-asl (origin)

asl

 

we all have a home
some, just can’t hear it’s call
just can’t feel it’s hold

my home strangles me with the rope of poetry
noose as tight as the rhymes it loops in the mind of me
in between the sides of me
back and forth grinding down the meat of me
taking out my feet from me
swept up and into the fingers of trees
blown and breast fed to the eastern seas

my home is inside of me
it’s always been
i was just too full of shit to see

not now
not that he’s gone and taken that part of me
the veil that whilst kept me blind
also kept me warm
now naked and exposed in entirety

W.E.

Dear Daughter

jij

Dear daughter,

If you read this and I am no longer here to tell you myself, know that I will entrust your brothers and uncle with this will.

You will not be permitted to marry a self-absorbed arse-hole.
I don’t care how many houses he can buy you on different beach fronts in different countries. Or bracelets of gold, necklaces of pearls, believe me almond locks, he will not please you.

Know that since you could grasp a pen, you’ve been an artist. I watched you travel into your world and seat your soul there. You switch off and trance into your fingers, caressing pages, pen subservient to you, paper the altar of your souls sacrifice. You draw, you love it. I know it because like you I zone out into various arts. You’re me, introverted, happy to be on your own.

You’re a sensitive girl. I don’t know what life may throw at you and how you react, nor how it may harden or shape you, but I am telling you this to give you the treasure map back to your core,  that core is sensitivity.

You might get lost along the way; your experiences might drive you off the path, so we all need a compass. Some people go through life and have to struggle to learn where theirs is. I’m blueprinting it for you so you can shortcut back to your essence at a finger click.

Your true north will be buried deep into your DNA. It can’t go away, the purpose of DNA is to wire your whole being back to its reality. This is not only physiological, this is spiritual. You were born innate with it.

Don’t let a man convince you that true north is external. This is what is meant by misguidance, people who pull you away from truth, your truth, everyone’s truth that they were born with.

Live as a beggar if you must but be surrounded by love and truth. A beggar is nothing to look down on, if humankind had any sense they would realise that in their outstretched hand they receive kindness, beauty and selflessness of souls. Who in this world is receiving that in utter purity?

Things aren’t always what they seem, my teacher reminded me that everything that glitters is not gold, so I too will remind you.

Find a man who feels, a man who weeps at words, but can draw from them strength to protect you with the sword of his soul and grit of his teeth, he’ll gnash the heart out of anyone that comes to corrupt you or your children.

He should not be a meek man, he has to burn his back with labour should he need to, he has to stand in front of tyrants with a gaze so fierce he will stare them down. A lion only has to walk through the jungle for everything to be silent and still. So too should people be in awe of him, but let they be in love with him when they hear him speak and notice he is just and fair and does not transgress the laws of nature and men.

Let your husband be of wind, cool and tranquil to dry the sweat of necks of the farmers but a hurricane of destruction should anyone disturb societies peace.

You want that man who’s embrace will feel like he’s swallowed you whole and you would rather be devoured by him than be away from his watchful gaze for a moment. He must possess a mad jealousy over you, never to allow another man’s gaze to enter your realm.

He must teach your children love, art, poetry, music, physical culture and above all, in this chaotic world of worship of self, to worship God.

He must be willing to sully his nails with soil, know his eventual worth is only that, soil… We’re all soil.

You in turn must be his ever burning lamp, keep him awake and alert with your warmth. Keep him seeing when darkness might prevail. You have to keep this blueprint and refresh it so you can stay true to him.

My dearest almond locks, don’t settle for tongue prattlers, nor smooth actors. If you stay true to your blue print, he’ll be magnetically pulled towards you and you will know because all of societies rules will fall to the floor and you will not need to think about him. Your soul will decide for you.

He won’t be a nights deliberation, nor a week’s emancipation,
He’ll be faster than a moment’s hesitation,
A split second decision.

You’ll know, your soul will recognise him from the pre-world where all souls existed prior to the physical world. That sight is all you need and you’ll know.
If you have to think about it, it’s not him. Look elsewhere.

Don’t worry almond locks, even if the noise is too much and the colours are too bright and the map seems a blur, your brothers and uncle will know and their Lion souls will stare intruders away but recognise another Lion. They will welcome him into your kingdom.

-W.E.

Living….

Not my allegory, story or anecdote but a brilliant read.

A boat was docked in a tiny Mexican fishing village.

A tourist complimented the local fishermen on the quality of their fish and… asked how long it took to catch them.

“Not very long” they answered in unison.

“Why didn’t you stay out longer and catch more?”

The fishermen explained that their small catches were sufficient to meet their needs and those of their families.

“But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“We sleep late, fish a little, play with our children, and take siestas with our wives. In the evenings, we go into the village to see our friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs.
We have a full life.”

The tourist interrupted, “I have an MBA from Harvard and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat.”

“And after that?”

