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Mystical
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Madison Scott-Clary
2019-08-25 21:07:25 -07:00
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parent 0f5b29c3a1 982554d7ab
commit 11c6f40ba3
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<div class="moving-on"><a class="pulse" href="/46">And so we come to a place between.</a></div>
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> Do you feel better, now?
Not really. Just a different kind of melancholy.
Not really. Just a <a class="pulse" href="/poet-and-mystic">different kind of melancholy</a>.
> Ain't that just the way of things?

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 39
---
Let's talk about writing.
> If you'd like. We still have a few others on the list, don't forget.
Would you let me?
> Of course not.

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weight: 10
---
> Do you ever worry that maybe he should be forgiven?
<div class="verse">
There's some duality between sources of meaning,
Between the types of stories we use to back identity.
It's not quite good &amp; bad or light &amp; dark,
Though I'm not yet sure just how to define it.
Oh, *<a href="/38" class="pulse">constantly</a>*.
Dad used to punish the dogs
by locking then in the basement.
If he was really mad,
he'd toss then down there by the scruff.
Mom moved me &amp; her dogs to a new house &mdash;
moved us three days early during the divorce.
Her dog punched my ex stepdad in the crotch the night before,
the nut-shot to end all nut-shots, &amp; our time there.
Few things make me feel as deeply about life as parenthood,
even if it's just me caring for my dogs.
Some reminders of that are intense enough to be raw, painful,
salt in the wounds of mortality, maybe, or the ache of maternal love.
The meaning behind the story of me &amp; my dogs
comes with a story of its own, or maybe several.
It's bound up in stories to come,
&amp; these stories nest infinitely deep.
Remembering that &amp; shaping that,
It's a part of making the meaning in my life.
This isn't better against worse,
it's not mom against dad.
It's not a dichotomy at all, really,
now that I think about it.
It's something subtler, comfortably complex, a topic of its own.
I guess it's just meaning &amp; self.
</div>

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---
date: 2019-08-20
weight: 11
---
> Do you ever worry that maybe he should be forgiven?
Oh, *<a href="/38" class="pulse">constantly</a>*.

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---
date: 2019-08-22
weight: 39
---
<div class="verse">Here is the difference betwixt the poet and the mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for a moment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols are fluxional; all language is vehicular and transitive, and is good, as ferries and horses are, for conveyance, not as farms and houses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistake of an accidental and individual symbol for an universal one.</div>
> Pretty.
I didn't write it.
> I know.
I scramble through great heaps of words and sounds to try and at least pin some of them to fleeting symbols. Maybe then I'll be able to learn to see more of the accidental and individual symbols.
> Too many words, too many sounds.
Yes.
> You wrote four pieces about the winds coming down over the foothills near Boulder (for, of all things, wind quartet), just to try and capture one ecstatic experience.
I like those. I like the result.
> You like the first two, most of all. They remind you of how hollow you felt, how you could feel the wind blow through you, vibrating your soul like the pipe of an organ, exciting you to ever higher harmonics.
Yes.
> But then you kept writing.
Yeah. I make a terrible poet.
> You make a terrible mystic. Your poetry's just okay.

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---
date: 2019-08-22
weight: 40
---
How can I capture that essence of stillness? How can I become nothing?
> Not reaching. Not trying.
How can I read the ecstasy of signs? How can I feel those black birds bursting free of my hunched shoulders?
> Step beside yourself. Take your own hand.
How can I feel the cord that ties me to the center of the earth? How can I see where it leads? How can I walk the spiral?
> Reach down, bury your fingers in rich earth, take root.
The cant of ritual.
> The scent of incense.
The rhythm of chant.
> The ripple of water.
Call and response.
> The flicker of a candle.
Voices echoing voices echoing voices echoing...
> Clay between fingertips.
And then?

