EGZY 2009
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Tarot Pt. 2
I saw the great Master in the Temple. He was siting on a golden throne set upon a purple platform, and he wore the robe of a high priest with a golden tiara. He held a golden eight-pointed cross, and lying at his feet were two crossed keys. Two initiates bowed before him and to them he spoke:--
"Seek the Path, do not seek attainment, Seek for the Path within yourself.
"Do not expect to hear the truth from others, nor to see it, or read it in books. Look for the truth in yourself, not without yourself.
"Aspire only after the impossible and inaccessible. Expect only that which shall not be.
"Do not hope for Me,--do not look for Me,--do not believe--that I am outside yourself.
"Within your soul build a lefty tower by which you may ascend to Heaven. Do not believe in external miracles, expect miracles only within you. Beware of believing in a mystery of the earth, in a mystery guarded by men; for treasuries which must be guarded are empty. Do not search for a mystery that can be hidden by men. Seek the Mystery within yourself.
"Above all, avoid those towers built in order to preserve the mysteries and to make an ascent to Heaven by stone stairways. And remember that as soon as men build such a tower they begin to dispute about the summit.
"The Path is in yourself, and Truth is in yourself and Mystery is in yourself."
I saw a lofty tower extending from earth to heaven; its golden crowned summit reached beyond the clouds. All round it black night reigned and thunder rumbled.
Suddenly the heavens opened, a thunder-clap shook the whole earth, and lightning struck the summit of the tower and felled the golden crown. A tongue of fire shot from heaven and the whole tower became filled with fire and smoke. Then I beheld the builders of the tower fall headlong to the ground.
And the voice said:
--"The building of the tower was begun by the disciples of the great Master in order to have a constant reminder of the Master's teaching that the true tower must be built in one's own soul, that in the tower built by hands there can be no mysteries, that no one can ascend to Heaven by treading stone steps.
"The tower should warn the people not to believe in it. It should serve as a reminder of the inner Temple and as a protection against the outer; it should be as a lighthouse, in a dangerous place where men have often been wrecked and where ships should not go.
"But by and by the disciples forgot the true covenant of the Master and what the tower symbolized, and began to believe in the tower of stone, they had built, and to teach others to so believe. They began to say that in this tower there is power, mystery and the spirit of the Master, that the tower itself is holy and that it is built for the coming Master according to His covenant and His will. And so they waited in the tower for the Master. Others did not believe this, or interpreted it differently. Then began disputes about the rights of the summit. Quarrels started, 'Our Master, your Master,' was said; 'our tower, your tower.' And the disciples ceased to understand each other. Their tongues had become confused.
"You understand the meaning here? They had begun to think that this is the tower of the Master, that He builds it through them, and that it must and, indeed, can be built right up to Heaven.
"And you see how Heaven responded?"
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Entropy
Deer Bitch
Pen and Ink on Watercolor Paper
September 2010
Nuit
Acrylic and Bark
January 2011
Curmudgeon
Acrylic/Brush and Ink on Cardboard
January 2011
Two Mothers
Acrylic/Brush and Ink on Canvas Print
January 2011
Five
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Martyr
"In the earliest of times, the sun lived very close to the earth - so close in fact that life upon the earth was becoming unbearable. The animal world got together and decided to do something about it. They wanted to move the sun further away.
The fox was the first to volunteer, and he grabbed the sun in his mouth and began to run to the heavens. After a short while, the sun became too hot, burning the fox's mouth, and he stopped. To this day, the inside of the fox's mouth is black. Then the opossum volunteered. He wrapped his tail around the sun and began running toward the heavens. Before long though, the sun became too hot, burning its tail, and he had to stop. To this day the opossum has no hair upon its tail.
It was then that vulture stepped forward. Vulture was the most beautiful and powerful of birds. Upon its head was a beautiful mantle of rich feathering that all other birds envied. Knowing that the earth would burn up unless someone moved the sun, the vulture placed its head against it and began to fly to the heavens. With powerful strokes of its wings, it pushed and pushed the sun further and further up into the heavens. Though it could feel its crown feathers burning, the vulture continued until the sun was set at a safe distance in the sky away from the earth. Unfortunately, vulture lost its magnificent head of feathers for eternity."
