Danny James

Tag: spirit

514

The span, it provokes as ever. Calls you onward, inward.

O presence and depth, unhesitant further.

Enthral the skin
Drench the mind in peace,
the soul in Ecstasy.

512

Never under compulsion, out of selfishness, without forethought, without misgivings. No surplus words or unnecessary actions. Let the spirit in you represent a man. Taking up his post like a soldier and patiently awaiting his recall from life. Needing no oath or witness. Cheerfulness. Without requiring other people’s help. Or serenity supplied by others. To stand up straight, not straightened.

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

492

Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world, a heaven. Know then, that the world exists for you. For you is the phenomenon perfect. What we are, that only can we see. All that Adam had, all that Caesar could, you have and can do. Adam called his house, heaven and earth; Caesar called his house, Rome; you perhaps call yours, a cobler’s trade; a hundred acres of ploughed land; or a scholar’s garret. Yet line for line and point for point, your dominion is as great as theirs, though without fine names. Build, therefore, your own world.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

382: Vargtimme

It seems plausible now that since even before you came into being have you been stamped with a role and those remarkable, burdensome qualities that all your lost years, drifting, aching over and denying could not remove. As though you are composite of various fragments of star matter and galactic debris dispersed, come together by recognition and ‘twined by choice of kinship and not chance or indolence, or some other traditional aversion of responsibility. Like the birth of a brand new Solar System, and you could not and never have, extinguished that fire in the blood that impels you so ferociously to build, and become the most effective and worthwhile self it is possible to become through consistency of focused and immovable effort. That knows value in acquisition and accumulation if it yields a righteous benefit in the wider domain. Is any one thing unrelated to another, directly or eventually?

And what is it then that charges you so heartily, to connect a whole so determined to split?

That there is so much to be done and you have not enough time to finish it all and will certainly not live long enough to witness the full effect of your service rendered, the protection and continuance of those things you hold most dear on all of Earth. Because no one thing is unrelated to another, and as the blood tides foretell, your smallest increment of action, even the merest whit of intent can expel a tremor across the oblivion for all time. In fact, you have precisely the allocated time as befits the drive and velocity of your Nature. With speed, such glorious ground devouring speed you pass unseen and have taken all before it is ever known you were. A ghost before Death, O lawless hurry, such is the expediency of your wisdom gathering. A thousand years drunk into a gaze, the centuries breathed in and diffuse. A walking tumult of wild ambivalent forces building in energy, surging and inexpressible, a furious humility gorging blind upon the metabolism of its own frightening power, nashing to pieces the self and surrounds, nothing spared but nothing left. And better a presence felt than known, you say. For what will they really know of a truth that does not first excite with sensation touching hot some unexplored avenue of the soul that flinches and relishes the ricochet and stirred up speculations, but is instead glossed with the mechanistic of mounting yesterdays. The mind, ravaged and weary, remembers too much. Wanting to trust in good and rise out of its own abyss, is slow agreeing to what the soul knows however ready to move on what it must. How none do believe in ghosts and yet still tremble at darkened corners with absurd apprehensions that cannot be dismantled by reason or logic. It is an endless string with various knots of degrees of distress over undone things, that threads every fibre and drop of your urgency racked organism. A deafening pulse. An anxious futility. An inborn desperation, unsatisfiable. An expanse of void and vast oceans of endless time about which you dart and deplete and frantically strike at walls imagined. It had been discussed how you hastened from the womb, fled as you flee now all environs of comfort and light, stillness and silence, beyond the pace of your own maturating, wherein your cells contemplated before it was ever contemplatable, what fireflies and other wonders in the shadows and hidden places may lurk that most fear. The good duty to which you would commit, the strength that was to be within your sphere to offer, and the holy chasm that ultimately would be you’re doing being done. You did not hit the ground running but leaped and let the fall advise. The things you approach are already memories, the present is a constant déjà vu, the past is too far to recall or hold significance.

It is Natural ordinance that grim spurns and explosive energies soonest tire. The patience needed to sustain is not yet and can never be known to you, for the very thirst of it only time informs, and for you there is no time. You will go wider and farther than any and will be barely any motion perceive and will arrive at the end just the same as you began, all of suddenly.
With speed and all ones might, or dust. Reign upon reign of dust, O slow world, stand not tall upon nothing and by nothing buried be, but for something fall and be depleted utterly. It will all be returned to dirt and myth at some point or other, and soon after, the very notion of it all, is gone as well. You cannot stand it.

Soul?

Soul you know well, you know not how to release without struggle what must go, or leaves things lie that best unperturbed. However, touch, that sweeter means of discourse between the better, most secret angels of our Nature, has a live and thrilling effect beyond the intellects pace or reach of understanding. A detached openness immeasurably heightens a primal sensitivity to the woven stories and immediacy of ones surroundings. Our nerves violently, delightedly bristle at a whispers echo, a brush can rupture the Universe and obliterate the history on which we stand. Shadows blind. Skin reflects and winds scream. Warm words inflict like ice and leave burns you carry to new lifetimes. Pupils dilate and dart to capture the dazzling scene and read the moments magnitude. Images peal open as flowers and colours vivify the spirit, coursing, colliding blessing and illuminating through and out of you again. Impressions form and blend views and expressions, reversing and returning in toppled over enmeshments of sublime realisations. It unfolds connections and relation of disparates and opposites, – dependency within individual elements and outcomes, timelessness and unseparableness – sparks bursting alive and intimate, soaring and sincere, threading bonds of affection and meaning through all things. To be simply overwhelmed would be mercy for this is existentially suffocating and excruciating exquisite all at once. The splitting commixture of how in love with living one can be, and how fleeting the act of being and experiencing actually is, expands the loving to a new stratum of torment. Every now hurts for it is already a memory that will devastate for a longer period than which it was enjoyed. How fortunate to know ones debt, and how much better to not care? Though you tried, you are of age where wandering is no longer your default, being irreversibly re-wired with purpose and set to the task, your deep gifts rage unstoppable, and whether you know, you are hurdling to your perfecting so very loved, the planets groan your going. Stars go out by their own tears, the comets are beside themselves, dispersing separate and off-curve to break up and die alone.

