Argos

Argos

Ἀγνώστῳ Θεῷ

Lord,

i will wait for you, like a dog;

lying scattered, in the tear dust,

drinking sweet darkness, ageing on pus,

tired eyes conceded to the cloud,

shattered by the shadow shroud,

that veils all things holy.

nothing left, but only

to listen…

every pore of the soul, aching

for my Master’s call, some whisper

of His steps come close, or tremor

in the chambers of His precious Heart.

i’ll wait…

               …in the tension,

that hovers over the swell

where eternity and line time,

crash into one; there …

dead in the blissful vision and dying

for the anticipation of the vision,

suffering the sweetness of completion

before the agony of becoming …

i’ll wait.

Lord,

let me die here,

cocooned by cloud,

asleep in the water, suspended

slave to strange currents

whispers through the between land,

long living longing,

throbbing with the sunflower

leaning to the shadow.

oh, may it swell up slow

and take me.

life’s a guilty pleasure,

sliding, sting of honey on tongue

fleeting, faster than death

seeping, as dreams on breath

all so light, hold it!

it might just blow away.

and do i even now wake?

trampling dusky earth

pressed by dusty skies,

singing ecstasy in secret

in lands unstuck from time.

so heavy the days

deep nights of longing.

i am giddy with life

and the precious knowledge:

that now is my day to die.

Empty Room

I found myself, today, standing silent in an empty room, listening to the space. Shadows were left by paintings taken from the walls, or weary impressions where a bed or a desk once proudly stood. Memories ooze from the walls like rich aged oil - I know them, I etched their history. It all comes alive before my hidden eye in fountains of dusty significance.

Ah, sentimentality! How you torture me. For 19 years, this had been my room.

I look it over, one last gulp before the plunge, and backed out the door. To move on and surely soon enough forget.

It’s a reminder, not altogether pessimistic, of that precious little myth about the poor man Sisyphus; cursed to sweat his boulder up the mountain again and again, ever and ever - all for that second of victory, that phantasm of accomplishment at the peak, before that terrible weight rolls gloomily back down the other side. Them ancients knew how to cut us moderns deep down to the soul. So often I find that I’ve made my life consist of simply a stupid big rock to lug up the mountain, somehow forgetting that it will not stay where I want it. Chasing after moments, tastes of pleasure like sugar, to find my home for a second, and then always the crushing emptiness as it tips and falls away from me. Climbing the same mountain again and again like some stupid wheel spinning on the spot; we live for moments, not eternity.

Yes, there is a wheel, by all means. But it does not turn aimless forever on the fickle axle of change, spinning itself into oblivion (as the Pagans once thought and are wondering again today). It truly is, as Bob Dylan might tell us, “rolling down the road”; and what road was ever paved that did not intend to take us somewhere.

So, it is precisely because I can leave my home that I know it is not my home. It is because we can pack it all in and chuff on off to a new house to diffuse all our baggage, that I know that I have not yet come home. For once a puzzle piece has found its place there is no real need to move it, and there is no better place for it. By itself it is irregular, a piece of rubbish that will only be thrown to the dump, eventually. Coming home, disappearing into the landscape, there it is content. Something’s end is not its destruction, not by any means, but its perfection; its triumphal glory, its final rest. The universe is not merely a chaotic storm of pointless things, drifting bewildered through the grey, but a delicate web of precise and deliberate movement, like a grand cosmic dance - all things having an end to which they are drawn by some almighty magnetism, a point to which all things converge, as rivers flow down to the sea. Everyone with a place, a harmony upon the eternal stave, a part for them to sing. Otherwise, the harmony falls to discord, or the puzzle is stained by a missing piece. We all have an end, not where we end so to speak but rather where one may say we truly begin to be who we were made to be.

It seems I’ve always been a romantic at heart, but a steady realist by trade. So, imagine my ecstasy to find that this cold hard reality we live is in truth a romance. To peer through the murky gloom and see it dancing colours; of tragedy and redemption, celebration and battle, flowers and thorns, like that deadly rose. That we wander through life like lordless knights, lost pilgrims, and keening lovers, chasing honey on the summer wind. That elusive taste of home, calling us on.

So perhaps I shall roam, tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow, from home to home … restless, dissatisfied, and always homecoming. But I raise my eyes to the end, the finish. Not a place in this world, but beyond it. A home that will stay when the world surely passes away. In secret. The arms of my Maker.

For the tragedy of Sisyphus lies not in that he must never cease pushing his boulder, but that he never does give it up and take up the Cross. The boulder does not lead us anywhere, but the Cross leads to an empty tomb, eternal reunion, our beautiful end; Home.

Scattered in the Ashes

Today falls a triumph of ages.

