To Continue To Write

To continue to write, even when writing is not an accurate description for what is unfolding, or what is desired.  This typing, this hands-on-keys is just the outlet for a desire to know the depths.  It can only be grasped if it is laid bare on the very edge of the process, where I-writer am looking out across the way for a response…

There is  door out there, and behind the door, well, I cannot give a description of what is behind the door, because that would be to presuppose a knowing that I am trying hard to avoid.   I can only speak about what is on the other side by using the metaphors that have been handed to me by the life that I have lived, and the life that I share in common with all of You. 

Behind the door is a kind of fear, that most improbable fear of childhood, the fear of the darkness, which our Intellects tell us is the fear of predation, that our early ancestors faced, and which most of animal life on the planet Earth faces. Only there is this other part of me that tells me that this fear is not only of a biological origin, and that it corresponds to the common mystery of the human life on earth, which relentlessly resists grasping. 

What I am speaking about is nothing new, at least according to the historical record of most Traditions.  Nonetheless, it is new to the me who has been cast up onto the shores of the 21st century, deep within the Technotropolis of the West.  Herein the City is the metaphor bar non, for the way of life that all of humanity seems to be striving for;  the city the city the city. 

What does the city, and technology have to do with Fear?   I cannot go at this question, head on, because I don’t know the answer to it.   There is an intuitive way of searching that I am obeying by giving voice to what is next.   The professor would like to expound a theory about modernity, decadence, Descartes, and christianity.  The little girl would instead likes to tremble, and feel her flesh;  feel the goose pimples mounting like the mounds of Sand rolling in the depths of Tarkovsky’s Stalker.  This little girl—Monkey—is the Future.  She is the part of the Zone, that has penetrated the black and white of the City.  She has the potential to contaminate all of the race & that is why she is Feared.   This fear is a fear of contamination.  A fear that the old, cannot be mixed with the new without complete annihilation of tradition.  This itself is old story told famously in the New Testament—this points to the fact that the new may be found in the old already, and what is radically new, may be radically old.   But there is no way to prove this, and even the typing of it creates a dull sensation in the back of my head, that suggests the intellect is being overworked. 

“Stop, Just stop”  the little girl mutters, rising to her feat, hands held up in heroic fashion.  “You will burn out the world before it even has a chance to change” 

Her hair moves, as if blown by the wind.  Purple eyes shadow, and a purple aura.  She seems to command the wind. 

Who are you?  “Look now, you’ve pooped your pants”  she points, and no sooner does she point than I smell the soiled smell, and I fall down in embarrassment. 

I fall down, under the power of this little girl with golden hair, and a purple aura.   I feel her trembling within her power; yet, I sense  she as not as certain as she seems.  She is scared herself.  Scared that she will have to go the next leg of the Journey alone.  Scared that she will not make it, that she will be devoured by the people who live in the cities, and that her essence will be scattered to the point of oblivion.  She is not even 12. 

Where are you heading? 

“ I am heading into the heart of tech city, into the heart of the place that will most likely kill me”

What is your name? 

“My name is Dawn” 

I thought you were the one they call Monkey”

“That is my old name, a name that I took from my parents, a name that they gave to me to signify my diseased nature;  I am giving myself a new name, and you are the first to hear about it.  I must be going now”

A purple ray descends and sweeps her up into the storming sky.  It is the purple of sunset.  And there, over the water, lays the city they call New York.   

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