“With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. 
Instead of selling your fish to a middle man, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City!!! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise.”

“How long would that take?”

“Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years.” replied the tourist.

“And after that?”

“Afterwards? Well my friend, that’s when it gets really interesting,” answered the tourist, laughing. “When your business gets really big, you can start buying and selling stocks and make millions!”

“Millions? Really? And after that?” asked the fishermen.

“After that you’ll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife and spend your evenings drinking and enjoying your friends.”

“With all due respect sir, but that’s exactly what we are doing now. So what’s the point wasting twenty-five years?” asked the Mexicans.

And the moral of this story is:

Know where you’re going in life, you may already be there! Many times in life, money is not everything.

“Live your life before life becomes lifeless”

Ode to father carries on

unnamed

 

Continued from: Here

 

Now that I’m drained, now that he’s drained, bare, naked and stripped of our attributes. Attributes that kept us upright, but here we find ourselves fallen, ironically towards each other, two towers leaning on each other and yet holding each other up. That’s what it took. A baring of our sacredness, a stripping of our egos, no fight left in us both, guards down, ready to cop it on the chin and embrace it, embrace each other, even so, chins exposed, none have the power to knock the other out, none have the power to even throw a one, two. The array of combinations we’d let loose before, and now, nothing, both satisfied not to hurt the other.

I can see his humanity, always have, I couldn’t admit it. He never saw mine, so how could he admit to something he knew not about? I had to write the first ode, I had to let him know I saw him. I had to let him know I saw that he thought that no one saw him. How many fathers are like him, toil away and none of what they do gets noticed, gets written about, gets exalted. Oh the station mothers have enjoyed, and the deprivation the fathers have endured, this is not fairness, this is short sightedness, this is human shortcoming.

The tears that don’t stream down their cheeks burn pathways in their hearts as they hold themselves together as forts. Sixty six years is enough, eventually it burned down into his bowel. The pain of not being seen. Not only by me, my family, but his direct family.

Now illness manifest, reality cannot lay dormant and like the lion that it is, it roars and wakens the jungle of ignorance up. His family can hear, can see, can feel. They all flock to him, his illness an expiation for all. We know man is expiated for his sins even if a thorn to afflict him. My fathers illness expiated everyone as they all flocked to him, eyes in hands, catching their tears as they acknowledged him.
His illness returned their sight, his illness broadened mine.

I made sure my mother read and translated the first ode to him. When I came home that day, he had tears in his eyes, he begged and asked me how I knew, how I saw. I later found out that he and my mother wept together as they read it.

Maybe my job as a son was to document some of his accomplishments. So many men are remembered with their life’s work when they pass. Artists, writers, gnostics and so. Superficially he is none of these. Hidden and un-manifest, he is all. His craftsmanship, his prose and his art, was sacrifice. It wasn’t relegated to a material thing, something bought and sold, marvelled at on the walls of the mundanely inspired, no his life work was – passing on life. Chiselling away at himself to give to me, to my brother, to my sister and now to our children, he continues a new generation. Bits and pieces falling from him, and into our bellies. We are fortunate to see it, we are fortunate to be aware.

So here I stand, attempting to put into words but failing, how do I write about being a human? I cannot, the only way is to do as he did, sacrifice, pass on the bits of myself, chisel away, chipping until someone grabs a remnant and keeps it alive.

I have a lineal record of all my ancestry. We’re of noble blood, but noble blood means nothing without action. It cannot save me, only sacrifice will save me. Letting go of all the unsightly traits, the soil that is not presentable before God. Perhaps that is why my father preferred the company of the earth rather than of men. A reminder of what soil is beneficial and what soils us.The life giving soil and the soil that is ugly and not fit to present in front of His Majesty.

His health improved, for a week. I couldn’t believe it. Slowly but surely he digressed back and other ailments took over. My fear of exposing him to the myriad of unnecessary tests and prodding, of poking around and enticing. I know what happens to the body when you push and push. I’ve been there, self inflicted I push until something goes pop. Something always goes pop. So a few weeks later he’s back in hospital, his body drained. God’s work, God’s way of reminding us all who we are. Pray dad, pray. Nothing else matters except your devotion. Stay devoted. Stay true. It’s hard though with your body and carnal self calling the opposite way. ‘Don’t worry’, they say, ‘God is forgiving, just indulge’. Oh the oft demanding self. It clings on to every opportunity of weakness to keep you abased. Our masters have taught us to talk to it, to demand of it, to command it, to whip it into submission and servitude to us so that as a whole we can remain in servitude to our Lord.

The next saga begins, trying to make sense of it all as a scientist sifts through real data and pseudo data, as an investigator skirmishes through every last bit of observable evidence and delves deeper into his gut. There’s that line. That line I have to cross where I tap into a different unobservable realm to make a decision for him, for me, for us all. I can feel the weight on my shoulders. This is not going to be easy.