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The Spirit of the Lord is Upon me.

This is a piece I wrote several years ago during a time of my Soul’s ferment.  It is not a religious statement by any means.  It is quite the opposite.  While I was indeed raised in a religious culture and have degrees in theology, and philosophy, and depth psychology, etc., blah, blah, blah. (Not a big deal at all.  I just wrote a bunch of papers to get another piece of paper to hang on the wall.)  This was a search for Truth.

This is also an experiment with a new pulgin to automatically posts WP offerings to the blockchain of Steemit.  I found it at scottyeager on Steemit.  Click on scotty’s name and find the article.  Now let’s see if it works. 🙂

The Spirit of the lord is upon me.
Because He anointed me to preach the Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the Captives,
And Recovery of sight to the blind,
To set free those who are oppressed,
To proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.
(Luke 4:18-19)

I believe in and receive the anointing to bring the Good News to the poor. But what message shall I bring? I have little use for a message worn and tattered by time and culture’s change in context. The Message, the Truth is eternal but the voices carrying it fade in the breeze. They lack relevance to my habitation and pattern. They lack a quickening resonance which sets the heart aflame.

The messengers are full of answers to questions I have not asked. They are either unaware of, or avoid that which lies dormant, a weight carried in the bowels of my being. But I am poor. How long since the yearnings of my heart have motivated me to action, either right or wrong? For the most part I remain stoic as the poor, smiling through teeth clenched in resignation. Resigned to the idea that dreams may indeed be just fantasy, That the “glorious” yearnings of my heart were merely the function of biology.

There are as many ways to be captive as there are to be poor. My poverty and captivity is that of the heart and mind. The stagnation that manifests on the material plane is neither hopelessness, laziness, nor fear. There is no dream to motivate and inspire belief and creativity. It has all been done before.

I am imprisoned within the trite, opaque walls of a stereotype. To succumb, to ride cynicism as a lover is the way many go. She is a loyal bitch, yet bitch she is. Or I could write out the story as a morality tale. Do this. Don’t do that. Perhaps the Law could help me regain my honor. Then I could write books and give speeches to the unwashed. I could become a hollow Wizard and refuse to face the Witch.

But, one is as much a prison as the other. Morality as rules, is a tyrannical pimp. To exchange one captivity for the other is vanity. To give one’s soul for the illusory comfort of the current zeitgeist is profane. Is there no other path? I would that I might find it and show it to my children. O’ that they might dwell in creativity, well outside the walls of stereotype.

But today my eyes are shut and the pathway eludes me. I am blind as well as captive. I see yet I do not trust my sight. Past visions once sharply defined on my horizon, shimmering in the heat of my want, were false. Some are easy to dismiss. Some were truly immoral. Some caused pain and loss. Others were “right” and “good” yet I found myself lacking in the midst of their abundance.

Surely it was I who lacked. Surely I am the mirage. The eyes through which I’ve seen have failed me. O’ for the eyes to see and the ears to hear!

But how am I oppressed? Do I not possess food, shelter, friends, and opportunity denied others? If I am oppressed it is the oppression of the mundane, the stereotype, and the false. It can take many forms. Religion, morality, achievement, addiction, and rebellion all can deaden the soul’s cry for life. They can oppress, smother, and wear down the captive’s capacity to live as if freedom were possible. It is the living “as if” that allows eternity to break into time and create an alternate plane of existence here. He said “the Kingdom is among you. Can you not see it?”

The captive moves between the polarities of good and bad, opposite sides of the same coin, the medium of exchange in the economy of the soul. But good and bad are deceptive propositions. The game of good vs. bad is a distraction. For there is none “good” but the Maker. The soul is neither good nor bad. It is either living or dying. It is either moving toward viability and life, or moving toward the impossible and ruin. The soul is addicted, bound to ritual, a particular morality, or it is free.

The Law is oppression and death. Creativity, Being, and Life are the Soul’s true habitation.

Just when is the favorable year? On whose calendar is it marked? Do the poor get a copy? Are the captives kept in the loop? Is there a braille edition for the blind? Do the oppressed have access?

