You think you know what you want to say, but get out of the way. Creativity says something bigger than planned, always. It’s hiding to leap, crouching gargoyle crying beautiful night howl, the marvelous night! What love is this! How glimmering the comfort of shadows! Walk into my dark wings! Great black wings to spread over the heart of the dark earth and go chanting your praise, good Wild God, you who live in both shadows and light. You, who drink hidden light, hidden in darkness. From the moon, from the fertile earth rip rolling wet soul under changeling dark castle in the low place love chakra get the words out of from undermind where the real poetry lives. Bring on back to the everyday the true knowledge of what is. Make the dreams live, the ones indescribable –babble– because you want to stay there where the holy is. His arms will hold you. Now, deeper into the soul of the world. Land, boxes and tunnels of animal’s of earth, He needs you. I will not forsake you. Even there the Christ-love sleeps and wakes and takes his pleasure in falling and rising by the season of day, ruach breathe in and out. Christ–love isn’t worried about linear time. He’s down here already.
I used to write for approval. Now I write for the craft I know I am called to by The Beautiful One who makes the stars and the world. That’s makes in the present tense, I say. Always happening and we’re participating. It’s a big job, being human. Being animal or plant sure is too. It’s a rare gift to be one of these and not nothing at all.
I write for God who is the Beloved. To know the Beloved Creator in great affection and friendship is the most satisfying voyage. I think I feel what the tellers of the old bible stories felt when they wrote for God. They focused on the Beloved, and it was spontaneous, and that was the only that mattered. Divine inspiration is absolutely spontaneous, as is understanding. This is what makes ever disjointed the literalism of our time. Of written history. I call scripturing the putting together of free form thought for the love of the Holy. This is where great writing comes from. It is poverty to say there has been only a small set of absolute scriptures with the answers forever. Poverty! It is a dire poverty of the mind to be so absolute. We must mind the muses, holy spirits, tongues of fire in the poets today not so different from ages ago, from Isaiah. God, who does not fear compost, of tuning the shit we’re afraid of into soil and food to sustain us, you are most worthy of unshackled wonder. By writing the world we access the world larger than us, give it praise, meld with it. When I am in pain I know it is not my pain alone, but the world’s pain, and I do not carry it alone. So be a flower who is loved by the sun and does not worry about its own life, when it blossoms or when it dies. Flowers don’t get distracted by crazy heads like we humans. They’re always being as the Lord of Love made them to be, in their direction. It knows it will be back again. It knows it exists in the great belly of life who is its Beloved.
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