A woman I
know has died, but she deserves better.
It’s St
John’s Eve tonight. Someone says it used to be pagan before it became Christian,
but all that’s good and (sustainable) fun has always been ours.
Death is intellectually indefencible. If you believe in it, you confess your faith in
God; which doesn’t count if you’re agnostic (if you're an atheist, go to hell).
I lay naked on the floor for a couple of hours today, paralysed through excess, before I
worked out again that creation does makes sense, so I must do too.
When I picked
myself up and looked out of the window, I got smitten by creation and fell
down on my knees.
Armageddon is on now, but St John has announced the regeneration.
I have crossed
it twice today, but I may go down to the river again to listen to Katie Melua, even though I
know I should call off the search and stop getting recklessly turned on by creation.
The only way I know how to deal with creation is to get distracted by the Creator, but I fear I'll stumble on till Armageddon, foolishly trying to find a balance where there can be none.
The only way I know how to deal with creation is to get distracted by the Creator, but I fear I'll stumble on till Armageddon, foolishly trying to find a balance where there can be none.
Today is
Midsummer. A woman's body lies cold on the bed she'd been boud to, as if it were Winter. She has died.
Except she hasn't. Tonight says there is Spring.
Picture from: greatshakespeare.com
Except she hasn't. Tonight says there is Spring.
Picture from: greatshakespeare.com