Should then the stories prove true, time is an illusion and there is no favorable year or month or week or day. The Creator is either on our side or He is not. Perhaps the measurement has to do with our perception that time is made of the same stuff as eternity, that somehow eternity is endless time. Perhaps it is that we need some sense of perspective that measuring the stuff gives. But in the end all of eternity is for us and not against us. It must be. So that every year is the favorable year and every month is the favorable month and every week is the favorable week and every day is The Favorable Day of the Lord.

It is surely true that our poverty, captivity, blindness, and oppression are all of our own making. It can be, but it is not necessarily acts of volition, but rather our ignorance and immaturity in tension with the innocent and fierce Soul’s longings for Life.

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Plato’s Groove – Theme Song


Plato’s Groove with Aaron Dick free-styling  on the keys

A little over two years ago I began to feel in a totally new direction.  Ego shattered, directionless, like falling in a dream. There was nothing solid to cling to. I began to slowly try things that seemed odd to my old self.  Something called me into a new way of being a me.  My hair grew outside the older restrictions I had placed on it along with my Soul.  In this new and strange land I began to find solid and hauntingly familiar steps to take.  It was like coming home to a place I had never been.  I had written this piece some years before but it had no voice.  I had some vague wish that somehow my very talented children might take up my writing and give it life but that was not for them to do.  I remember how nervous I was when Aaron started playing how strange it was for me to attempt it.  A couple glasses of red wine helped and we created this together.  I began to find my voice, even if it was timid and unsure, it was heard.  Now I do this and more on a weekly basis and think very little about it.  What was dangerous and new has become comfortable.  What I know though is that there are new worlds I need to explore and inhabit still.  I also know that moving from this horizon to the next will feel exactly like it did before I came here.  And I will never figure it out before I get there.  It is only in the going that I will know.

Time winds down. . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

The clock ticks.
It fades in and out of my awareness.

The clock ticks.
Marking Time as It winds down to finally rest in Eternity.

The clock ticks.
Independent, without regard It plucks the very strings of the Cosmos.

The clock ticks.
Time now divided makes meter possible and cadence contingent.

The clock ticks.
The fabric of possibility is woven, lining the womb that is time.

The clock ticks.
Sacred Space emerges between the beats of past and future. Seeds can only be sown in the Now.

The clock ticks.
Slumbering Soul, never at rest, seeks completion of Its’ chord unresolved.

The clock ticks.
All existence is in motion, potential, moving toward harmony or dissonance, creativity or chaos, Life or death.

The clock ticks.
The metronome beats out the call to choose or not to choose. Both require a choice.

The clock ticks.
Whether background or fore, whether conscious or dreaming, It makes possible the awareness of Plato’s Groove.

The clock ticks.
Out of the shadows Life calls to life. There is underlying order within the chaos. The pilgrim seeks that which has always been hidden within view.

The clock ticks.
The artist’s heart does not create ex nihilo but rather chooses one and not the other, manifesting particular harmonies that resonate and call them into Being.

The clock ticks.
To act or refrain from motion is the artist’s prerogative. Variation ads pigment, or not, to the evolving tapestry.

The clock ticks.
Soul becomes more harmonious; at rest in the body, powerful its resonance with the Real. Dissonance no longer a mystery to be feared but rather consciously strummed to accentuate and more clearly articulate the Soul’s growing chorus.

The clock ticks.
Oh, Traveler strain through the dissonance to hear the notes which resonate with the pattern of your soul. Choose it at the cost of all others.

The clock ticks.

The clock ticks.

The clock ticks.
Each Soul’s resolution is to cultivate and balance It’s own polytonic sound in preparation for joining the romp with all other pure souls in harmony, dance, in art, in mathematics, and all other lenses through which we glimpse the mystery of the Eternal celebration that is Life.

Consonance. Congruity. Harmonious. Original. Authentic.

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Internal Revenue Service (Audio)


I don’t feel like writing

At least not from that place I usually do

For all that has passed between the Inside and Out must be accounted for

Books will have to be reconciled

Accounts receivable and those owed need attention

My Internal Revenue Service has called me in

Hundreds and thousands of transactions

What did I profit?  What have I lost?

