ON THE BRINK

Missive #73 - Transcribed Poetic Dictation with Vision Accompaniment

[How are we all doing? How is it we do what we do? This missive was extremely visual for me. Breaking in. It is like, Psyche is a house, with dams or retaining walls on all sides. Everywhere in all directions is water outside of it. Endless sea. When visions come through, one of the dam~walls breaks, and the waters come racing in. Sometimes it is one wall. Sometimes it’s two. Sometimes it’s all of them at once. Each narrative a different kind of ecstatic upheaval. Emily Dickinson described the experience as the top of her head being taken off, and something put in. For me, the walls of my submerged house break down, and the whole contents of the psychic sea come gushing in. Fortunately, breathing works differently in this place. We have psychic gills—or, something like that. We can breathe anywhere — because, perhaps, we don’t have to. And yet, the whole contents of the house get disrupted. Even with the knowing that I won’t drown, the experience remains unsettling every time. Then the dams close back up (somehow) and the waters recede; the house regains its shape and hermetic seal. Then the interior redesigning. We practice gratitude, for the disruptions. For we know: each disruption is necessary, and begins new life. A new way of life~ ] Received 2/2/25 | 7-7:21pm

Listen to the Recitation:

ON THE BRINK
Snowdrops.
I don't know what to say to you
This is what it feels like
To be, on the edge of
Something, held straight, firm
Sharp immovable balancing act
The eye of the storm is a perilous place:
Safety is what emerges with destruction
On all sides, bared — the brink
We are on the brink, the curtain's waft
Between innermost chambers
And holy of holies, frozen over
The soil's wintered over bulbs
Perennially emerging, again, when impossible
It seems, to come up from
The shore escapes us, tidal pretremors
The holiday is ending, and just beginning
The milk is running, the honey melting
As deserts bloom and mountaintops blossom
The sinkhole pits of power plays
Always more layered than it seems at first,
Yes, the collective is crazy — it always has been
Dripping into, as we might, the eye heart of God,
The awareness of all things happening simultaneously
Even just a millisecond in the full collective psyche sea
Is enough to break you, apart and open
Is like — an ocean of screams
The worst imaginable (worse than can be imagined)
Occurring countless times every moment,
For hundreds, thousands of years
More
Paired with, the ULTIMATE ECSTASIES
Orgasms, otherworldly pleasure
Transcendent experiences of the Godhead, of
Oneness, of Absolute Bliss
Paired with ~ utter nihilistic existential absolution
Mundanity, boredom
Enthusiasm with horror
The most trivial with the most consequential
ALWAYS
At EVERY MOMENT
EVERYWHERE
God is playing literally the most insane crazy game imaginable
Of course, we are not built to live in this sea
We must come on to land, build a home with walls
A door that locks
How much time in this sea can you bear it? Bare yourself
To it? Usually a few milliseconds is the most I can handle
The aperture fully opened; the entire weight of the sun's
Rays beating down on me, the smith's hammer
My wings a cloak, softening the blows only slightly
Iridescent black, hyper luminous: shade is not dark
The call of the day is a lambast of spirit
A whiplash, backlashing
My self, bruised and torn and scarred and open
Bleeding on snowdrop buds, dainty fairy petals
Eager for warmth, for moisture in the cold expanse
That yet suits them. I pray again, and thank
The fact that, I am not bleeding, even if I am
And I will not bleed out, even if I already have
Many times, collapsed on the street, unaware
People walking past, ordinarily — yes, it's an antic
As it all is. God's antics, we call them. What a bizarre
Joke — are you laughing? Am I?
When I remember, I try to — and surface
Up from the ocean's vicious tossing
Into a moment of peace and calm, stillness
Be still..; be still. Be still!
I shake my head, a laugh-like sigh escapes
I exhale loudly, and sharply inhale — had I forgotten
To breathe? Like I'd forgotten to breathe
And was breathing again for the first time
Desperately tasting the air, hoping
For spring, again — new life, new sanctity
Silence, peace, bliss; give me the mundane, the well
Place we want. Do we really want it? If we did
Why aren't we there? Yes, we are there. Yes,
We aren't. "It is always worse before it is better"
A story: rewrite the expectation
"It is what it is"
A story. Rewire the script
Cut and peel and moult and shed, outgrow
And push out; what seems slow is very quick
What seems still is rapidly moving
The walls of the eye are impenetrable, solid
Veils that cannot be passed, cannot be broken
Inviolable, the house
Of vision, seeing and searing, seers imboldened
Broken sight — we cannot see
It cannot be seen. Stop looking
Pat the deeply frozen, softening earth
Made of ash, covered — from volcanos and forest fires
Raging, quiet, bears hiding in the eaves
And bats in the thousands
Re-enter the limestone caves and spot the aged
Flickering hands left behind, blown out memories
Little keys to an unseen way:
Love.
Love wraps it all, the pounding sound
Shimmering shadow, release your secrets
Release the safe, the guarded chest
Unfurl the ribbed cage, peel back the shoulders
Bend back the head — to the skies
The wide open
The wondrous
The place where all this violence happens
At a much slower pace. The way we have made
Ourselves to be, is no longer enough
For what we must become, to hold all of this.
Something is happening.
It cannot be seen or beheld, all at once
And it is happening, beneath
The surface, still, obeying the code given
To it; it gives itself up
To what is coming. Bubbling up
From the underground currents, deep reserves
And dark — so dark. Do not look into it
Simply look, to the snowdrops
Softly unfolding, sparks of green and earthly white
And unstained, effortless
Drooping down, while facing up.
First they come. Then the rest~

---

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day,
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay
The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
Whose zeal outruns his promise!

~William Wordsworth, To a Snowdrop (1819)