The Silent White Bird Flies North

Casa Blanca - All roads lead to White Home

Here she sits… It could be Montserrat, or any other mountain, rock or sea front… it could be here or anywhere.. all waters are the font, and all rock is the monte…. Here I sit and I am home.. though the valley has been long and wide and the journey hard.. Here I sit and completeness washes over me, in the devastation of so much damage. I have been in view of the destruction in the fluid, inside and outside the body, in brutal tangible relational experience… To know, but not know the life quotient as full…each day and each move tallying up the damage quotient. 10:48. To build the form from broken… watch my face be torn apart, the fabric of my existence brutally battered… to know destruction in every fluid drop and drown in the creational ocean..

All roads lead to Rome.. though now we write from Rome itself, White Home, where all roads lead outward, onward, and forward .. we write now from where the return has re-unioned itself and the reunion has returned itself to Source.. whole, complete, origin… rest. She is met in her return as the child of white home.. She is now, as never, and as ever… the child of my heart…. her home….her hand in mine, she belongs here…. and has known no other home.. It is eternal and has destroyed her soul to yearn from afar, broken and battered on the shores.. never home has defined her every stretch and yearning…her capacity to know herself… her every betrayal and abandonment, her voiceless scream into the void of never heard.. I was the one who abandoned her. who wrote her script, who felt her pain… It was mine to send her forth and to know her return, her brilliance… my white home daughter… figlia mi figlia

The beyond fonted.. the trifecta.. la prima.. where action is of and from right, in our freedom .. and the archipellagi del mundo.. the earth's crust pulled and cracked apart... its own body having anti forces.. the built in opposition to itself.. earth cleave by earth cleave the rock face knowing its exact match of form across fluid meant to know that wholeness.. become a fractious eroding power .. angry swirling eddys and tidal erode to the face of the rock.. the cleave at the formed perfection that sought to separate..  inside that .. the holding deep wave enfolded in the met-on-the- road point of known.. made beautiful the seperate.. harmonised the aching rock faces that long for their match.. the unlocked... to find the exact puzzle pieces that make the face of the rock make sense.. and tutta.. within the strata.. esta bella.. the beauty.. bella Madonna

Bella .. she is the figlia... as she stands par mundo libero.. so the water is. So the construction is. So the voice of the sea is.. archipellagia true forma. A drop in the forces that seek to pull the faces together. The fluid moves tutta universale... non stratti.. 'averto de pugilare' the fighters stance released.. fugilia mi fuglia. You are in flight. Carried on crested. No longer to hate me for this. The tiny light carries all light  in all light as molecular magnitude. The chemicale the structure.. the hydra to form. Eyes see form through the aqua trversare al duminia the water that travels the domain.

The patterns now open. The fullest picture. The sweetest simple. The ice cream. To look in to the tiny light. To see the shaping that structures the molecule. The chiasma that doesnt pull into itself to see the picture. The system that fluid is and always had made.. is to live.  Vie- via-, para-, ara-, is this

The Shapes and sounds of the mermaid on the rock… her form dancing in its shaping light fluid .. transparent in a dynamic equilibrium of light in fluid, information in fluid cell, that is both inside and outside the body beyond any distinction, beyond the action of transference from one to another, from here to there, across any membrane of existence that separates form from itself. It is smooth, and tangible touch equations of form, of white home.. Many faces see the face as the face.. it is a face of many that sees itself in the reflection of the divine pool, the eternal mirror, dancing stillness is creation meeting itself as creation.. a reflection of all faces, she sees only her only face.. and is seen. The eternal mirror face, the silent deep pool, the light dancing through every fluid shape and curve, defining and redefining itself in each moment… timelessly shaping itself through time eternal. The girl in the water, on the rock, she is me at 20, at 40, at 60, the shape is the same light form dance, it is constant in its expression… a fluid font (smooth), unheld in all directions of itself… sustaining itself in fonted form.. Any static hold, holds stasis.. a rigidity of tissue telling a story that is tethered, pulled and contracted into itself as time stretches away.. taught and unforgiving.. destruction envelops its own core of destruct. Embodiment is a dynamic story of who we are in these bodies on this earth.. it is eternal bu nature and ever forming is a story being told in each moment.. we are betrayed by the materiel of our form when we are denied the truth ion our form.. our beginning beyond the alpha, our existence and our reason, our permanence and our transience…. the precision of our being here now, in this human body is a story etched into every tissue layer.. every touch and nuance of our cellular form, every protein, every molecule, every atom, every quark… the quanta, the measure of a life, a quotient or a quota of consciousness…, who are we beyond the finite edges of these broken forms..

