A letter to Philos, written 25 June 2014: My dearest Philos, Truly, it has been too long; I have missed you. And now that you have been away for a little while, I am compelled to write to you concerning a great happening. By the end of this letter, you will know my state, and the reason I had to have an angel of the Lord deliver to you this message. The remainder of this letter contains a wonder—a wonder that you must grasp, and grasp it fully you will; I have not doubt of it. Paloma and The Marigolds I made my entreaties, daily. Only in my mind and with much frailty. Paloma stood by her throne, which was the Clay Mountain. Just off to the left a fixture—an obelisk which was her mighty fountain. Palomita. I would whisper. Beautiful goddess—my sweet Palomita. The day comes back to me often, but less and less nowadays, as I think of it. I was downtrodden and all crestfallen, like the gloom of Glome or the repugnant odeur of Ungit—not the fault of the gods. Heavens no! Only the fault of the people, un-visaged and robed in shadow; they couldnt see. I have however seen and still perceive. And I remember that day and all the ones to follow. Even the clutch of a great mental decadence could only inveigh against these souvenirs. But it couldnt extinguish the scintillating sun of their radiance and splendor—a fools errand. Why should we? I say crestfallen, for that was my habitual head, as you know all too well. I was in fact the plebeian and the tyrant of my own existence. And to many pangs I rendered myself the victim and I have ruled with an iron fist as they say. At the foot of the Clay Mountain (an earthen clay, I should say, treeless, and weedless, blade-less with no bush or thorn or thistle abloom), I dared not rest there, out of fear and reverence. Instead, I remained some distance away, embedded in a coruscating coppice, which was covered in the lovemaking of the imposing Day Star. Therein, I perched myself. I passed the hours, sometimes days without food, performing in secret that genuflection, the kind proffered to kings and queens or any number of idols, yet I had found the lodging of the resplendent Paloma. Behold, this was a holy place. I tell you, Philos, by a thought of her, merely, all idols, whether of dirt, or of wood, or of flesh, would be devoured silently into the glory of Palomas marigolds—albeit I had not yet seen them. It is of this day that I now write to you. This was the day of golden delight which rendered Midass caress like the appeal of the donkeys spittle. I confess it will be as swift as the Spirits begetting of sons and daughters, and you will indeed pardon my brevity, for I cannot bear to be absent much longer, but only that I might write to you, to encourage your immediate and hasty voyage to the Clay Mountain. While in my usual concealing posture, waiting, hoping to venture my eyes upon her, suddenly, I was caught in the air. By arms? I dont know. I found myself weightless, suspended in the summer zephyr without effort, but with much foreign force. Then I was pulled as though transformed into a marionette, flying with vertiginous speed. The alacrity and rush of it all stole my sight; for I could no longer see. But wait! Pain! So much pain! Thats when I felt it. My eyes were being torn from my face; I had not ceased seeing. My eyes were ripped fiercely, impatiently from their very sockets. I was still moving; albeit blind, my course had not drifted from the path to the Mountain. I could still sense my linear trajectory toward the haunting hill, whose zenith lay beyond Stratus and Cirrus. By then, I was writhing in pain—a blind pain and an impromptu surgery with no calming aid administered beforehand. I have since learned it could have only been that way, and I am without any tincture of bitterness or irritation. At last, the pother halted. My feet touched the earth and my eyes were opened. At that moment, my mind managed know expression. Words were not expedient for my awe, my terror, my paralysis; I was statued on the Mountain. And I felt sight in me again—freshness and newness of sight like never before; a sublimated pair of eyes. She was before me, my most affectionate Palomita. And they were all (every last one of them!) without spot or blemish, that is to say, the marigolds. They were positioned in infinite and yawning rows. Beyond my gaze, I saw no end to them. You know, Philos, when the sky kisses the edge of the world, if you have in fact stood from such a perspective, on a staggering and palpably high peak, and you look for the end of the heavens and the deep blue sky on the horizon, but you fail to find the edge; the search is futile. Such was the marigold-adorned Clay Mountain. The clay had been overtaken, like chrysalis and pupa...the Rubicon traversed...the point of no return. The clay was as engulfed and swallowed up as the old Frenchmans sunken cathedral. I contemplated only the golden petals, shimmering brighter and brighter as a reflection of Palomas glory. Young man, she breathed by my ear in a lovers manner—tender, airy, and with an embrace of deep-rooted passion, I give to you myself and all the beauty of this interminable Mountain. I could write page upon page. But for fear the angel himself might plummet into the ground under the weight, I would rather, quite simply, invite you to Palomas house, where I have now lived for tens of thousands of years, or so it seems. And you might ask me the road, a map even for arriving there—or rather here, as I am now an immovable resident; the joyful inhabitant sans mesure. Concerning the directions, I should only say that wherever you have stumbled upon a mountain, you have likewise unearthed my beautiful Palomita, for all mountains and marigolds are hers: from the beginning and for evermore. With all my generous love Yours, Rafael
Posted on: Thu, 26 Jun 2014 02:30:41 +0000
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