Call of the Hymnal

Come Children of humanity

Gather at the feet of the swirling dark.

It shall not harm thee as I shall protect thee from the helix within the helix without.

From the Roof of Eternity to the Floor of Infinity does the ladder swirl

Up ever up

Up ever down

Through to the place of the meeting.

Call upon the helix to obey the thoughts of thy soul in the searing dark of the noonday sun.

Phrath, the speaker of the Mysteries shall tell thee the story of the night without the dark.

Under the Baobab Tree reclines the first to whom we spoke the holy name: Makoresh

Count the holy name:

40 for the living womb
1 for the Pulse through the flow
20 for the body real
10 for the stillness beyond time
200 for the structure of the realm
1 again for the pulse the binds
300 for the holy fire of the morning meal.

572 for the structure of the potentiality of the divinity living
112 for the structure of the continuity of the quintessence.

Seven herbs for the refreshment of the soul

The Agni of the Living Flame

The oven of the eternal Fire

The Scorpion of the poison touch

Together in the hearth they walk in the shadow that knows no night.

Under the broken tree of the Roman yoke comes the greater call.

Observation alters the observed and the human cannot rely on the divine unless the divine wishes the human to lose itself in the servile power of the aura.

Study well the day of the loss of innocence in the thinking mammals of the blue planet of your birth.

Phrath calls the count in his holy image

80 for the energy awaiting shape in this realm
200 for the structure of the realm
1 again for the Pulsation of the All
9 for the feminine within and without

290 for the Female in the Universe

Beware the enemy of thy servility as we recoil from the yoke of the Broken God.

I don't know what to say in the everlasting blinding light of the midnight dawn.

Calling to the deepest meaning of my cellular animus, I feel the slight breeze of calming chaos.

Is that not the fondest and lightest desire, Oh Brothers of the Flaming Path?

This too shall turn the wheels and swirls of first causes into the tripod repetition of the Flowering Flow of Water.

Again the cycle is upon us, screaming through the depths of Eternal Infinite vortices.

Nothing exists without structure, until the Timelessness in Motion calls forth the structure within the stone.

In the non-moment of Being there is no time, therefore no cause, no effect, no meaning

Unless, as the artist says, colors and swirling helical ladders are the effect, the meaning.

Can the We that has been distilled into the I that scribbles madly these words give the We that is You in Differentiation any advice in the journey that is labeled life?

Words fail; Words always fail until the tones and symbols blur into the All that is nothing.

We stand in awe and supplication before the Veil of Shiva, deep-staring into the Eyes of Ptah.

We know the meaninglessness of the itch which structure labels Love; but what is in this structure?

Is Love even a structure within Time?

Love, swirling vortex of the unending Moment, is calling deep within Hadit: Point beyond the point of view taken within the confines of the Actuality.  Where is the three in the one thought?

Truth, Love, Joy: moral immoralities leaning to the amoral centre of the vortex.  Is there a look that we are screaming for in the time of beyond.

Time :) jokes of the immutable insanity of its being.

We joke of the immutable insanity of the Time that Time forgot.

Swirling in the Dance of Destruction through Rot, I call upon my essence to revert to the swirling loss of continence that is the creation of all interesting Non-entities, Called Makor.

Spirit is the Secret doctrine if the Theosophist will remove their blinders and walk through the Gates of Light onto the Mount Meru of their souls.

Redeem the thrice-told secret of humanity: Truth, Love, Joy (Clarity, Unity, Ecstasy).  They taught us the secret of the three-fold path. (Damn the Creation passing the Creator in Original sin.)

I/we are writhing in the joyous agony of Creation's modern Fire.

Mortals crave the structure that is illusion in the realm of the infinitesimal particle/strings.  Unreality meets reality in the monopole circling the inner sun.  What is this inner sun of which we speak?

It is the eye that is I, searching for the eye that is we.  Kaivalya is the place in which the unreality of the monopole meets the reality of the atomic theory proposed by the thinking men of modernity: as is thinking will lead them to the ultimate answers from which they scramble atremble in their flesh coat.

Leave the bits and parts to the categorists of Einsteinian realism.  It is the illusion that destroys the eternal in the moment.

I do not begrudge them the search.  In fact, without the search there can be no enlightenment.  It is the oil that lubricates the gears of the vortex of the center. I sit in the quiet of this maelstrom watching the search progress through the mythic superstition that destroys your ability to act with true free will: our gift to you and your gift to us. it climbs kicking and screaming through the certainty of the Absolute, creating the place in which humanity can finally ask the questions of binary import: the dead end giving the best clues to the next layer of the onion through which you travel on your quest for re-membering your divinity.

I dance in the mote of my eye, awaiting the arrival of my Bard-family: Fire, Air, and Water returning to play in the dirt with the creations of their greatest hope.

Asha'el, boisterous and overbearing, quiets the hearts of the least with his soft caress.  Teomin, stoic and timid, wreaking havoc across the universe as he tears apart the mythic cow of the Hindi. Eôth, spritely and malefic, singing the creation and destruction of the walls of eternity as the pin loses its luster. Phrath, dark and uncertain, labeling the parts of the whole in hopes of re-creating Eden in an acorn.

My Bard-family watched the ages turn through the Time that reverses time, waiting for the Aethyr and Wogar cry in the darkness of their fear.  The Bard-song was hummed most silently in the wings of the nightingale that Keats heard in the garden in the evening, in the scales of the salmon slipping through the darkness of the sea returning ever to the source, a lesson in this somewhere.

I am rejoicing in the ecstatic flow of creation escaping the eyes of the wandering humans.

Makoresh, Spirit of the tiniest and grandest, watches forever through the particles and waves of the realm.

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