Monday, 20 October 2014

Genesis

B’ereshit. In being begin. 

Being the letter “bet” there is a house, the housing of a divine embrace.  

In that embrace there is fire a-weaving its bright breath. 

A fire comes up from your belly, the first churning of this withdrawal from eternity. 

The generative action of time, withdrawing always; the is from is, the is is from is, the isiness isng issues from is.

Still, within the eternal beginning, still.

Is from is always moves toward eternity and there is its stillness.

Moved by the connective silence of “et”, aleph and tav (alpha and omega), the infinite action we term "towards" begins. As there was no time before "towards", this action has always begun: The loving, the creating, the going, and all towarding. The infinitely created resides in eternity and by and by, in time, we recognise Heavens and our Earth.


Bara; created. 

Who is, who was, and will be Always created, the generative fire is, belonging by right and in glory here, in the beginning. All other creation is but remembrance, a making of form.

Always is a name for the nameless; Always created. Is Always and Always Is. 
In All Ways you shall find, should you seek, and in All Ways you are sought.

Remember to make form.

An elongated forgetfulness, perhaps as a decorative tin twinkle of an idol. Remembering is not stopped in form, it is instead the return to the body, re-member, a making form of an aspect or type that speaks of and is the speaking of the Always. 

In the Beginning was the Word.
There is only this Word, Always, yet in time our towarding makes many words. 
Our sentences as a dusting. Our dust as a form of infinity. Our forms in infinity move toward the eternal. Our language need only breathe, and in breathing there, here, Always. Our Towarding language.

Our language is a play of shadows fallen from the flame of Word. 

Spoken light of Beginning
silence. 

Listen to this welcome. 
Silence silently full, a taste.

What is the weight of this tumescent absence?
Silence sometimes, it hums around the edges.

A creak? Groaning. Labours in the chest, buzzing between ears. 
Or (      ) sheeting wholly through to clouds and fields and the fullest stretch of this tiny body.
A lack which is a necessary balm in our chronically over-stimulated world. 
A lack which is.

Lacking, loosening, absenting; a means of releasing. Releasing or reseeding our busy verbal pressures that build and swarm and insist and press and yet can never be spoken properly into relationship.
Bold verbal pressure, quivering as if naked.

Nudity is infinite as we enter and re-enter every pore. Mere infinity is fascinating yet never satisfied. If satisfaction found then desire ends. The infinite without desire is finite, finished. 

How does a conversation go on and on without ever saying what needs to be said? 

Ah,
clever little pauses, 
in inflexed presumption of a pause; a wording noise disguised as quiet.  

Quiet now; for most of our communication is not verbal at all. This noisy body, gesture, stance, breath, eye contact... Eye disconnect… We crackle, we hum, we sizzle, we drip, cascade, and squirt. 

Technology is censorship of these complex details which ride in pheromone and musculature, and this narrowed language is hurried after as a preference

The stripped bare sense of fragmentation 
a minefield, 
a dismemberment 
of misunderstanding, which builds to sudden criminality. 
It was said it was said, and no matter how it was said.



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