The harvest moon ascends into a roiling late-summer night
Cloud dragons delight in concealing her dreamy glow
The stars have gone
the sky is darker than a lost lover’s heart
The Wizard sets aside his hat, his coat and vest
Withdraws a wand from his vest
He addresses the darkness
A tone poem builds in his chest
His bare hands reach into the firmament
A sizzling electricity builds in the air
His weathered face does not crack when he smiles
(though there are those who might say it would)
His eyes are closed but there seems a dancing light
flashing behind his lids
He lifts his wand like a conductor
calling an orchestra to order
The howling winds flow through his fingers
Waiting for his domination or a moment’s inattention
Lightning fire fuses water and air
dragon laughter seeks to crush him
His laughter answers
Pelting rain bombards everything
adding staccato to the dark drum thunder-music
He weaves the night into a symphonic poem
All of a piece
A single continuous movement in maelstrom minor
Chords of discord collide and sizzle
Franz Liszt would have been proud
In the center of the tumult
Soaked to the bone
The Wizard cups his hands and gathers the turbulent waters
Lifts to to his lips . . .
Ferocious sable silk, the song of the storm flows
down his throat
Quenching a thirst
The cinnamon sky
The gentle brush-stroke, glowing ash clouds
A residuum of a fiery summer sun
A shooting star arching across the wispy vault
Quick, then gone
Was it real?
Did I imagine it?
A traveler moving above the horizon
Does it count double if the meteor cuts the twilight?
Did I even make a wish?
The silence of the coming night
says all that needs to be said
It is enough
The Magician has not left the beach, except to hunt for food. He stands and watches as the tide rises and ebbs. He waits in fear and grief. There are no echoes in the dark chambers of his heart.
There! In the shallows.
She fights for the surface. She fights to clear her lungs.
She bursts into the light, coughing and spitting.
He drags her to the beach. His tears baptize her.
She opens her eyes to a blue-sky world and in his chest, she hears . . .warmth.
Silence . . .Silence . . .Silence . . .Eternity.
Silence . . .In a silent place, in a dark place, Silence . . .Eternity.
Silence . . .Silence . . .Silence . . .Eternity.
Silence . . . In a distant place and within the silence . . .Something . . .Something . . .
Something breaks the Perfect Symmetry creating a place where something is, and another where something is not.
Resonant chords crash and build within this place somewhere beneath the Sea. Currents and kelp throb in sympathetic cadence, interweaving with long silk rags of silt.
Within the sound, a self is born, a unique self, Stripped of all identity empty of all the things we mistake for self. Devoid of all thought yet a unique and sustaining self.
And it hungers . . .hungers for Being.
Silt and seaweed snakes writhe within the mixture twisting back on themselves knotting into arms. Twisting into hands, into fingers. Fingers that feel.
The world feels so smooth and cool, and slick.
Abiding within the Law, a newly aware self quivers.
Clear fluids congeal, calcifying into a lens, now this . . . she sees.
Dreams ossify. Fragile, brittle, frail structures seem to self assemble. Building layer upon layer.
“I want . . .I want . . .I want to breathe.”
There is a Universal Wisdom written in every element of the Universe. For the purpose of this discussion let us adopt the term Lorois as a name for this Wisdom, with the understanding that this Wisdom has, is and will be called by any number of other names.
It is the Anthropic aspect of Lorois that is an expression of the Laws of Ten Dimensional Space/Time and Quantum Chromodynamics, for, the most incomprehensible attribute of the Universe is that the Universe is comprehensible. Within the Law is the description of the processes that creates opposites, opposites that mutually annihilate when they touch and within the same Law the Balance that holds them so, that they do not.
It is only in the holding of this Balance that this Universe continues. The protons in the nucleus of all atoms long to escape one another because of electrostatic repulsion. Yet the Strong nuclear force holds them in place and even when the electrons are in their zero energy state. They do not fall into the Protons despite their electrostatic predisposition to do so.
This Law of Balance dictates that for every Angel that is created, a Demon must be dealt with and both of these shall occur in every Human. And while one might think that they would mutually annihilate, sometimes they don’t.
The Pretender is falling to the depths. In her mind she is saying, “It’s never like this in the stories.
I am descending into the Depths, screaming in the Darkness.
At the threshold of this Nightmare I meet the Dragon big as the World, a thing of Darkness and Myth, a coiling of smoke and a river of razor, thousands of razor teeth, a Hunger that has eaten up all the World. A hunger that has eaten even itself until only the mouth and the Hunger remain.
I am here above the abyss. I run, but run as a woman run in dreams. It’s coming up behind me and I turn. I raise my weapons, and am cut to bits.
I am falling into the abyss, dissipating cloud of dissociated bits.
The Dragon was fragmented in the process of the struggle and the bits also fall, intermingling with bits of me.
The bits are sad they have lost control and can never be re-assembled.
The bits are settling in total darkness, there are no longer boundaries between self and other, the bits of dragon intermingling with the bits of what used to be me.
The roots of green things from the World of Light are burrowing down into this dark place rich with the debris of what used to be me. Root tips that touch the parts of what were formerly me, die.
I cannot nourish them.
There are worms burrowing through the muck lining the bottom of the abyss and when the worms eat the bits of me, they choke and die. The worms decompose and become muck and rot. The currents of the waters stir the muck, stir with torrential song . And where the songs touch the muck that used to be me, they die.
I am death incarnate and there should be great peace in this silence . . .”