Trapped into and out of embodiment.. to be born here on earth in a form that is excruciating to be in.. and the trauma of ‘life’ negotiated by exiting out to be trapped in the only ‘safety’ outside the body itself.. The shock of a brutal trauma that locks the soul into the tiniest space of possible ‘safety’ like hiding in a cupboard when the axe murderer is running through the house, silent, unmoving in the enclosed space, prisoner and imprisoned inside and outside of life, in all ways. The body in its primitive de-form is bio-electrically a foreign and challenging material to experience. It is a composition that feels like grey-scale to the artist rendering and expressing in full colour. It is silence in the absence of sound, where the mute scream masks the horror of the incoherent wavelengths, and sound chaos is pure trauma. Body is not freedom and the voice has no way to communicate the depth of the excruciating pain. It is not known to be pain of embodiment if embodiment itself is not a known. The pain simply doesn’t exist, and the scream is unheard, and the soul drowns in ocean cold and alone, while the warmth of love is bestowed upon those who do not drown in these oceans.

Embodiment is who we are and it is the story that has been taken from us… Embodiment is our pain and our freedom, it is our work and our promise.. it is our base and our fall.. it defines every moment of a lifetime and our reason for being born here now.. yet is it the thing you take away from humanity so they have nothing to orient from. It is the identity you tear from their hearts, so they have no composs. It is the base you pull out so they have nothing to stand upon. It is the view to their origin that you blind, so they do not believe in themselves… open to believe in any other writ you give them… Trapped within the finite edges of these broken forms.. nothing outside of this is real. Trapped into the destruction cycle only to rinse, repeat and recycle… the entrapment defines the referent.. the fight to break free from the brokenness is a paradox in itself.. ever locked into its destruction pattern, the shape the schema holds. It is designed to be this.. and yet this is NOT our design.. pregnant pause…..

The bio-electrical form is designed to know itself through its coded communication with the planet, the fish in the ocean communicating through the fluid.. its bio-electrical fluid form meeting itself in known equations of its existence coding.. ie the charge of the molecular composition as it moves in action of its consciousness through the world, in constant communication and feedback.. Union with other as parlay.. unspoken cellular touch and sharing of existential knowing.. a stream of consciousness like devices all connection the cloud and running the same operating system.. able to sync in seamless function.. Many as one.. It is where we know ourselves beyond the unwritten and written separation from ourselves. beyond all belief and ‘identity’ falsely imposed onto the created gap in communication. The scream does not leap the synaptic chasm.

We are many and not single.. Our isolation is death, like a single cell cut from a many-celled organism. We are whole together. Designed to be this. Separation is death, and dying alone in the fluid of which we are meant to know ourselves as whole.. Our oceanic home devoid of home information is the fluid in which we drown. Our destruction through the very thing we seek as life-giving on this earth.. the fluid that generates and gives life, our footed renewal, instead destroys and drowns us in what we once knew as ‘home’ .

The view from the body is termini.. lost, desolate, dis-forma. It is the inverse of our view.. an entrapment in hell, that has no way out.. the terra forma is not meant to be this.. it was not designed to entrap and the betrayal to the design itself is excruciating.. We designed human to be free form divinity in exploration of itself. The union of the vessel was paramount to the design in creation.. pro-creation.. birthing itself and its progeny anew.. new forms that we could view and learn from.. it was our venture and never did we expect to see the brutal betrayal of these perfect designs into hell’s embrace. Union is blasphemy and the unsated beastly perversity reigns as sexual ‘human nature’. to be controlled and harnessed like the wind.. a power source as such. Mis-used.. abused.. de-formed. We have watched the fragmentation of beauty, into its coarse ill-defined textures.. broken and lost to its origin, these creatures know nothing else.. so grief is not theirs to hold.. It is our view of the brokenness of our design .. watching the shatter and the perpetual loss on the tides of dysfunction…. they no longer see our faces or remember our glide.. they no longer recall our presence on the shores, nor hold in their hearts our Beauty.