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Psych
Here are two excerpts from a recent Psychology reflection. The first focuses on the diametric relationship of esoteric and evolutionary influence, while the second contemplates and asserts a biased view on altruism. Enjoy, reader.
_________________________________________
_________________________________________
From the time we are born onto this Earth, and inserted into the voided, cosmic interplay, we are consistently influenced. Few deem it as natural and introspective, while others grant nurture and esoteric agents as the primary source of the influence. While both of these things are in constant diametric reign, I believe the introspective conscious and evolutionary, primal instincts are the main factors. These things are deeply-seeded within our very deep heads, into our very chemical make up through a process always reaching for perfection. With that said, some of these instincts should carry with them validity, even though contemporary ideology disgorges naturalistic ideas and substitutes that of social progress.
Esoteric agents are the facility which our moral standards hang out. Everything consumed from our upbringing, societal dogma, and religious preference is included in this facility, which intertwines with the primitive, mental embodiment to provide the cesspool that is our psychological influence. But, the esoteric agents contain a pseudo-truth, one that is ever-changing and never content. Ideas proposed in this manner usually contain a hint of hysteria though, and for example, Becker asserted that belonging to a larger culture shields us from the terror of our own mortality. This concept brings forth a notion that some “collective conscious” dogma could be synthesized and mystified.
But could these agents dependently coincide with the adaption of the human species to create a quasi-subconscious that is ever evolving? Or do our semantically defined attributes generalize these concepts to a point of unnecessary dualism? One could believe that esoteric influence and primal instinct both play a beneficial role in human development, while the other remains biased to nature or nurture.
_________________________________________
In class, we briefly discussed the validity of the existence of altruism. In short, altruism is the concept of a purely selfless act of goodness towards another with out moral facility or spiritual and ethical concern. I feel as though this is easily debunked as fallacious. The paradigm of morality is controlled and dependent on anthropological and spiritual ideas alone, though some feel as though piety and theism play a major role. With this said, these moral concepts cannot carry actual validity universally; what one may consider good, or right, the other may consider bad, or wrong (cultural relativism). This is a clear notion of ethical relativism, but relativism itself cannot properly weigh any type of absolute truth, and therein can be viewed as a waste of time.
Though morality and it’s existence has been debated and thought upon for ages by the sages, masters of thought, and philosophers alike, I believe morality cannot retain an absolute, universal truth or equilibrium because of its amorphic form in society. Another factor of my juxtaposition on universal morality and altruism relates to my disbelief in a “just” God, which clearly holds reason why. Now I do not exuberate an idea of moral nihility or moral recession therein, but that altruism cannot possibly exist because of this perceptual differentiation.
I have never disregarded an idea of a personal, pseudo-altruism, though. But, with that said, it does not carry truth. For example: a belief does not need absolute validity to be deemed truthful in a personal sense, but beliefs hold no residence in universal acceptance (universal truth). Therefore, if one believes in a personal, dogmatic altruism, it can rightfully exist, but only in their mind; this does not transcend into an ultimate reality though. This idea only provides falsehood and certain confusion on the outlook of altruism, and its inexistence universally.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Virulent Being and Her Broken Home
A Short Story
First Day
In my soft arms, I held the babe, screaming. Mother had become malignant with the oily flood again. Wild, red violence filled the Home in resonance of Her. Our bodies made a triangle in the center of the room with four flat, pale walls--the mirror room, which I saw the frayed snake around Father's neck. The once daemonic demon shot fists into the only force of matter and mass distinguishing her from us. Mother had regressed into a primitive nature by force of unconscious, subconscious malevolence. Each blow quieted us further. "Laissons ce monde, le demon va passer." We chanted the mantra infinitely it seemed. My Father was the Great Teacher, never to return, and Mother was a monster, with two heads and countless eyes.
Grueling time passed. We in the Above, and her in the cryptic earth, Mother grew weak. She showed vitality of exhaustion, and us of life. The babe, now soothing, retracted his crying into diminished heavy breaths, and the middle child was lost in the other world, where we left every now and again to live.
