Not even Shakespeare

Now even Shakespeare is put to shame...How exquisitely beautiful is this? Love you darling
...more than you will ever know!



I am called to embark on a journey- an adventure, I am called to live and breathe and think and feel and touch and taste and smell and hear and see the very highest and greatest that I can envision for the world and for myself at every moment- to live that vision in the flesh as the very truth of my being, with deepest passion, with utmost ecstatic intensity and with unfailing integrity- and then go to beyond , utterly beyond it, back to the ineffable existential from which all arose. And I want you to come on that journey of discovery. 



Yes, you! I want you to be there with me every step of the way as I take the road less traveled by, beyond the wildest and most rapturous conceptions of the imagination, and into that undiscovered country which is the height and the depth and the breadth of my immortality, my soul. Yes, you, my countess, my queen. Know that through your faith and belief you hold a key to my surrender. I would storm the very gates of Valhalla now, to wrest from the gods the very essence of dream- to plant the golden apples of magic and life within the heart of my innermost heart-yea, to live Christed, as my very Self, not as a follower of the universal but as that very universal itself, down to the last fiber of my glorified flesh. 



Come Suzanne. Let us wander far beyond the pale of the world. Let us harvest the light and weave it through like ribbons of glory throughout the fertile black soil of the earth. Only dream is real. Only power. Only love. The rest is not worthy of us. Let us quit it hence and fly into the empyrean which was ever our birthright- we who were born to dance amidst the stars, not grovel like worms before the ravening shadows of our unclaimed Being.



Aum



Sweetest love and kisses,



Olie

To my baroness

My baroness.....my Beloved, no rose could but blush for shame to be given so in love as to be crucified in rapture upon thy snowy breast, Oh forsooth, to die were bliss itself if only to die in you . To die? Nay my heart, to live , and like the Phoenix live again upon that mount none dare approach but I ...for tis the gate of paradise.



Oh my chambermaid! Off to bed with thee! Fly only to my arms this very night--that we of great Olympus a pyre for our passions make, well spent and dreaming upon the flood plains of eternity.



Your very own little
Indigo  O Dragon

My heart

Oh my sweet arany Quetzal.

My dragon queen,

I’ve been doing the bear thing these past few days.  You know…just rooting about for juicy grubs under rotted logs with my enormous paws, lolling about in the sun, chasing butterflies through fields of lupine and clover, crapping in the woods…and snout-fishing with my black, wet, schnuffle.  First though, only the bugs were biting.  But not even that could disturb my ursine equanimity.  I rested deep within prayerful silence.  I gave my heart unto the winds of heaven and in the rich flame-shadows of leaf dance on sunlight I sent my dreams into the depth of the cooling loam of earth where bear finds medicine roots and visions.  And so it was.  It has brought me into the presence of this delightful vista, grounded and refreshed.  In truth, I had gotten ahead of myself in my erstwhile enthusiasm—tempered now by purpose and the peace of knowing that my every headache is but a token of my  fidelity to God, and of Her undying, endless love and affection for me.   

And speaking of headaches….do you poor Torontonians still languish in the blazing sun?  Here there is no end to rain.  Meanwhile my once dear mother has gone berserk—is simply fit to be tied—and just about as comforting and as welcome within my consciousness now as any a mad hornet at a picnic.  In truth, I would be thrilled to be rid of the both of them, say until next Christmas, maybe?  After all, I have work to do, which work is play.  No time for sighs and groaning and the gnashing of the teeth of the fitfully damned and of the assorted lost in the outer darkness of cynical doubt.  No, I will have none of it now, and least of all from them. 

And besides that—I have been informed of the fact that my spider sermon contained entangled in its web of words an egregious Musca domestica.  To whit, twas Sir Walter Scott, not Shakespeare that I quoted, and quoted wrong, at that! For behold, where I said believe, he didst in truth put to pen and inkpot on the page, the very word, deceive.  Mea Madre!  Mea Culpa!  I don’t give a hoot’n holler though, so long as people get the point, if point there was one, which indeed there was.

So now, in the rain, amidst the clash of thunder…I will redouble my efforts.  All around me, the desert hills are blooming, the grasses like the kings of the earth, verdant as summer, waving golden crowns, bowing like wave crests in the earthen sea when the wind comes to undulate ribbon snakes up the steep slope of recumbent mountains.   We are the jinn of the clouds. 

Ah…my love, she threatens me.  Guess that means she wants to cuddle.  How then to write?  Oh bother, that!

I shall use her heart as parchment, my dreams as feathered quill, my song a light to guide her way.

Strange.  I had Quinoa porridge for breakfast, just after downloading my mail, and now—with apple-sauce, nutmeg, cinnamon and honey coating my insides…well, that isn’t at all peculiar, really. I am filled with this luscious, wistful, cloud-soft comfort.  That and an abrasive vigor occasioned, no doubt, by the yo-yo antics of my interior plumbing.  My folks are going out to dinner.  Oh joy!  The cook gets the night off.  That means, manly food tonight, namely--pizza and beer, of course.  I will hasten then from labor to refreshment.