Update and Quota

Update and Quota

 

I fall into my recurrent and irresistible bouts of sleep. Can’t explain it. I try to map a cause and effect or a seasonal parameter. I dunno. I just get slowed down, and then I speed up, and I can just throw my hands up and say bipolar.

I dreamt an ineffable dream. Nothing to say but I saw The One in Wonder, petaled in immaculate fingers from the hands of the four great gods, her moods— Father, Mother, Son, and Daughter — her some sort of pistils or conduit of inner organs of a flower as the petals palmed out and open, and she stood terrible and amazing. I lack the memory to hold the image in place. It blew me away. I wept. I woke aweep. Well, Love is all Eyes. Love was never blind. Like Odin and his missing eye, or like Hephaestus and his lameness, the mythic trope is to present an excess through a deficiency. Love sees the most, sees real beauties.

You know the old story. Some young lad, supercharged with libido, but perhaps too coy or innocent to know, throws his heart romantically in the most obscenely overwrought of odes at some young toad, and her family scoffs — they know her well, her stool, her fledgling baldness, lack of majesty, all that — but the upstart brat manages in his mingle to single out strands of the pheromonic glory.

Thou Art That. You are All. In troth and sooth you are child of Her. The All in all is your Mother. True Love sees that. True Love knows that. True Love, in fits and pinches, is Witness. We are AMA’s Witness, first of all, in Loving our friends, in seeing their beauty to the end of our kenning. I suppose there is some forgetting when you see so deep. AMA, I look in your eyes and I see a mile in. A thousand miles. The stars are deep in your frame, as if a person four feet away yet held glitters that are really a million miles gone. For each of us is everdeep, and our center is father from our friends than the edge of the universe.

I see friend Justin at seven. Tis half past five. I live alive and my recurrent deaths are battery recharges. Everything I do is for this outlet of ambergris; like Frey my every tear is gold. I write for you for sheer love of you and writing. When I am blocked or choked in sleep, truly, I cramp and hate those moments alone.