Mother collapsed. Our brittle bones ached from the huddle. Together, we arose and stared at the door. After many moments' pass, me and the middle one removed the formula for our safeguard in front of the passage: a wicker chair, the ancient box, and Father's chest. Though heavy, these items provided health where our Provider did not. I moved the middle child behind my back, and she held the babe tightly, and I exploited the door. I could see the cryptic earth now. Mother lay in shambles, naked, for when she is induced by the oily flood, she ritualistically extinguishes all of her clothes. With some eyes rolled back into her hollow head, Mother walked a thin-segment, uniting the Outerworldly and the Home.
Meticulously, we took long steps over Her being. I kissed the middle child goodnight, and she dispersed into her illuminated space. The babe floats soundlessly now in my grasp. He embodied purity, imprisoned by the diametric of the Devil's affection and a motherly care. I escorted him into his illumination, too young to yet see it, and I placed him down. Though my reluctance was stubborn, it wavered and I lay him to rest. I, the eldest, hindered progress to escape Her, for I was scared and the responsible One. My illumination sat in front of me, beckoning accompaniment. I had forgotten my tiresome mind, and submitted to it finally: a sea of satin. Drowning in comfort, tonight, we would live yet again.
Second Day
The Monster awoke me. Outside forced daybreak: the only sign of a return of social humility and civility in Mother. I had to remind myself of the "correct" ontology of my dreams--as only a fragmented projection of my reality. (Could these notions of correct roles, then, be reversed?) A ghastly dance smelled of something on fire. The illuminations do not shine as brightly as they do in the night, but upon its sight, they only remind me of a hope for a reduction of this haunting. It itself, though, does not lay near me.
At formal arrival to the breakfast table, Mother sat stripped of clothing, dignity, and love, but only so behind these opaque walls. "Home" some would call it. Us kids sat 'round, but this morn (His morn) hanged differently than any other before. The Monster exhumed confusion and angst. She wondered why we were not eating the breakfast she had generously made for her muster. This could possibly be because there was no breakfast made for us. The middle one asked bewilderingly, "Mère, il n'ya pas de petit-déjeuner fait pour nous." It repeated itself deeply in the void of Mother's frantic mind. The Monster sat still at the head of the table, as the figurehead of the table as the exalted. She looked into the very skull of the middle one for moments that sang like days. Time diminished slowly and her humanity returned. She demanded us to leave for school, for we were late.
_____________________________________
Things are much simpler now: lesser understanding, lesser meaning, lesser significance--more so an affinity to purity: the beginning. The one my Elders deemed "Mother" disgorged the others to school. Alone, she showed no resilience to revert to her repugnant mode. Time passed. Still sitting quietly at the table, Mother subsequently regained awareness of self. She then removed herself from the table, and exited towards the eldest and middle child's illuminations. My focus on her fled into the void, for these minor actions have no relevance to the cosmic collective. Time passed.
A fever struck again in the shapeless mass of her attendance. But now, Mother held in her palm strangely shaped objects, who's origins are veiled to me. She placed them down on the table ahead and quickly turned towards me--the little one. For the first time in my short life I felt a pseudo relationship between my mother and me. Though intangible, and unlikely to ascend dimensional, traditional relationship into a multidimensional love, the short reach was met. Time passed.
The daybreak passed by easily: inaudible and radiant. The dance of the crow signified the return of the Elders. Apprehensive, the eldest and the middle one entered the Home through an earthly gate and entering their hell. With a face full of caution, the two stood in front of Mother, who now sat clothed: a rarity. Time passed.
The trash opened, and in swept the concept of greed and over-consumption. Dinner was over. Time passed. Repetition. Normality swept the minds and eyes of the Elders, but their ajna chakra lay bright and aware. The Monster was no where to be see in this plane. Quiet Night. Time passed.
_____________________________________
I came to realize that the Monster had stolen away our sources of bright in the illumination. I did not know why, and I did not ask. Mother had her sickness, and her oily flood, and it was best not to do these things. Usually, the answer lay in the white walls surrounding the straightest jacket: to be put away. I kissed the middle one upon disappearance, and took the babe in my arms from the Monster. She was standing in the main room, glaring into an abysmal grid. Out there sat nothing, and in Her Home sat the same.
The sea, as it was said, was willing to take the babe, and was surrounded by bars. (He was to be surrounded by bars for his life's entirety.) The face he shone was always good to me: the Pure One. Goodnight.
