Missive the Sixty-Fourth

Impending Wonders.

DATELINE: Saturday, March 17, 2001, at 1245 hours CDT.
Conway, Arkansas, USA

By D. Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles
CornDancer & Company

Mysteries deepen. An incredible symphony played by the spheres and the wind on the trees foretells impending wonders.

A stout, freshly cut cylinder of cedar, the bark stripped away by a craftsman's hands, arrives unannounced on the breezeway. It is a gift from the god of the waning year. Gasps from his death throes carry hints of an admonition: "Remember me. Anticipate my return."

I am compelled to strike a balance between the arid constriction of dogma and the liquid expansiveness of instinct. Too much dry rational harmony, too much wet natural abandon: I shall have neither of the too-muches; rather, I shall reap psychic prosperity in the measured melding of the two.

A Furious Capriccio
Is Sent to Unveil the Blessing.

One of the omens arrived during Thursday night's second movement of the zephyr, which is a gentle breeze by habit; this time, however, it was propelled to uncharacteristic fierceness by the trailing breath of Borealis. Forces of the inevitable transition, the winds wrought a new combination of notes, a furious but elegant capriccio created to reveal the coming of a blessing.

"The fair face of Dogma, her beneficence and her compelling paradox, will be unveiled for you," the notes of the fresh melody instructed. "Hear, old man. Wash away the fallacy of Dogma's supposed inherent ugliness. Rediscover her role as the guardian."

Us? Is there not but one of me?

Green bands of narcissus, fragrant and comely, arise to sway and posture in the uncultivated regions of Cricket Song's neglected garden. Never before have so many gathered for the annual dance of renewal. Clusters of Spring Beauties, too constellations of delicate blossoms, clinging low to the earth and showing their faces like mirrors of nebulae.

09:09:09 floats for an instant on the scene before me, the zeroes like entrails of the sacrificial lambs, three pixilated signs of natural marvels on the near horizon.

She says she doesn't want me writing on the walls again. I'll paint over it, then go outside and scribble the formulae on the fecund soil.

The Time of Resurrected Treasure
Under the Son's Waxing Brilliance.

Where I was wrong, I can be right; this time, I can be. Where I was defeated, I can be victorious. Failure is washed away by success. Isn't it?

The powers of the steadfast, new son are inexhaustible. Mother's treasure, buried in the gathering darkness by an old god, shall be resurrected in the time of the son's waxing brilliance.

I look again. 09:19:19. Coincidence does not happen here at the hermitage. Each episode connects to a forward movement of destiny. Each episode races through the ruling cycles of the moon as Ra's sleek arrows race through the ether, purposefully and unerringly. I ride one, then another. I ride.

Beautiful Forsythia whispers, "Rejoice in knowledge of your survival in the long-ago war. Rejoice in your destiny's coursing."

Her golden-yellow tendrils sway with the smooth wind. "I cannot convince you to think outside the lines," she starts to preach at me.

Yes, you can convince me. I can see between the leaves, peek around the serrated edges. Outside the lines and beyond the obvious? I'll make the lines dissolve. Watch!

World without end? Really. Hallelujah.

on Tuesday, March 20, 2001.
That's the plan.

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| 2001 by David Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles |
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