Saturday, November 5, 2011

Apocalyptic Copout

Moses was a traveller at heart. Hence, one is haunted by shoes, by sandals. This far and no further. Ashes caught by the wind lift like little flowers and the voice becomes a whisper that cautions against transition.

We are - with God - a singular brutal economy. One continues long after the sun rises, until at last there is nowhere left to go. Jesus instructs us on the true meaning of justice, the radical forgiveness that necessarily underlies love. Why don't you ever write me?

Yesterday in a dream I saw you holding a baby and gazing at the sea. God cannot be seen and we cannot really be reborn. Yet some concession seems to occur, some union is readily perceived. We move towards a final undertaking, bent on grace, despite the evidence against it (against us).

Meditation is an apocalyptic copout. All bane and never a boon. Let us think, then, about one might exist between old and new testaments, without actually bridging them. You who worship the back of your hand, whose shoes are the marvel of family and friend, what exactly do you want from the silence that necessarily greets all pleading?

The earth shall be darkened on an otherwise clear day and the righteous shall have on hand candles to which the rest of us might cling. Here comes the devil's train, long and black, screaming down the bloody rails. We are compelled to follow particular ends under the guise of free will. The mortal self stumbles, the unseen other watches, the heart (as always) hums a plaintive little tune.

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