Tonight passed by without the approach of the reproached oily flood. But, the extinguishing of the illuminated still frightened us all: the day and then the night, washed in normality, bore a hint of black. I have learned not to question the Monster, nor to try and love Mother again--Her mind was lost into the deepest Earth. She was an undecided entity, one who did not correctly know up or down (or was it I who was confused?). Reality passed into a secondary reality and into a third and so on. O, great survival, and the will to live once more.
Third Day (Finale)
I woke up yet again. Mother lay still, in lucidity and dreaming. The babe lay still, in lucidity and awareness. The middle one awaited for my company. Today, in the darkest of days, we would escape to visit our lightest of light: The Golden Place. Atypical in physical being, this Place was like nowhere caught in the bound of the existential plane; it resides only in that of the metaphysical. But, it was surely real to us. Though its core was of the world, the allegorical state it facilitates was beyond it. This was our haven from Mother.
Our bellies bounced to a exuberant rhythm with each step we took. The tiny feet we wield led us down the lighted path, which the Above shone upon. Ancient beings surrounded us in disregard; only upon absolute awareness will they befriend us again. And a thousand green bulbs hang from these creatures, to metaphorically coincide with the inner workings of our heads. Step-by-step we followed a celestial path of the righteous, and with time found our Place once again. Healthy as ever, it sat idle and undisturbed.
This was our true Home here; it was right. There was an overwhelming sense of oneness: a perfect atonement between the serpentine waters to the ancient residents, and the wild dirt to the small children in the midst of it all. As it's name, it radiated golden and entwined with a pulse from the cosmos; this was truly a sight for Anaxagoras. From the infinitesimal to the macro of the Logos, everything instilled itself in the supernal Golden Place--even the Nous smiled upon it. We acted as the celestial ones here; we were the gods of our Reality. The middle one and I spent our day here, joyously being while time passed through us.
And space passed too, and on came the arrival of an age old antagonist, the dark--an unwelcome veil. Suddenly, we did not sit lively in enchantment; we sat lifeless in pile of dead leaves barely accenting a noisy creek. Like a murder of crows it encircled us above, and corresponding to the below, we were hailed to react. The birds' arrival brought a message repeated a thousand times: "Rentrez chez vous et devenir des patients avec le démon." This was our queue to return to the cryptic earth, to the allegory of our life--to return Home to a world that bleeds green and gold.
The walk home: the realization of returning to an abusive figure absently-minded of a motherly ideal. Though the Golden Place brings short-sustained delight, diffusion never ceases to intrude on us. The middle one dreamed of a day of her residing in this supreme plane, but it was consistently suppressed due to the Monster.
We came about the location we called Home. Tonight, it pulsated with a very strange and vehement radiance; a cruel tide approached, and the virulent moon pulled it so. The constellations and astrological facilities told us two of a black event foreshadowed through an unspoken dialect. The back of the Home always looked the same, as a burned and engraved symbol of this common escape. I hope to one day reconcile with the Monster upon my aging, and for the oily flood to disintegrate. We opened the screened prelude, then to the ugliest-of-green: the gateway.
Mother sat quietly in the wicker chair we use to barricade us from her hellish entry; now the oily flood was amoung us. She was exposed from her leaky head to her hoof, and the babe was cradled in the scaled arms of the Monster. Her head tilted back in a state of renewed possession and I noted the backwards eyes--deathly white and void of color. An evil paleness intruded her face and body, and she submitted herself--her being. In this malevolent state, the thing formed subtle shapes and mutters with her lips. The middle one and I knew what to do and how to survive the night, but things can't always follow a narrow thread.
The walk towards the healthy Above took with it ages; the ill illuminations taunted us as traitors. On the periphery of the cryptic earth and our safe haven, I realized that the Monster had stolen a fundamental element to the barricade: the wicker chair. I, the once renown Elder, panicked and forebode a differed murder of crows. But, we reached our area unharmed and formulated the safe guard without the chair. In the middle of the room we sat soundless, and the visceral image of our hanged Father appeared in the corner of the room. He, though once great, was weak and submissive to the Monster. We did not adopt this. We felt Mother's presence.
