All suspended, permission uncertain, no passage.
No one wants a plague diary from some bourgeois idiot. I am ‘inessential’ and not a ‘worker’ in the valorous sense.
The cards say what the monks say: you are in a moment of transformation. Choice of adverb: really. ‘Changely’ if you like. Here and thus you are, never could it’ve been otherwise. Get to it. Choose, act.
Out the window, though, an invisible cloud.
Airborne toxic event.
Plague of sedentation.
The shrinks say what the posters say: you’re always changing, every day’s a new one, make the healthy choice.
Your job without socializing. Your home without respite. Your friends without touch, city without neighbours, movement without aim, contact without exchange, tension without release.
No bodies to dance inside.
The music says what the bodies say: I love you, I miss you, I want to break free. (Of: me.)
Even music seems to’ve stopped.
Motionless but not still.
Moving but not busy — not frantic.
Still but not quiet. Peaceful but not restful.
Making but not creating.
Hungry but not angry.
Acting but not working.
Needful but not grasping.
Talking but not connecting.
Reaching but not connecting.
Touching but not connecting.
Connecting but not touching.
Listening to the circle.
‘We are all monastics now,’ several said.
For various reasons that doesn’t appeal to me. For various reasons that appeals to me. On balance, I like the option of a bourbon et cetera.
The memory of all that
They can’t take that away from me
Motionless but not still, meaning sitting frantically — sitting but not sitting, war of self against self. What if now weren’t now? Suffering is resenting that here and thus we are: holding the world against the world instead of being (recognizing onself as) part of all of it, all of part of it. The World (XXI) isn’t a place or possession, not even a piece of knowledge; it’s recognition, acceptance, assumption. Taken up into the heaven of a trillion borderless souls.
Every dream arrested. Plague of atomization.
We’re not scaremongering
This is really happening
Well you can go to a monastery to hide, which works for a while, though They tend to find you when They want it badly enough, or when you do. And you can go to pray, sit, tend the garden, work, think, build, look closely. I suppose you might meet someone there who knows. Become someone even.
Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
It’s not just old brick, is the thing. The space has to be impregnated somehow with intention. Stillness, not just motionlessness. Stillness is presence where motion can only be absent. Vee, delta-ess o’er delta-tee. While stillness is a skin that settles over you, brings insides and outsides in. Stillness is how time slows in the vein.
During plague I haven’t moved but haven’t felt still at all.
Having trouble finding now.
The building is made of this or thatever, but it becomes a monastery by the intention of the practitioners within it. The thing they are collectively maintaining, defense against fallenness, against what of the world takes from us, what of the world wants, devours, strips flesh, strips spirit. No souls, no spirits, these are ‘only’ metaphors, but imagine if there were, which is the point of the point: imagining makes the space sacred. Intend, exhaust, imbue.
And I look at those eyes
I look at those lonely eyes
And it comes from me to you
I once asked God for forgiveness (for something) in a cathedral in NYC and what I received was hysterical tears. I felt gratitude for what I took to be a gift, but I’ve just realized that I’d received the gift — the work was accomplished — the second I knelt and meant it.
The cathedral is what it is; as soon as we came into the nave I could feel the action of the place, and by the time we reached The Legend of St Eustace I was ready for something to happen.
Some pompous Fool said ‘The readiness is all.’ You make the magic circle by joining hands with someone who needs help. ‘It is true.’ I was told that amen means ‘it is true,’ which suddenly sounds a lot like Tell me about it, which is a nice thing to say to someone you love, including yourself. Kneeling there, feeling gratitude for tears, ready for someone to happen.
Heaven will prove to’ve been stillness, and it’s here, obscured by motionlessness. ‘A place where nothing ever happens,’ not quite. Where what’s up is really up, is what’s up. The circle turning brings you to wherever you’re going.
I’m going to drink some water, drive my wife to Target, and see what happens.
The heart says what the birds say: