Furthur

Out there...

break on through...

transcend...

higher... faster... furthur...to the barricades!-- to the misty mountains-- the stratosphere-- punch a hole in the fabric of space and time--

...so go the mantras of spiritual machismo, and you can tell I've bought into them...but... She's right here, right now, I know. One can go to Spain, or as Thoreau said, "go around the world to count the cats in Zanzibar," and She'd be there, too. But She's here, in what Mary Daly calls "the expanding Here."

"Here" is Kali's unfolding...the matter and the spirit and the mind and potential, all cream-in-coffee, biscuit-crumbled-in- gravy together, to/get/her. Creation--but Creation creating itself, birthing itself, mothering forth in continual surprise...Thoreau also said, if I'm not mistaken, "God himself culminates in the present moment," and we can look past the masculine pronoun to the ultimate/intimate shocking depth of the now, the Now that the Zen masters and the Al-Anons and the Sufis and Shaktas and guys in loincloths on mountaintops in New Yorker cartoons all want to tune in to.

The Omegacoaster as it plummets to total illumination; what I'm saying is, I'm still surprised that I've bought a house after years of gypsy non-committal commitment to everything and everyone (including myself usually)...I've begun to embrace my own space in the lap of Isis, and for me, "the ultimate bohemian" as a college friend called me, this is new and strange and most welcome. I had my Plymouth Rock T-day yesterday, alone (well, Laura was there) and creating the best recipe I've ever thought up, crawfish stuffing that rivals anything at Brennan's. As above, so below: Kali creates the universe, I cook--my humble imitation of Her "incessant influx of novelty," an imitation I can't help, as I am Her child and I, as all the world, reflect Her.