“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Leala blinked her eyes and opened them again, fully expecting to find him standing there. But that wasn't to be so. She saw only the bleary vapor left in his stead. What she felt was the choking sensation of powerful emotion - emotion she could have found no definition for.
The City of Pearls was just ahead by about a two day's travel. She now wondered if, without Sedrick, the trek was still warranted. She looked down at Teo, half expecting him to provide the answer to her silent inquest.
One self tends to only report. "Here are the facts. Here is the data" A second self exists only within sensation. She wishes the first self to report, But she has no words for the facts. The third self observes the interaction. But this is all an exaggeration. Because we are all one in the same.
He was not accustomed to listening to voices even from personages clearly and distinctly present and palpable. Certainly not to those that came in almost musical sounding wisps or from such an entity as the one now before him. He could barely comprehend what he was seeing, let alone reconcile the solidity of what he saw with the almost liquid nature of the articulations. The sudden distinction between what he'd thus far known with certainty and what he now recognized as something far more absolute was a disorienting one. And yet the actual thoughts attached to this profound antithesis flashed past his consciousness so quickly that one might hesitate to call them thoughts at all.
Not listening to voices was a habit Sedrick had formed long ago. A time that, should he pause to consider it, would seem more mirage than material experience. A spirit of insurrection, one might say, that he would both acknowledge and deny, even within himself.
Yet Leala had heard. It was evident from the slight smile he watched form on her lips, as if the words were, for her, a kind of secret and delightful acknowledgement - something recognizable - while her gaze remained fixed on The One standing, at last, in their presence.
Also noted was the fact that her constant companion had ceased his usual antics and, quite out of character, now lay in relaxed respite at her feet, as if these enigmatic events had provided what Sedrick considered a long overdue calmness in the puckish little creature.
The bells of heaven ring To wild and beckoned souls As one would kneel At the mere sound Amply passing through ears And inward Where the true hearing is
Of joy that rips the heart And ragged renders it Like deeply shaded night Dipped in ink, specked with gold, As swirls of ripe perfumes Of olive, of myrrh, of bay It moves in shapes of ponies bright And leaping dogs and riders
Anwyn was the kind of place that would leave anyone who wasn't a native with the firm belief that they'd fallen into a strange and provocative dream. The colors alone would be enough to induce a sense of gratifying bewilderment.
Sedrick took no notice of such peculiarities however. It was part of his known world and something he gave little consideration to - unmindful of, what for us, would be the glaringly obvious nonconformity to the kind of natural phenomenon we're familiar with and all too often take for granted.
In Anwyn, one could easily be lost in the rapturous views and sights never before seen. Yet, that could be a disastrous mistake. To remain so blissfully gathered up in the greenish glow of the sky or the lavender paleness of the leaves, hanging like droplets from the crimson branches, one might fail to notice the lurking essence of deviltry known to most inhabitants as Brume.
This was not so with Sedrick. He had learned early on, as do all wise Anwynians, that to remain unaware for too long of one's surroundings, can have calamitous consequences.
Just the other day, I was looking for myself again Trying to put back all the pieces, back to the way they were Sometimes it’s not so easy, when you have so many voices tell you what to do I think I’ve got it now, but I can’t be too sure
Far away as I shoot across the sky Far away to the corners of my mind Sooner or later it will slowly come back to me
If I could build a spaceship Would you fly away with me, or would you stay? A million miles an hour Flying circles as we orbit round the earth If I stuck my head out the window, do you think it’d clear my head or would it burst? I guess it’s all the same, but at least it wouldn’t hurt
Far away as I shoot across the sky Far away to the corners of my mind
And the voices in my head I think they’ve finally gone away Far away (far away) Far away (far away) Sooner or later they will slowly come back to me
We are prisoners of our false perceptions. Held behind bars, not of steel but of our own making.
With the expectation of sensory evidence we remain closed off from those things that would otherwise enable us to stroll through stardust and swim to bottomless blue depths.
