Still Sundays

From London.

I haven’t been in London long enough to specifically share what stillness of London on a Sunday morning tastes like.

However, there was lots of stillness in North London this morning that brought the following:

Something beyond evil. Spirals of Transmutation. Integration is the most demanding creative process.

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The best compliment I have ever received about my writing is: ‘it can raise the dead.’ It is also the most unsettling thing I have heard about my writing. When the living are more dead than those gone, one better know how to dance with goblins, ghouls, and dybuks—a specialized demon who attaches himself to scholars! I can’t two-step or waltz with another. I am a solo-performer that only knows how to sway to the rhythm only few hear.

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The soul is the grandest canvas you can possibly conceive and the people with whom you associate are the paint. I don’t want to be around artists, I want to be around people with integrity. It’s a pity the two aren’t always the same people. Now I am beginning to understand all the friendships my father nixed throughout his life.

My father says, “Anyone can be a decent artist. Not everyone can be decent human being with integrity.”

Perhaps then integrity and integration is real art and is the most demanding creative process.

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Yucky is beyond evil as I have mentioned before. Let me elaborate now.  Evil is an appendix we all have and serves no function. We only have to be cautious not to ingest something that can get stuck in there, and even then our body is capable of ejecting it. But sometimes a seed gets stuck in the appendix and causes so much inflammation the appendix must be removed in its entirety or we can die. Moreover, evil is based on subjective morals. For some “witches” are evil and for others corporations are “evil”.

Yucky is a pile of shit you accidently step in. It’s not subjective; everyone knows shit.

Yucky is an abyss of the darkest hollow where even evil fears to tread. Good can fight evil; it is no match for hollow. Yucky with its invisible fangs can tear through the most malicious malware and diffuse through the human mainframe to ensure you see the reality of what is possible and yet may never be, not just in your lifetime but ever. Just like there are people who eat their own excrement and there is no explanation for it, yucky can’t be explained like evil can be sometimes.

When you fall off some edge and step into yucky that causes havoc in your reality, on the verge of some madness, no matter how strong you are, you cannot lift yourself by yourself.

When I fall off the edge only some god can lift me. Love is some God.

Mama says that just like there is food poisoning due to high levels of toxicity that the body can’t handle, so there is human poisoning. Human poisoning is something our spirits can’t handle. Yucky is toxic and as anyone who has ever experienced food poisoning will have you know: you need others to take care of you.

Integration is our salvation and those most integrated lift, lift, lift us every time we come across yucky. Integration then is as much for ourselves as for others.

Love is the antidote for disorder within yet nothing demands integration like love. Spirals of Transmutation, don’t make me dizzy.

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Forgiveness, I want you to pour yourself in the cup of my observations, those things I review and know without a doubt. Dilute my lens with compassion for I do not wish to use my words to scorch the skin of those who don’t know any better. Forgiveness, give me a pour too, for I sometimes ignore what I know in my bones.

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The biggest integration of my life is about to take place: the fusion of fiction and non-fiction. I am ready whether or not the world is.

Fiction is fantastic but truth resides in stillness. All those who say truth is always and only subjective have not gone deep enough in stillness. There are universal truths but they are not universally available. There are collectors of various ones throughout our globe and we are all looking for one another to place the beads in some order.

In my fiction I want to hold your hand and then let it go once you see what the narrator sees. Go, go on…see for yourself…whatever you see… bring what you know…

In my non-fiction— the fragile castle of stillness I climb atop on Sundays—where truth as I have known and seen resides, I want you to hold my hand too. It is as much a reaching in as it is a reaching out.

Let us not let go.

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