the mission

To provide a forum for the intersection of spirit and art - a place to share what creations we must manifest to continue living in a meaningful way.


I'm open to what develops here - poetry, fiction, non-fiction, images, videos, quotes, insight - mainly looking at this blog as a record or shared diary in a spirit of playfulness and inspiration....mental froth, mind's eye materialization, and life songs lost and found.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Rider at the End of Time (I Ching Fiction)

He was ancient.

His clothes, deeply creased, sunbleached and sandblasted leathers, a horsehide language, an extension of his own corporeal barrier - a wide brimmed hat struggling to maintain its identity, long coat, chaps, gloves and boots – all mingling and blending – a further skin, taken, to shield from the dry, piercing erosion of sun, wind, and sand.
He spat before raising his scarf over his nose, put his boot in the stirrup and raised himself up onto the horse. Two hours of pre-dawn until the sun would crest over the hills to the east, and another day of hiding from an unbearable sun would begin.
A night of searching soon over– searching for others like him in this time without history stretching beyond human memory….and yet he pushed on each night the same – a code chiselled into his blood urged him on – the fuel of hope had long ago evaporated – this was a primitive knowing – that to survive is also to connect – it remained a restless need to move, to travel in a direction across a vast seared expanse devoid of vegetation and life…save for the north facing ravines where plants grew, and the nights when insects and rodents – food – returned to the surface world. He did not use words anymore – if he did think, it was not with the chatter of words, but with gesture and effort, a thought long as a day. He no longer gave attention to hunger and thirst, the desire for comfort was but a flicker.
And yet, there was one thing, there was one solace, a place that kept the words for him, inside his coat, a breast pocket where sat a a binded collection of pages – covered in the same stained and worn leather he wore over his body.
He removed it rarely from its place to open and look upon, but when he did the strings of shapes within conjured forth lucidity from his wooden disposition of mind. It changed him – like water to a dehydrating animal – replenishing cells and blood and feeling. But really, it was company – it had been so long since he had been touched by another.

Upon its cover it read…”To the Sons and Daughters, born beyond the Kali Yuga.”
With the sun now up, he retreated to a rocky gully, where he lay on the ground in the shadows next to his horse.
He touched the book to his forehead, then opened it randomly and read from the brittle pages….

FU – the Return.

Deviations from the path of good are inevitable.
The movement is cyclic, the course completes itself.
After a time of decay comes the turning point.
Persevere quietly on the path.

Depend not on your ambition.

Recognize errors, correct them, and there will be no misfortune.

A wrong attitude prevents the return to light. Opportunity wasted returns very slowly.”

The rider returned the book to its womb-like pocket, and lay his head against his resting horse, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

1 comment:

JB said...

hey james, I remember the night you read this at luke's, I think you wrote it the same night. Since then, it's always been one of my favorites of yours. Good post:)

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