The Bleating Giant
Society has become a blind giant - the writhing bodies of its people hang helplessly, composing its multitudinous form – hiding their eyes as enormous sandaled feet trample the temples and treasures of Nature – whose lurking strength merely smiles at the giant's insolence. For Nature knows that the giant, some granfalloon of a thousand conflicting desires, cannot control itself and eventually the chaos that drives it will tear itself apart - giving way to the eternal shepherd of existence – of time and space itself. That the blind giant will die and its corpse will fertilize Her kingdom...
Unless, the giant can learn to master itself...
Unless the giant's body, its many peopled cells can learn to look beyond themselves – to feel beyond their fear and to stare boldly into the void from which they have come. To know that again – to it - they must inevitably return. Unless they can bring disparate parts into concord – the manifold cells of the giant will struggle against one another, unto death and dissolution – forever ignorant of their grand potential - ignorant that perhaps they could be Nature's greatest allies, that Her temples could become their own – and the giant's mighty foot would cease to trample heedlessly.
For if not, then in the smitten ruins of temples we shall not rise – the boughs of ageless trees embrace us – shelter to our fading forms.
But, we are fortunate – the beast merely stumbles. Its wailing components are our brothers, and they thirst – they hunger for a new life – they bleat for the rebirth of the fire of the spirit! The sole lantern that might illuminate the eyes of the giant – the sole light that may shed his tantrums from the earth, is this.
For, in pondering one's own footsteps, it must inevitably come to mind that these are transient – each step exists for a mere moment and the foot goes on to step elsewhere. Eventually, the system to which the feet are attached suffers a paralyzing death and the feet no longer step – the body fades to dust, to become the very ground upon which new feet invariably will step.
Foremost, we must remember that life is the gift of the gods and the sole constant of existence is existence itself. That to live is the magic quest. To fear death is the great paradox of our time. To realize death is to realize reality and as creatures of a real cosmos our fulfillment can only derive from enterprises made with this nature in mind. To live fearing death, ignoring the world that we daily destroy is not only a crime against that world, but also a crime against ourselves and against life. We can only achieve fulfillment in understanding that we are both individuals and parts of a whole. We cannot emphasize one at the expense of the other for it reduces the mystic and esoteric beauty of life to simple dichotomy.
We, as the cells of a society and an infinite system, must learn to think of our steps in the world in the context of those future feet who will one day follow us. This means that we as a society must learn to master the chaos that pervades us - the farseeing beings of our time must rise to direct the course of a stumbling, idiot behemoth so that it does not trample and destroy the earth before the eyes of our children can see its light. The ageless mandates of nature's eternity must be our sole master. The last semblances of life – the song that lilts and lifts, the word that stirs and strikes – love that binds and frees must be always in our hearts.
Such is the struggle of the hero in our modern era. The warriors of our time will struggle against tides of selfish thinking to liberate life from its industrial dungeon. They will not raise the sword, but they will live life – exuberant so that they may be beacons – proclaiming the heights and depths of life – the vast fields of its treasures, its sorrows, its joys equally – that the blind cells of our idiot god may turn outward, away from the dank prisons they have built in their minds. That the starving cells of the giant may seek the nourishment of nature and seek the ascendancy of the human spirit.
That, their struggle having been fruitful, it will be the footsteps of our children that tread lightly on the earth, knowing its riches – knowing that if they raise the sword in struggle it will be to reaffirm the death that haunts about the corners of their lives - to reaffirm that their rich spirit, comrade of the cosmos, will not blind itself again – to know that though they will die, it shall not.
Their upward reaching hands are our goal. But first we must find again the path and contend with the restless spirit that haunts about our doors as our brothers flail blindly in the night; we must say, "as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths."
May 1, 2007
|Copyright © 1988-2010 mock Him productions|