The Dao ov thee Corn Broom

The lesser ritual ov sweeping clean a hall, embedded within is thee door to thee sacred…

Mexicolore

We all must perform this most mundane of actions. The sweep, sweep, sweeping over a wooden or tiled floor. It’s grunt work on grit levels, with high attention to detail and the demand for fine motor skills. Where lies the greater purpose of this sweeping out of the old? Hidden within and withot the action of the profane is a profound accesibility to the awesome. Owning a homestead (and a broom), has taught me the fine art of attention, ‘attoncez’, ‘attenciones’. Like the lyra bird in Aldous Huxleys island, it is the attention to attention. This common chore has become a ritual in itself for me and carries within it, the symbolic purifying of the mind. A sensational industry of the upper torso and forearms, married within the frame of meaningful self work. The sweeping itself becomes the Dao, and the Zen, but only if you are receptive to it, sensitive enough, feel it through, become the sweeper, the sweeping and the sweeped. Here’s how…

Thee mind clutters with myrk and chaos, like a film ov dust on the face ov a crystal left in thee desert. Bogged down with responsibility, and the dramatization ov thee soul, one becomes burden and unfree. There are dark corners ov the subconscious needing to be looked at and cleansed of their clutter. Sooty webs ov black, tangles ov torn hair from animals and humans, dead skin and flakes ov wood, the scum from the bottom ov the boots, and the ashes spilled from the hearth. It all amasses in pyramidal piles stashed away into the edges of the hall, the creases around the bed, the legs ov the chairs, and in the tassles ov rugs. You turn the light on it, and pick up the broom, thee same broom, yet always different, brushing against the bent corn stalk where it is stoutest, and will not brittle the edges. Commencing. In the far reaches of thee hall, in the roundhouse, or thee spare rooms, shirr, shirr, shirr…

Mind starts to experience the agitation ov the bristles, collecting smaller piles of dirt, into larger mounds, away from the hard to reach places of the consciousness and into the glow ov an amber light, gentle and accepting, the spine straight. No effort done in haste or gross expenditure, thee body becomes a super conductor of energy. Right Action, as the Buddhists would say. A lightment of soul takes over, shirr, shirr, shirr…

All rooms are opened, even too the Hallways of Always, an in-habitation ov occupation, wherein the ordinary crosses the liminal space into the extraordinary, but only if one feels it through, engages the simple, the easy, the needful work ov life. More detritus accumulates like flotsam and jetsam on the shores ov thee mind. Inside, the air starts to get a little clearer and the ambience brighter. Thee floor itself a more pleasant footfall for bare toes. Thee corn keeps a steady shurshuring across thee grains ov wood, over the cracks in the boards, under the tables and shelves, around the hall posts, directed in spiral fashioning into micro dunes ov dust and self. Spatial awareness of thee cosmic junk floating around in your subliminal thoughts are given a stout push out from thee temple of deep seated purity within.

Pagan witch wicca goddess | Magick, Eclectic witch, Pagan ...

Thee ego starts to dismantle from its bonds of identity, and the repetition ov movement whisks one into thee state of Dao, as the visualization ov so much dirt is swept off the cliff ov thee mind, leaving only empty space, from which comes the next inhale, and another sweep, another exhale, another sweep. The stress ov importance starts to dwindle and just is, only one action repeated until it is all finished. The broom becomes a special tool for transcending the chore of sweeping. The magical maiden seers ov old Scandinavia swept the ritual grounds ov litter and debris, for the enactment ov a liminal time within a space, where the traveler ov consciousness could enter. From which he/she exists in the evolving moment, and exits into the place from which they came, a more refined being, back from some subtle unknown to thee gross fields ov the identity.

On the other side ov thee wormhole is the cleaned floor, and a steady mind, cleansed of filth and noise. The smoke clears and the dust settles which is broomed into containers for their reduction. The fireplace opens, and the crud is burnt away in a flash, adding heat and light to the heart(h), or to thee forest, where organic matter is absolved by the earth. New eyes see from where the mind rests, vacuous, open, and neat. All surfaces in high definition, and the crystal ov consciousness gleaming with its new polish. Thee corn broom is set back in place, ready and waiting for its next use. One lives a little easier, barefoot with open lungs, the center ov gravity lingering in the core for some time.

