With everyone asleep, the sun and I measure morning – which is to say, nothing is measured. Toast with coffee and a slightly snoring dog. The heat kicks on and off and I am grateful. Yet my madness creeps along the warming floorboards; my heavenly incarnate taps the carefully constructed chapel in the woods. I'm letting love have its way because in it, I feel the total process of the world. How else can I lean towards concordance? The quieting sun allows me to see unsettled dust motes and time travel and the way the outside longs to reunite with the inside. I am allowing who I am.
Your skillful pedagogy lifts the mask. Flakes of ash artfully become a stunning jewel and that is why we write, isn't it? There are no monsters to slay – no mountains to overcome. We simply leak the truth that arises from a disciplined aptitude. The honed skill of pleasure keeps us in touch with society's reality after the scales fall away.
Morning says I must play the part in order to dance with dust or dogs or life. Not until your river babbled the words did I understand the purpose of illusion: to play. Our play is that of the cosmos – a sacrament of ultimate being – and love, an art of pleasure opening that highway of the unknowable known.
If it is otherwise, then I cannot live here; I've seen too much and not enough.
we are god
at home in the applause
of our play
Writer: you teach and point and love and leave and mourn and heal through this art. The finale awaits our manuscript - the collaborative work everything we've always known.