Saturday, September 17, 2011

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 4 :: The Counterpane

Mister Ishmael ~ 

Amazing how a good night's sleep can change the harshness of our thoughts and the sharpness of our actions. Last night you were so angry with Mister Queequeg, and now, you are almost loving. Is it when another does a tender thing, conscious or unconscious, that we are more able to return a tender gesture? Sleeping two to a bed is not as horrible as was once thought, and maybe returning avant garde. Children know the good dream of a warm body beside them as they crawl into bed beside parents, siblings or cousins. It is not so lonely, nor so scary, as sleeping alone; nightmares and awful fears are held at bay, and it is easier to stay warm. Plus the best plans are concocted during sleepovers while relaxed and safe with great-great-great-great grandma's handiwork.

Sometimes it is hard to separate the images in our minds with the images in our eyes; the angles and arcs reflect the same and then they are distorted. Looking for understanding or even something that makes sense and has reason. Chased by either canis or panthera, uniequus or taurus, we traverse the untamed pagan patch-worked landscape sometimes alone, but better with a shamanic friend, even one with strange customs and odd herbs in his rag, never carrying a book. Witness the wildness of wisen unfamiliar ways, foreign to ourselves, body stiff with tenseness, defenses on high-alert. And then as now, a thick arm thrown across, a shoulder after a game well-won, camaraderie is the language we speak, the feelings we feel, and the justice we recognize. When our minds are still enough, we know when something is right or wrong; we can discern the difference, our body, nature's true compass, pointing the way. Intuition can be taught as surely as ciphers and starpaths, squares and triangles, well, at least improved. Given the actions of man or the words of man; actions will never lie as consistantly as words will.

Is the threshold sill so dark and the jamb to tight, that without help, a friend, or supernatural hand, we will never be able to open the sun-lit window? Hold tight to the cord of connection. Circling, circling, circling, unwinding the center of our selves. No matter what this pilgrimage is called - correct name or no - maze or labyrinth; mightily warned against the dangers, regardless, the capri soul will not stay home. The innerlands call us to journey, whether one path or many, straight away or dead-end, false-starts or marsh; our boredom is now banished by fresh sights and newness of characters; we come more alive, nerve endings tingling with each new smell and vista, whether a painting on a wall or a painting on an arm, el signos we find around us are many, and the incredibly helpful hands even greater. But are you watching? Are all your eyes open? Do you follow your proper path? Where will your soul lie tonight, in a heathen-laden countryside or fanatically clean marble floor, or someplace worse? Who is the devil and who is the savior? Will the trice masted dawg crawl far enough to win the true-blue heart from the iceberg? I will watch for you and your son Tom in the rigging at the edge of water. Play at no curses, sing a sharp song, tools in good repair, right at hand, get your boots on.

The passat are blowing rhythms. The chill air will not keep us here much longer.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

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