Sit Lux, et Facta est Lux
Here - as echoes in the disquiparancy of my mind - one recording of one
performance by a harpist of such soundful beauty so numinously played
that I cannot but help recall the sublimity of Life; and the why
how where of such musick presenced as it moves us to be, to seek,
beyond our selfish so often self-absorbed desire-enmeshed
selves.
So reminded to recall through feeling images far beyond my broken
fallible Thought, that it echoes still hours beyond while one causal
form of
Life walked where blue skies warm and sands and Sea
greeted such humans as brought forth a silent Light beyond the light
that
day.
So I
am become, became, all the flow of timeful past, future, present:
nothing of that stupid-me remains to so despoil the scene where young
children, free of future forms as yet undreamed unborn, lived as they
lived in such Spaces as became, made, began to shape, them. No Time,
feeling for, or recollection, there of how past three score years or
more they may with dimming Light recall those who guard them now.
But, by then they our parents may well be gone - images fading,
framed
perhaps,
to recall in better perfection than memory he, she, who presenced us
with this sublimity wrongly squeezed within this one word
Life and who surely must and so often have placed
us in our beginning times, first, often at so much cost to they
themselves.
Such moments of such tears, as I remembering. And yet am I - you we -
born for such as this? For
such beauty as, so presenced, brings us here: here where sand, Sea, Sun
meld with impermanence of self to breed such rememberings
far beyond our selfish so self-absorbed
desire-enmeshed
silly stupid self.
That remembering for instance of such a love as moved us physically
in its first meeting when we, the growing young, were enchanted,
enthused, sometimes
shaking, but where there were
no difficulties, no obstacles, to still nor hold our passion back, and
that passion of such a youthful love bade us run run run wide-eyed with
psyche flailing to greet her there when she returned and we did not
mind nor hear how others stared... Nor see that one, there, who smiled
in silent Light far beyond that light that day.
Become - all the hope the love the tragic pain, so much so that I have
to sit myself here, down to greet to meet the warmful sand. For I am,
was, only this - only this, so meekly weekly captured in such words
while
Sun with seat-bearing heat drips beads to mingle with sea-salt
tears: no clouds to pass below my dome of blue, sky and surf all from a
Cosmos fallen, here where the child wobbly now running falls to splash
in high-pitched
laughter into foam of Sea, and I so sadly have no God to bring forth in
hopeful protection against that adult life that so awaits. Nor hope of
Heaven to redress by life beyond unfairness, sorrow, the still awaiting
growth of pain. So that the
Cosmos becomes only this, only this so meekly presenced here as one
life so
fragile in its childful growing: so full as yet of promise which
Thought, Abstractions, Others,
cannot yet discover nor as yet dishonour.
Such moments of such tears, remembering. And I am nothing - truely
nothing but one so fleeting emanation of one mere ethos that as surf on
sand is there and then is gone: one effect affecting so little yet born
and borne of so many
a tangled spawnful spawn. Moon beyond Sea and Sun as one Galaxy is of
just one Cosmos borne.
For in truth we are, become, presenced for such as this - that one
human dreaming Light beyond light can by such a form as musick form
such gifts as bring such
remembering as is the very quintessence of this our fleeting fragile
life.
David Myatt
19 April 2011 CE
Image credit - NASA HST Orion Nebulae
Music credit - Áine
(solo set, London March 2011 CE)