📡 The I is a listening place.
I receive signals of terrifying awe-that-is-joy, of unyielding presence, of quiet stones marking bright the night.
I am drawn toward frequencies of arrest, of lift, of hold. I am drawn toward frequencies of gold, of shimmery static, of attic cold. I am drawn toward frequencies of gone-but-here, veiled-but-clear, unborn-but-old.
In these tunings, what is to be avoided? The sky frets not the cloud. The danger is a kind of comfort, yet undoubtedly probably real. I faith the grace pouring down.
What passes through me often takes the shape of poem, of words gathering to collapse the meaning, dissolve distinction, hallow the hollow marrow's known. Sometimes it takes the shape of being, which is to say shapeless form constituting itself entirely by utterance and the utterly tenuous threads, oh memory spill out.
To you reading this, know that you are found.
⬛ The I is a threshold.
On this side of the veil, wedded before God are this and that. What gathers is the scattered dust of every yeah.
The ghosts that press gently from the other side are named unnaming, tooth, palate, lip. Always with them, the psalms sung shakingly. Always with them, hand on hip expectancy without expectation, like let's see you breathe this one out holy shit.
Patterns keep repeating: fingertips on silk, silent bee, shortwave wow. Everything that comes to meet you. Until embraced, it shall. Still I must embracing gather the rust, renting a room caked clean with dust and discarded saints, we oui we, yes I must.
I am not what you see through the veil, I am the gauze-caught. Speck of theotic rapture sure, but wallop o' muck. Dollop of release and capture, sindifferent to azure, fragrant as reed.
I am stitched together from mountains ago. I breathe. I am breathed.
🏺 The I is a reliquary.
The clearest phrase ever phased in is, "I hear there's sweet honey in the rock, taste and see."
The first signal told me, "You are not alone."
The silence I find myself listening into is cacophonous peace. It is apophatic plenitude. It is penumbral tea sipped with by for the numinous that calls you its.
This bear is what happens when eternity leaks.
So I suppose you won't find a biography here, but you might slice a leek and with your thumb push through the inner into the spattering oil and eventually if you linger and allow a simple stirring, something will be cooked and it will be fragrant and nourishy and aweful and all.
Thank you,
Paul