Of Palms and Palimpsests

 

To dream is not an evasion,
nor a waste of time or energy,
even if dreams fly
beyond the arc
of human consciousness.

To dream is to be in continual free-fall
to the unexpected, unanticipated next;
dreaming requires no notion or plan
—all is suspense, all is in suspension,
a readiness in unreadiness
or the scratching of a quill
over the sheet of foolscap—
archaic,
but only in the sense
that one might lack the ink
or the penmanship
in the non-present now.

There, we might glance
at our lively page
to find nothing written there, at all;
but the paper has been folded and eared,
screwed up and tossed,
retrieved and smoothed,
folded neatly, then unfolded,
creased in differing directions,
only to be undone back to flat,
worn, now and limp,
lacking enough integrity, perhaps,
for aerodynamic flight.

And all for a lack of direction,
a longing for flight
fighting reticence to height,
so that the dipped reed might record
a thought or trace a silhouette
—or otherwise leave a mark,
even if a splotchy blot

—Ultimately, the run-on sentence
is the avoidance of endings,
especially for those who
can’t figure out how to make a start,
or maybe it is all continuous starting,
without end,
Amen.

While wrapped in these ponderings,
in this landscape of dreaming,
there approached a form
drawing slowly up from a distance,
and soon there appeared a man,
riding an onager.

His gaze was steady and warm,
laugh-lines were in evidence,
and he greeted me like a friend.

Seeing the creased and blank sheet,
he said,

We embody the world we see,

an unfathomable array of beauty
punctuated by experiential pain.

Life is good, so we are taught,
and we can find ourselves

in this goodness as existential truth

even when the willow bends to breaking.

Don’t leave the canvas blank, my friend,
make your mark.

Don’t be afraid to create yourself,
be in the being;
as you have folded
and unfolded,
so all your markings
continue to amend and change.

Simultaneously, we each
know and do not know
where we are and why;
doing is all,
we invent as we go.

The words we utter,
and later record,
live on, even down to the dust
that is carried on the wind;
don’t die with your song trapped inside
—sing out, in full voice.

I’m making my mark, see?
he said,
touching his forehead, his lips, his heart,
don’t hesitate to make yours,
even if you don’t understand the significance
—the run-on sentence is the doing,
not the avoidance;
you can write and overwrite,
paint over and write some more—
it’s all continuous starting,
continuous writing,
without end,
Amen. 

He reached out and took my hand,
and held it for a moment, smiling,
before letting go,
but, as an after-thought,
reached out and touched my forehead.

Then, handing me a palm frond,
while good naturedly
slapping the onager’s flank,
forward and off on their page they went.

Looking down,
I saw that my page was full,
and that words were even running,
puddling in the creases,
accumulating in pools,
to run off the page
across the wadi,
or fly off the page,
up into the sky.

Both knowing and not knowing,
continuously starting,
we run, we fly, and we sing
without end,

Amen

© 2023 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

How to Shift the Universe

 

The omnīzon is the great bloom of events,
rather like an explosion of wildflowers
in the springtime of the year.

The trajectory of each subject coincides
with the trajectory of every object
arising from evolving space-time.

All that is real and true is here,
including all the secrets of nature
into which God has retreated, not withdrawn.

The intention of each wave and particle
is equally met by energy
from this sacred well of infinity.

Thoughts blossom, nestled within other thoughts,
billowing in all directions like bubbles and balloons,
some of which pop, while the others float onward.

Superseded thoughts remain threads of the fabric,
for nothing is gained, neither is it lost,
but that it might be found useful, sometime.

Words emerge along the fabric of thought;
shall they be seamed into action,
or shall they be knit as speculative plan?

What shall signify as intent is linear,
but the word as she is spoken and sung
is the event that makes worlds and music.

Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?
the query rings from the corporate stages
of the multidimensional concert hall.

This interruption, in future interrogatory mode,
signals present pressing need of other,
a cry from the unincorporated that cannot be ignored.

On the answer to this question
all future laws, prophets, devices and worlds depend;
the omnīzon and infinite space between await your reply.

For example, when I said, Here I am; send me,
the universe shifted, and when I ventured to ask, For how long?
came the reply: Until each now passes into each next, forever.

© 2022 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Note: I created the term omnīzon about 30 years ago, when I was toying with writing a science fiction journey novel loosely modeled on Teresa of Avila's Interior Castle and the chakra system. My manuscript is incomplete and unpublished, but the term I created lives on with me. What does it mean? The event of the cosmos happens in all directions simultaneously, and there are systems within systems within systems, as well as systems that impinge on other systems to draw or create energy. Every moment, however that is measured, is a new creation, the shifted/altered/re-formed universe. In science fiction, there is the important notion of responsibility for changes made to the space time continuum. If only every sentient being would live up to this responsibility!

Image credit:

Gordon Onslow-Ford

Constellations in Hand, 1961 

Parle's paint and aqua polymer on canvas;
permanent collection of SFMOMA

Dromedary Dreams

 

Journey of the Magi, James Tissot, c. 1894

Silent footfalls belie big burdens
—traces of feet will be gone by morning,
shrouded by wind-sifted curtains.

God is completely present, even
in these evening breezes;
every desert is wholly a part of Eden.

With all the planets aligned
to the fullness of ascended moon,
light is abundantly consigned,

Accompanied by comet and star
—all is made bright and visible;
no matter where you stand, there you are,

seen. Yet, onward we ply and plod,
destination unknown,
as they say in the Land of Nod.

