MY THIRD EYE OPENING OCEANICALLY OF ITS OWN ACCORD My third eye opening oceanically of its own accord. The wingspans of the flowers bloom omnidirectionally. The blue sky lays a balmy smile upon my flightfeathers. Blood hums to the blissful resonance of being alive. Even the glowing concrete seems benign. The gates with their rusting guns triggered like locks, the fences holding the occupying gardens with their placard poppies back like riot cops. Time without haste. Consumed by a moment as perennial as summer on earth. Nothing urgent in the fulfilment of small destinies in the grass, no antecedents necessary to know how to live this, no event trivial or especially significant, I’m as open-minded as the wind on a shoreless afternoon that tastes of the stars gusting in the dust at my feet. Wild parsnip, Queen Ann’s Lace, mullein, goldenrod, purple loosetrife and cattails in the ditches along the roads, Lichens of the moon on the staves of the cedar rails where the red-winged blackbirds sit to paint their picture-music on the unprimed air like the musical notes of a cadmium red and yellow song with overriding tones of nocturnes to come. Sweetness of life when it takes its mind off of everything and requires nothing of the living but attendance. Just to be here like a vagrant wavelength of awareness among things as they are without trying to gouge your eyes out like bluejays at the sunflowers to get at the roots of the flowering mind deep in the heart of the hidden harmonies basking on the surface they’re joy riding like the elegant riffs of the dolphins and flying fish that leap out of the shadows into the enraptured atmosphere of their own auras like blue damselflies and green tree frogs and old guitars working their necks like weavers, or fleet-footed spiders walking on water like heavy metal on a Ouija board, like thorns in the eye of a bubble, hoping it doesn’t wash them out like tears in the eyes of a voodoo doll looking through the keyhole of a needle it couldn’t find like paradise on the other side of its blind blessing. Not for long or far, I’m still walking a habitable planet full of wonders. Though the road keeps getting shorter like a fuse behind me the further I travel down it, and the asteroids keep making newsbreaking fly-bys, and there are rosaries of bubbling methane rising from under the shrinking skull caps of the poles, and people are still trying to keep each other’s attention by stabbing one another in the eye, but for a moment that isn’t concerned about whether anything lasts or not, there are no omens stuck in the throats of the rocks, or blood of children splashed on the hollyhocks. A re-run of provisional innocence in a few hundred acres of woodland swept under the rugs of abandoned farms as not worth the trouble. Lapwing gates hanging by a hinge to distract the wild grapevines away from her empty nest as if it still cherished its emptiness out of a force of habit. I look upon the Tay River at sunset, the reflection of the darkening hill quivering in the cooling breeze like the more mercurial downside of itself, and the sky opening the blue-green eyes of the peacocks like stars with too much make-up on, and a handful of charred crows flying through the roots of the trees, trying to make sense of themselves like a burnt manuscript. And what can you say to the stars that are beginning to look for themselves in the approaching night except this too is the world where even the lost, in attempting to return to themselves through the unattainability of the past, shed light all along the way? Nightfall and the silence intensifies the conversation with bioluminous insights of the radiance blazing out of the darkness of a white coma as if it depended upon the contrast oxymoronically just to be noticed like waterlilies in the shallows of the conscious mind anchored by a spinal cord to the reptilian epodes of its own illustrious starmud as every thought moment is, like kelp and kites and river reeds swaying like synchronized swimmers to the currents and wavelengths, the turns and counterturns of thematic waters with a musical motif that plays to its own depths from the bridge of a burning violin dancing like fire on the water with no fear of ever being drowned out by the moon. PATRICK WHITE
Posted on: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 14:35:55 +0000
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