The seed wished to realize what it is, what is in it, and therefore became the tree.
–Hazrat Inayat Khan
What we are learning of late is that this isn’t just a fluffy Sufi proverb, but also a basic description of even the hardest and most pointy-headed physics.
Naledi, that’s an old new one to me. In the southern Bantu language of Sotho, it means: Star.
But the word … is not the star, or the bones of the creature either.
The words: Mint. Or red. Or rabbit.
Not the same, as eating the leaf, seeing the sunset, spotting the bunny or tasting the bunny.
The words are nothing
but an attempt
to point at a something.
The enterprise of belletrism is thus necessarily a lame and awkward tragedy.
The tater I call my self rings the belle and fondles the trism regardless and for the same reason that the seed does what it does.
This practice of the lone self essaying to realize what it is or at least what is in it
occurs
whether you are observing it or not. (‘If a tree sprouts in the forest and no one is there …’)
Does it grow a fresh branch?
It would be stupid to get all butthurt, or gleeful, about whichever choice you make in that regard, for you, and Your Family.
I don’t want to be stupid anymore, though. I mean it’s hard enough upon myself already, being a member of the homeless palestinian clan, up in here, on this side too so,
So you
do whatever the hell you wanna do
now is the time where you can do anything
everything
you do, anything still gonna turn out
exactly how am i yeah, great? exactly why you wander in that endless haze of celeb
ration, yeah?
Yeah. Hey. Right as you abandon me, with all the appropriately Decent displays of regret no doubt, to my fate and wander back, there’s one more thing. Call it a lovely parting gift.
I’m going to come clean with you, about the burning question of what in the hell is really and actually wrong with me. Yeah.
Okay. So it’s this cult I’ve joined. It’s not the fake joy one, and sure as hell not the Maga on the flipside either. No.
It’s called Temple of the Rising Star. We its adherents refer to ourselves as Underground Astronauts, considering the Pachamama to be divine. The only holiday recognized within the religion is Her birthday feast, the Pachamama Raymi, celebrated annually on August 1.
Due to the very small number of Temple members north of the Equator, I have been Called to be Her priest, locally. So as the feast day draws closer this year, I’ll be issuing updates on the plans for it, around here, arranging for discounts at motels and campgrounds, that sort of thing, and keeping you posted in a timely fashion.
No need to thank me.
I do it for love.