Friday, April 3, 2020

Jesus or Anything Other Magick

There are many answers to the question "who among us is saved," only one or two of which will satisfy. In a dream I live alone in Vermont, speaking at most once or twice a year, living on whatever I can grow in rocky soil. Her car leaves the driveway, leaving behind a quiet in which some vital recollection is possible. We are drained and displaced, even outside the church, we are exhausted by the intensity of His judgment. Yet better a defrocked priest than a monk who won't confess he doesn't want to be a monk. Or is my calling as yet to be determined? The lower I go into the watery swale the harder it is to believe that Jesus or any other magick is going to show up in a beneficial way. The decades are counted by chickadees who assure me all is well or will be when I am gone. The desired writing project remains elusive (though its soundtrack has been clear going on three decades) but one is ever given to the moon's peripatetic ambition, its habit of lighting up everything, especially snowy fields through which a fox trots, leaving a trail that confuses even other foxes. Everything changes, everything is gone? I sing the song I was given to sing, without considering who has ears to hear. Now what? Now who?

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