Tuesday, April 7, 2020

Greater than Mere Gift

Practicing the low D whistle in the back room, the heater rumbling, the occasional crow cry filtering in. One fumbles through the art, doggedly pursuing a minimal ideal this time hidden in certain Irish folk tunes. I have been happier than this but also sadder and no longer profess a God to whom my grief or joy or confusion matters. Those raggle taggle gypsies are never not gathering under her window, as I am never not chased by the quiet providers who in their honor misread their woman's longing for God. Still, what the body learns is for the body while the soul flies free of all restraints, circling the earth like a warm breeze. Winter is endured largely via dreams of violets and bees and apple blossoms. To live in a world in which it is possible to see a black bear tumble across the trail before you is so much greater than mere gift I almost cannot bear it. This wordiness is a curse that makes everything beautiful whore itself (as if desire were God itself rather than an energetic angel witnessing unto the refulgence of God). You'll have to forgive me my dears for confusing you all with a light that never actually inhabited your breasts or shoulders or thighs. We're on a narrow path now that permits neither sex nor return nor second chances. I'm not quiet exactly - let alone allowed beyond the sacred foyer and its jumbled icons - but it has become possible to heed the lessons of solitude. Once you taste the apostleship, the alternatives are rancid indeed. Uncountable blessings unto you for that transgression in the garden which I could not have managed alone and without which our shared dream of Love would not be possible. We who slip away into separate cloisters, copying texts it took others a thousand lifetimes to create. The choir lofts my love, they do not sweep themselves-o.

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