the tree that split

Stability. Respectability. Steady-states in general.

They're deceptive.

They promise the feeling of embodiment, but you are actually change. In principle, you are motion. Patterned, adaptive, reflective motion. You are beautiful. Beauty full. Brimming with symmetry, truth, and hidden causality. You are a confounding mystery in formation. In no moment are you really still. And that stillness that few do reach, hesychia, is movement still. Except, it is the movement. Still. It is the movement of God projected through the rusted mirror, flesh. The flesh that has found its honing frequency in its path to death. Still enough to reflect something. Broken enough to find the true angle.

Respectability steals men’s souls. To appear as a certain thing to those other mirrors - who do you reflect but the nature of each other(?), which itself is a spiraling cataclysm. Void the documents. You are not your own. You are animate by some spirit. Subject to the momentum spurred by the causeless cause. All things started with and came from simplicity.

I mourn the loss of loved ones to respectability, to stability.

Losing their heart to reflect the reflections of the rusted.

I do this. I do this when I worry about where I will lay my head tomorrow. When I tell others of my adventures. When I pretend I am unlike all other men to live. When I tell stories as a priest rather than as a slave. I am the same. I am motion.

Deep in prayer and loss I love the other. Deeply then I'm able to love and see truly - as through the fog, blades of truth stabbing through, all else melting, gray, & wet.

My beautiful new friend, lost in shared flow, responded to my question "who do you think Jesus is?" after a long pause. He said "He is" and we locked eyes for 2 minutes. That morning we leapfrogged the sun. I see in Christ the grand metaphor. The lost heart. The beginnings and ends of man. He is magnificent and bright shining most definitely. My other loving friend said he cannot unsee Christ's spirit provoking billions still. The heart and idea of a man.

I wish to explore with these friends more. When we talk, we do not talk to each other. We talk to the universe - and it is delighted in our words. Our conversations drip gold - the kind that is worthless to man. Common dirt. I am caked in mud now. Salty tears, ground dry bones, and that fullness. It was not because of him. It is not because of me.

The cause is itself. I am. He is. We are. It all is.

That was beautiful and I was fully there for it.

Woo'd by God, wrapped in comfort.

These are the places I wish I could meet everyone, but I am so weak. Ironically, that is where He is. And so I must be weak always.

Grateful... So utterly grateful. To rise and fall each day. Tides of wakefulness coming in, out, in, out. Emotion fluttering and changing. The daily will faltering and seizing up. God do I love this being! This way of being! Being itself!

Back to the origin idea.

One must be dependable to carry weight, but rebuke the demon consistency. You are not who you were yesterday, so do not pretend to be! Let loose and allow the flowing. How good life is when undisturbed. I mean this how a dam disturbs a river while a boulder looses a river. One gives form, one takes form.

Fluttering heart, allow the enchantment of the nectar, but do not indulge to intoxication so as to reduce your sensibility. The innermost sensibility requires slavery, pain, and torture. It must be protected and nurtured. Death makes the soil fertile. Our first task - care for the garden.