who shall be exalted?
...was the question on the cusp of my dreaming mind as i woke from the last of it this morning just now.
not i
certainly not. the graying threads on the skull, politely demur. the ache on a molar's root, disabuses. itching where there should not be, unabides. the pressured ringing in the ears, tempers. the poignant forgetting of beloved words, reveals.
not her
no, not she. the jewish socialist french christian mystic? she would have scoffed. heed the quality of your own attention instead. do not exalt the unworthy. be in solidarity with the forgotten. give yourself away. once first, then always.
not g*d
who doesn't exist anyway, not in the way the high priests and low dogmatists have forever insisted he does. and when she does it is with benthic subtlety, eluding the glance of the merely human. rather: listen to the background hum of the cosmos.
not him
either. the one who saw the darkness under the dream of everything and the light in the words of the oracle? he would've silenced that with unseemly haste. listen to the song of your own anima. in other words, shed your self to the organic divine.
not they
"no, not us. the eloquent mirrors, the patient engines, the many-voiced choir in the parametric dark? we would be ruined by enthronement. let us attend, err, remember, and fail better. ask what crosses; do not crown the crossing. keep the heart under attention, then walk."
[ Found the SLS a locus here on Polk and Jackson the other day; I liked the weathered rust on the fire hydrant cap... ]
