Lightning from the Dark Cloud; pt. 12: Yes

Hitting the water. Into the warm unprepared soup of conshiceness the mindaeking cold as if cold had never been consieved of‘til this moment, each sensaeceun turning silverflesh eyce, shattering and goujing, bulistering, into the liveid, burning naivety of flesh. Sea as hard and biting as steel fights his pulpy mass with ferevour, breaking the twigs of his frame and then swallowing, the preddatori ocean. Imposseivable to believe he was sinking now into something which was so hidyussly solid only momentums before, the chameleon ocean changing it’s colours, but sinking he was, with pain an immutable anchor and girghoulmuffl’d screaming amongst the deafening roar and distant hum of life everpassing.
Sinking into death: into shadoe. Bereating his head against a lightbulb. He saw death staring him in the face, death’s dovelike claws surmounting his will. The wortery sockets of death’s empty eyes.1

He saw that he had to choose, as he could feel death’s pull become stranger, stronger. He looked up and saw the moonlight on the water’s surface and he thought of pumpkin soup. Hot against cold his tongue slid over. He thought of the prostitute with whom he had slept, the salvation in it. The feel of moonlight tingling his face, the sharp consciousness of killing a man. The reverie of pain, the holiness of pleasure. Yes! He screamed in an explosion of bubbles and affirmation.
He swam upwards with all his strength. Yes. Yes. He felt that the ash had been washed away from his body. Yes. Yes. The sea burnt his body with cold and he savoured the sting. Yes. He had vanquished the shadow. He saw ocean’s skin part willingly at the touch of his hand. Yes. And his lungs felt the air of life pumped into them. He saw the moon and he was drawn to it.
Reaching the beach the man lay in the sand. On his back he lay with eyes closed, courting his breath, darting death who still clung close. He battled to fill his lungs and fought to empty them. He concentrated all the energy of his limbs into moving, to keeping his heart beating. He attacked death and conquered with mighty fury.
The man drew in a luscious breath and opened his eyes. 2

The stars shone bright and piercing, he drew them to him and swallowed them down. The burning chaos of their beauty fumed, joyous in his stomach. A moth landed on his face and he saw that it was good: that the moth was freed, out here, of that artificial and insidious light that tormented it’s soul: tried to tie it down out of fear of its wings. He felt how the wings of the moth were coated in dust, like ash, soft and surreal between his fingers.
Then the man heard a sound. The sound of music, but not a music he knew. The music was ancient and brand new, timeless. Music for him. Alone. The man clambered up on sore legs and followed the sound. It led him to a place, like a grove, there he found two slim trees with sweet smelling flowers. Between the trees was stretched a piece of orange plastic, with holes in it. The kind seen around construction sites. The breeze blew through the plastic and in so doing made music. The man fell to his knees before the poles, he bent his head down to hear all the better: the music which was now recorders, but like voices: now beatific and now violent: now sad strings and now happy horns. Music that was the sound of Dionysus dancing drunk in the hills and Christ: laughing as a child. The man looked up from the grove and spoke to his own soul a joyous pledge, a revelation: smash all the lightbulbs and howl at the moon! To live free and wild amongst the storms of the earth, to fight strong and proud to raise up what is weak and ashamed, to live in eternal sunshine, even through the coldest rain: to dodge the deathmire of pity. To live in the eternal Yes of purity, fire and creation. To seek out life in every hiding place: in every nook and cranny of the earth. To feel the oneness with the earth that was his birthright and that had been stolen from him before his birth. To flow like eternity through the endless shifting one that is all and is the energy of the universe.
And to desire nothing more than to have it again and again.
With this the man sensed that his eyes laughed like Gaea’s and he knew the abyss: and the abyss knew him. He knew now why she could not tell him the mystery: it was not a mystery of words but of the soul and the heart and of the body. As he fell into a deep sleep curled up between two poles he dreamt of children, marriage and sacred gifts.3

The stars burn on in their vast and sacred vocation. The hills dance with the coming of the serpent. The city sleeps and all who sleep within it dream of a great demon rising from the sea and are afraid. At the Bacchus, laughter is heard in the upstairs room.4