If there is a perfection
of the hidden self

then self hidden is perfect
and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection.

For self to be self
which is to come to its perfection 
self must yet be turned out into the world.

Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller. 
It is said that the self will re-shod your horse. 

Leave it by the smithy overnight
no payment
just an appropriate gift.



Self to self giving. 
Self to self given over

the wandering, turning self out
from the hidden to the open 

road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect
tattered paths of the simply sought.

The perfection of the hidden self
which is hidden therefore perfect
cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.


The wreckage of destabilised tribes.
Stones in the dell.
These stubborn dreams still trip us up.

The self in the world is ever an imperfection;

the scruffy re-run
the back and forth vulnerable
made available, made safe, made and unmade.



.

.

.

The simple line to be walked as nous.

The knowing line to be walked simply.

The walking line, simply.

The walking nous, simple line.

What is the abyss but nothing?

At the end of the line; the drop

:
:

.

The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.

Woe to the one’s who bring harm to these little ones; better a millstone be tied around their neck and they be thrown into the abyssal depths.

Here is the millstone.

Here is the void and the weight worn by all.

Even so, even so; a smallness will grant access through this hole. Wriggle through and drag through, you bring an immensity of light into this dead depth.

A simple line. A knitted together line. An energetic transforming line, neither nous nor knowing, and not not knowing. Ours is the cold seep community. Ours is the broken open mantle, a steaming vent of fecund mineral.



One fable after another

dropped into the vessel, displacing the flow so that we may sup of that flow. And drinking thus, fables are uttered

one fable after another, dropped into the deep.

Well the deepness; eating from the water table we discover it is not level.

Where is the opening moment that allows allows? A cup placed on the water table is forced to become a boat, floating downstream. The bowl in this boat is a force, a flowing through which sees all the soup escaping. The cup and the bowl and the ship and the cave, the declivity of all this is buried until rocks are dropped into their hollows.

I am tired and so tired and it as if a great importance were put upon me. The energy I take to put it in the cave is enormous. To create the cave also, an aeon of digging, tiring and tiring, I wonder of the allowing and the allowing.

What is “it” in this cave? (And.) Where did I put the cave? (And.) Can such pits be easily lost? 

The cave is related to the well and the well is related to the vessel and once the vessel chooses to stand on its head so we can see the kinship between vessel and balloon.

Rock related to water, fire related to air. Air breathes in rock, water runs within flame.

What did they do to Isope? 

He told a story. The story of a burning door and the story of rocks which break themselves open and the story of the flow rising to kiss freely and deeply of this breath which has hidden at the bottom of you lungs.

“Run him off the cliff!” They shout crux and defenestrate; the ugly man has stolen a chalice. This cup in my bag? I thought it was a story you wanted, how can you hear any story without first drinking deeply? How can you drink deeply if you do not first hold a cup? You say this cup is the chalice, and you say life is brimming over of it. Surely the life of such waters are but a story, unless and until they are drunk thereof.

So this is how annoying authors are dwelt with, and the Isope of this fable lived before the term author ever truly existed. Perhaps the term author only came about as he was suicided off a cliff? (Yes, he must have slipped, and these creative types are always so, pardon the pun, “jumpy”.)



In the fable the conclusion is always allowed and only allowed. The conclusion is open.


In the crafted tale the task is to extract a simple shape from the multitudinous plenty of the real; fables are therefore akin to choreography.

The dance is extracting a shape in order to slot it again another.

Another to another, shapes slot into shapes, and these animated otherings are shape of the real. Rock water fire and air; shape to shape, shape from shape reeling over a consciousness we sometimes call a page or sometimes call a stage.

Dancing across the page: alphaalphaalphabet………..

Be a detail, dare the chance, caress exulting free existence:

Reality is the alchemy of expectation.

The alphabet is the scoundrel’s last resort.

All poets are scoundrels.



Transcribed liberty

this.

Such bold belonging to the transcription.

This writing all along reveals a series of words.

These words accumulate toward a description of longing.

Our description here is obviously desiring the transcendence of the script.

Obvious desiring, so we shred this and instead we seek the invention of lucidity.

There is a pearl in the sun.

The pearl is placed at the bottom of the lobster pot. 

This creel is woven of winds, circular and furious winds that contain a brilliance at their base.


Our crustacean enters into the trap, it is about to invent lucidity.

The pearl in the sun has become architecture.

It seems impossible that architecture will rue this day.

Will architecture turn in shame and encase itself in a lustrous crust of beauty?



This seems impossible because we cannot describe architecture as that which will return to the sun.

Here is our clearness narrowed down to a walk between colonnades. 

The long exchange of light and shade within the columns.

Along the roof, around the guttering, angry animations creak and grimace.

Kingdom, carelessly given
Just thinking about the circumstances of this poem’s writing and I look back at the journal from which it arises: This poem was written three years ago, to the day – on the 22nd – and this is the day you asked about it. 


