Paris Letters #23

Photography: Jeff P. Elstone II

What is a year in the vast ocean of time? The year 2015 has been swept away, leaving its roses and its scars, it’s bullet holes and its monuments — but what are those but arbitrary markers? Will they not fade like old celluloid, into that vast ocean of celluloid.

Let us write outside of time, leave the events to newsmen. There is no real news anywhere in the world, there is only becoming. Sometime the world’s events enter these writings, protrude though these thoughts, but my aim is not commentary but transcendence. I’m on the network but of the network, not made or constructed or defined by technology or by apparitions or appendages. We are not any of our objects or stories — when that is understood, our biographies become some inventive. We work with fates not facts, we learn to love, even our undoing. Our extinction becomes our art.

Let us learn to extinguish ourselves. To leave behind the shells, the images, the the losses and victories of the last year. Let us learn to believe, less in the talking sophists, and more in the ravens voice. Let us be non-linear, let forge voices, which are true to being and not to the drift. Let us get not be caught in the ‘general culture’ which is a land of blood sucking octopuses, but speak instead from and to the beyond.

Further and moreover and henceforth any decision we make from that beyond, from the heart of hearts, is the right one; as any decision we make from mental anguish is the ‘wrong’ one. The arrow and the wing only go in one direction. Gaze tenderly behind you, and ride your metal horse into blazing blue suns. Don’t doubt your angel, even if she burns your retina with her gaze. It’s not about binary logic, morality, good and evil, knowing or ignorance — true justness is found directly in her instructions.

This doesn’t have to make sense. It’s the music that matters, not the notes, the tempo, or the beat. And it is the deep silent ocean from whence the music arose which is all and everything. And if a voice comes from that silence, you know its instruction is true; if it comes from the machinations of mind logic, you know that you have been lead astray. The more you listen to that silence, the more it reveals the resonant alive world to you. Not the world in its sundry displays, in its tragic history. But that word that has no history because it is everlasting. That world cannot be marked by years, but is marked by the justness of the melody and how much we gave away. Remember, our riches are, always, in what we give away.

My dear one, your wing folds into a dream, and you sleep there. The past has fallen from your eyes, and the world is just a dream of time in the timeless heavens. Gather your fallen monuments and make a bonfire. Everything is anew.

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