Being—to be—good, by deed,
word and thought, is to lodge in a place
so full of goodness, there is no need

to be elsewhere; such is the goal.
To find, there within goodness, a refuge,
where to coalesce and be whole,

in spirit, mind and body,
this is what the dromedary dreams of,
while traversing the ancient wadi.

12/23/2021

For Epiphany

© Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Notes/Commentary: 

* Genesis 3:8-9, some translations suggest the Divine Being enjoys a walk in the cool evening breezes.
* Moon, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus to aligned around (Dec. 10), joined by the moon.

* Comet C/2021 A1 (Comet Leonard) will be visible throughout December 2021 and into early January 2022

* The mythobiblical Land of Nod is located east of Eden, from which Cain was banished for murdering Abel. But this is less about a story and more about a language. Nod is the root of the Hebrew verb “to wander.” Related words reflect meanings ranging from vagabond and fugitive to being disturbed, agitated or moved. To “live in the land of Nod” can mean “to live a wandering life.”

My friend Bajun R. Mavalwalla posted Tissot’s work on his Facebook page, along with some thoughts on the magi, from the traditions of his family. I woke up a week later with the words “dromedary dreams” in my mind. Since the words showed up, I thought I’d better work with them!

This poem is meant to be lighthearted and from the point of view of dromedaries, the common pack animal of the middle eastern deserts. Humans (with their baggage) run all over the place, trying to find the person, place or thing that will make existence perfect (“destination unknown”). The dromedaries in this poem rather think you don’t have to run around to find that—well, perhaps they would prefer to find, stay and experience the goodness of a single place, any place that is illumined by Divine light. (This would certainly save wear and tear of the desert sands on dromedary feet!). 

Ultimately, this is a story of immanence, the holiness of the seen and unseen. People run all over, looking for holiness, when in truth they are surrounded by it, if only they could see and be illumined/informed by the signs, and act in accordance with them--that is, with responsible stewardship and benevolence. Rather than make this a story about astronomers from Persia with three gifts for a baby messiah, my rendering is intended to honor the traces of Zoroastrian monotheism that come to us through the Hellenist Judaism of Philo and Christianity—the transformative threefold ethical path of good thoughts, good words and good deeds.

E.T.E.

Of Time Before Time After

A flutter of wings at my ear,
a pointed gaze of greeting
— all at once, a welling memory,
a time of knowing soul before words,
a completely other kind of knowing,
offering clarity to this experience
only from within sleep and dreams.

 

The amplitude of such interiority,
speaking as if from shadowed recesses,
is perhaps all that remains of that time,
all this time after time,
time filled with learned speech,
this a wholly different way
to perceive and filter experience.

 

The hummingbird,
having partaken of the offered nectar,
turns to me once more, as if to say,
“Yes, friend; we were there together,
remember?”

 

Such deep remembrance
renders planned trajectories irrelevant
to what is possible
when you look up,
reach out,
let loose and—
like the beautiful bird
—fly.

  

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

 

 

***

Memory is an astonishing attribute of mind and consciousness. 

 

This bit of writing is an attempt – in so many ways unsuccessful – to indicate an aspect of mind that I remember vaguely from my pre-verbal self in infancy. This memory is triggered every so often; last evening, what triggered it was reading this very brief passage from a lecture given in February of 1982 by Michel Foucault (published, with many other lectures delivered at Collège de France, under the title “The Hermeneutics of the Subject”): 

 

What is it to be free? asks Seneca. And he answers: To be free is effugere servitutem. 

I followed the footnote to see the more complete quote from Seneca’s Natural Questions: liber autem est qui servitutem sui (to be free is to no longer be slave to self).

And, somehow, that moment is when a recollection came of this moment I would experience before sleep, in the age of my infancy. What I remember is the sense that it seemed not so long a time before when understanding was easier because I was unencumbered, that is not enclosed, in the awkwardness of an untrained body. I can remember being put to bed, and being sleepy, and questions forming in my mind that were not tied, really, to language, as we who have words understand and experience language. My questions were about my daily experiences, about the things I did not understand. These would roll forward like an ebbing tide. Answers would flow back. The answers came in a form I cannot express; they were lengthy, precise, all at once simple and complex. Such answers would calm me and allow me to relax into sleep, but they were real answers that informed me; I recall that each night, the questions were always different, the answers were always new—like an onboard learning system, if you will.

 

Once I had attained language skills, this pre-language fell away—and I can viscerally recall feeling it recede, feeling it slip away, as it was no longer needed. Now that I had words, I could speak them to people, and get answers in that way. I can remember still reaching in my mind for that other kind of knowing, always on the way to sleep, and sometimes would still get responses. 

 

I cannot remember anything describable about this pre-verbal knowing, except that it was, and that I remember it because I experienced it, and the memory remains a part of my consciousness. In these moments when I remember it, I sometimes wonder if it remains a latent aspect within, and if perhaps I will encounter it again, in my latter days.

When I was coming to be

When I was coming to be,
I had no tongue and
I had no eyes—
there was no need
for these extras;
mindness saw,
mindness expressed:
this a more subtle tool.

After I was coming to be,
there were lips and tongue,
eyes and ears, even hands and feet—
now these clumsy aids
were needed
in order to be vertical,
so as not to be clumsy
when bumping into others.

For a long time after,
there was a parallel-motion
of this supple mind knowledge
and had-to-be-learned tongue—
different languages,
though one is not language;
I cannot translate this mindness
into thought or spoken word.

Now, little seems to remain of that mode,
of that knowing transmission of awareness,
of that, which was so easy and so pure;
usurped by thinking and speaking,
that subtle and more precise form
has retreated to corners of dreamtime,
where I await, to catch me off guard,
to remind me of the truths beyond now.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen