Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Op. 3 Firmament of Illusion
A meditation
Far distant from future, past, and present..within pure space, the deep recesses of mind are everywhere flowing, streaming between starry bodies, coursing wide between great starry metropoli into vast oceans of void. Far away from time I be, away from the noise of futures made rigid by self tailored destinies of gods and goddesses. Deep within penetrating silence am I, where fantasy lives, and whims of thought are constructed with brilliant colored light
Within these seas, in these worlds a wish brings its haven, that it may become true. Feelings..notes of a melody, its motif..emotion, gives form to the solid objects that occupy this place...deep in space, each object is detached, unto itself, suspended..shaped and smoothed by thought drawing devoted light, passing from one emotion to another, one light motif to another..ever transforming noise to melody..melancholy to song
An idea works incessantly, busy shaping, sizing, gathering light unto itself, ignoring the dark cast far by its side. Yet, suspended in self light...when else can I be?..but in the time of my own destiny. To forever be within a world where time is an invention, a sense that abruptly appears and disappears. When time is gone, illusion is gone, and we are where we desire to be. And I, unconnected to figments of mind..unassociated with any feeling that should leave me, wander throughout all space that I should be..forever changed, changing into forgetfulness, from which I may again spring, each again as though for the first time
Feelings penetrate objects of thought. Dissipating, they eventually hang in space as a misty fog..sullen and dark cooling. A heavy stillness penetrates, and my empty chamber deepens far beyond and away. Enshrouded by void, all objects, all tracks of thought in this pungent fog are of me. Why learn anything? All that I could ever encounter would be some feeling, some construction of light or pristine ideal of me seeking some timeless place to be. What good are these apparitions of mind?..that inborn darkness dreams..if they are only of me
By the systems of matter within a system, by the system within many systems am I bounded. To know what is within is to know what is without...knowing within, immortal selves that would endeavor to remain and transcend the flesh if need be, to remain as they were in their beginning
And could I condemn a newborn there for not having the same light as I? Could I think another absolute bad because they were taught to never love, trust, or serve no one but themselves in order to prevail and live? And can I truly judge another self within, without first a'judging my whole to be limited also? If I could do all these things, even judge and condemn another, humbled we would be knowing that we are, as living jurors, among those who have no more need for the living, no desire to manifest through tithes of love, the void within the lawless by which they a'judge themselves. For those who would judge another, they would service themselves well by observing first, the boundary and depth of their own shadow..for I am also my limitations! I am my anger destined to turn on me. Living some darkness within a greater darkness, I cannot otherwise but be..impassioned bits of immortal light surrendering to the mortality of time
And in time, I am pulled beyond the boundaries of me. Beyond me, another perceives me only what they wish to perceive, seeing me as they wish from their distant spaces of make'believe. Thereby seeing most often what I am not. Seeing through stained glass and peep holes that they should fashion for my occasion. Far distant they are, as far as the starry light in the firmament, faintly blinking between whole moons
Feelings, images, what I wholeheartedly believe is suspended. It is upon these occasions that I feel, to live is to need. And with this vacuum taking a hold of me, I would ask the newborn there..."from where do you believe? From where do you arise? What are your dark roots that you should eternally be within?" A bit of death I know, for the sake of the whole. Otherwise, I would believe about another what I fear most. That dark murky manifestation, the worst of what is alien to me. The alien entering brings the living death I would bear, for life, for my whole
As the stars are of a very fine substance, so all of creation is. As the stars are mirages of the past, illusions of some distant past, we dwell upon many paths of light. From the firmament of illusion, when the stars become suddenly still, time reduces to points in space, figments of mind. And when words become timeless pockets of light, they become vulnerable to the dimensions of time, gradually wearing smooth like a bold stone laying within the path of a mountain waterway, or salted wood upon the shoals of sea, and from the smooth curves of windblown sandstone in distant deserts, I hear..."Words are only angles of an arbitrary notion, a wistful dream, and having no real substance, they do not endure..therefore deny any canon, abandon any thought it implies." But what faint notion is this?..that such a process of ordering and directing the delicate substances of light can be so easily cast out from mind! Are conceptions made of such ghostly material that they live only as some vague apparition? How deftly is this act?..that, in so few words, innerspace can be severed from outerspace, a universe of orchestrated light extinguished, intellect wiped clean from the mind of Earth, obliterated from this vast glittering universe! Such innocence is kindly, but surely an abysmal dismal darkness it is! into which the light of stars enters, but does not leave. What is this space? that finds such delight in the inflexible absolute. What is this light so dim? that delights only in itself. All else..flexible, amorphous, according to whim
