…First she was a speck, black against the sky, then she was an arrow balancing the breeze, finally, after measuring the hole in the wall of my room with her wing-span, she became an awesome, majestic weight, sprung upon my wrist…
“I know why The Devil is called a light-bearer, and why he’s said to inhabit infernal regions,” her bright eyes connected with mine as she stared, “hell on earth is really only a house hewn from stone, a hill-top mansion with an open roof-top, out onto the stars. Below ground in the mound of the hill are three expansive cellars, each of which is a winter month… “
… My Soul was back, her claws silently scratching my skin as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, preening…
“The blackness brandished by Lucifer like whiplash in a mean attempt to debase us is merely a ruse, a prelude to the greater glory still to come. The mock throne he chains you and your loved one to is regal and grand, as cardboard is precious. He encourages us to become horse-like just for the fun of it when about all we are really capable of mustering is the pin from a donkey’s tail.”
I had grown tired of arguing, of defending my position.
She never listened to my side of things.
She treated my objections as if they had been formed from verbal oblivion.
It would have been nice, bearing in mind that it was my Soul out there, to pitch in at various points with an idea or two…
…My Soul blinked incredulously, revolved her moon face through three hundred and sixty degrees and pulled her neck beneath the peaks of her shoulder blades…
“The Devil is in love with the Water Maiden. His ardour aroused and quenched by the fall and rise of the inexhaustible pitchers she measures when sifting and mixing the substance of new life: a wine warm kiss from the breath of being on her own sweet lips.
She is beautiful as an angel of light. Her purity is the very first memory of the spirit over water, or in the earth, like the sun at the bottom of the sea… unquenchable. Her shiny smile molds dragon wings and antelope horns into a dowdy hood and cloak, shifting raven claws into leather sandals. She transforms pure lust into wisdom with a laugh and a shiver of her flashing eyes: she is a guiding lamp held aloft for the lost and wayward, left to swing from a staff gripped firmly in the night… “
Most of this new stuff went way beyond my capabilities.
It was difficult to suppress the suspicion that she was making it all up off the top of her head, slinging any old concepts together and seeing where they led just for the sake of it…
… She crept softly along my arm, coiled herself around my neck and then hung out over my forehead, swaying in front of my eyes:
“Her Pilgrim is lighting a way to the furthest reaches, as far from the earth as it is possible to go. He is trekking out to the back of the North Wind on foot. He commences by hitching a ride with a seagull, by hopping onto its grey, silky back, and then leaps up into a cloud. From there the dark sky is only one stride away and that is where his journey really begins. On to the end of the night he travels growing weary and old…
Footstep after footstep of black space opens up and falls away without purchase beneath him.
He is using the star system of familiar animals as a guide to the cosmos but the stars traverse the heavens in circles forever swallowing and regurgitating each other.
As the light in his lamp finally begins to dim, the last flicker of flame before extinction erupts into a shining paradise of sky and sea, earth and tree… “
A Cellular Life