Reverse Gestation and Tales from Before

By Dnoll

From glittering abandon, I seem to have been thrust into containment, confinement… condensed into something unreal, something beyond my comprehension. I wait. I look about me… and I wait. Time is still with me, but I seem to be able to feel it now. I wait and I feel. I look about me and I feel. Now I can hear too. A whisper is forming at the tip of my lobe. I can just make it out; it tickles… I giggle. I wait, I look about me, I feel, and now I giggle. The whisper is Truth. It is the truth that I knew of while floating in the space before, while gliding through glittering abandon. The truth feels different now. It feels slow, as it seeps into this place that… I am calling me. I call 'it' me... this place. The whisper is reaching out to me, getting stronger now. I think that I recognize the voice behind it. It is strong and quiet. It is patient. I wait, I look, I feel, I hear, I giggle. I realize when I hear the whisper that I am not real. I realize that I was real before, in the glittering abandon place, but that this 'me' is where I need to build the me 'there.' As I wait, it floods into the place that I now call me. The memory of 'there' warms me. Now I think… Now I remember…

There is appearing an urgency to the sound of the whisper. It is not louder, just easier to understand. My thinking is now becoming stronger. My memory is growing. I remember more and more, as the whisper increases in its ability to communicate. The warmth from the knowledge is now seeping into the rest of me. I have more. There 'is' more. I can think. I can learn. I can be in 'this' me. I am getting bigger. The truth is growing within me and I can see it now. Truth. I am a paradox and I am One. Truth is the paradox of separate cells, separate entities, but all One. Truth is the paradox. Life was false, but now it is truth. Life is the paradox. Life exists beyond the 'now' me. Life is also un-life... Life is also death…

The whisper is getting louder. I am running out of time. The whisper is telling me everything, but that I will have to learn it all again… later. I remember. I remember it all, as the synopses in my mind begin to swell, to spread out into the me that supports my mind. My muscles and my bones are moving. I kick! I think… I kick! Secrets of me are everywhere. I sense. I just know. I kick! The whisper is a voice. I know the voice and I know what it is telling me. I know that I knew it all before, but that now I need to fill 'this' me with its truth. This me is still empty. This me needs to grow. But, I plead with the familiar voice, "Why must I forget again… why?" The voice doesn't say… The voice is silent…

I think. I feel. That is all I do. The truth is big and I see it disappearing into a puff of vapor in front of me. I am afraid. I kick! I am afraid. The voice begins again. It is even stronger now. It reverberates across the paradox of 'me.' I reverberate with it. I understand now. The filling of the cells of this me is crucial to my ability to become the real me… later. What is later? What is going to happen to me… which me… who am I? I kick! I am afraid. The voice is soothing; it is strong, but soothing. I am still me. I know what I am to do. I know what I will fulfill. I know who I will be with! I know it all! I kick!! I look up at the place where the voice emanates from. It is fuzzy, it is dark, but it is still there and I can see it. I look deeper into the murk, into the depth. It is there. It is Truth. I am calm and I peer into its depths. I see the paradox and it is One. I see the Universe and the reason for everything. I understand… I am One…

I kick! The finger descends slowly. I watch it in slow motion… with an acid trail stretching out behind. I watch it as if it were not me looking out of my eyes. The finger descends faster now. It speeds up and I can hear it whoosh past the words from its owner's voice. I know it is time to forget, but I don't care. I kick! But I am too late. I don't want to forget, but I know that I must, if only to be me, the real me. The finger descends. It reaches out to me, gently, and I flinch. My eyes clench and I feel a sharp pain. I am surprised. I am shocked. I kick! The light is intense, but that is not what I care about. The pain is intense, but that is not what I care about. The loss of 'everything' that I learned is heart-rending, but not what I care about. What I care about is… what I care about is… what I care about is the air, breathing, breath. What I care about is the truth as it assimilates into 'me.' I breathe in through my nose. I smell… What I care about is the smell of it all… It is, I realize now, in the end of the beginning, the smell of truth within the paradox of living that I really care about. I kick!