Peace from all I need, and the resolution it breeds, for the foundation that truly is, surely is as it seems...the dust and rock of the Earth. From where then? does this confusion arise that absolute spaces of mind should replace the earthen floor as the foundation. If not replace...align..or worse than align...just be!..unconsciable alien overlord to the dust and rock of Earth from which it springs
Upon absolutes of mind do foundations of airy ethereal heaven and hell lay. From there, do cynicals condemn fault's innocence, inherent in living, and feverishly build presidiary ideals for happiness in another world, of which we know not of, a'filling it with all the things lacking in the world we do know...always a'want'n for something better than what earthly incarnation provides. Indeed!..what presidiary absolutes stalk the innocent, and direct what shall inevitably take so much and give so little
Innocence overlord to innocence. Innocence in isolation. Isolation from the very moment of conception. From the moment that brought greater independence and open space, innocence faces expulsion, shock, and pain. And banished from the Eden of mother's womb, the umbilical is severed, the original peace is sealed, for the eyes had opened. And how readily does innocence perceive newborn innocence as innocence perceives itself, something alien to their own...perceiving the newborn as a manipulating mind, one determined to control everything around them. Fledgling innocence so often enters the world, reproached for not knowing what they are allegedly supposed to be born knowing
Within this firmament of illusion, there is the power of love, the overlords to love. The power of a word. The power of music. Love, words, spirit...all serving power by some unending need for the greatest power darkly indentured to serve the deepest blindness. As innocence is perceived as the loon, the loon knowing no affection becomes the hawk. All becomes real! And the newborn hawk quickly learns prickly deceptions, tricky confusions of emotion, conflicting visions from which illusions take shape, like the surface waters of a sea, shallow or deep, troubled or serene...weeping, laughing its truth upon resolute rock. Words can so easily project illusion. Touch, taste...what we feel listening to shimmering leaves of an October tree may become illusion. Its sensation passing through some word that wants to live, wants to be immortal, to be 'here and now' so much..that it needs no context to be
Snow drifts worn smooth by bustling spirits moving over land, ascending, shifting, drifting white purity!..soft, cool indifference packed under its own weight, becoming hard like ebony rock. A stillness within, far beyond the means to feel. But, even this detachment is of the world! Of one world high in the sky looking down upon itself, over seas, through streams feeding quiet lakes and hidden ponds, becoming the bonds of what we are, for a moment, we become of one. Zen
Of a crystalline pristine image can life so easily be, but so divine and self shining, shall I be at the expense of knowing fragrance, or the heven'bowe, or sweet melody? Shall I remain as some word forever fixed and rigid?..to be only angles of conception unable to tolerate any new experience from mortal confrontation?..and so restricted in this unchanging now that the sensual readily becomes a subtle pain..particles of self'light, that mote in mind seeking pleasure of pain. Is this label, I, so worthwhile? this I, for which the sensual world I would so readily defile
Tone and inflections of tone that deliver words are taken as words. Inflection and image. And if the words should belong to the great firmament of illusion, then only do inflections of light perceive and interpret. And selfless words upon a page become profoundly depreciated and lowered. They become sheets of flattened wood and cotton fibers stained with black ink. A self sovereign has perfected the borders of perfectly imperfect letters. And rebellious to these symbols standing, pain competes for pleasure. Yet, for all the dint of battle, any tone by which the word was spoken will be ignored, utterly obliterated. What end can this battle between competing feelings be? but the demise of each, as each tries to extinguish and make the other extinct. If feelings are not allowed to have their own space, each will estrange the whole, and so estranged, the whole will inevitably deny whatever feels