I was in the middle of a depressive illness and had taken myself off to a monastery in search of silence and a hope of healing. My counsellor was off sick so I was ploughing through the options! I figured a monastery would provide order, regularity, generosity, and peace. There is another story herein of how a person can easily evade all these qualities in all circumstances.



On the feast of Mary of Magdela (22nd) a little piece of nature grabbed me and pulled me into its mystery. The poem comes from my poor attempt to try and whittle some sense from that moment of being overwhelmed in a generosity of beauty, nature, silence and song, and in particular, it seems to me now, the balance which was given.

Given in the sense of seeing how such qualities are always available and yet the aptness of a moment for receiving is not always allowed.

Allowing or not allowing is the yea and nay wrangling of ones own persona, most of the time. The persona gets constructed in relation to others, in relationships, and in history, but then the present relationship to the present moment always belongs only to ones own being in that moment.

To be depressed, it seems to me, is to be very out of kilter with the responsibility of how one stands within that balance between the built persona and the present moment. It is never a stable stance, even in the so-called healthy. Doubtless there is a good argument for the positive imbalance and turbulence of the present moment stance. One flows with flow, which is never stable, and yet is an actualisation of balance.

So that line you asked about: fine combed par.

I did not arrive at it after long intellectualising. I write very much from sounds. But to me now the sound of the line is the beating of wing, the feather combing the air, the parting and parity flexing so the bird flows in its flight, balanced between elements.

A quote from the journal:

Man must give back spirit to the stones, reveal the living nature of stones, in order to free himself from their stony oppressive power. There is a heavy layer of dead stone in man, and there is no other way of escaping from it than by liberating the stone itself.

I had found a book about Nicholas Berdyaev …



I wrote in the journal:

God’s freedom enters directly into the not-free, God unites Beingless Being, before time, into our temporal being. This is incarnation: freedom moving through every prison and trap so as to set those antithetical poles in direct and dynamic relationship. The result is always liberation and at each moment a greater liberation until the word “liberation” becomes meaningless for there is a new heaven and a new earth.

and:

A line from the Nicolas Berdyaev book made me get off the bench and wander around the garden muttering “Fuck!”

The new man must accept his vocation and assume his creative responsibility.

I wrote the poem shortly after this incident. In the beauty of the surrounds, in the presence of the doubtlessly alive and not doubting birds. And yet even so, in the “is” of nature, its unfazed given being still manages to present consciousness with anagrams, clues, callings, jokes, and rumours of yet greater song.
They tickle and turn and ripple and yearn

a love tussle of freedom.

There is also a sexual abandonment going on. Seeds disperse excessively. Some birds literally fly over whole continents in order to mate.
… and run their wild kingdom

on wind
leaves, seeds, wings.

This flying and floating is both wilful surrender and reckless abandonment;
treasured daring.


The love making;

come into russet love
a great earthen moan…

begins to build to something greater than any individual creature. Even the species survival is subordinated to an entirety of movement. The love making is someone waking up and realising they are not depressed, it is the fertility of the planet which will fecundate in every given possibility and will of its rich fecundity continue to give every possibility, despite all the ugly and crazy enacted in the midst of our stone dead trauma.



Kingdom, carelessly given
They tickle and turn and ripple and yearn
a love tussle of freedom.
To be bound, to fly… Shhh:
Suspiration and gyration to
flee from limb and run their wild kingdom
on wind
leaves, seeds, wings.
The goldfinches flow between trees.
A ruby drop, treasured daring.
A raven’s firm downbeat: Swish.
Feather combing fine par, curling a sigh
come into russet love
a great earthen moan, so grand as to seem
carelessly given.

Other energy

ordering shape and other awareness of this

locked into point of other time.

This is locked. Ours is a hope for upmining. Upmining is also known as breathing.

This bound moment is unlocked, a mass weighted and yet received. Weight also may be an unlocked moment
in time.

The lock and the unlocked in time are neither a lock nor ever unlocked.

There is the found ocean below us, ringwoodite, resonating evidence that water came from within…

Sweetmeat, our inner ocean is literal and a speaking of the psyche and so so the planet is a cake of fire / water / earth / air.


The high water storage capacity of minerals in Earth’s mantle transition zone implies the possibility of a deep H2O reservoir. 

Already there are plans for Fracking an ocean. Draining the subterranean: let us agree before it starts, this will kill us all.



Escape

The opposite of escape is freedom.

Stone
Hidden in the rock there is all that negates the occult.
Rocks always reveal themselves.
“Nothing has been created as Ultima Materia – in its final state. Everything is at first created in its Prima Materia, its Original Stuff […] for alchemy means: to carry to its end something that has not yet been completed.”
“Decay is the beginning of all birth…” (Paracelsus. 1493 – 1541.)
And so, in the fixity of stone there is the absolute fluidity of a universe whose nature, as the Absolute, will not be absolutely fixed.

Original first published in Inventory: losing, finding, collecting. Vol.2 No.3 1997