The sun… The poor sun looks lower, sadder. Lonely even; it’s lost much of its glow now.

373

Once in a while expose your bones to cold weather, and take with a break-away suddenness, a walk into the Winter morning to exhilarate your torpid nerves before you perpend yourself out of the experience. Let lead for once the thrill of sensation. The speed of touch and affect over bracing. Bracing means a gap of preparations, and I am calling for an instance free of the constructions and mental entanglements we’ve spun to hold on and make it through what’s yet to arrive and may never, and so make it rather difficult to just. Let. Go.
And exist. Right where you are, as you are and not between points or making ground. Connected and attuned. We’re too oft in our heads and not enough in the pulse. We read terrain and trajectory of obstacles like puddles and misremember the lawless joy of our childhoods when kicking Autumn leaves and standing in the grass with no shoes on our feet was as natural as smiling, and we’ve forgotten too; that smiling can in fact precede the feeling it represents.

I went out so this morning near as blank and perfect as when I was born, as the last of the blue-dark sky paled and revealed to me a restlessness in the horizon toward which I went unguarded and presenting the senses bare to the rush of impressions all. You forget, how an Arctic air can quicken the spirits, and silence the mind. You forget.

It helps if there is little sun, or none to spoil the honest intimacy with its bursts of cosy cheerfulness, but above all, be absorbed, and let that be all then. Depart from your schedule with zeal into an engagement with your surroundings and open entirely to the emotional resonance with which the Universe reaches you. Receive the scene and its vastness for what it is. Embrace the rain of innervation. Permit the air to bite your lungs and tighten your flesh. Your muscles to contract and shudder, and to shake your speculating loose of taking root. A keen awareness will awaken, dilate, and throb in you, coursing your halls, weaving and electrifying, threading you back into a supernal fold, to which you belong. You are an organic being. Not simply the sum of the things that you’ve done, will do or concentrate on. It is not so much what you feel that counts, but what you think about how you feel, when you do.

335

How simply a cold breeze unexpected, can impel the senses and freshen the debt. Exact and rarely received with accord.

149: At least a sense of being

The speck that is your life, soon enough will disappear. And you must laugh at this, now. It’s only perfect. Right into the glaring vacancy of space thrust your unoffended frailty. Whole and from the lovingly riotous kernel of your infinitesimal being. And broiling your chemistry to the plenitude of amusement, burst open to the throes of raining hilarity, with every fibre electrified to a poise in expressions of your overjoy, dance a maddening dance. Flail a distort of atmosphere, dodging comets and hopping orbits, stomp a crack in the cosmos floor and rupture the very fabric of this realms walls. May the ruckus convulse into wave upon sublime wave of your significance sent rolling out over an ocean of stars and hush, collecting and collapsing them in thunderous pops and whips heard a thousand eons after as murmurs of distant crashed-upon celestial midnight shores. Lighter than an eyelash on your cheek or a spirits farewell kiss, that snowflake on your lip, – the glimpse of a streak you think you saw of a star might have fallen; a bump, some shudder the consciousness felt, that stirred the dust settled on inquisitiveness, and bothers the unguarded hours of sleep, echoing into the abyss and hollow of unfinished dreams to no one – ‘What was that?’
Thus seems the night as day, the globe perennially ablaze soaked fair by lamp shade. It was all you! the jolly frolicking fiend in the moon, can children see. And laugh you must, is all that’s good. The running smile kind that thins the air and bounds into howl. Let the planets tremble on their quiet line, of levity pitch, disintegrating satellites and muffling the shrieks and wails of the Banshee into the finest whisper of peace across a cloud-cast plain. To what melodies you hear; chime of the angels, the drum of colliding debris or chorus o’ groaning spheres, – though forever will quit of thee, – Keep on thy immortal rhythm. They will know enough but you will feel all can felt be, spanning a tiny entirety in a blink of histories across the great warped gulf of this nothing place. May struck, even the Sun look twice from its throne, the flicker that was you, somehow something still.

This, or you might be gone already.

140: A note from July

What a delightful invitation each morning extends, to enjoy buoyancy of all my cherished hopes for the day and fashion it as pleases my soul. Can a lesser situation than the feeling of perpetual Christmas morning be anticipated, if one is, by tenderly prodding of his rational intuitions charge, awakened? To consider a different mode of living, to merely survive such as many my joyless peers is the patting of a cobra from which my most essential spirit recoils, that cannot donate itself to such a compromise.

Coogee, 2012

Coogee, 2012

109

When after many days the rain eases at last, mine is rather a relief for what it leaves us, than it’s leaving. I burst from my house to collect the many graces; to inhale a bettered air, with expectations of a healthier day. My exuberance skips ahead, thoughts tarry behind. For what I hope to find never Nature withholds. The mood that I bring comes back to me.

There is a balanced quality in the after-shower atmosphere. The streets cleansed, and everywhere trees have caught crystals, dropping pearls from their branches stooped. Unnecessaries are washed from the spirit, like loose leaves from the boughs. Creation starts over.

61

At last, I have reached that age the elderly folk often would depict, where I fain envy no more than simple pleasantries, such as a book and a cup of tea, to see out my evenings. If it be, as indicated it would, within my refined want and most essential influence to improve the moment, a fine and temperate wood-fire to warm the travelled spirit into bliss is tours end.