Enmeshed within the simple, is the starkness of another way ov being, ready and willing…

Lunisolar Reckoning

Heill öll,
This full moon: Tiusto’s day; Black Frost moon or the moon of Þorri, was simply amazing. The shadowy woods, the bright, milk-silvery Máni shield, and the smear of gossamer clouds across the sky. It was an evening of shadow, halo, and flame, where arthritic trees danced in an entropic frenzy whilst the crisp air and misty-mouthed galdr of night animals rang and sang throughout the hills. The Old Man stirred within the stone of my heart, and an emanating ripple of the ride opened the horse-doors within the sky. A halo of the shadowed rainbow glowed ’round the bright eye of the moon.

Something I have never seen before in my 27 years in Midgard. Unfortunately my camera is not equipped to take adequate night photography, but this image is as close to what was observed above the land of these Northern Ontario forests. It is known as a ‘glory’ and surely the Gods were a bit closer to us this night.

A Rainbow Moon Over San Francisco - Far Out City

If/To The Unknown God

At the turning of the year, and the beginning of a new lunation, my soul is being transported through a ritual death and re-birth, of cleansing and renewal in a spiritual sacrifice on the Yew that holds all. From the trials and tribulations experienced in this :J:ear, to the dawn of a new one, I find myself waxing in thought, leading yet to another thought, and preparing for deed upon deed. I also find myself contemplating the poesy of the mead, and the strung wyrd stanzas voiced and written by minds before my own, particularly two from authors that have inspired me to higher states in my youth, and to this very day instill a wodened state of mind, and countenance that is remarkable to sit with. I wanted to share these words of wisdom from these two poets and thinkers, as they are motifs of the self in being and becoming, on the journey of man to become overman.

One of Nietzsche’s early poems, written when he was 20. The relevance to our path seems self-evident.

Mid-Month Meditation: “Nietzsche’s Unknown God ...
To the Unknown God

Once more, before I move on
and set my sights ahead,
I lift my hands up to you in isolation,
you to whom I flee,
to whom I, in the utmost depths of my heart,
solemnly consecrated altars
so that at any time
your voice may summon me again.

Deeply graved into those altars
glows the phrase: “To the Unknown God.”
I am his, although I have, until now,
lingered too among the unholy mob;
I am his—and I feel the snares
that pull me down in the struggle and,
if I would flee,
compel me yet into his service.

I want to know you, Unknown One,
Who reaches deep into my soul,
Who roams through my life like a storm—
You Unfathomable One, akin to me!
I want to know you, even serve you.

—Friedrich Nietzsche, 1864
Original:  Dem unbekannten Gott

Noch einmal, eh ich weiter ziehe
und meine Blicke vorwärts sende,
heb’ ich vereinsamt meine Hände
zu dir empor, zu dem ich fliehe,
dem ich in tiefster Herzenstiefe
Altäre feierlich geweiht,
daß allezeit
mich deine Stimme wieder riefe.

Darauf erglüht tiefeingeschrieben
das Wort: dem unbekannten Gotte.
Sein bin ich, ob ich in der Frevler Rotte
auch bis zur Stunde bin geblieben:
sein bin ich—und ich fühl’ die Schlingen,
die mich im Kampf darniederziehn
und, mag ich fliehn,
mich doch zu seinem Dienste zwingen.

Ich will dich kennen, Unbekannter,
du tief in meine Seele Greifender,
mein Leben wie ein Sturm Durchschweifender
du Unfaßbarer, mir Verwandter!
Ich will dich kennen, selbst dir dienen.

The Myth of Sisyphus

And Rudyard Kiplings poem ‘IF’, for every Man to know

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you

But make allowance for their doubting too,

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,

If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And–which is more-you’ll be a Man, my son!

So while others are making new years resolutions that (lets face it), you will probably break by next week, I’ve adopted these into my heart to face the forthcoming 13 moons, they serve as axioms of strength, belief, and will to face the ever changing faces of Life itself and my place within it.

Love is a Trip

We take a toke, and let love in, long and deep.

Inhale. Exhale.

Pheromones fill the ether of our abandon, while dopamine streams and Anadamides mix in clandestine chemical alchemies within our own heart cave and we are propelled again into the One.

We lose ourselves and become the other me, in Lak’ech Ala K’in, here without reserve or boundary, lost on a trip not unlike the memory.

Of this, and all of you.

They say we’ll all come down, from our altered state. Back into ordinary consciousness and survival games. It’s only the drugs maybe, the love sheds away in time, an incompatible experiment of mine.

But the answer is not tomorrow or yesterday, it’s being here now, and loving you today. There’s a new sun in the sky, and i’m revolving around it. The craving abides for awhile and we float in our each others orbits.

In perfect nature and organization

The wilderness of my soul starts to fuse back to its primal origins, when we sat and talked, liberated by the fire of our contents.