Form’s eternal Beauty - where stillness resides

Beauty is the state of non fragmentation .. where the eternal stillness resides and we see ourselves clearly in our own reflection as all

She wanders alone, untouched and far from these shores… it has been an arduous journey and the writ belongs entirely to us.. He commanded and it was done.. her promise fulfilled… If only she knew the tidal promise was hers.. and his alone. He waits for her on the shores always, and her return heralds the arrival. She is home in his heart and his arms enfold her.. it is a fabric of pure white, of the highest domain… untethered now to all the lower dominions. The constant waveform you speak of holds all relative waveform expression .. where no fragmentation has formed the color expressing through the shattered domains.. No zero-ing is required, no left-righting.. no holding the shattered fragments and shards into order, the pieces into parity Union as organisation, integrity and home. The tethers release their hold, her job is done. The white master cell has a freedom from mastery through holding and unifying the fragmented shards.. its broken glass visceral pain and vice grip hold to unity shows a completed form.. as the jigsaw puzzle returns to its whole picture in completed mapped territory. The pathway Home in the body my child,, for all. Heralding is not holding dear one. The white cell of terra forma… the white cell font of creation is now and terra forma reforms as a paradise.

The silent white dove flies over the houseboat, as I sit and watch the pure reflection of the marina. She is home .. why here? why this boat, this night… all else fell away.. and I was here alone.. and yet I was home in these waters… is it the waters that are all waters…? the home that is all homes…. and so all homes are home.. and all roads that lead from white home, never leave home… Never fragmented to the sharded erosion of our perfection… never embedded with betrayal into the bedrock of a human blood font to feed. Never lost to the dark dominions.. there is no fight to resolve or return .. nothing to restore or rebuilt from its shatter… nothing betrayed to hold a force against.. It is the blood that does not need to be sanctified.. the heart that was never not sacred, and the form that was never not home.. Broken is not a measure and has no translation to shape… we are not seeking a pathway to come home to ourselves.. the referent is in the reflection.. the still waters… eternity’s timekeeping constant.

Ara - you have come home to us.. you were never broken.. the pathway home was lost  in the dis-grace.  They will see their reflection in the silent pool of your face .. they will find their belonging there.. and they will weep

White Father, I am your daughter.. you hear me now and my scream is silence once more… The promise I fulfilled for you lays open in my hands.. I am upholding an aeon, time hurts and the weft and weave of the fight for all the tomorrows is a sword laid at my feet, its weight now too great if I were to even try to lift it once again.. Done is the aeon in which I postured this form. The betrayal of my heart lifted by your hand, as it was once placed there in purpose. The homes you took from me, so I would need to build home eternal before having an ounce of rest.. to take my measure of self through the eyes of the fallen ones, and to give them each a return value of home and belonging in the greatest map that exists, always outside of their perception.. I was ever and always not see-able and held into the limits of the eye of the beholder. Formed in tinier picture, and not my own.. Seen only in true beauty through the eyes of Many who know themselves as One. Formed as seen by the beings that create form. Formed by humans who cannot see themselves as creators… ever feeling like a cheap wine poured forth from a broken vessel.. a cup passed around to be taken from without respect or replenish.. the body in its grotesque function.. The value of the soul, the being and the body in this meagre world of mistaken righteousness.. entitlement to take and feed and consume gives grounds for societies built… Towers risen and defended.

Do not presume to know the map of my spiritual-emotional waters and do not try to chart a course upon them.. She roars…. You do not get to shape me… I am not here to fit into a shape you have constructed as ideal.. this woman, this body, this soul is not yours to sculpt into a lesser form.. The 2 dimensional cardboard cut out shape of the sexy woman, the erotic fantasy you prop onto your naked desire…. subsitute any body for this body, it is faceless and soul-less, a cut-out shape in the fabric of the universe to satisfy your desire, and pick any woman to fit the shape that serves, It is not personal, the intimacy with a shape made to fit… wholly formed to serve.