That which we imagine is not mere imagination, but rather a memory of that place from which we've come and will some day return.
Let us not be prisoners. Rather let us step through walls and railings.
Lyrics: Has our conscience shown? Has the sweet breeze blown? Has all the kindness gone? Hope still lingers on I drink myself of newfound pity Sitting alone in New York City And I don't know why
Are we listening To hymns of offering? Have we eyes to see That love is gathering? All the words that I've been reading Have now started the act of bleeding Into one...into one...
So I walk up on high And I step to the edge To see my world below And I laugh at myself While the tears roll down 'Cause it's the world I know Oh it's the world I know
I drink myself of newfound pity Sitting alone in New York City And I don't know why..don't know why...
So I walk up on high And I step to the edge To see my world below And I laugh at myself While the tears roll down 'Cause it's the world I know Oh it's the world I know
So I walk up on high And I step to the edge To see my world belo And I laugh at myself While the tears roll down 'Cause it's the world I know Oh it's the world I know --------------------------- Now I want to comment on something:
I was thinking this morning, back to summer vacation, and how I have a kind of hankering to go back to Zuzu's Petals Rock Shop in Helen Ga. The place gave me a nice feeling when we were there.
Something about that place. Just can't quite figure out what it is, other than to say there's a happy feeling to it. Maybe it's just me and the way I perceive and experience things, or maybe it's the lady who runs the shop or all those nice stones and gems and cyrstals. Or perhaps, it's the combination of those things. Whichever the case, I like the vibes. There's something there that I, personally, experience as a little more magical than just rocks. Backlinks - ZuZu's Petals: July 6, 2010
Smooth roots select ...and careful washed Yet not to cut ...or sweetness lost Til tender boiled ...a half hour's cost Then sliced to taste ...with butter tossed
---------------------------------- Speaking of red things.... here's a little tune from way back when. It always makes me smile. "Crimson & Clover" Tommy James and the Shondells
Name me thy immortal soul, And I shall declare I am more than myself. Be there any solid form to claim? A word by which I am known? It is you - The origin of my thoughts, The drum and the flute By which my heart keeps time In this dancing mystery. I shall resolve no more To give meaning to myself. 'tis a futile endeavor. If from you I was taken, Only by you might I be defined. If in you I am created, Only by you am I named or given purpose. Name me thy immortal soul, That I may become more than myself.
[Inspired by the story of Zoroaster and Ardouizur, as presented in "From Sphinx to Christ" by Edouard Schure'; Book IV; Manifestations of the Solar World] From Sphinx to Christ is the engrossing story of the eternal search for knowledge of our origin, evolution, and destiny as spiritual beings. Edouard Schure lucidly and masterfully traces the course of this quest from the primordial wisdom expressed in the Riddle of the Sphinx; through the legends of antediluvian civilizations and the traditions of India, Persia, Babylon, Egypt, and classical Greece; to the pivotal figure of Christ, who renews ancient mysteries and embodies new ones for the continuing development of humanity.
The beauty of the beloved awaits in the charmed stillness and knowledge of his promise. For all it's disappointments and trials, hope shall not be dissolved. For it was sown by the spirit which breathed even before the lungs were shaped. As we move in this limited form, amidst the few grand things of earth, he ceaselessly provides us that taste of a mercy and a grace by which all tears will end and youth be restored and stretched in infinite circles.
The soul does beseech him, as surely as with clasped hands or tightened eye on bended knee. Though there is no need for such things. He has heard his children. The promise, still distant, is brought to our remembrance in visions and stirrings that, while unmeasured, are exacted according to all good purposes. Glimpses of splendor magnified a thousand times. We alone, who are his, will hear his assurance - the eternal promise.
Pink clouds roll past. The sun is in the distance. Pines stand tall, with bottlebrush arms, and my thoughts sway with them. Planes blink their passing, and beg my curiosity. "He is by the sea" they say, "We will take you there." Salt droplets drift sideways, spashing their arrival on my face and washing clean the day that is now almost over.
