Saturday, September 29, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Giving and Receiving With All One's Heart
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
The Web of Wyrd and Pulling Opportunities Out of the Landscape
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Lovebodies Live in the Human Heart
There are times -- granted, they are only times, and you might say it is just a mood, yet it is such a strong mood, overpowering -- when I can feel the aliveness of my friend who took his life three years ago. I will grant you that I do not feel this all the time, and sometimes I doubt, and think, this is just wishful thinking on my part, and who am I fooling. Yet I must say that in these times when I can feel him so strongly -- and it is not so much a "psychic" feeling as it is a feeling in the heart, a feeling of love -- it does not feel like how denial feels. It does not feel like I am fooling myself to console myself. It feels as if this world of ours is but an echo of a subtler world, and we hold hands across the abyss.
It's like the feeling you get in moonlight, when you are bathed in a lunar ocean of fluorescence, and everything feels not only eerie, but eerie in a way that opens the door to uncanny. Seldom blatant, yet pulsing with some secret heart, one can feel, this is a different kind of time, a different kind of moment. And peace can overtake your heart, and you can feel, wow, this is the norm ... all that strife and doubt and anguish is but some strange, momentary aberration that overcomes me.
Yet when it does, how it does consume us, yes? Seized by anguish and strife, somehow in that moment, we think that is the all of reality.
The human heart is a mystery. Somehow in the heart of love there is no death, and yet the world's bodies still ever turn in the mill, shredded back into the soil. What does not prove fertilizer for the tree's roots must sing in the sap-halls of the root-world, and the echoes of that song hold the foundations of this earth together. That is the world-view that emerges out of our ancestors' poetry.
What to do with metaphor, eh? Do those poems express a literal place, or do those images capture an essence that is experienced as a feeling-state? Does the Tree and its roots express something astrally experienced on that level, or does one's lovebody after the dissolution of the primate-form no longer exist in that way, but drifts evanescent in states of subsistence at the root of things where our metaphors of Tree and Root, Well and Sap, speak as well as any analog might, and we must simply understand that for a growing primate, and mortal to boot, that's as close as we're likely to get? These poems were distilled from thousands upon thousands of shamans' seances, after all.
Can you trust the human heart? Does the world reflect our love, in the final analysis, if not in the immediate? That is a question of faith. It is a question of what level of confidence you can glean from those special moments when you can really feel it, and how far you can extend those strange perceptions back into a zone where more normal concepts rule. Can you withstand the silliness of seeming quaint in a world of lasers and computers and honoring the tribal heart, and bringing it back home?
Wherein does truth reside? In simple things, in stones or carvings, atoms tinkertoyed to make such stuff as we everyday see? Or does it walk the halls of our hearts, leaving traces in its footsteps, ever wandering, like Odin, named Saðr, "sooth"?
My ancestors tell me that it is the well between fire and ice that brings wisdom. The atheist materialists tell me that matter is all I can trust, or ever have. The dogmatic spiritualists tell me that spirit is all I can ever trust or really have. Like fire and ice, I can hold each in one hand, and like the scales of Libra, balance them in the still point. No angst towards matter, no angst towards spirit, and blending them as one in the middle place, my heart. That sounds as close to wisdom as I am liable to get. And I am grateful if I will prove worthy of getting it.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
To Compel the Stingy
But if their hearts are hardened, void of love
For one another, gifts now foreign, strange,
Uncertain, then these craven souls shall be
Enthralled that they might give again, constrained
Against their stinginess to recompense
The doors upon their hinges closed where doors
Ought open be, to welcome guests. For fear
Has overtaken many, spoiled all
The networks gift-for-gift in Yuletime mood
That everyday took care of vital need.
Tacitus, Germania :
Frumenti modum dominus, aut pecoris aut vestis, ut colono, injungit.
"A certain measure of grain or cattle or clothing was imposed upon them by their lord, like a tenant-farmer."
The thralls, who had broken the chain of the gift-redistribution cycle which Tacitus previously described :
Mos est civitatibus ultro ac viritim conferre principibus vel armentorum vel frugum, quod pro honore acceptum, etiam necessitatibus subvenit.
"It is the custom of the communities to voluntarily and man-by-man bestow on their chiefs cattle and crops, which are accepted as a mark of honor as well as to assist them in their needs."
To break the gift circulation that is the heartblood of the community, and how it feeds needs -- whether under mark of fear or of greed -- reduces the wealth of the community, creates strife, closes doors, and the Gods wish open doors. Those who do not come up to their full robustness, the fruiting of all fertility within their grasp, particularly those talents Gods-given, may be compelled to give where they are stingy. This interferes with some people's tainted, corrupted notion of freedom, but this just shows they do not understand freedom at all. It is a fullness meant to fruit the larger folk.
The Generosity in Wyrd
Live life with as pure a heart as possible -- oh, it's ok to grumble, too -- and the strange way of life, amidst the storms we don't understand, will bring you strange gifts that touch your soul, gifts you never anticipated, yet which you find, in time, you really needed.
Wyrd is giving, and in her own uncanny way, merciful.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
A Handful of Earth
is where this carrier of experiences goes,
and those experiences : wind, cobwebs,
Hidden reminisces in someone else's dreams,
Corner space in the basements. Well.
That's kind of humbling. The humus from rotting leaves,
a handful of peat, some lime. Wings and tails,
ears, fur, claws and nails, noses, gills,
the whole apparati, every one, melts
in the compost's unseen flames, underground
microbes : all deliquesce into soft cradles
for flies' beloved young : tomb-wombs
for soon-to-be-winged things ; the fart
of belly burst, the last bloating ; moths nested in hair,
with beetles ; finally, earth, earth, root-nourishings,
ever-presence in the soil ; that clay manikin
washed away by rain at last : the last remnants,
mocking poppet, gone. The buried jawbone
kissing the clay. All elements in dispersal,
osmosis, seeping -- filaments stretched thread
to furthest heavens, tethered bedrock to
the cosmos' fulcrum : webbed, wide-webbed,
sap of the tree, sweet inner taste of mead in cellars,
rest in the place of dwarves, silent drone
in the ancestors' halls with hollow sound of wind,
ancient sunlight splashed against heathstalk.
Between the interstices of fear, the peace lodged
in the rented loft of acceptance and reverie.
There the dead sleep, peaceful amidst us,
the carrier long gone. A handful of earth.
This is not denying afterliving (in fact, in a profound sense, life is but preliving, a gathering of material for a grand masterpiecing), but attempts to depict the dreamlike reverie of aftering as it overseers the likeness's return to the holy earth, afterbody experience having a more dreamlike quality : evanescent shimmering.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
Working In The Ruins
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
From Jormungrund Up
The basic matter-alchemy starts here, and the world as we know it is an epiphenomenon of this more basic ground, from which it emerges.
Even the heavenly gods are subordinate ultimately to the chthonic gods. Odin receives his basic powers from Mimir. Wyrd is strongest. That which dies becomes the substrate for new life, in constant recycling and circulation.
Matter begins in the interaction between two opposites, hot and cold, fire and ice, and out of this matrix, the entire world-tree of cosmos grew, and from it, the Gods.
A materialist conception : ultimately the Gods themselves the epiphenomena of the cosmos, which itself emerges from the matter-in-motion generated from the interaction of fire and ice.