She knew of her advantage, but not of her intentions, for they were netherworldly. Easily she punctured the now-fragile passage. First showed her eye, then upper body, and so on. The belated image of a virulent being, regressed from it's own nature stood evil in front of our crying faces. In her hands she held the babe by his measly ankle upside down. His tiny head was swollen with blood and tears and sadness; he was also naked. With tides of anguish, the Monster derailed into the next deluminated room--she disappeared. The middle one and I sat cold in salty water. Bloodcurdling screams from the babe countered our silence, and as suddenly as they erupted, they sank and diminished. Us two fled to our separated rooms and hid and waited. And hid and waited.
I heard the middle one chant the mantra, "Laissons ce monde, le demon va passer." I wept woven tears in my sodium-riddled hands. And as Mother's dark figure levitated passed my doorway and into the room of the middle one, I feared the worst and coughed up my heart. Through broken language, distress, and fear, the middle one adamantly reflected the adage back and forth and back and forth. I heard mutters from the Monster. The mantra faded into a high monotone cry, then into a gut wrenching silent breath, wielding the purest of innocence. The Home sat stale and still for a moment, only to be ruptured by a scream of the middle one. For seconds it resonated soundly in my brittle head, and then cut short. She was only seven.
I huddled with my bruised knees and closer Mother sounded. I chanted and chanted and chanted. First, a swift pass towards the Above, and then a yearning return brought her figure back to the fragile frame of my deluminated Golden Place. The Monster stood blackened, nourishing the babe at her bosom, and behind her was a dark hooded figure, ancient and ageless. Everything went quiet now, and I joined the middle one in divinity.
A Short Story
First Day
In my soft arms, I held the babe, screaming. Mother had become malignant with the oily flood again. Wild, red violence filled the Home in resonance of Her. Our bodies made a triangle in the center of the room with four flat, pale walls--the mirror room, which I saw the frayed snake around Father's neck. The once daemonic demon shot fists into the only force of matter and mass distinguishing her from us. Mother had regressed into a primitive nature by force of unconscious, subconscious malevolence. Each blow quieted us further. "Laissons ce monde, le demon va passer." We chanted the mantra infinitely it seemed. My Father was the Great Teacher, never to return, and Mother was a monster, with two heads and countless eyes.
Grueling time passed. We in the Above, and her in the cryptic earth, Mother grew weak. She showed vitality of exhaustion, and us of life. The babe, now soothing, retracted his crying into diminished heavy breaths, and the middle child was lost in the other world, where we left every now and again to live.
Mother collapsed. Our brittle bones ached from the huddle. Together, we arose and stared at the door. After many moments' pass, me and the middle one removed the formula for our safeguard in front of the passage: a wicker chair, the ancient box, and Father's chest. Though heavy, these items provided health where our Provider did not. I moved the middle child behind my back, and she held the babe tightly, and I exploited the door. I could see the cryptic earth now. Mother lay in shambles, naked, for when she is induced by the oily flood, she ritualistically extinguishes all of her clothes. With some eyes rolled back into her hollow head, Mother walked a thin-segment, uniting the Outerworldly and the Home.
Meticulously, we took long steps over Her being. I kissed the middle child goodnight, and she dispersed into her illuminated space. The babe floats soundlessly now in my grasp. He embodied purity, imprisoned by the diametric of the Devil's affection and a motherly care. I escorted him into his illumination, too young to yet see it, and I placed him down. Though my reluctance was stubborn, it wavered and I lay him to rest. I, the eldest, hindered progress to escape Her, for I was scared and the responsible One. My illumination sat in front of me, beckoning accompaniment. I had forgotten my tiresome mind, and submitted to it finally: a sea of satin. Drowning in comfort, tonight, we would live yet again.
Second Day
The Monster awoke me. Outside forced daybreak: the only sign of a return of social humility and civility in Mother. I had to remind myself of the "correct" ontology of my dreams--as only a fragmented projection of my reality. (Could these notions of correct roles, then, be reversed?) A ghastly dance smelled of something on fire. The illuminations do not shine as brightly as they do in the night, but upon its sight, they only remind me of a hope for a reduction of this haunting. It itself, though, does not lay near me.