Shabbat Shalom!

Popular posts from this blog

Am Israel Khai / עם ישראל חי

By
Image
  My Dad - He was the tallest man I knew of, not only physically, but mentally and spiritually. It wasn’t always very easy to talk with him, but when we did, and when I needed him, he was there for me completely, without any hesitation. He loved the garden, loved his wife, loved his children, and he loved his work. He was an urban planner that conceptualized a perfect society and implemented his and other’s ideas to build environments to sustain a perfect population of residents. And it worked, right up until the time when his job ended, 10 years before his forced retirement … due to corporate takeover. The American dream, of building from scratch a perfect world, a society that worked together for the needs of all its members, became sullied. Fear of not having enough and greed began to shake my father’s foundation of hard work and faith. My father grew up in a working class family, his birth father having left him and his mother when my father was only five years old. His stepfathe
Read more

Paper Plane

By
Image
The glee in her eyes told the story from the beginning to its end. Well, except the part where we all jumped into the air screaming… My young student stood at the back corner of the room, eyebrows pursed in concentration. She inched her way forward, begging my attention, with a paper plane she had folded; also begging… So, I agreed. She could throw it in one direction only, towards the garbage can in the opposite corner. She grinned before our lesson, and I knew she would try it. I breathed in as it flew, around one student, then another. It arced to and fro, ascending then dropping down, but (no way) just enough. Then it swooped up, stalled, and came down … exactly into the corner alcove… It landed perfectly into the trashcan that I had asked for, a hole in one. We all screamed as we jumped from our seats, TWO POINTS! And then our lesson began.
Read more

The Open Window

By
Image
It’s cold, and a love-couch. It must be the contact, the surface It’s got to be the shallow stuff, the breaking-the-surface thing That thing that sings its way into the bowels of the thing, that thing Tension that breaks and becomes self-realized. The stuff of source, which is never seen That thing Then, there’s   the other thing. The one open on the other side, of things That thing But, I keep looking at the glass between, the skim-off of cream at the seam Of that thing It lurks behind brain-matter, waiting to sing, that thing Like it never was, it disappeared without a trace Nesting Wrenches
Read more

The Difference between Inspiration and Impulsivity

By
Image
Inspiration is an impulsive phenomenon. Or … the light of the impulse of the flame of inspiration creates itself into the opposite, the muck underneath, the foundation of wealth that resides under each dump. I beg to differ, however, since the place I think of when down is up, the happy-place. That place bursts into fireworks and phlegm, it soars into the unknown. I like it, and when it goes. It comes from nowhere, but lands now. It builds itself into stars and hiccups, slipping. Shine lands on foundation, as it calls and disappears timely. The plain of pattern stains tattoos onto film. Flatulence’ don’t exist, the grey-zone we believe. It rams into the animal in front and welds all pell-mell into the mohel. It never actually sings. In the spire of will, we want wafflery with it, neat squares to glisten and mine – digging deep in order to shine, the ton of milling and shavings pour down until still. The difference is nil, ton and void, since the arch flows up again then down. It is
Read more

Family Couch

By
Image
HEY, MOISHE! - click here  -  I wasn’t displeased about sitting in-between my parents – and I had the TV-clicker, so pressed it and began to watch. It was a convoluted revenge story developing, and I knew it. My mind fluttered between whether I was in control, or if my hand was being forced. We all watched for a few segments of time, and then I got bored and nervous. I fast-forwarded super-fast to the end. Then the bullets started flying. The screen we watched became systematically shredded, with fibers and smoke fluttering like worms in the wind, but still smoking from ashes flipping from behind. I suppose I was just angry. It was irrational, considering the love that I’d had. They looked at me in the dream like I was criminally-insane. Mouths hung wide and low with eyes pinned to my lapel, lower than my sight could even see. I mumbled nothing and moved back to the carnage, and stewed—then I woke up. It was good to remember, as I do now, building bridges and zip-lines straight down. A
Read more

