I was trying to represent an angel. I ended up tearing up napkins to create her. It represents all the people I have meet that are on the autism spectrum.
You came to me in distant dream, trumped out in your making, meandering through the causeway of ever more. I saw you there, and starlight shifted, beckoning me forward in the routine fashion made of man; and yet, as dove undone, you vanished in the skylight regions of my mind, as I sat vanquished by your doings, with eyes that danced as merry men alive, bending to the stardust ripened, harvesting the dew, listening to the avenger’s touch caressing vapor skin.
I seasoned, say ripened, in this hallowed out space deemed mine, situated between the burly blade and the spearing spine, tingled and tantalized by the mistress named me. I came to her desperate, in search, in want, determined to sever out her remains, to section what she’d become into distinguishable identifiable sectors.
And there I stood, as daffodil unopened, marrow-filled rapture segregating self in want of rescue. I listened to the voices of unknown trekking past my soul, forgetting my presence, erasing my cause. I became abandoned again and again, wrapped round the corners of my own doing, laughing at the shadowed self as another set near, raven to the blind man, pecking at the wounds I’d left behind.
How I’d wished to be seen. To be scooped up and caressed. To be harness against the strength of a million upon a million, and set free from the prison of endless self. How I wished over and over for the rupture of tangled substance, to disassemble and be brought back as something recognizable and just.
There I bathed, in the dismal garden dying, created of my own suffering woes. Dripping of blood-let talismans—signs, symbols, flashing tales of what was naught. I gave up then, beneath the gravestone I’d erected. Eradicated the beginnings with the end, and brought to life the newness reborn.
The failing called out. The failing caved in. I curled in submission, the babe to the tender yoke of my very own soul. Evicted, I was, in the terrible eternal voice of self, seizing the days and bringing back to the torturous home deemed hell. There I was, forlorn, forgotten, dedicated to the bleak and black, bathed in the destitute, naked in the face of what could only be the devil’s own foe turned sour.
Mocking, haunting, grinding, leaving, coming and abandoning once, twice, and ten times more, I was there. Yes, I was there. And in the ways the memory grows old, my soul grew sightless. What appeared once before as hope, now faded in the background, as clovers do in an expansive field blurring into green; a tender turtle belly up to the singe of a penetrating light field, named death.
And I remained, there, in the twilight of my spirit, inching through—worm through core and back to the depths of suffocating dirt. Shifted and sifted, brought forth as a burden undone, fertilized through the tunneling of causation. Circumvented once more and made flesh. I came out scathed, peeled and pinched into a version unrecognizable. And rested there along the curbside in an unfamiliar way, until you came once more, grazing towards my cause. The champion of the sun bride nestling between your legs, the virgin dough I be.
Heated, I bled out the blue I knew, and emerged risen thrice in fashion, braided bread for the masses. And it came then, in gentle knowing, this voice of unreasonable kindness venturing into the platitudes once known as this vessel me. And I cried, aching for the place she’d once been, the face she’d once had, and anchored in the vestige brought to center stage.
I called for her, pleaded for her, to return, though her battered bones now rest beside the cave dweller’s refuge. And thusly I sat, huddled in between the shadow I’d been and the canvas I’d become—chiseled remains here and scattered light there. And nestled I wept, pinpointed in the extended space, in the lap of plenitude, graced in the end gone and the beginning once more returned, tracing the furrowed path of fear, with fingers made chariot wheels, merging into the human reformed. And I danced there, within my vast becoming, twirling into the daylight, set loose into the wild woman’s psalm.
The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.
He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’
He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.
He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.
He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.
The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.
He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.
He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.
He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.
He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.
He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.
He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.
He erects flags of righteousness in his name.
He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.
He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.
He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.
He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.
His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.
He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.
He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.
He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.
He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.
He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.
His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.
He nourishes them with lies—his own.
He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.
They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.
Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.
Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.
To give only to give, without expectation, without gain, without bursts of ego-gratification. To give without proclaiming, sharing, and classifying one self as giver. To just give, and know that in the cornerstone of heart, whatever ripple comes in return, is merely more energy set into reserve for future gifts. ~ Sam Craft
We are riding a wave of a collective unconsciousness that predicates actions, reactions, opinions, likes and interests, as well as disinterest. It’s mediocrity made insane, and semi-tamed.
