A confession.
Sometimes, I have visions of things going on beneath the surface of the world.
The stones of Grace Church. They have in them a series of spirits of a stone feeling, as it were an army safeguarding a stronghold of some more martial God--but not martial. Soft. The spirits yield because the stones do not and allow a human to be comfortable in the church. The stones are allies of humanity and they communicate this by softening themselves with and into a sense of community of an odd and rare kind. There is evil in the Garden of Eden but there is also good in the Valley of Dry Bones, so they say.
A particular part of New York in between the Bronx and the border with Connecticut. I hate this part. It is a mix of water and fen and suburb and forest in no order, not even an order-of-disorder, thrown together just short of even some broken plan or pattern. It is profoundly disturbing. The entire place has a somewhat unreal quality about it, because I'm not sure if the spirits of wood and water are there or not so I feel them as dying. In the process of dying. It makes me feel a little ill.
The oak tree behind my house. It is at least three hundred years old and I suspect that an old woody consciousness from when the whole land was virgin forest has taken up residence within it. For the small densely-packed town that it is I get very distinctly the feelings of forests and ancientness and wildness, yet welcome, from my back yard. When the summer fireflies dance around it this existence underneath the skin of the universe comes out and uses them to demonstrate what it is, one of so many whirling points of light in the current of the world that throws up 'reality' like a shadow play.
The stones of Grace Church. They have in them a series of spirits of a stone feeling, as it were an army safeguarding a stronghold of some more martial God--but not martial. Soft. The spirits yield because the stones do not and allow a human to be comfortable in the church. The stones are allies of humanity and they communicate this by softening themselves with and into a sense of community of an odd and rare kind. There is evil in the Garden of Eden but there is also good in the Valley of Dry Bones, so they say.
A particular part of New York in between the Bronx and the border with Connecticut. I hate this part. It is a mix of water and fen and suburb and forest in no order, not even an order-of-disorder, thrown together just short of even some broken plan or pattern. It is profoundly disturbing. The entire place has a somewhat unreal quality about it, because I'm not sure if the spirits of wood and water are there or not so I feel them as dying. In the process of dying. It makes me feel a little ill.
The oak tree behind my house. It is at least three hundred years old and I suspect that an old woody consciousness from when the whole land was virgin forest has taken up residence within it. For the small densely-packed town that it is I get very distinctly the feelings of forests and ancientness and wildness, yet welcome, from my back yard. When the summer fireflies dance around it this existence underneath the skin of the universe comes out and uses them to demonstrate what it is, one of so many whirling points of light in the current of the world that throws up 'reality' like a shadow play.