Three Thumbs

By
Image
There’s a rule and two others that I found while navigating the Ramon Crater. Back in Boulder there was a devil’s thumb, but this was different. In the crater I rediscovered three of them, rules of thumb, rules to live by, and rules that were meant. The devil is fantasy, I always suspected, but the cultural paradigms sent down in time would never relent! So, in the crater, I stuck my head in the desert, into the sands of time, and I learned as much as I could, till mostly I was spent. And spent I was, coming up from the barren lands down below, on the globe we live upon. I kept learning long after sundown, the rules to live by … and, until now, not making a sound. Rule one I learned from my father, as we hiked in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the highlands of California. We arrived at a campsite daily, with packs upon our backs, to find that others had left things behind. My family was small, only four with my mother and brother, but we learned that leaving a place better than when we c
Read more

Seed

By
Image
There’s a knowing left under the world that reminds me of me. I think it sometimes, this knowing, but it leaves soon thereafter, spitting nonsense into my memory of it being. The life it left always tilts my reservoir of love but never touches my lips up, never begs to begin. I sing, I dance, slamming it out unseen, but always tasting the wishing in which it began ~ image:  Etrog in Space, 10-2016  
Read more

Man, Woman, and the Arab Spring-board

By Dnoll
Image
The Middle East is getting hot. No, really, the air around here must be full of electric Kool-Aid or something. I mean, from the local hardware store, to the parliamentary building, and all the way downstream to my little family, we have been struggling to get along with each other for days now. For the last two weeks, the energy has gone up and down with rapidly decelerating acceleration, creating all kinds of interpersonal mayhem and sociological eddy current-crevasses. Even the dogs ran away and, for the first time since they have been our four-legged family additions, they had to spend the night in doggy-jail at the pound (at 300 Shekels apiece!). They just took off for a day on the town; I guess until the evil dog catcher snatched them from their revelry. Maybe it has something to do with the changing weather here in the Middle East, with sticky, sweaty, sloth-slug inclinations taking shape in our sub-consciousnesses. Or it could be the changing political climate that always invol
Read more

From Pickles to Bubble Gum

By
Image
  I fell for it again today, the inevitable trap set for unwary teachers at the high school where I’m ever so slowly becoming an educator, and along the way developing some great relationships with the next generation of young Israeli leaders. This year had been a tough one, having met with my students for only a short period of time before we left for the holidays, and subsequently unable to return. By the end of Sukkot, we had all wrapped up a wonderful holiday season with family and friends, eaten and drunken far too much, and were ready for one more day of rest before the start of the real teaching season began, Sunday morning, October 8. Then, school was cancelled. It was far too dangerous, you see, to send kids out into our world. It was far too horrible to even comprehend what had happened. Each of us went into reaction mode, protecting our families, our neighborhoods, ourselves and each other, listening for the latest news, preparing for the worst, both mentally and physically.
Read more

The End of Being a New English Teacher

By
Image
As a new English teacher I am required by the Ministry of Education to take a new teacher workshop for my ongoing training. It is bureaucratic business at best; at worst a sausage factory spilling out unknowns and just more mess. Oy, a student in 10 th just now texted me that her Moed Bet was scheduled for another Gush, to which, having stopped writing this, I replied: My schedule shows Gush B - lessons 1 and 2. But, no matter, whenever you have English, you will be taking the Moed Bet —English Lit., tests… wow. I just finished grading the rest, from both Gush’s pupils a pile of damn tests. That’s the hardest part of my job, I can attest, grading and writing, commenting and scoring … that is definitely the worst and the best. Actually, there ‘is’ that Zen that creeps in from the edge of the classroom, slinking in and only then becoming relevant—when students notice life moving in front of them, when they exert themselves into a realm of the living. Yes, there are other realms too, w
Read more