unkel kunk rises again, a jamboree commands, spirit assembles like threads scattered across a continent summoned into shape, familiar and new
I wrote this on my iphone about a week ago, but didn't have a real computer to borrow in order to here publish it until now, as silly and as it is serious, as most everything might should be:
Hermes and i await, one foot retracting from the pools of trepidation, one hand dipping into the holy water of self-awareness, in the wilderness of our spirit, the rarity of an "early" bedtime. The sun sets in thick hills around the lake. Similar to the hunchback usurper, We feel this season of our discontent, but unlike poor prince Richard, we shall indeed arise in the sweet belly of Summer, a phoenix of spirits blithe and wild--we sense the union nighs, the great communion of good folk, commonly called in fond murmurings between dreams "the subdued stringband jamboree".
'Tis always the darkest before the dawn, my brethren--and I am to name this summer one of personal chaotic madness, flirting with postures of horror at the long-ripped seams of my fragmented consciousness--at the edges of my thoughts, smithereens of ego run the gray borders like wild horses, maddened beasts clambering at the hedges of an endless labrynth--whose borders have but a fluid purchase, a spongelike spirit, a shared landscape with the great Holy Ghost that rides through us all--the shared song, the common vibrations----evidence of these latter truths of connectivity to the all-that-is are what my consciousness seeks and does sometime channel, and yearns to share with her kindred once found--and her, mine, his, our--kindred are you and you and everyone all the time everywhere.
The last year Hermes has seen me be reborn at least thrice--I have died again--at least one glorious resurrection for every season--and while our spirits have stretched, been wrung and whiplashed, and jiggled sidewise on the surreal rollercoaster of debatable reality, yet have they grown, yet do they endure, and though the paranoia remains that I shall ever be a lone wolf repeating old patterns, I know these fears to be but just that--only fears--not real at all, my darlings--and I know I know nothing but a few theories which grant me awesome meaning, not the least of which are the ideas:
--I am connected to you and the earth and all the bits of the multi-verse
--music is a powerful force we use to heal ourselves
--vulnerable expression reminds us to honor our individual paths as well as their inextricable weave
. . . and with Hermes as my witness, I know that choosing these ideas--that my whole kindred is the whole world--makes me fierce.
Hermes-The-Magic-Music-Magic-Time-Traveling-Machine--my vessel and gypsy home who chose his name from the god of messages and the original guide of spirits between worlds--he is my witness that this Aphrodite is fighting like Athena and Artemis put together--I hear the moon huntress and the owl warrior roaring in my dreams, cheering me on, and they appear in the forms of wise friends and healing arms in moments I feel close to the edge of Distraught Confusion--and I win more awareness with each revolution, of the awesome wonder of what is real and unreal and the gorgeous blessings of the Unknown as It winks in and out of places and times unexpected like will-o-the-whisp black holes tripping me up in my path. I glance into their mawing endless Voids before I am again distracted by some new miracle of what some name God. I know Love is endless; I know my shadows are my gifts. I know I know nothing. And I know that the guidance of my gut is never wrong--It speaks with the voice of a sight far greater than you or I can comprehend. My plans are a wreck. Always. Thank Goodness. I am learning to fly. Again. Thank Goddess. I am the vulture woman and I inhabit multiple realms at once. As ever I have and ever I shall. Every new form I take I realize was always there.
Thank you friends in Bellingham. Thank you friends of New Orleans. Thanks be to all friends of all the roads in between--Bisbee, Tucson, Oakland, Eugene, the fields of Chimacum and the ports of Townsend and Ballard. I am born from the ocean, and run through the desert--I bleed and boil and morph and fly from the realms of Loki's bayou--I thrive and bloom and burst and rule the places where Light & Dark are one, in the beings where male and female are the same, I dance up bridges of refraction and attraction--building them where my feet touch--I am my path--I become the spectrum, enveloped by it, eaten--a morsel, a bit, a part of the sum of which you are a part, which is greater than us all--beyond rainbow, an arching aurora, where all the colors dance into one expanse of Gold--we are this tapestry, expanding at the rate of the universe. It is not the Stringband Jamboree. It is the StringTheory Jamboree!
And I will greet you reborn once more, your psychopomp of the serenade tent, the empress of the Perseids, the fool of hearts, a patchwork spirit guiding you all into your selves as we are meant to be: deeply listening to one another's stories and songs, knowing they are but a translation of our own--our own journeys, our own redemption into our own power--our own love--our own belonging to one another. . . I belong to you, my darlings: I can't wait to greet you gathered from all our various paths, planes, and planets in the field in the hills where the blackberries watch us from the edge the old logging camp--you and me at dance and love and thrill and play--where we expand time--and friends are easily made and music flows as natural as sunlight through the air, between our tents and our hearts, weaving us gently back to each other and ourselves-- subdued spell. Welp, I've been time traveling again. It always seems like real life until I'm about to wake up, and then I know exactly what it all means and how real it is--hence this message jotted down lighting fast and tossed into the digital sea for all to read it at intervals as overlapping as our connections to each other and the All That Is. My Kindred, named and unnamed, yet to be named and renamed--a wild waxing of the full corn moon heralds in our communion on the eve before--we shall meet together spirits high and bucking in the air, and on Thursday land in unison in flesh-form, riding the tailcoats of a lunar eclipse.
Well shoot. I hope everyone's summer is going well. That is to say--I hope you are: as ecstatic to be alive as I am; feeling the portals opening up to receive other parts and powers of you that you had past forth forgotten in this life. I hope you: sense the deepening of your potential to inhabit more and more of your own spectrum with acceptance, passion, humor, and grace; hear and witness new shapes of Love every day. Now is a critical time for the growth of apples. The fruit of knowledge always bears exactly what we need to see. Yet I grapple with the terrific blessing: it all means exactly what we want it to mean.
Still beautifully confused, third eye sporadically identifying through the fog whilst sailing along,
Your True Love & Unkel & Fool of Dreams & Wild Woman with a Wand,