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---
date: 2019-08-24
weight: 41
---
March 10, 2004:
```
We wandered around for a bit before ending up sprawled in a fire-escape at FHS with Shannon in my lap, me in Ash's lap, and Andrew in Kiran's lap. Andrew ditched to go shooting with Ash and Kiran, while I went to bomb a history test. That's when things started getting really weird. I had a percoset relapse (whether that's what it was or not, it felt oddly similar to the real thing: an incurable itch buried beneath my skin, to the point where I can't actually scratch it) near the end of the period, and then in choir I imploded from empathy - so many emotions from others that I had no room for my own. Then, horns grew from my chest and head, and wings from my back; a giant fox escaped, left, and exploded into a thousand birds over Viele. Mind you, none of this really happened, but I sure felt strange. During latin, I exploded from empathy in a patchwork swirl of colors while Starin et al. stared on as I banged my head against the desk. Ms. Gibert didn't notice. I yelled for help inaudibly and searched out white points of light in the black silhouette of Boulder. I yelled for Ash and searched for Moondog.
Afterwards, I figured out how to regain control (mostly) and just in time for the bell to ring. I got a small mocha at Cafe Sole, got eaten by small greenish crystals on a table while supposed psychics did fairy readings from a kids book, and here I am, about to take a shower and get ready for Great Works rehearsal, and then group, whereupon I shall request to Reiki Moondog (again) during the speakers board on gay marriage. Hopefully I don't ex-/im-plode again ^^
```
April 12, 2004:
```
You have come, finally, to a safe place. You have arrived at the point where it counts most, the point at which Life itself seems to fall away, leaving behind nothing of it's former shell: that blackened husk of body and mind that housed a bright bright star. Years and years, it took, places and places and each day offering good and bad, but you, lucky you, saw past that, saw beyond the grid of your perception to see inside others, touching and caressing the bright points of light that were essentially them, cherishing each for not only their good points, but for their faults as well. The energy flowed around and through you in the concentric spirals of the labyrinth and the Bat Qol kept you clean and pure with the voice of God and the Buddha in me to the Buddha in you weaved everything under the sun into Life itself. This is Rapture.
```
June 7, 2004:
```
I'd like to chant, perhaps Emmeleia.
Or.. you could come up with something on your own. You know, do something productive with Nanon.
There's a thought. I still need to do those spells for Androo.
Exactly. Productive
I've noticed that, while my emotional colors are fading, you're becoming more prominent.
Who are you?
I'm a meme; I'm the idea of Lady Sage and Master Yage,
or maybe Eris and God. Are they the same?
I'm me.
I'm you. Are they the same?
I'm the fifth line of five.
You're an elusive bugger, that's what you are.
Damn straight.
You're depressing, too.
...hello?
```
October 5, 2004:
```
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani.
Upon reading certain things, upon hearing certain songs, upon seeing certain people, upon smelling certain scents, upon tasting certain foods, upon feeling certain feelings and upon losing myself, it flows, the light, in through the head, out through the heart, washes over all, and, being lost in it, have found myself without.
How poetic.
These are the white things. Cold, bright, burning, white.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani.
But the light isn't as it used to be. It was a thing to light up a day, a thing to light up me, filling completely. Now a simple thread flows from head to heart, and the light doesn't stray from the path of least resistance.
Love follows not the law of Ohm.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani.
Light can be many things, but here, now, it means love - all four loves - and it's a strange feeling to have been so full of it for so long, then to suddenly be nearly without.
Full of what? Full of shit? How pathetic, how trite.
Having deified love for several years, it's a shock to my faith to have it disappear, even if it only turns out to be temporary.
Faith? You're faithful? How have you EVER been faithful to love?
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!
```

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---
date: 2019-08-24
weight: 42
---
<div class="verse">What have you changed?
<em>My mind</em>
What changed you?
<em>Nothing</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am not who I was</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My name</em>
What changed you?
<em>The word</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am called who I am</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My looks</em>
What changed you?
<em>The light</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am seen as I am</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My chemistry</em>
What changed you?
<em>The substance</em>
What became of it?
<em>My form is my own</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My body</em>
What changed you?
<em>The knife</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am shaped how I am</em>
What have you changed?
<em>Nothing</em>
What changed you?
<em>I was accepted</em>
What became of it?
<em>I accepted myself</em>
What have you changed?
<em>Everything</em>
What changed you?
<em>Everything</em>
What became of it?
<em>I became who I am</em></div>

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---
date: 2019-08-24
weight: 42
---
> What is your point?
You know.
> Yes, but it is important that you make it.
*It's the immediacy, the seamless immediacy...*
It's about meaning and self. It's about defining where your boundaries are; your physical boundaries, your mental boundaries, your spiritual and emotional boundaries. It's about that ground-state training that you undergo so that you might step just a bit to the side. An inch. A mile. An age.
It's about breathing in for the count of four, holding for the count of two, breathing out for the count of four, holding for the count of two. It's about feeling where your feet touch the ground. It's about drawing a straight line from your center of gravity to the center of the world. It's about becoming totally present.
> So that you can disappear entirely.

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---
date: 2019-08-24
weight: 44
---
> Why this? Why after your dad?
Why talk about ecstasy?
> Yes.
Dissociation.
> Well, that was quick. I was expecting more roundabout. We would banter. You would get flustered. I would get smug.
Derealization, depersonalization, dissociation. Pure and simple.
> Well huh.
Would I lie to you?
> Oh, totally.
Fair.

