Patient

SOC Writing _ 5 November 2020 (a three part progression)

Patient

 You know that feeling when you feel you’ve been biding your time for too long? Like hiding your light under a bushel – waiting for the time to shine. I do. I know it - it groans in me – the parts of me I keep hidden, surface not because there is snot down there, rot down there – dead meat and dead mans bones – there is a lot down there – So I keep off the light, do not venture further into the cellar – because of what I might find - fight the light coming to this night – if I engage, what mortal combat will I bring – what in my muscle will tear and cling to the old? Throw you out on the floor; keep screaming for more – blood and guts and all that the others don’t want to see, don’t want me to see. But its there – you see this world is passing to another stage and another age and I am frightened. Do not listen to the philosopher – listen to the soothsayers, the dragon slayers, the ones who have been in the pit and have had to fight - to kill – maim and destroy, and very nearly been annihilated themselves. Trust those whose hands are rough, marred and scarred, not scared of what they don’t know – but are able to show just what it’s like to go below – to the depths and dead of things – possum in the headlights and father kills again – his not sport but farmer philosophy – protect what is yours to protect - the grass, the birds – ultimately its protein he wants to maximise, and in his eyes a dying demise – what is life if you narrow it to an output – to money. Fucking money. The dead and dying have their own story to tell and I am listening now, listening. The bath water comes to my chin – the pages are wet and the candle is set – another time has passed and in this wet mire I emerge, freshly washed – head in hands – wondering, wondering what to do next.

What to do next

 Put the book down, down he says – take the long way home and in the garden secrets a door found. The key to the evermore. The place of races – of old faces and feeling from the boy’s world – sand pit and pitted skin – the dying have their din – the witches cackle and I am surprised at my delight of their destruction – come upon this palace with intent to maw to claw and gobble up what they saw – the riches are coming to an end, Babylon. Babylon – child from the dying world – what do you see – what instinct is there? Flee? No, you are watching – watching without judgement – feeling yes – grief, pain, loss – the cartage of a bygone millennia – of your ancestors – its arriving in this moment child. Though I’d prefer you did not see and have to come about this ripe mess we are in – I know you bring a treasure with you – hidden in the stars – now in you kete – in your pocket – turning it over  like a smooth stone in your small hands. Small is beautiful he said – oh yes, yes, stay small – but when the tall man says grow, you say no and then you are left in the bushes – like Chernobyl in a forest – time forgets you because you want to stay with the feelings of the essential – not forget your child wonder and clear, bright awareness of truth as it is told by frogs and ponds, urchins and moonlight – you, rightly are hoping to stay the course of beauty, mystery and hearth heart warmth – you are me and I love you – coming back for you, to you, child of my child – inside, nested in a thousand layers of reality – this dimension, this stratosphere of experience you hold in timeless immortality – a glass looking back at you, at me – the gauntlet waiting for us both to forge a way through.

A way through

Grief. The only way through. There are places I have not been - choose not to be. There. Now, I choose them – why? I am besotted with growth – with newness and the old must be put to rest properly, ritually – left so the dying can be in peace and the new shoot can take root in the humus of old life – old life beckons with all the weight of the old ones – so rich – it creates prodigy from death – from death - death - star, movie star – congratulations son, you have found the golden ticket. Willy is here to greet you and yes he has a metal disorder – but so do you – so welcome to the world of the humans. Those creatures that you see via text – via media - those persons you don’t understand, but understand this: I have been longing for this moment, when you are ripe, when you are listening – when you have dropped the program and now, softer and wrinklier (still with your lust) – you come to me – and ask me – what I know. I know your pulse – your knife edge intent is clarion call clarity – your speech is direct and you know – have connected with the darkness below – so, I trust you being here.  There is only one way out of this – step through the door and I will show you what you long to know. Girdle your loins son, put on your sword – know that you will be very afraid – and walk into the night anyway - away from the mothers’ fire – the men are out there -  you are not alone – but, you are. You are. Left to find  what you must find. Here, open your hand and receive this mark – this wound – this ticket to real transformation – go to the pool by the end of the forest - listen to the deer and be still and deathly silent – you will not know what to do, until you know what to do. Then. Do it.