Good and Bad, opposite sides of the same coin

A medium of exchange, but not the currency of the Soul

The bureaucrats tally as I struggle to explain with no paper-trail

There is currency now in my words

They create a lasting record

A new Order will be created

New precepts will provide the foundation

A new government will arise

Not based on the Dialectic

Hegel understood but only in part

Now  Integration, Re-creation, and  Consummation

The bedrock cleared and cornerstones laid

Behold, a New thing

Yet even so, old accounts must be settled

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To: The Muse – The Poet (Audio)

In the moments just before ink marks the page I know that words will fall short.  For who could capture Her with mere paper and ink?  But I am compelled to try hoping that my attempt, though clumsy and sophomoric, may in some small way reflect back  the beauty that I have recognized in Her.

She is new to me, yet I have known her forever.  Even so I have just begun to experience, to comprehend  Her.  She has captured my attention and stirred longings thought bruised beyond rising.  It is now Her face I seek, Her call that I await.  And in the between times I remember, I wonder, I muse.

I remember Her form, Her fragrance, the way She fits my body.  I wonder how it is that she has so easily assumed this place with me.  I muse about the meaning of this dance begun between she and I.

With Me she is familiar.  She is bold but not brazen.  Her confidence is that of assumed kinship and intimacy.  How is it that She feels like Home?  How is it that a raging passion and peaceful sweet rest can co-exist?

She is dainty yet powerful.  I have watched a dull room energized at Her approach.  Men straighten themselves in hopeful anticipation of Her glance or smile, grateful for any small attention.  Women appraise Her, hoping for an ally, dreading competition with Her light.

Her smile is a magic thing.  It is infectious and sensual.  Her mouth shaped in anger is pouty and full beneath a furrowed brow.

Her movement is fluid and natural as a young doe.  She is at ease and alert.  She is finely wrought and utterly feminine, Her spirit at home in Her flesh.

To be near Her awakens slumbering passion.  To be apart calls forth the Poet, the Bard.  She now has claimed Her place in His story.  She is now set apart.  Sleeping Beauty can now awaken, at least for the moments that the Poet can guard Her heart.

But harken to me!  It is a dangerous thing to call forth the Poet and awaken the Princess.  The story will unfold with many unseen twists and turns.  Exquisite will be the rapture.  Exquisite will be the torment.  Yet that is the nature of the play.  Both comedy and tragedy are required.  Such things are always risky.  But perhaps the Poet and his Muse can create between them a place where the songs can live.

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The Search for You (Part 2)- Audio

I searched for you again today.
I strained to find you amidst the chaos of a world seething with disappointment, battered dreams, and fragile hopes.
Millions of souls crying out for the answer to their hearts’ deepest longings.

I looked down the well-worn paths, the familiar places where I’ve sought you before.

Nature’s beauty was dulled.
The crisp cool air on my face did not quicken my senses as before.
It was only cold.
The golden red light of the sunset did not dazzle me with its splendor.
The orb hung in only two dimensions, flat against the dull sky.
It only moved me to squint the brazen light from my eyes.

The sounds and rhythms of life around me seemed out of tune and dissonant with my pattern.
I felt a stranger to the world.
Out of place.
Out of joint.

The faces, the touch, the voices of friends and loved ones did not reach me.
They seemed only to intrude upon my search.
Words of love, comfort, even humor, irritated and sparked anger hidden beneath my smile.

Exhausted, hope failing, desperate for you.
Weeping from the anguish of my bitter longing.
Prostrate, face to the earth, search ended – unfulfilled.

At the end of my search, at the end of one last bitter breath, after one final look outward,

I paused –


My eyes sought a new path.
I slowly shifted my gaze.
As my eyes turned inward I was startled to discover your presence.
You were there where you have always been.
The wellspring of my heart was flooded with joy as I was filled with awareness of you.
You are a part of me, and I you.
I knew that which I have always known.
Nothing, no obstacle, no circumstance can separate me from you and you from me.
We exist together out of time.
We are eternal.
You and I will be always, even to the ends of the earth.

I found you today.

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