, occult, arcane, mystical, and yes, "religious" and magickal. With, I must say, all skepticism intact and a large bowl of salt with which to season anything insufficiently swallowable. I'm only a few steps down this particular road, but it's already been an incredibly fascinating, empowering, and self-affirming journey.

This has included an enormous volume of writing as I have considered and tried to comprehend the various teachers from whom I have learned, as I have tried to apply those learnings and recorded my results, as I have begun to articulate my own imperfect understanding of the inner and outer phenomena which make up experiential reality, and of the source of those phenomena. I want to try using this blog as a place to begin externalising some of those thoughts, and seeing what, if anything, reflects back.

This is a piece I wrote recently.

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PERTURBATIONS

Mind is the noise in the silent signal.

A string stretched silently 

between Force & Form.

Between Being & Non-Being.

1 & 0.

Creation & Destruction.

Imagination & Realisation.

Fire & Water.

Life & Death.

Air & Earth.

Thesis & Antithesis.

Absolute Reality & Absolute Unreality.

Object & "Subject".

A string stretched, silent but trembling,

For the wheels of an astral logging truck some four parsecs away.

For the beating wings of a Betelgeusian butterfly.

A demonic diva bellowing a bawdy ballad in an outer space opera house.

Or some other such secret, unknowable, far off things.

Perturbation piles upon perturbation

it becomes a hum, soft and low

but soon a ROAR, wild and fearsome

and when the bearer of the voice vibrating this cord reaches out a hand and plucks it

you'd best be listening.

Because that hand, that voice is yours and it is mine

though it sang and played long before we had hand or voice

we may sing and play what we Will, 

dIScordiNT

or harmonious.

We may continue the song sung by our forebears, and theirs

or the song sung by the rocks and the trees, or the birds and the bees

or the stars in the sky

Or we may sing a new song.

But let it not be a lullaby

Let it not be a lament

But a song of Light, Life, Love & Liberty

Let it catch in the ear of all who hear it, that they might sing it too.