For I am boundless as the oceans, and infinite as the stars, my shape is mine to form, a bounty of wishes and whispers, the nuanced grace and subtle glide of a posture meaningful to the stand.. the ground, coming to meet the feet in blessed servitude. Oceans of stillness and songs of beauty… Bella madonna…

Towers have fallen.. oceans have risen and tides have returned and promises have been fulfilled. There is no destruction in the fluid. Let that sink in.. The fluid inside and outside the body is the same information and destruction does not exist in the fluid .. the story, the information, the waveform patterns, the history, the shape,.. it has all changed. The fluid body knows itself inside and out as the same fluid, the same home information.. the same font of Source. The seamlessness of the home information fluid to fluid has a smooth cell action, smooth nervous system, smooth tissue and material nature.. The equations are held in dynamic equilibrium and homeostasis of body systems. Time collapses in the meet and a constant is sustainable as molecular form unfolds in action of itself. The constant re-generation of cellular tissue from the white waveform constant will surprise you…. from non-broken, the patterns do not need fixing.. the action changes.

The white waveform is the base.. His base.. ever constant, the core white waveform.. All other waveforms hold relative values from the constant.. Time as a constant has also a relative value based on the constant. Time has relative measure, but no chronological measure or value. The molecular constant has waveform action that is based on the constant white waveform, not acting in negation of itself (compression).

And wtf with the compression, by the way… I am SO COLD.. and the cold is the compression the metabolism, the blood, the bones.. It is the hate and the censure and the dispossession, the oontrol and the mitre, the loss of function… it is the feeling of everything being taken away… All the creative control, the freedom, the capacity and function of form.. all taken away. The compression iand compaction nto the smallest possible space, the compression of time into the smallest slowest ratio, the compression of molecules into the densest most finite decaying structures.. Compression is the scream from the membrane.. the non fluid state, the pain of extreme separation. It feels like an aeroplane crashing or a train wreck where the vehicle knows the impact and the incapacity to function and to abandon ship, or pull the escape cord is the only out.

Then to feel the ceiling lifted, like literally blowing off the top of the head.. the crown.. the ceiling.. the capstone.. like a rocket ship lift off.. stratospheric! Non compression, has weightless time, translation of molecular wholeness, without fighting the forces that hold the compression of the molecules.. and who even knew they were actively engaged in this.. just like every ‘matrix-limited’ imposition it goes completely unseen until released and the freedom gained. Non compression, has no need… it is not negating itself (that specifically). So is free to form itself.. as a shape defined by itself.. non imposition, non control, non fight, non try to shape.. we are not who we think we are.. so must get out of our own way to become who we are. Wanting a certain shape from a lesser domain does not free the shape to give to itself.. Shaping is done through non limitation, not fitting into a lesser form. like a miniature jigsaw puzzle, neatly arranging and organizing - controlling - the aspects of self and other…

Shape is an active dynamic font-based molecular action.. it has no hold and no definition, other than what it gives itself. It cannot be limited in its expression, to shape.. to form.. All written in limitation is relieved and relived.. it is not holding expression into the ever finite limits. It is not locked in, has no time vectors and cannot be controlled. The only active moment is now.. eternity is now.. tomorrow does not exist. All shape is formed in the now, that has tether or untether, is what we see and feel. the tethers hold shape to be a.cerain coded expression and not in the volition of the vessel. We learn to accept that which we cannot control or change or create anew.. And yet every moment we create ourselves anew.. So the definition changes. as the referent changes. If tomorrow has no shape then it has infinite expression and potential. If tomorrow has already been inhabited as a given shape, then it has very little room to reorganize the shape and tries instead to accommodate

To exist in the freedom of not holding tomorrow to shape based in limitation, but to freeform in definition of itself .. shaping itself beyond what we know. Running in active molecular motion into a tomorrow that shapes itself beyond our hold or need or imposition.. beyond our plans or ideals to look a given way. or take a certain path. ‘My body becomes me’ exists beyond the gateway to the self, which we are taught is our ‘controllable ownable personal self’ identity. Who are we beyond our written-in programs… do we even know?

