Osiris
I wandered into a grove of trees tonight. Just close enough to the road that I felt safe going alone; just far enough to step into the shadows. There was a pulse there. The strong, earthy hum of centuries, of a spirit far more vast than I. I understood then the rhythm of each day, how there are audible markers to greet us at the important steps, and the true bursting forth of the birdsong, if we lend an ear to it. As always, I was a foreigner in this cathedral. Darkness. Granular sound.
When I put my hands to the ground, I feel the pulse of Science. But when I walked in front of a shadowy tree, I felt Presence. The Life that hums low, even when the blossoms are dead, the Life that spins and rejoices in the windy canyon of the Necropolis. So one is present in the other. So the Dead visit with a chuckling hello, amidst homey scents. Breeze and clouds wander in, to follow haunted, heated stillness.
Is it a Grove of Error? Or Crossroads? Only glinting tricksters of the Otherworld know. Scrambling insects shiver with their short-lived need to feed, confused at my skin. I put my hands on a severed tree limb on the walk back home. It was a clean amputation, with a little dried sap.
At 9pm, this complex was sepulchral. The same low hum that I heard later in the Grove. Sincere energies winding low before resting brains retired.
I am tiny, and what I walked into was ancient.
"I worship Science," he said.
"We hold the whole world in our hands and between our ears. And yes. It is Science."
You cannot change the laws of Physics.
I am Physics. Set is the singularities. He is Physics, too.
Kiss the confusion.
Fall asleep in me.
Love the contained.
Be tempted by the limitless.
Answer it, too.
When I put my hands to the ground, I feel the pulse of Science. But when I walked in front of a shadowy tree, I felt Presence. The Life that hums low, even when the blossoms are dead, the Life that spins and rejoices in the windy canyon of the Necropolis. So one is present in the other. So the Dead visit with a chuckling hello, amidst homey scents. Breeze and clouds wander in, to follow haunted, heated stillness.
Is it a Grove of Error? Or Crossroads? Only glinting tricksters of the Otherworld know. Scrambling insects shiver with their short-lived need to feed, confused at my skin. I put my hands on a severed tree limb on the walk back home. It was a clean amputation, with a little dried sap.
At 9pm, this complex was sepulchral. The same low hum that I heard later in the Grove. Sincere energies winding low before resting brains retired.
I am tiny, and what I walked into was ancient.
"I worship Science," he said.
"We hold the whole world in our hands and between our ears. And yes. It is Science."
You cannot change the laws of Physics.
I am Physics. Set is the singularities. He is Physics, too.
Kiss the confusion.
Fall asleep in me.
Love the contained.
Be tempted by the limitless.
Answer it, too.
Amazing entry. I've found it's not always the most obvious places, geographically or aesthetically, that hold that certain sense of "otherworldly transit". There is a short street in Hollywood I used to walk through sometimes when I lived by myself on Wilcox. Even though it was flanked on either side by relatively new apartment buildings, there was always a weird feeling down that tiny stretch of road, no matter the time of day. I used to call it a "gateway to hell" to myself but I was being melodramatic. For all I know, there was a grounding problem and I was feeling straw currents of electricity. Maybe not.
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