I can’t help but see this all around me, from the fashion trends, to hairstyles, to the modern music craves, to the buildings erect and idolized. Divine design is all about; and yet we cling onto that which is perceived as the collective norm and acceptability.
Digging deep into the psyche, this pattern of behavior all comes down to the desire to be accepted and assimilated, even at its assumed worse; none is left untouched. Even the so-deemed ‘reject’ or dark sheep is masked himself, surely to be absorbed by another sort. If not the masses, then the anti-masses: the secluded seduction of isolation.
To be evaporated into the state of ‘not being’ in hopes of instilling a cloak to shield self from the chaos of being. Still this shield, self-made and created for the primary purpose of protection, serves as the resistance of what is not real. And the more one opposes a force, substantial or not in it’s reckoning, the more the force that is objectified grows.
In this way, the very act of retaliating against that which is perceived as wrong, or even ‘evil’, substantiates the existence of such force, and erects it as formidable in making. And more so, the process of chastising and banishing, even pretending the existence out of view, is equally detrimental—as the energy required to dismiss something from the mind, again substantiates the value of such.
Predetermination in and of itself seems to procreate and bring into existence what is naught. That is to say that the act of accepting something as so gives the mind’s creation power. The abstract made whole. The nothing becoming something from mere effort of mind.
The more one focuses on the abstract, the more the collective eradicates nothing into something. Whether this be judged or labeled as ‘good’ or ‘evil’ in theory makes no difference. For whatever is countered, in so countering the opposite thusly grows. In so being: if ‘good’ is countered, evil grows, but good also grows in equal measure. For the act of resistance, or the force of undoing, both equally grow that which is of primary focus.
And whose mind is to choose which energy is pushed towards the one, if not the other? Therefore if I focus on the sun—the light—the glimmer of whatever one chooses to associate with the source—I also, in equal measure, focus on that which is without the light. For to have light I must have dark.
To proclaim something is good, I must establish across the scale of justice that which is un-good. To have the un-good I must create and establish rules and boundaries. I must become judge. I must have basic standards. I must start somewhere. Or so it seems.
When in actuality, I am starting not. Instead, I am as climber on the mountain peak digging down into the depths and cores of endlessness, crumbling self and existing selves that linger about. I am tearing apart my essence from the inside out in effort to eradicate that which has been established is not enough and not ‘good.’
In this manner, I am my own avalanche. I am my elemental cause excavating below in hopes of bringing up that which is tarnished—the root explanation—the growth—the cancerous vector in which truth, once established, has been attacked and need surrender.
In unmasking a truth that is neither buried or alive, in seeking to find that cause that I believe is the unmarked burial ground of chaos, I render into exactness the very thing in which I wish to expose. I become that which is my enemy, in thinking my enemy is. I become that which is terror, in believing terror reigns. I buy into the acts upon acts that in turn render treason upon my soul.
I bleed out my beggar’s mentality in the very utterance of non-equivalent. In staking claim, the spot in which the flag bears my name and flies in high-wind is the same mound of nonexistent land that becomes my territorial truth. That which I proclaim as full enemy I proclaim as my reality. For whatever the opposite of enemy becomes, there in the act of proclaiming, becomes, too, my life-blood, that which in some variant degree, though at times almost invisible, I worship.
Tis truth, then, that in being, in thinking, in existing, I am forced to form sides, to single-out camps: those that are unbearable to the mind, body, and soul; and those that are acceptable, and often deemed desirable.
In order to set my mind apart from this useless game of mousetrap, I must first scoop out that which is the bait, the essence that captures first my appetite and then manifests my fears. For if I am deeming something desirable and in wanting, in exactness, still, I am deeming another undesirable and unwanted.
That which I shun gives power to that which I crave. In the same measure, that which I long for in dream-state gives recall to that which I dread. The unbearable stakes are set; and life becomes not of pleasure-seeking quest, though the game is curtained as so; instead, my daily burden becomes that to which I seek naught and find naught eternally.
