True-hearted and importunate…
Oriental and ecstatic…
Tender and longing…
Could the Norse ever let go of Thunder?
Given that quality leads in and quantity leads out…
Can Man relinquish sex as a value system?
Unike those spirited ‘barbarians’ of the extreme northern climes,
primitive faith has never clung to its Gods…
Primitive faith is sacrifice, pure and simple: a heiratic exchange.
Unfortunately, Modern man lacks both the finesse of mind and the depth of humour to apprecite the ‘Gesta Romanorum’ of presenting to the world this idea as a ‘God of the Cross’.
Such fearsome boldness sailed over the heads of the masses whose mentality saw only the gruesome suffering and had no real tongue for the inevitable triumph of light.
But, what might this language of light look and sound like?
Well, it would be painless, certainly…
First, ‘the act’ was valued for its consequence alone.
The Natural State.
Then, the origin of ‘the act’ was called into question.
“With what intent did ‘the act’ issue forth?”
This inversion can be deemed a first step in self knowledge.
We can see just how far from the Natural State this is…
And the second step?
Another inversion, this time to discover ‘the act’s’ unconscious intent.
Already, the conscious intent has become familiar as an apparel.
But it is seen as a surface only, which reveals some things but conceals more.
This is, ‘intent, as symptom in need of diagnosis’.
“Is there a Physician in the house?”
A fast flowing river tarrys for no man.
Not least, when he moves at snails pace.
Nor even, if he indulges a little leap-frog!
It is almost impossible to translate tempo from one system to another.
It acts like a signature, this metabolism of each seed-race.
If British, one longs for French panache.
If German, for Italian gusto!
Oh, for the feet of Zephyr!
That we could gallop on the breeze,
and out-run all that is ponderous and antique.
That fustiness of thought which clings,
like old cobwebs in every nook,
and cranny of our mind.
If we are allowed to be honest for a moment.
Truth does not need us to defend her!
Why, even her shyest glance is wont to play havoc with our most cherished concepts…
Words, symbols, scratches on wood and stone.
Far preferable, then, to stand aside, and let her get on with it… while we flee, in relief, back to our overblown conceits.
Misunderstanding and fear, you see, suit us much better.
And as the day turns to memory, as all days must…
We can, perhaps, savour together, in our garden of earthly delight,
the tragic Satyr Play of our attempts to woo her veracity.
A nameless shadow flits across the face of Science.
The Theory of Evolution has not been proven.
The ‘missing links’ for each species have not come forth from the fossil record.
The constituent parts of our DNA have proven far older than the Earth itself.
They can only have come from deep, deep-space.
Yet, in one sense, we have always been here.
Each catastrophic cataclysm endured has been but a pruning.
A clarion call to new growth.
The ushering in of the previously overlooked.
Those ekers out of existence.
The unassuming, unsung, survivors.
But if our very make-up forestalls the evolutionary leap, then who, or what, makes it?
We must turn to Memory for our answer.
We all know how she works.
She, too, is a gardener.
She cuts, and she prunes, and she grafts.
She contracts, or shrinks, both time and space.
And has a mind only for the outstanding.
The memorable is, precisely, in this sense, a cut above.
And where there are gaps in the narrative of her mind?
She fills them in…
She creates… new species.
This is how ‘our’ planet…