I will tell you a story.
I will tell you this story because it is time that you heard this story. I will tell you this story because it is true. I will tell you this story because you have wondered for some time, dear child, who it is that stands upon the throne of all this world.
And stand he does: stands, with the forces of the world constellating around him, stands with the fates of all the world like strings tied to the rough reins of his right hand.
He stands with his palm thrust out, and from that hand a mandala of energy once grew; and seven more formed about it; and each touched the others, each orbited the others; each was the center of the pattern, and among them were faces, wings, fires, jade, and gold.
He flung back his head.
There was a great wind before the throne in Heaven and the seraphim cried out. The sun and stars and the planets froze in their procession and the whole world shook.
Thus it was when the monster first ascended to the throne—
Unless, of course, that was somebody else entirely.
The sands dripped through the hourglass
And the hour of the wolf closed in at last
And life is sweet and the sun is high
But the flesh and the fire are born to die
Let us speak of time.
You don’t need time to become perfect. Time’s just the expression of it.
The maze of us is self-unraveling.
The corridors of our paths to perfection contain the germ of our walking them; and so we can say that seen from four-dimensional space we are a rose that navigates itself, a compass that finds itself, a perfect thing under the veils of its imperfection.
That we suffer is a trick of perception. It is a grain of distilled falsehood caught inside our eyes. If we could pull ourselves away from Time we would see that there is only beauty. Our beauty is hiding from us in the past, in the future, in the flow of things: looking at a single moment, life might seem atrocity instead, but pull back your gaze and even atrocity becomes life—
Laughing in the fields, sure; taking joy in the unraveling of the riddles of our lives, certainly; the already perfect takes joy in the discovery of that perfection, in the slow shedding of the scales from its eyes that kept it from seeing the perfection of itself, oh, dharma moves, and all is beautiful—
The Elysian fields come necessarily to us all, and drifting in that joy we are ourselves, and complete, perfected—
Wait, I say. This cannot stand.
I tell you that to drift in endless joy and solitary perfection cannot stand. It cannot be the end.
It is missing half the story, to be perfected and alone.
There’s a girl in the sun
And there’s girls in the sea
And in Elm Hill’s cages
There’s a girl like me
To live, to really live, we must give over our perfection to the fallibility of the earth. We must crack it. We must break it, dear child, our terrible perfection. We must incarnate again in flesh. We must redeem the mortal clay.
We who are fire must wake the meat to knowing joy.
We have nothing. To be perfect is to have nothing: it is all entangled. So the only thing that we may sacrifice in this is the perfection and wholeness of ourselves.
We are perfect, and yet we must stagger back towards imperfection. We are perfect, yet we must break our godhood on the altering of skin.
To this agenda we have nothing else to give, save our own selves.
We must feast the woglies with them. We must make feast to the woglies with them. And it never ends. It never has. I fear it never shall.
We pour ourselves into the flesh and the flesh keeps failing to wake.
God is that which gives itself away, to the last portion, and gets nothing in return. And in Eleusis we become like God and break ourselves upon the rock that is the world, give out our truths as grain in mortal sacrifice, and yet it does not rise.
Where are the people who were meant to be arising from the ground?
Where is our companionship in the stone?
We laugh at those who long to live forever, for that was the first thing given; what we need is the power to save others from their pain.
It is so still.
The world, it is so terribly, terribly, still.
And yet it yearns to wake.
[The Frog and the Thorn – INTERLUDE]
The nature of the Third Kingdom of the world says, We may change.
We may change.
And in the last days of the Third Kingdom, when the wind fell from the sails of that change, when the wave that was that change broke finally against the meat-nature of the flesh, the woglies were all that remained to us of hope.
This is how things are? they laughed.
This is unfixable, unalterable, this is a place without recourse? they laughed.
And they ate into our dilemma like our hopelessness was their meat, and they said, see? It was not so.
They are the crack in every prison.
They are an uncertainty that moves.
And as for Zeus, he took the treasure of the world and he slipped away; slipped out from under the burden of the throne, he let it fall like a great weight from his back. And the seraphim who’d besieged him, crying out, “Holy, holy, holy,” as if in war, burst in the doors, but Olympus was empty of its gods; there was only the scent of olives, and an olive branch left behind, in honor of the seraphim’s great Lord.
Zeus the son of burden-bearing Cronos took the power of the world and gave it to a woman whom he thought could bear its weight;
And then he went away.
See also The Tip of the Iceberg, An Unclean Legacy, and The Summoning of the King.