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---
date: 2019-08-20
weight: 45
---
<div class="cw">Cognitive hazard, audio autoplay, color changes</div>
<pre>
( <a class="pulse huh" href="/aside/3">...</a> )
O
o
.
_____,,,_^..^_,,,_____
__|____|____|____|____
____|____|____|____|__
</pre>
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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 46
---
<img alt="Growth" src="/growth.jpg" style="width: 100%; max-height: 100%" />
<small>"Growth" by <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Cadmiumtea">Julian Norwood</a></small>
-----
<div class="verse">Used to be you and I daily would walk
through the fields out back of the house and talk
for hours, spilling words and emotions.
These walks were our daily devotions
to each other over the years.
The fields, dotted with ponds, were our space.
We tramped those trails strung like lace
along shores and through tall grass,
murmuring now like winds, chattering now like brass
in some changeful duet.
You'd tell me about the geese in the sky,
would watch me stand still and not ask why
the birds scared me to pieces,
even as we dodged around their feces
littering the trails.
You'd put up with my fickle interests,
running with me, or stopping to see what arrests
my attention. You'd follow all of my changes
and change along with me through all the ranges
of our shared experience.
You'd tell me of your meditation,
I'd talk of my fears of stagnation.
You'd always smile so kindly to me,
and I'd always feel so free
in our companionship.
And over time, those walks got slower,
shorter, less frequent, or over
far too soon, though no less meaningful
as we spent our time together in cheerful
conversation or kind quiet.
We each seemed to be going our separate ways,
with me branching out, exploring different lays
of different lands, and you turning inwards,
exploring lines of thought you never put in words,
at least not that you told me.
And then one day, we once more went out walking
and though it took a while, you got to talking.
You told me of how you sat, quiet and alone,
waiting for the time you might turn to stone
and be completely still at last.
You told me how as you sat, the room lengthened,
curved around, turned on you --- strengthened,
it seemed, by your very presence ---
and amid all of that gathered pleasance,
bit you in half.
You told me how, as part of you died
in that moment, the rest of you spied,
it seemed, on this very ending.
You told me you thought that this rending
was the end of something big.
I listened in silence. What could I say?
The things you were telling me, walking that day
were strangely shaped and didn't make sense.
Or if they did, they did so around corners as pretense,
perhaps, subtext, allusion, metaphor.
You were right, though, I could hear it in your voice.
There was finality, there, which spoke of a choice
already made. Endings were writ on your face,
your hands, and your steps --- your very pace
spoke of completion.
I replied to that sense rather than your words.
"While you look up to the geese and see only birds,
I see omens and my doom spelled in vees.
You speak of rooms and cleaving, but please,
tell me, are you leaving?"
We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,
and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond
as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,
took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,
and closed your eyes.
Beginnings are such delicate times
and I very nearly missed it, no chimes
to announce the hour of your leaving.
As it was, there was no time for believing
or not in the next moments.
Your fingers crawled beneath the soil
and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.
Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,
Spelling subtle incantations and charms
to the chaos of growth.
You bowed your head and from your crown
sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,
soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.
The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems
soon arched skyward.
You sprouted and grew, taking root
in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.
Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.
Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime
of indecency.
Your face, your face! In your face was such peace
as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease
on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.
I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts
as your final display showed.
Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.
Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole
bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,
your fingers, knees, and toes stood
as thirsty roots.
I stood a while by the tree that was you,
then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew
about time, transformation, death and change.
I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,
your gentle apotheosis.
Then I walked home, quiet and numb.
No, not numb, per se, but perhaps dumb.
Dumb of words, dumb of emotions. Quiet.
I expected turmoil, some internal riot,
I got nullity.
Who, after all, if I cried out,
would hear my wordless shout
among the still trees and rustling leaves?
Who hears? Who cares? Who perceives
this non-grief?
You, my friend, are still there.
I walk the fields every day, passing where
you changed into something new.
I marvel at you, at how you grew
into something wholly different.
Used to be you and I daily would walk
through the fields out back of the house and talk.
Now, it's just me, alone, quiet, thinking
of you by the shore, forever drinking
of sweet water.</div>

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 47
---
<div class="verse">A flash of coppery sweetness,
A clearing of the sinuses,
A burst of unnamed colors,
A rush of creativity, of wonder,
Velvety softness, a low hum,
And then the wave recedes.</div>

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 49
---
> You're not very focused.
I know.
> Ask.

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 50
---
How does one approach what one can't describe?
> Swing the flashlight rapidly across the room. Piece together what you can from the sweep of the beam across the walls, the furniture.
How does one hunt down what leaves no tracks?
> Unwind the maze by keeping your right hand on the wall. Pray that the walls do not move.
How does one call down the gods to commune?
> Speak thrice, and enter.

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---
date: 2019-08-25
weight: 51
---
I'm tired. I'm so tired. I'm tired and I'm upset and I'm lost.
> I know.
I want to shout and to whisper. I want to talk about how I feel when I read Stevens or Esch or Rilke. I want to put words to the feeling of falling to the ground and taking root.
I want to say how it feels when I step outside myself.
> You tried.
I guess that's all I can do.
> It's not, but it's important that you have tried.

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type: serial
background: '#2f082a'
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quote: '#eef'
back: /38
---

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"Aside 2" [href="/aside/2"]
"Aside 3" [href="/aside/3"]
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"Core 33" -- "Aside 2"
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"Dad 11" [href="/dad/11"]
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