Within this firmament of images that portray only me, empty I feel in this void, searching for some hidden identity, seeking the source of fractured images. I...dust or illusion? In the next moment, great world views can crumble into smaller pieces of itself, into razor edged fragments that can so swiftly and easily sever a motif from its melody. Seeking the source of isolated notes, or fashioning some all embracing radiant light, apart I be from the light, the emotion I am. Seeking inflexible preciseness. Seeking myself in vain timelessness where each experience of failure without profit weighs heavy, each an impending doom, collecting and creating a treacherous soil, feeding a growing body of eyes..each seeing a different way, each begetting a new curve for light to travel through, a different shade by which to see what is true. And isolated, each spontaneously splits into two, four, eight...until it becomes the barbed edge of a thorn, until some feeling cools into a fluttering snow flake, until shadows deepen with fear, and the light of me crystallizes and begins to crack from fear. And the thousand shards silently contemplate the peace of the lamb. Yet, I remain detached, even from this impending chaos, knowing that...when something is unguided, neither is nothing lost. As nothing is in the beginning, there remaining is as nothing. It is, afterall, when taking life into one's own hands, a thousand still'steady eyes looking out remain unchanged
What stubbornness is this? that refuses to stand and withstand prevailing ideals? What Will is this? that insists on being in complete command of everything, or not be here and now at all! What hopelessness is this? that heart cannot reach for something, anything within that also belongs to another. What despair is this? that can allow one hand to fashion the poison for the other to take when the lamb becomes the least, a lethal dose inside the belly of the beast. What black hole is this fear?..this room so dim, this sparkless I that divides so easily from the least of desire's whim
But my detachment grows stronger. The firmament is frozen. Only temporary eternities are permitted in death because there is no sense of life within a world where only time orders motion. Nor is there any remembrance of life when the world is eternally timeless. Only self'stroking beliefs to stay one's self. There is only the shadow of sadness reaching down as far as unleashed laughter reaches upward..for the sake of wholeness, in the midst of too many shiny dangling spangling vainglorious beliefs. I am empty with every thought dispelled, every melody in isolation, every sensitivity withheld. A deep hollow emptiness fills me until all that I am separates and expands...and clear, crystal clear void becomes me
I emerge. Thus born, I am also a sense of space through which all that I am, or could be, may freely exist. This strange peace from so much pain. What can it be? but a part of I without desire, without feeling, emotion or passion. Amid whirling images and the mirage they spin, there I be...silent. And I am the witness to happenings and happenstance. In detachment, this empty I. An inconspicuous self, an onlooker to all that lives. This bit of space, this still steady eye
Such stillness can make something with no weight lay heavy upon spirit. It creates or destroys time. It directs where time may travel in the midst of grey days. The dull white sky appears through bare moody branches, already prepared for the turbulent dormancy of winter's sleep. Above, the spirits are alive, moving in unison to the north, and the clouds near the starry heavens are white and soft grey..a vast wide river with undulating currents..as misty waves high in the sky flowing far and wide. Most leaves are gone. Blown away by surging winds. Yet, some stubbornly remain, clinging to arbors still reluctant to shed a part of itself for winter's deep
Still, barren and silent, withstanding cold winds, the arbors are one with the Earth spiraling. The Earth slowly turning, moving swiftly, silently coursing, sucking nourishment from radiance shining
Moments later, the sky breaks open. The clouds are swiftly traveling with the winds. Like the surface wakes of a deep lake they are..making their way north, ready to break upon the shores of hilltops and mountain peaks
And above these seas and rocky shoals is the dark starry firmament...always there, a perennial evening upon a quiet pond. The waters, like dark silvery glass, are still beside newborn grass when the moon shines full. And the quiet pond also lives, feeling the time to rest. Only the bullfrog is awake..and the stars, intensely alive! Images shinning brilliantly from another time. Blinking, twinkling..sparkling crystals mirrored upon still waters. And any who becomes awake in this night, needing a bit of freshness pass through for moments of seeking sustenance, quietly stirring the grass. A rustling of a reed, upon swaying water crest do night creatures feed. Meek they are, seeking the quietudes of evening. Sensitive they are to the slightest sounds and changes of mind...all appearing to my ears like a hidden chorus of a melody, instinctively harmonizing to remain themselves..discreet
Life also seeks through the dark, touching the cool damp Earth, feeling its soft sweet fragrance, and listening to the myriad of sounds somehow blending, until another unexpected creature moves closeby...and silence arises, and fills the sky..becoming one in love with the deep firmament above