The font exists beyond any ‘Self’ and beyond any held-into-limitation.. it is free flowing light fluid form.. it shapes as it is designed to shape.. the eternal light ignition in the eternal waters.. this is the Font. We do not drive this with our expectations or attachments.. there is no need.. only the freedom to exist the expression of creation in form.. Creational Form.

She dies a thousand deaths, every crack, every shatter, every fragment sharded and tearing at her flesh.. all she can see when she looks at herself is the damage .. etched into her face, dug deep, pillaged and robbed of her beauty… All she can see is the fragments of once white home purity… the totality destroyed for dominion… All she can see is the war torn fabric of a form that was once pristine.. white home. Father. It hurts more than you can imagine from where you sit. It hurts more than you can know… hear my scream. No one heard me here.. they shut me down and shut me up, locked me away in the smallest spaces of myself, of my not safe family home. Tortured in this form, this family, this world.. I screamed and my face shattered into a million pieces… frozen in terror through time, a material unable to touch the material of home, the known of form, the fingertips of freedom. A body sick from the pain of not this.. not union, not home, not family, not touched, not rested, not freedom, not form… Home a platitude, but nothing sweet ever tasted.

If I take the capstone out, all the pieces fall… is that the fear, the held-in-place structures.. the ones that mitred the load? If I let it all go, does it all fall Father.. The Darkest dominion a powerful inverse font… it will never stop. I can feel it everywhere.. It will never stop. The pain in my bones is excruciating… it’s so cold, and it will never stop.

The light is the only thing I know.. the sun, its light, its power, its core… the light as it moves through the oceans here on this lost planet.. the light of home swimming in the depths of destructive waters.. The light translates the dark, it moves the currents and washes the consciousness anew.. who are we on this earth that does not know our creators.. how far have we fallen to the usurp of the dark.. it matters. Our material tells the story and the story is a broken one. The people here are broken.. and fight so hard for the right and entitlement to break… to break self and other…to break and destroy the material, the body, the natural order.. the planet.. To take as their masters take, to consume and destroy as their conquerers do. It is built into their structures and the dust of their bones as they commit themselves to the broken lore .. not the lore of One.. the other one. Who are we to fall so easily and willingly at the feet of these rotten gods.. denatured kings of false promises, there is no salvation in their hands.

She sits now palms open.. promises fulfilled. Her face looking up towards him, scared, damaged, broken by this world. She sees herself in the looking, the girl in white broken through time, yet perfectly unbroken. She is the child who knows the fragmentation through her very bones, her flesh, her skin.. she is the one who knows the fight in her blood.. the darkest and the lightest, the most pure and most lost.. She is the one who knows them all, each soul, each home, each pathway of the highest choosing.. she is the one who holds the map for them to go home, the freedom and union of creation - unbroken.. And none choose, and no one wants to play with her… and her aloneness in silence speaks volumes..

The silent white bird flies north.. and she is home now, in the heart and hands of the white ones The father, the daughter.. the homecoming…she is done and breaks into the unbrokenness of the white form.. She sees her own face, the child of white home, in the bravest of lights.. and she weeps.

What is it about a small Italian fishing village.. the men tying knots in their nets, bringing in their daily catch, the wind on their worn face, smiling creases etched and lined with salt. Is it him, the crusty old mollusk, the old father, time and tides in his long worn robes.. keeping watch on Eternity… he serves none, he is only the watcher of the rocks as they move through time and are shaped by the tide.. he is the watcher of all things, but intervenes in none, simply the Eternal Presence, as silent and light that knows itself reflected in the waters, be they still or raging.. the power of the Ocean in full currents and wave storms, tumultuous and calm… clear and trasparent, her waters hold his light… and she dances to his silence. She is not of this world, but plays within it untouchable and free. Home is a dominion of light form.. He is her father.