At formal arrival to the breakfast table, Mother sat stripped of clothing, dignity, and love, but only so behind these opaque walls. "Home" some would call it. Us kids sat 'round, but this morn (His morn) hanged differently than any other before. The Monster exhumed confusion and angst. She wondered why we were not eating the breakfast she had generously made for her muster. This could possibly be because there was no breakfast made for us. The middle one asked bewilderingly, "Mère, il n'ya pas de petit-déjeuner fait pour nous." It repeated itself deeply in the void of Mother's frantic mind. The Monster sat still at the head of the table, as the figurehead of the table as the exalted. She looked into the very skull of the middle one for moments that sang like days. Time diminished slowly and her humanity returned. She demanded us to leave for school, for we were late.
_____________________________________
Things are much simpler now: lesser understanding, lesser meaning, lesser significance--more so an affinity to purity: the beginning. The one my Elders deemed "Mother" disgorged the others to school. Alone, she showed no resilience to revert to her repugnant mode. Time passed. Still sitting quietly at the table, Mother subsequently regained awareness of self. She then removed herself from the table, and exited towards the eldest and middle child's illuminations. My focus on her fled into the void, for these minor actions have no relevance to the cosmic collective. Time passed.
A fever struck again in the shapeless mass of her attendance. But now, Mother held in her palm strangely shaped objects, who's origins are veiled to me. She placed them down on the table ahead and quickly turned towards me--the little one. For the first time in my short life I felt a pseudo relationship between my mother and me. Though intangible, and unlikely to ascend dimensional, traditional relationship into a multidimensional love, the short reach was met. Time passed.
The daybreak passed by easily: inaudible and radiant. The dance of the crow signified the return of the Elders. Apprehensive, the eldest and the middle one entered the Home through an earthly gate and entering their hell. With a face full of caution, the two stood in front of Mother, who now sat clothed: a rarity. Time passed.
The trash opened, and in swept the concept of greed and over-consumption. Dinner was over. Time passed. Repetition. Normality swept the minds and eyes of the Elders, but their ajna chakra lay bright and aware. The Monster was no where to be see in this plane. Quiet Night. Time passed.
_____________________________________
I came to realize that the Monster had stolen away our sources of bright in the illumination. I did not know why, and I did not ask. Mother had her sickness, and her oily flood, and it was best not to do these things. Usually, the answer lay in the white walls surrounding the straightest jacket: to be put away. I kissed the middle one upon disappearance, and took the babe in my arms from the Monster. She was standing in the main room, glaring into an abysmal grid. Out there sat nothing, and in Her Home sat the same.
The sea, as it was said, was willing to take the babe, and was surrounded by bars. (He was to be surrounded by bars for his life's entirety.) The face he shone was always good to me: the Pure One. Goodnight.
Tonight passed by without the approach of the reproached oily flood. But, the extinguishing of the illuminated still frightened us all: the day and then the night, washed in normality, bore a hint of black. I have learned not to question the Monster, nor to try and love Mother again--Her mind was lost into the deepest Earth. She was an undecided entity, one who did not correctly know up or down (or was it I who was confused?). Reality passed into a secondary reality and into a third and so on. O, great survival, and the will to live once more.
Third Day (Finale)
I woke up yet again. Mother lay still, in lucidity and dreaming. The babe lay still, in lucidity and awareness. The middle one awaited for my company. Today, in the darkest of days, we would escape to visit our lightest of light: The Golden Place. Atypical in physical being, this Place was like nowhere caught in the bound of the existential plane; it resides only in that of the metaphysical. But, it was surely real to us. Though its core was of the world, the allegorical state it facilitates was beyond it. This was our haven from Mother.
Our bellies bounced to a exuberant rhythm with each step we took. The tiny feet we wield led us down the lighted path, which the Above shone upon. Ancient beings surrounded us in disregard; only upon absolute awareness will they befriend us again. And a thousand green bulbs hang from these creatures, to metaphorically coincide with the inner workings of our heads. Step-by-step we followed a celestial path of the righteous, and with time found our Place once again. Healthy as ever, it sat idle and undisturbed.
