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Dee Sunshine

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Member Since: Jul, 2003

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by Dee Sunshine

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Oh, we clung, like frantic lovers, each to each other: desperately trying to blot out the knowledge of our separation, each from each other.

Below the concrete and flowers, below the snow and tubers, below the moist soil, below the dreams of broken winged birds, below the lava flows and Dante’s infernal laments: the underworld unfolds, eternal and ever-present.
A different gravity brought us there: the chemistry of desperation, not necessity. Ma Durga with her grasping arms. Clowns, the pair of us, in her amazing cascading circus. But she taught us tricks, she did. Here, I still have these cards: I can see the past as clear as yesterday! She gave me hot hands to take away your pain; and she blessed you with hideous clarity. Gifts. Never without a price. Oh, she opened our eyes: made us cry the tears of children. For we knew we did not know the Tao of absorption: the way of entering in, of being contained… and we longed to be contained.

We tasted the light, but tasted it not. Intangible, it was beyond us, beneath us, above us. But not within us.

We should have listened to the weatherman: the forecast was for a fall.
There are simple truths and simpler lies; and we are anchored by more than we understand, to the familiar. Transcendence requires sacrifice. Not just the burning of dead wood, but the slaying of all that is known. The Holy Ones acknowledge allegiance to nothing, but nothingness itself. They are uncontained.
We were mere bumbling fools: novices to the burning ladder. Still, we stretched ourselves ever upwards, nutmeg mystics, hallucinating into heaven: disappearing into endless, friendless sky; climbing high above the safe vaults of the crumbling city; abandoning the solid geometry we had known as home, the safety zone that lent us definition.

Wings do not burn if there’s no fire. Falling is not falling if there are no dimensions. The navigator knows nothing without magnetism; and stars do not guide the blind. Beyond definition, there is no meaning. Letting go is not letting go. Crashing to Earth is not crashing to Earth. The simplicity of gravity is a simple lie. Out with the dimwitted banality of here and now, we are transcendent, heavenly non-beings: the perception of our descent, mere illusion.

Even within the illusion of darkness, after the illusion of falling and becoming broken, we conspired to breathe together, to grow together: our petals glowing with crazy hope; stamens sending out dizzy opiates into the putrid air; stems twisting together in mocking dance. Don’t forget, we’ve seen through the crack between the worlds! We’d say, each to the other.
But in our vanity, the few fragments we retained, we could not piece together. These bits were just bits, bereft of meaning; and could not be imbued with magic, no matter how maniacally we waved our wands.
Extraneous phenomena were just that. Hot hands cannot unite the soul with God. Clear eyes can only see so far. What use, these gifts, when the heart is without love?

Oh, we clung, like frantic lovers, each to each other: desperately trying to blot out the knowledge of our separation, each from each other.
In the jigsaw madness of pre-dawn hours post-coital flowers, heavy and withered, drift downstream, drift apart: the illusion of union fragmenting into unintelligible pieces. Hands grasp for the intangible. Not waving, but drowning.
Slipping through the darkened door: single, alone and separate; we cry out in quiet despair – voiceless, railing against the injustice of it all.

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