You get to the top of the world, the highest road, the most lifted point, sitting on top of the Mount, and it’s a ‘fuck you’ all round. Its cold, lonely, and the world has fucked you over.. Hooray.. its not quite the point of celebration you were hoping for… Its a point of no-return and all-return.. because the only place to go from here, is down.. back along the same road travelled, back into the world that has fucked you over.. And its quiet and the aloneness and the cold do not shatter… the white bed, and the the white apartment in this white city, within the white medieval walls, are not what is holding you.. Your tiny innocent child-like wings are whole, unbroken and unknowing of brokenness. they are small and tender and perfect. It is perfection, my child that holds you, drives you, welcomes you.. it is perfection that beckons, upon the awaited breath, the heart’s ripeness to be touched and the body sated. It is Limoncello gelato at the corner store, and long slow days languishing in the gentle sun, it is full sensual nights and fast rides up steep mountain passes. But the work to lift the mountain to birth the stars is done.

These wings are tentative.. they will fly down the mountain… they are new and child-like.. they are not for fighting or carrying, they are not burdened with the world’s pain and not destroyed by the fall and tether that binds… These wings are pure and perfect, they are for flight not fight.. they are for rooftops and freedom and light dancing in waters… they are for tasting the world anew, touching and reveling in the expereince of matter.. they are for the purissima and la done vita of this land.. and they are perfectly designed for being lifted..

The reactive forces that cull the nature.. pulling the action in all directions.. is in a neutralised demesne. Each action  has formed its self a fold in the fabric - the stitches, the fixes and the wrangled of time held auspices. thwarted by the indevination .. that which seeks to place a hand heavy on the head and hold it beneath .. seeing the mass molecular annhilation, suffocating in loss. no white breath.. a dream once held.. known.. seen.. loved.. lived.. now seen in its loss.. in its devastion... every molcular time point di pugilare.  non ge lieri (its not free).  mondo in mondo (from world to world) .. de fumi ari (of the fumes) the grief , endless burning tears... the drown of lifelessness, the action of take, the terror of leglessness...  held in the view...  la vista eternal. Font Aveti (you have a source) mi fuglia.  font aveti, font aveti. power is not in a hand, or sword, or fight, or loss. mi trulio (I am spinning) through a million wasted lands, mi trulio  in proforro del mundo ( i whirl in the depths of the world) and I rise in the font. Many in the spine, lifted not lifting.

What you have seen no other can. what you have known no other can. The planes of view, the white tranquil, the sands non time held, the action through the river the molecules shaping beyond the vista, the shapes I shaped for you through time, The shapes unshapen forming and formed in one moment are the action of the childs eyes. you know this. i asked so much, i know the pain, i moved in every held moment with you, and here is the vista, the vista del mundo.. di liberare is to vita liberare. ni solo to make your life this. ni solo a vista.. si e dolce vita..

Cantare de libra tu vita Bella - sound, light, structure, organization, matter… existence. Sing of the beautiful life…

(fisherman in the sunrise light as it dances for him and his prayers to the fish that feed and nourish his family.. )

And He creates shape for me… he designs and organizes it for me.. it is the perfect shape for me, as perfection is the core of all shaping.. Step by step, note. by note… White pure form, given breath, articulation, colour, expression… White design given life, taste, touch, tangibility… White home given shape, form, structure, a myriad of shapes, all living art of the artist….. It is lifted from Him, from within the white core, home, the spine is held and the child-like wings lifted in their elevation to experience the world anew, unbroken, blossoming, forming in the taste-buds and the senses a passion and moment of exquisite creation, the light dances in the warm sweet ocean, and she walks on land.. home here mi belle. Life is glorioius and graceful… it sings of its beauty and tranquility, it sings itself home to the shores never left… it is a song of the deepest lands and the most longed for heart. Home.

The shapes.. creational union is also a shape waiting to be experienced in form..

