First you don’t see
this light within,
you intend it.
You make word flesh.
_______RS
[ Image : I came upon this image within the past week or so, but cannot for gold, frankincense or myrrh recall where. If you’ve seen the source kindly tell me so I can acknowledge the creator. ] (link)
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I heard that story, a month ago, about some radio station in Ohio or somewhere proclaiming they’d banned any further airplay of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” due to its supposedly Neanderthal take on #me-too morays. Don’t really like the song that much, but my gut reaction was to organize a marathon podcast featuring every cover of the song I could find. Then a dream came a few nights later, resolving the matter in a different direction. Adapted below… it takes place probably somewhere in the mid 2030s.
My solo evening meal at one of Leonard Cohen’s favorite haunts. Perhaps the main reason why I came was to figure out why I came…
[ Parc du Portugal, in the evening ; Leonard Cohen as an almost-young upstart, from his first album cover circa 1968 ; Moishe’s Rumanian ambience ; Leonard Cohen as an old upstart, performing in London to wide acclaim, aged 75. ]
A strange and blessed thing: that we can assess our own existence! Therein lies the portal to divinity, the exposing of Darwin’s mistake. For all Consequential lies are but half-truths, concealed.
have you noticed it too
yet?
How did Atlantis’ Fall, and the prospects of a strange new future civilization to the east, manifest to ones awake near the end?
These lines made me write them early last Christmas morning, while still half asleep in bed… they still seem entirely relevant and quite difficult to improve upon, so I offer them again this holiday season, having added only exactly one word. Warmest hopes and thanks to all readers. 🙂
It is the question you cannot ask which matters
The axiom you must never scutinize
In centuries recently past, but not before men’s memory, deeply haunting and evocative calls echoed over valleys between adjacent hills, under the wing of night in the rural countryside of central Slovakia. The shepherds who loosed these sounds, it is told, communicated observations about wolves numbers and directions to others of their trade. Sometimes five kilometers their informative melodies would traverse. And an art form grew from this, the shepherd musicians soothing one another and flocks alike in the loneliness of the dark central European nights. Whether this legend was ‘true’ no long mattered to me when first I came across it; I knew I had to go there.
[ 3 fujarists under a crystal sky ; Details of traditional fujara decorative carvings ; Young musician integrating an alto fujara into her performance art ; Dushan Holik, selling his musical wares ]
