Salt Spring Isle, B.C.
Canada
I'm finding that people, when viewed withing the field of eternity, are perfectly being all they are. The stars in the night sky are like that, too. Perhaps that is a true coincidence.
The other day, I was in a thrift store (you know what I mean, right?) and I found this black velveteen banner with the whole Hawaiin island chain - palm trees, lilies and a Hula Dancer as well. Some people might call it tacky. Not I :-) In fact, I think I'm getting a nice little gallery of low-end masterpieces.
I sense strongly that this is a pivotal time in my life, a time of completion and old beginnings. I share it with you because it needs be shared with you because I'm certain my life can continue without you in it (or me in yours), but I don't really believe it ever has. I know there are many philosophies and psychologies to the reconciliation or rebirth of the soul or spirit-self whose constant flux is both greater and smaller than any change the world or nature can procure - the very ground of itself and of all stillness, for the entire universe of love understood by the gossamer fibres where we have our destiny and identity is one we share - perhaps this is all 'free will' means (or where it, in deed, has any meaning) - the holy if not whole self in which and through which divine romance unfolds, extant as it must be as much as we must need unconditional love, in every time and echelon of human culture. Ergo, we give unconditional love as well because that energy must flow: We create.
Perhaps this is partly why I call my film, "The Golden Conversation".
Plus, I've been listening to Louis Armstrong <coincidently, also an archaic name for Orion (Osiris?)> and B.B. King and the blues are whispering to me something I have been literally dying to know; that my life in eternity is all about actually loving myself.
Perhaps, in the end, this, however improbable, is the only faith, the only courage that is demanded of us.
Then heaven is only somewhere else if we are still discovering where we are - maybe both at the same time; then you or I don't know who has always been in my life.
Symbolic consciousness, the breath of reality, thrives I believe on a living and infinite darkness. OUr drive for this mode of relationship is scattered throughout art and science and history. Since as perhaps in or for perhaps Atlantean antiquity, it is a mode of discourse with which we are genetically familiar we grieve the apparent loss of it in the polarized signs with which present culture prescribes the prejudices for pseudo-evolution ('the further from the primordial darkness the better'), a panacea of watered down and over friendly idealogical bonds that mask culturally prescribed psychoticism in place of (in the same place as) genuine emotional - or morphogenetic - interchange, i.e. becoming what we are; and the archetypal schizophrenic (the invisible hero of soul-self) drinks the magic potion of a dark herstory through these same sigsn (used to keep humans 'in time') and grows like Alice in Wonderland too big for the vulgar archicture of pre-prescribed need and pre-prescribed need resolution, creating for Herself Her natural home; She re-invents the world - This is the power of Man and Woman if Man, like history, is simplay a kind of Woman.
In symbolic consciousness, then, God is the Woman Child of Woman and the suns we are are everywhere clothed in Darkness, for where, then, are we but in the ground and hovering above it, like little blue gods, waves upon waves upon waves bound only by the love, the certain performance of Spirit-Self-Knowledge-Breath that does more than reconcile opposites - it, we create them such that prejudice of place (or all prejudice for that matter) is the nly thing seperating us from a continual celebration of justice that is the eternal liturgy we call biology any time any where always in time always in place.
Let's reinvent the gods.
All the myths of the ages.
Celebrate symbols from deep,
elder forests.
Jim Morrison, The Doors
If idealogical religion weren't bad enough, no where does sacred culture take itself to its most barbarically logical extent (and Logic as 'purely objective discourse' is intellectually barbaric) than in the halls of psychiatry, where Jesus Christ is replaced by the archetypal Schizophrenic, the heroic self by pathology, and auguries by a virus; what become in the monumental magic of Mater Magna, Mother Goddess, Love and a Sunrise.
Please, don't you ever believe it, not even for a moment. But that's our story and I'm sticking to it.
Landon
P.S. These poems are for you.