“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” ~Zora Neale Hurston
There is a crack in our dome of solace, a bone in the fire, an invasion of existence has occurred. We have the pulse, of a killer among us. Burn the offerings, burn the sage, let those apache teardrops fill the earth. It’s the year of the opening — that which exists behind the mirror.
…because that son of a bitch called Evil is back, stuck in between this world and another that knows no lover’s touch, no touch of love. Ripped apart from the cloth of night, its face that wide-open window, no soul to gaze in upon.
“I sense something, a presence I’ve not felt since…….” – Darth Vader
You have to let those bullet-proof eyes pass through you, and wait, wait until those feelings colorize. Then, there. Check the gears, look straight ahead, move through all the turns like you were taught to do.
Old sayings, old whispers. Tell me tell me, how the steps were, how the words went, how the insects moved like clockwork, and the brutal reflections burned so violently into the eyes of our night-watchers….tell me about the patterns. Tell me where to look.
While it’s unlikely that 2012 will bring us world peace, we can at least place our hopes into linked synthesis, and good intent. So much energy is wasted on the wrestling and writhing of one another’s demons. Don’t become hypnotized, don’t let yourself be reversed by the heavy machinery of our singular era in the singular universe.
I’m fairly sure, as a whole, that we are multi-dimensional.
Into the future…
In all honesty, I think now would be a good time to think about your life like you never have before, to see it in a different way, a way that makes absolutely no sense at all.
Make no sense of your life, make it absolutely improbable, so much that it’s on the edge of impossibility, then come back to the present moment. Go look in the mirror. You’re still here.
Senseless loss. I suppose that it’s enough to start a war. And also enough to end one.
“The Lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low cliff — for he is carved from the living rock of the cliff. His size is colossal, his attitude is noble. His head is bowed, the broken spear is sticking in his shoulder, his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of France. Vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear stream trickles from above and empties into a pond at the base, and in the smooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored, among the water-lilies.
“Around about are green trees and grass. The place is a sheltered, reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise and stir and confusion — and all this is fitting, for lions do die in such places, and not on granite pedestals in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings. The Lion of Lucerne would be impressive anywhere, but nowhere so impressive as where he is.” – Mark Twain on the Lion of Lucerne
From time to time, it certainly does seem as Twain illustrates, the obvious change in volume from waves crashing upon each other; the optical quirk of two formats double-exposed — the clarity of difference between various proportional environments. It can seem that we are somehow destined for a different path of restoration, but we are extraordinary just where we are.