This was our true Home here; it was right. There was an overwhelming sense of oneness: a perfect atonement between the serpentine waters to the ancient residents, and the wild dirt to the small children in the midst of it all. As it's name, it radiated golden and entwined with a pulse from the cosmos; this was truly a sight for Anaxagoras. From the infinitesimal to the macro of the Logos, everything instilled itself in the supernal Golden Place--even the Nous smiled upon it. We acted as the celestial ones here; we were the gods of our Reality. The middle one and I spent our day here, joyously being while time passed through us.
And space passed too, and on came the arrival of an age old antagonist, the dark--an unwelcome veil. Suddenly, we did not sit lively in enchantment; we sat lifeless in pile of dead leaves barely accenting a noisy creek. Like a murder of crows it encircled us above, and corresponding to the below, we were hailed to react. The birds' arrival brought a message repeated a thousand times: "Rentrez chez vous et devenir des patients avec le démon." This was our queue to return to the cryptic earth, to the allegory of our life--to return Home to a world that bleeds green and gold.
The walk home: the realization of returning to an abusive figure absently-minded of a motherly ideal. Though the Golden Place brings short-sustained delight, diffusion never ceases to intrude on us. The middle one dreamed of a day of her residing in this supreme plane, but it was consistently suppressed due to the Monster.
We came about the location we called Home. Tonight, it pulsated with a very strange and vehement radiance; a cruel tide approached, and the virulent moon pulled it so. The constellations and astrological facilities told us two of a black event foreshadowed through an unspoken dialect. The back of the Home always looked the same, as a burned and engraved symbol of this common escape. I hope to one day reconcile with the Monster upon my aging, and for the oily flood to disintegrate. We opened the screened prelude, then to the ugliest-of-green: the gateway.
Mother sat quietly in the wicker chair we use to barricade us from her hellish entry; now the oily flood was amoung us. She was exposed from her leaky head to her hoof, and the babe was cradled in the scaled arms of the Monster. Her head tilted back in a state of renewed possession and I noted the backwards eyes--deathly white and void of color. An evil paleness intruded her face and body, and she submitted herself--her being. In this malevolent state, the thing formed subtle shapes and mutters with her lips. The middle one and I knew what to do and how to survive the night, but things can't always follow a narrow thread.
The walk towards the healthy Above took with it ages; the ill illuminations taunted us as traitors. On the periphery of the cryptic earth and our safe haven, I realized that the Monster had stolen a fundamental element to the barricade: the wicker chair. I, the once renown Elder, panicked and forebode a differed murder of crows. But, we reached our area unharmed and formulated the safe guard without the chair. In the middle of the room we sat soundless, and the visceral image of our hanged Father appeared in the corner of the room. He, though once great, was weak and submissive to the Monster. We did not adopt this. We felt Mother's presence.
She knew of her advantage, but not of her intentions, for they were netherworldly. Easily she punctured the now-fragile passage. First showed her eye, then upper body, and so on. The belated image of a virulent being, regressed from it's own nature stood evil in front of our crying faces. In her hands she held the babe by his measly ankle upside down. His tiny head was swollen with blood and tears and sadness; he was also naked. With tides of anguish, the Monster derailed into the next deluminated room--she disappeared. The middle one and I sat cold in salty water. Bloodcurdling screams from the babe countered our silence, and as suddenly as they erupted, they sank and diminished. Us two fled to our separated rooms and hid and waited. And hid and waited.
I heard the middle one chant the mantra, "Laissons ce monde, le demon va passer." I wept woven tears in my sodium-riddled hands. And as Mother's dark figure levitated passed my doorway and into the room of the middle one, I feared the worst and coughed up my heart. Through broken language, distress, and fear, the middle one adamantly reflected the adage back and forth and back and forth. I heard mutters from the Monster. The mantra faded into a high monotone cry, then into a gut wrenching silent breath, wielding the purest of innocence. The Home sat stale and still for a moment, only to be ruptured by a scream of the middle one. For seconds it resonated soundly in my brittle head, and then cut short. She was only seven.
I huddled with my bruised knees and closer Mother sounded. I chanted and chanted and chanted. First, a swift pass towards the Above, and then a yearning return brought her figure back to the fragile frame of my deluminated Golden Place. The Monster stood blackened, nourishing the babe at her bosom, and behind her was a dark hooded figure, ancient and ageless. Everything went quiet now, and I joined the middle one in divinity.
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