Think of a Hector or a Hecuba, remember them
against power you said.
Power, I think, is air.
The moon burns. The ether breathes invisible
fire through the desert. Awoken
from the storm of exhausted visions
in the vortex of the desert:
the beach of an imagined ocean,
shore of a liminal sea.
wherein Christ walked off
into the desert
and never climbed the cross.
Notes to a Desert Epic
Here’s a theory.
Falls as rain, fate falls, clinamenous fate. No discernment, no preference falls on all the passersby, forces on them what it will. Souls- the wind: free, always in motion; stillness is death and irrememberance. Eternity desires change, so souls flow. Destiny- up with the stars, the self-elected fate of an actor. Destiny is that inactivity of freedom, wretch, unfortunate, bound to wander into Fate.
Jesus wanders to be eternal, else he should select a fate and bring out the collapse of time. His destiny is a selected service to non-committed peregrinations, choosing no activity. Salvation is inactivity, binds him to desert-walking; tells his apostles to feign his tale; martyr to scandalize the tale. Martyred to allow people to choose their fate of being saved, else too many wander as him in a purely open destiny.
Rain never falls on me. Pure destiny. Fate-immune. The sadness, though, at fate's exclusion forces recognition: lonely is being the only fateless wanderer. What does it mean? Always the prophet asks. There’s nothing that isn’t lost in this election. Trap of freedom.
Caprice and Calliope. Creation is capricious, the joy that inside Nothing breathed and laughed originally; bore the sisters whom love each other and love fun. God came from a prick of a needle mishandled by Calliope. Drop of blood. Playfully she dotted Caprice among the jokes. Caprice sings, Calliope understands it as if speech. Music dulled to prose to comprehension. Chain of thought. God devalued.