The shape he creates just for me… the shape of my face lifted to the sun, the shape of the fluid as it courses through my beating heart, the shape of the ocean, the tides of mu form… the shape of my belonging… it runs deep into the oceanic seabed, the earth strata, the deepest thought into the deepest terra of this planetary form… the bedrock of home.. And nowhere in this picture do I need to be a shape for some other, to fit the mould and 2D cardboard cut-out of their illusion, their need, their fantasy, their survival story… to take a lesser shape to please and to conform, to trade and give away the thing of most value, in exchange for a home, a base, a roof, a meal… to survive on this planet in dis-grace.

There is no time, no tomorrow, but I can taste the tomorrows beyond the fight.. the shape beyond the need to bend and bow to the hand holding the celling. The child with her wings unbroken and joy in the depths of her soul is eager to see what the world feels like, is eager to play in the clear waters.. see the shining faces… Maybe there are many more places.. and this is just the start…

So what awaits just around the next corner… hidden from view, but molecularly known, longed for in flood embrace.. emergent and dynamic, shaped from perfection, to meet the shape of itself, in the notes, the tides, the colors, the cantare…. to engage the dance step and take the hand offered… to be enfolded in the shapes the world takes designed by his hand… not a container for atonement of the dis-grace.. not a fighter for the freedom once lost.. not waking each morning in the middle of a battle that has gone on far far too long, taking account of the damages, summoning the forces to carry on and heading out to fight another day… The dance of the fluid from knows its eternal solidity, its structure, organization and grace..

I am the light and the fluid Father… the oceans are my body… the global ocean tides are my form… Tomorrow is shaped by my form in the timeless font, it touches the molecules that dance and flow and move through and around each other, knowing from the molecules that know they have never been separate and so recall the dance of union as known…one body remembered, the belonging yearned for, the reflection transparent as there is no ‘other’. This is a deep and silent pool, and the language has no words…

And I stand in front of David, just a girl, looking at a boy.. the magic and the material.. and I am the white child, the girl of the font, and he is my heart, a perfect knowing, a perfect reflection,, his heart, my heart… the same. I feel 16 and new, like a child on earth full of life and excitement.. seeing and knowing form’s eternal beauty, standing in the font of source, my father’s core structure, the fluid cascades through the timeless years.. the etchings and markings of a thousand yesterdays, and the fight for the tomorrows….my white face and David, we stand and see each other.. and all the faces through time, like a thousand photographs slide away, sloughing off like dead skin cells… cascaded of fluid font, renewal of source, molecular unbroken freedom to exist.. it all is fluid form font in action .. as she stands as me and sees him, and asks ‘did you see me?’ and he does.

Around the corner of this free life, the tower awaited once again, entrapped and captive in the tower, Rapunzel let down your hair.. How small can I make myself to survive being locked in the cupboard.. Its so familiar I don;’t even fight it.. so familiar I am comfortable and rest well within it.. containment and captivity.. how much I have traded for simple safety, a room and a meal.. dry bread and left over slice of meat for breakfast.. coffee in a pot that doesn’t boil, and the gross unwanted feeling pervading it all.. to be so so unwanted and unlovable and un-homeable, un-nourishable.. to be so alone in this godforsaken world.. But it was not he who forsake me.. the transmission was down.. Like if the wifi is out and there is no connection, then the source operating system cannot sync and share the files it is designed to.. there is no molecular transfer and no home information and restorative grace can get in, to be seen and felt and homed-into .. Homer come on, we are going home.. It’s been an Odyssey and fucking hell I am done. Christ-on-a-bike… If only I had my bike here!!

The tower sits forlorn on the hilltop, in view, but no longer in use.. He orients me, it is his core and his source that feed me, that give me home, that are the bedrock and anchor of my existence, that hold the orbit and organization for all that I experience. It is his shape that shapes me, and forms my moments beyond this one.. It is his heart that holds me, ever known and loved.. It is his map that I have always known, that shapes the stars and oceans of my body.. it is his map and the pathways are known in the footsteps that lead from this broken down tower on the hill. It is an infinite shapable shape that moves me and his his heart current beats my heart.. the rhythm is pure, uninterrupted.. the transmission is clear.. nothing needed, nothing wanted.. He is sure. I am this. I am his figlia, his familia, his home.. as he is mine. Grace is a silent sound when it rests on the shores…unbroken in time.