There is a fatality to the number 9. The end of the Cycle of Birth: O' Mother! O' dear, Sweet Whore of a Mother! Wouldst thou lay thy burden to teh Earth? (Swollen eyelids, crack open, ever so slightly. Hazy vision: like the atmosphere would bleed, seep into a wound, and regenerate the rush of blood in the veins. Dragged along behind the Beast, a bouncing baby boy, still attached. Cut the cord. Up is Down. White is Black. Life is Love, and Love is the Law, under the Will of the stars, every man and woman beholds, the supernova, a twinkle in the corner of their eyes.)
0 = paradox of "no thing" 1 = whole 2 = dual 3 = synthesis 4 = dual dual 5 = gross senses / (fingers or toes)/dual 6 = dual synthesis 7 = gross rainbow 8 = dual dual dual 9 = synthesis synthesis
"Why?" she asks. And so taken aback am I by the simplicity of the question, and by the fact that I had taken for granted that such a thing should be explained(a recurring fault of mine), that I am at the moment at a loss for an answer. I shall return, though, after a proper period of meditation, and, hopefully, do your inquisition the justice it is due.
It's an approximate number, but no mere coincidence, that a fetus fully developed is ready for Birth in 9 months. For Birth, the manifestation of the formulated, is an acute agony, a trauma of inevitability, to which Death is the eventual relief. And yet, far from lamenting Birth, I rejoice in it. I remember well, the birth of my own daughter. That physical Birth is no sight of Beauty, by Standard. No amount of euphamism can veil the naked horror of the physicality. And how much more for the woman, than the onlooker, to pass a mass of living matter through a canal far disproportionate in size? And yet when the cord was cut, the baby placed in her arms, she smiled. I cried, silently. When they layed my daughter in the first place of rest she would know, I placed my hand on her back, and my eyes could not ever have beheld such a wonder as that she was not much bigger than that hand, or felt such awe than the feeling of a heart, beating, and breath, flowing, beneath that hand. And yet, yes, it was fatal. Fatal, that this deed, of generation, and incarnation, which had been concieved in a bed of Lust, longed for with hearts of Love, had come to its end. And yet this end is a beginning. A beginning of her forgetting, veiling, that Holy Light, from which she was sprung, to undergo a series of changes, transformations, from which she will not survive, but that Holy Light will spring forth, eternally transcendant. And yet, by Virtue of this is she that Holy Light. As am I. As are you. As are we all. And all this is of the speaking of a Birth material, which is only the faintest of metaphors, for that undulating waveform of Spiritual Births and Deaths that is undergone in the living of that material Life. And what if some can retain, of that Holy Light, a continuity, or a memory, of sensation from its passings from one Life to another? What then has been created? The Buddha held that one could escape the cycle of Life and Death; that this was to be desired, that this cycle is a Memorial to Sorrow, a prison for that Light. Many other belief systems hold that there is something beyond it, something emanently better, for those who aspire to such; a heaven, if you will. And of course, a hell, for those who do not aspire in accord with a specific system. Ah, but of those who thrust themselves willingly into the cycle, knowing the consequences- knowing both the reward of escape and the punishment for failure, but caring for neither. What of them? What shall we way, of them? Fatally, here, words again fail me.
A Master sat in meditation by The Great Sea; A cry was heard from afar and slowly he arose. He searched for the source of the interruption and found one of his pupils, seething with fury. The Master replied: "Swine have eaten the pearls, you say. Butcher the swine. Retrieve the pearls. Then may we make dinner of the pearls, and necklaces from the gore of the swine." Obedient without question, the pupil rushed to his errand. Smiling, the Master returned to The Great Sea, wherein he did dive, to search for more oysters.
Seen through every pair of eyes: my self. No vision can be distorted enough. Evaluating any statement takes great care and fortitude, and demands an indefinite amount of time. Having piled statement upon statement infinitely, however, there is no time left for evaluation. Infinite, of course, ultimately meaning only: more than mind can percieve. Perhaps there is time, after all.
They are the Holy Sperm of the Holy Light... Nothing was ever made Holy by fear, by escaping, by refusal to love, by rejection, by denial, by separation. Love is always the answer. I feel sorry for the ones who distance and dissociate themselves from the living presence of the Is.
Ah. Love is just a word, a symbol, that is, that we use to try to give an answer to a question that is equally ambiguous. Too often we can't agree on it's meaning. But striving to define and clarify is important. Yet, some must do so by virtue of abstraction. Such a sublime paradox!
She stacks the blocks, one on top of the other. 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5. She knocks them down, and laughs, and I laugh too.
I hope soon to find a newer picture. This was at the turn of the year. I just felt it was appropriate to the piece.
Things of which One has an innate knowledge become, through experience (bittersweet) Things of which One has an Understanding. (and on a plane far-removed, I remember the quip about the dog, whence it had been given the power of speech: "The Thing! Look! The Thing! Come see the Thing!" or a more obscure pop culture reference: "Diggin' a hole, diggin' a hole, diggin' a hole...")