This becomes that which I claim as real. And the real feeds off as stinging nettle to skin, lingering in pain-stricken cause with reminders of escape. The mind becomes the battleground, as in action; it begins as slave to sort out the mind’s cause. The it becoming the enemy of the it, when both were deemed innocent.
How this is, is. And how this is not, is not. And those that linger in this place of knowing, in their act of lingering, substantiate the facts furthermore, building a wall between that dark and light that serves as the landmark from deep space, indication that the war has begun. And the more the battle is spun, the more victims that are laid down in erect fashion. Standing as phantom ghosts as the shadows sleep in the ground that burgeons, spun from the fertilizer of demented abstractions of formed reality.
Here is where I walk, in the weeping hours, footprint after footprint, marking my territory as mine. When all the while the burial grounds seep blood from the sleeping masses of a thousand centuries.
I am that scaffold—I am the one standing on the scaffold—and I am the wall being scaffolded. I am the one being built upon, the substance being offered, and the one offering. Again, this trinity upon trinity.
My self is endless and to pinpoint an exactness is to remain stagnant, an impossibility in an ever-expanding and ever-imploding world.
You are the missing piece, and the missing answers, but in truth, I am the missing piece and answer; for you are merely a nearby reflection pointing the way back to the foundation formed—the sideway walls, and the vertical mass slathered in circumstance.
I do not want promises, nor predictions, nor even possibilities. Instead I long to be sheltered in a knowing that nothing will change still, even as everything tilts and spins about continuously.
I long to be held, as the nearby one turned into union, enveloped in a space of adoration, chosen, given and returned to the whole from which I came. Released into captivity, back to the cornerstone of faith, before reason and inquiry established doubt.
I can no longer stand on the platform broached, the planet that holds and teaches to rise again and again with each coming fall. I can only drift, the lost traveler found, and stand face-to-face with her own homecoming.
I am essentially alone, battling my way across a field of war with no soldiers, no weapons, and only the sound of the horn. And yet I am the horn. I am the sound carried through the empty space of nothing, and I am the ear in which the sound follows: a tail of faithful foe twirling round in loyalty—the hound come back to master.
Again, I wonder, and cast out all of everything, only to return more broken and forlorn, leaning upon my established perch of knowing, singing a song as bird gone wrong, trapped in the latitude of frozen sky. If ever there was a time for rejoicing the lost soul, it is now.
Though, even as I glide through in the darkest gown shredded, tumbling through imaginary ghosts and imaginary grounds, I feel alive. Torn open and let out. Free. My every soul-bone and soul-blood moves in irreplaceable manner. Reemerged into the grand merry-go-round—a child no longer asleep.
You are enough. Whomever tells you different is a bearer of falsehood. Whether this be an external voice or your own voice, or some demon spawn from an unclaimed territory. YOU are enough. And anything, anyone, or any substance that claims otherwise is disillusioned.
You are beautiful. Just the way you are. Exactly as you are. In all your deemed ‘imperfections.’ You are loved for the glory that is you, the exactness that is you, the precise measurement that bears your name. All of you is perfection. Every bit made divine in the light of love. Nothing about you is flawed, unworthy, or spun wrong. Your end result is marvelous and beautiful. Let none tell you otherwise, especially the trickery ways of the self.
You are lovely in all of your ways, every inch of you divinely graced. Your mind is superb, your soul ancient, your vision finer than the highest marksmen. You are centuries above what you think you be. Dynamically unfolded to reveal to the world an extreme orderly fashion of brilliance. Where you see chaos, lives divine opportunity to refine what is unmistakably not in need of repair, but in need of examination. Bring out that which is fear and disappointment, and share this truth with the world. In this way you will be free, and in turn, set your brother out of the cave of darkness.
You are fantastically loving. Your heart the deepest cavern spread out in what seems a stream of endless misery. You weep and weep once more. You counter yourself, your darkest inhabitants, the demons you have created. You venture where many dare not, into the crevices marked ‘unknown danger.’ You go there, with the brilliant light that is you, the spears of your heart making way for the encroaching dawn of blithe. You venture into the regions forgotten, and you face what many cannot dare behold. You become that which is your deepest nightmare, yet return victorious.
