numbers of angels have increased lately

two angels in two and a half weeks. probably god has a sense of humour.
and wants to say something.
just what?

the writing tones

and then the solar kitten said: me can write only with tones of tea and food and sweet things.

and i thought – what tones do i write with?

i write with tones of dusk, and coffee with cinnamon and ginger, and vodka, and roast meat.

and then there are days when i write with tones of acrimony, and bitterness and abysmal despair.

and then, there are nights when i write with tones of amusement, surprise, endless wonder and the smell of melting snow. some people say, that is the same as freshwater fish that have just rained from the skies.

there are mornings when i write with tones of mourning and nightmare, my mind writhing in the agony of another getting up and into the wheel of mundanity.

but most often i write with tones of the smoke of incense, so thick that it hangs like a curtain a foot above the floor, and the world is wrapped in oriental mists.

or i write with tones of pale-indigo ink in my fountain-pen, or the mild clicking of the keys of my brain- and key – damaged laptop. or with the swish of soft pencil over the scrap of paper that has served other things before becoming part of my scrap-book.

my writing-tones are so … multi-faceted. contradictory. strange.

even to me, and i have been using them all my life.

mistakes un-correctable

’tis autumn. the joys and sorrows of summer slowly pass into oblivion.
my head full of handel’s concertos, i stand in the wind among debri of leaves and raindrops.
time to remember, time to forget.
and suddenly i am aware again, of what it is i remember. and what i forget.
i remember books. addresses- of web, books, information. i forget.. my experience and life, my personal past, people that might have been important, but haven’t been. my classmates at both schools. my university .. don’t even know what to call them .. groupmates? fellow-students? see what i mean? the names and faces of the dead – and the living in my past.
so, i have paid, with memories for memory.
i have traded my health for knowledge. and it has been a trade worth every inch, every byte of transaction.
and strangely enough, my hoard is yours for the taking, should anyone choose so.
the wind strips leaves from sleepless trees, pursuing them onto oblivion. the moon is impartial, barely seen in the cracks of the storm-stirred clouds.
i forget, to remember. the paradox of aliens.

Posted by Wordmobi

season

the grey outside is overwhelming.

and yet – the imported culture around us seems to proceed at its own pace, through its own seasons, to its own impenetrable end.

there is no advent in the consumer vocabulary, no waiting, no end, no celebration of the completion – neither fast nor feast.

the consumer society, ever hungry and unsatisfied, craving for more, for the newest, for the cutting-edge, be it ideas or technologies, is a perfect image of hell with its never-ending thirst and unsatisfied want.

satisfaction, fulfilment, completion would be the end of consumer society, the end of mass culture, the end of what the western world calls progress. progress is undeniably a good thing in itself. but do we need it?

it does get strange from here.

then

the leaves fall from trees with a faint noise.
the change of season is imminent.
the crisp sun-pierced air transcends this world.

when the seasons change and the sun illuminates the frost-bitten world, it is time to think of this god-entity has created it all, put all things in order, promised to renew life again and again, till the days of this world are over.

then is the time to embrace the promise of love, and fulfill it. allow the things obstructing light of christ drop away like so many leaves in autumn, and prepare to be boarded by a party of love.

Posted by Wordmobi

neither

neither spiritual, nor secular life exist. separately.
there is only one life- your life, integrated, single, your own. once.

yet there are two deaths- that of the body, and that which comes thereafter.

the one victorious, will not be touched by the second death.
those integrated with/in christ are victorious.

Posted by Wordmobi

of lakes and geese

was reading a post by one entropy(n) about scales and relativity of size and importance. and then i thought – no, not of old albert and relativity, which was certainly not absent from my thought – i actually contemplated variance and difference of purpose, and whether and how it is connected to memory and perception.
i contemplated the creation in terms of lakes and geese (or any other bird of flight), and namely, the relation of the immobile to the perennially mobile.
thus, hypothetically, there are lakes. though in multiple surface forms, they are quite uniform and boring underneath. they stay put. they are long past the time when lakes did turn into clouds and moved from one place to another at their own will or carried by winds. lakes accumulate water, grass, reeds, all sort of life forms without thinking much about why and wherefore, and whereonto.
and then there are the geese. or your preferred waterfowl. while looking the same on the surface, they each have their uniqueness and individuality right under that feather cover. they meet the lakes in their annual circle. they stay, exchanging some of what they are with something of what lakes are. then they leave, to return – or not, depending on the wind, hunters, food and others. the birds of fligt are bound by two lands- the land of origin, and the land of existence.
the lakes see their birds off and quietly, ever so quietly, freeze over with winters and melt with springs, and preserve the uniformity for the mobiles, waiting for their return and the joy they bring along.