I know you know, where this way of being goes, and we’ve been here before in younger minds. Our bodies changed by time and space, we offer up our fates in exchange, and form anew.

I’m high on you and that’s how I want it to stay.

See the Woman

You were a hunter of my heart, and I got caught in the snares

You knew how to love a man, in spite of the ways you don’t understand

Now you’re a thousand miles gone, and I only have your name

You told me you would follow, wherever I would go

Now i’m the lion in the cage, and you’re the jackals howling tune

You came to be with your dreams from a land so far away

It’s where I’ll build my home, somehow someday

We met that time, and then again, and I got hooked on you

Even the forgone heart of her could barely hold me true

This town is much lonelier without you around

And every bad thing seems to bring me down

I drank your sweet affections, and ate the bitters too

Now I don’t know what to do, just pass the time and think of you…

 

The Maker

Ask me at night, and i’ll tell you of the Maker,
Not in the sky or the gold leaf pages of chapel benches
but the movement of the divine through the will of the day
The virtue of a man’s work, when he tires from the tilling,
The sweet voice of a woman, who loves him because he tries
Synchronicity of fate and magic, finding you always where you need to be,
The Maker, is the shaper, carving a relief from a roughened timber
And spirit, breath and color, just flotsam wood imbued with life
The Maker is looking behind and seeing the consequence of the unfurl
It’s in a name, and a reputation, an honor for brother, a love for Sister
Not given or taken away, a skin worn with care
Allied attractions, and a purpose of the dream
Heartened travels in the unknown, a stranger in a strange land,
Coming back to the roots of the soul, and seeing yourself there
The same as when you walked away, from the Maker

Today is a Blue Day

Today is a blue day, thoughts ending up moving nowhere, traveling the same tracks and reversing their course,

Yesterday was a green day, mind altercations of social formlessness transcending the duality of reality,

Tomorrow will be a new day, a new hori-son of the being hu-man, a brand new experience of living,

And all of yesterdays tomorrows, are all we can really know, just as we see it now as our heart beats in power

I’ll comb my hair back and start out with a clean mind, and see where I end up, when the sun goes down.

I may just be out of my mode, a slow moving outlaw, stuck in the dog days of summer,

Tomorrow will be a new day, one more dance of the sun and the moon, a new person to talk to, another person to hear my story

But for now, its a blue day, for when I think of her, I miss a part of myself.

dedicated to Trudell… a grandfather poet of this time that I look to for truth

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Mask

The purity of being human, is a humility with the soil
Just like the soil is tarnished by one drop of poison,
So the one who lives in right, is mined for truth by those that have none.
Authority pirates, masquering in parasitic trances
Wandering through their hallucinogenic mistakes
Abusing authority and calling it power
The ego face is ripped off and leaves only the faceless
Taught to believe that this world is your enemy
And nature is your adversary, out to harm you
When nothing can be farther from the truth
Stepping outside your comfort zone
Can be the best medicine you have ever taken
Forgiving yourself, before you can learn to meet others eyes
Your life is only given a monetary value
The future must be de-materialized, for us to survive…

The Venerable Coy’ote

The Venerable CoyoteLeft paw of the Coy’ote… A song dog in the Jungle… He wanders into the temple forest… a plant man from all fathers… loyal to his cause, healer in dark huts… the musical syntax of his hallucination brings back fungal wisdom of the spirits… the trees have a new language… dancing therianthrope from flames ficker… skin cage transcends in the felt presence of immediate experience… a shaman of mood and moon… seeing in the night, what was gazed at in awe, eons ago… waiting for the Lemurian transmission… he raises his body in a heiroglyphic runae… an antenna for terrestrial fermentation of ancient belief… the left paw of the coyote draws a symbol in the air… glossolalia overcomes him, and he waits to resume his human Man.

Norske kvinner av Freyja

Sisters of Norway, treat this one well as he wanders

These daughters of Freyja, born with such awe

So beautiful and perfect, graced by amber sun skin

Goddess of love and desire, thine hair curls over soft mosses

Adrift in a lake of days, the water drys in beads on thy naked body

Krystal eyes radiate an affection deep as sky,

To grasp thine pale hand, and walk until the miles grow

And sit in shades of old trees with resting head on chest

Sweetest liquor it must be to taste the streams from your mouth

And waft the aromas of your blessed body

To lie with in the night, and hope for some of your magic to rub off on me

Sisters of Norway, treat this one well as he wanders,

And i’ll save a piece of my heart for you