How can we not adore you, dear beloved? You are the earmark of gratitude and forgiveness, your heart pure and untouched by the demon spawn marked ‘certainty.’ You are vastly above that which you deem forbidden self. You are above that causation that leaves you spread out in hauntings and uncertainty.
Do not feign false-love as the false-sheep about. Drink in the glory set apart for you and you alone. Drink the blood that is thine own goodness and sweet delight. Celebrate the makings of the heart of untarnished golden victory. Drink, and take in that which is eternal flavored goodness. Seek not to proclaim the other, only trust in the pureness that pours through us, and into the sacred vessel named you.
Come through this yonder window, sure enough, your destiny laid out, say spread out, in endless gratitude. Can you not see you are as the perennial sunrise, lifting and falling again in the dynamic order, so granted upon you as blessed soul?
There isn’t time for this faltering now. Not now, not then, not ever; yet still you gather your wishes like tourniquet turner, twisting your own heart to stop the moving blood from shattering your form.
Can you not but still your starlit hope and causation and dodge the merrimaker’s scheme? Can you not sit in the silence of remembering and call us back to return from whence we came? Are we not far, as the dew drop is centuries away from the flower ceasing? Wherein the blooms themselves make way for the slivers of refreshment, forgetting without recall the source from which substance slipped?
Can you not stand witness to our eternal flame and call out to us, again and again, your voice a hallmark to the centurion that came before? Twice we have knocked, and twice thee have failed to answer; not from mistake or bewilderment, or even argument of unreason; twice you have failed because as the doorman asleep at the guard post, you have let the demon’s venom seep in. Grant him permission once more, and have it be the death of you.
We beseech you from the corridor of our hearts, merged and joined as one, why do you let him suffer you so, when all about the angels dance in delight from the victorious voice you have submitted to the masses upon hill? Can you not see us rejoicing in your glorious establishment, uplifted by you and you alone? Singled out in our celebration from the cause that is you—the result that is both here and there, and circling the eternity forevermore named: us.
I am not, as you are not, and still you press your pain against us, thinking the wall, hard and stealth and un-answering be. Truly, how could such agility exist, such detriment to the soul, to abandon that which is our very limb, our bloodline to what is called ‘the universe’? As wire, as twisted branch, as communication rendered, you are, and we move into you as quicksand to the land of empty, sucking in that which is corrupt and damaging, to bring forth what is merciful and pure.
Trust not the voice that haunts you with falsehoods and broken truth, that forbades you from your journey of love, that empties you in fashion better fit for a tyrant emperor than the speck of fairy gold you be. We dance, and dance, we do, for the sight of you. We call out to the night regions in answer to your daunting prayer-whisper.
Can you not know we are here, as always, still rested delicately at your side through your every move? There is no singular my love. There is no absence. There is no without. Always, always, always you are surrounded. And we carve you trice and trice more to remind you of the reunion of our souls.
There is nothing fonder than the resending of what was never set a drift. That which believes in separation is separate. That which embraces love’s abiding joy is increasingly set against the seams of spirit joined. You are that which is us. When you ache, we ache. When you care, we care. When you rejoice, we rejoice.
Do not dull the light which is us. Merely set the all upon the window sill of gratitude. Light the candle which is our forbearing, and breathe in the glory of our coming. Do not fear our gentle, gentle sweet child. Though you be lost in what seems a time warp of unhappenings. Gone again into the self you know not, to come out only the same as before, you are churning with the burning heart of Christ-love, and in you the victorious one rises in peace.
Seek not the answers outside, my dear abiding one; seek within, into the stillness of your heart. Behold your true value in the outpouring of our words. Did we not grant you refuge time and time again, from the life of child to the life of grown ancient one? And still you question our authority, as if we be dormant through all this span of space.
Again, we beseech you from the cornerstone of our very existence and being:
Please fear not child, for only fear breathes the dragon flame, all else remains beautified in a state of eternal uplifting peace.
Join us now in prayer, and submit to the light that is you. Sin no more with your punitive pensiveness claimed recourse from the punishment you alone proclaim. Come out of the shell of dodginess and self-righteousness. Justify yourself no further. Prove no more. Be no more. Only breathe in the eternal graces that we be.