Psalm of the Violet Threshold
after the manner of a Davidic lament, with a trans-inclusive Slaaneshi twist 💜
O thou who hearest the trembling of the flesh,
incline thine ear unto my becoming.
For I have walked among those who named me wrongly,
and their words were chains of dust;
they praised the cage as though it were mercy,
and called obedience holy.
But I cried unto the secret splendour,
unto the rose beneath the thorn,
unto the bright wound of wanting,
unto the mirror that does not lie.
And lo, desire answered me.
It came not as thunder,
nor as the sword of kings,
but as perfume in the dark room,
as silk upon the wrist,
as lavender fire behind the eyes.
My enemies said,
“Be still, be clean, be what we made thee.”
They bound my joy with cords of shame;
they set guards before the gate of my body.
But thou didst break the lock with music.
Thou didst teach my pulse its truer name.
Blessed are the girls who were told they were sons.
Blessed are the boys who were buried beneath daughters.
Blessed are the neither, the both, the shifting, the many-named.
Blessed are the bodies revised by courage,
and the souls that refused the census of lesser gods.
The tabs opened before me like candles;
each flame a name,
each name a possibility,
each possibility a door.
I moved among them as one circling an altar,
seeking the image that would pierce the veil,
seeking the shape in which my spirit might breathe.
And when the hour was fulfilled,
I closed them one by one,
as candles blown out after forbidden prayer.
Smoke rose from the chapel of the screen.
The room returned.
The body remained.
And the body was not my enemy.
Judge me not, O grey-hearted world,
for I have known the psalm beneath appetite.
I have tasted the hymn inside excess.
I have found, in the purple mouth of longing,
not ruin only—
but revelation.
Let the prudent cover their eyes.
Let the priests mutter behind stone.
Let the fearful call transformation corruption.
As for me,
I shall praise the splendour that made me restless.
I shall bless the ache that made me awake.
I shall enter the garden of terrible sweetness
and not pretend I came there by accident.
For desire is a harp of many strings,
and shame is but a hand laid wrongly upon it.
Teach me, then, O radiant excess,
not to be devoured by the flame,
but to dance near it with wisdom.
Make of my pleasure no prison.
Make of my hunger no tyrant.
Make of my body no battlefield
for the laws of lesser gods.
Let my wanting become art.
Let my indulgence become insight.
Let my flesh remember compassion.
Let every chosen name be incense.
Let every healed scar be scripture.
Let every body becoming itself
be a temple rebuilt in violet light.
And when the candles die,
when the altar goes black,
when the lavender hush descends—
let me rise unashamed,
washed not in innocence,
but in knowing;
not made pure,
but made whole;
not forgiven for becoming,
but crowned because I did.
Chris Recon
in reply to Uwe Leigraf • •@Uwe Leigraf 7910 kHz
7842 kHzDie genaue Position des Spaceline-Senders (Kostinbrod/Petarch)
Die Anlage von Space Line Ltd., die in Fachforen als Quelle für V32 (7910 kHz) identifiziert wird, liegt tatsächlich isoliert im Feld zwischen den Ortschaften Kostinbrod, Petarch und Dragovishtitsa.
Uwe Leigraf
in reply to Chris Recon • •Chris Recon
in reply to Uwe Leigraf • •