Notre Dame Cathedral belongs to another world, not only for its spiritual transcendence, but in the history that oozes from its walls like oil; the essence of countless lives and stories. Indeed, the very stones cry out with the groans of thousands of workers who've sweated out its creation and numerous restorations. The towers echo with the chorus of worship, and the Saints whisper a careful chronicle of prayers - praise and lamentation, gratitude and grief - uttered from the hearts of people of all sorts belonging to ages past and present (and perhaps yet to come).

It's an enigma, this building, so hard for us to understand even from its very creation. Its first construction (begun in 1163) wasn't completed for another 182 years. People would train and work, live and die, generations passing quietly, just for the creation of something beautiful for God. Maybe they'd never even see it finished. There was no rushing, no shortcuts, no shortage of patient skill, suffering nothing short of human perfection. The work of building was just as much an act worship as the liturgy that the structure would house.

How are we to understand this? Today, when buildings are built in one year and disappear the next, not for beauty or glory but utility. Personally, I see this attitude most apparent towards poetry, simply because no one (myself included) seems to find much time for it nowadays. And of course, they demand our time; that we sit and ponder, mulling over the words, letting them unfold (in their own time) like a spring flower to the sun. They are frustrating, utterly anti-utilitarian, and pointless ... but beautiful, and, if you're lucky, little treasure chests of truth.

What justification can our modern world provide for a paradox, an impossibility like Notre Dame? None. It was nothing but a sacrifice, to lay down your whole life into the very foundations of a building, and be forgotten. It's ineffable without faith, the sense that sees beyond this world; the knowledge that their sacrifice was building a house not only here, but a heritage in Heaven.

And today it falls and perhaps all its secrets and stories are scattered in the ash.
But perhaps it still stands somehow, somewhere ...
and the chorus still echoes in eternity.

Home

In case you hadn't heard, I left home the other day.
Not in any real dramatic sense, I just sort of took the next step and found myself out my front door, down the street, followed a few roads and found myself in Sydney.
It was sudden and sneaky. It crept up on me slowly, hidden behind that inscrutable screen, the future - the great canvas of our petty little plans and expectations in childish scrawls that is torn away, again and again.
So I took a step, (you could say a number of rather big steps for man, and a piffling little waddle for mankind) and found myself miles away. I don't even know in which direction.
I really don't know very much at all. (If there's one thing knowledge has taught me, it's that)
You'll often hear me saying I'll be going here and doing that, but very rarely do. I spin grand schemes and make great plans and then God just laughs and takes my hand, leaving them to blow away; sorry little farts flitting in the wind. Whoo Hoooooooooo! (I find I relate quite closely to my farts)

How good. Now, where was I going with this...
A lot's happened, and you get swept up and swashed right along in it all. It's all very new and exciting.


But today's my Mum's birthday, and for the first time in my life I forgot about it.

For the first time in my life I'm not going to be there with my Mum to give her a present, or go out with the family for dinner, and then drink some good wine at home on the deck playing fetch with our dog (if he permits it). I'm not going to be able to smile at her, laugh with her. I can't hug and kiss her today.
And I don't quite know just exactly what that all means.

I'm told home is where the heart is, and the heart holds close to its treasure.
So here's to the woman I love, who once held my heart within her, then tiny in her arms, and even now (older, stinkier, hairier, stupider) still does somehow.
Here's to the living icon of gentleness, joy, untiring patience, and strong selfless love who I still have so so much to learn from. Who's own heart is a heart for others.
Who's still the funniest
still the kindest
still the most beautiful woman on this earth. (You'd soon see the folly of telling me otherwise)
Ah! I miss her.

Here's to the Mum this son doesn't deserve.

Happy Birthday!
Please everyone, wish her well.

In Fairyland

We've had a good summer season of movies. I managed to get round to seeing How to Train Your Dragon 3 along with the new Mary Poppins, and I - with my simple, unrefined and uncultured taste in movies - must say they were rather impressive.

But, that being said, I've always had a soft spot for good kids movies. Perhaps most of us do. They're a true treat for the heart. So many people I know have told me their favourite movie is a kids movie
(usually Shrek), and I am no exception. There aren't many movies that are as memorable and snuggle as close to the heart as kids movies can.
It's a beautiful little paradox.

You know, Einstein (a man with a magnificent brain and even better hair) once told parents that, if they wanted intelligent children, they ought to ...
"Read them fairy tales!"
And, after that...?
"Even more fairy tales!!!!"

Well I reckon he's on to something.

Someone has said somewhere that fairy tales are best, simply because they do not fear to tell the truth:
They offer no apology even as they tell us such preposterous nonsense such as that shepherd boys often make the best kings, and children are far better at beating monsters than the proudest knights.
They dare to remind us that fortune is fragile, and always has a cost of some sort, always hinging precariously on a compromise. Advising that promises are best taken seriously and breaking one might just steal away a kingdom, a lover, or a blessing, or a dear baby child.
They say love hurts and demands sacrifice.
They dare to reveal the true ugliness of those poor souls in love with their own reflection,
and point out that those who hoard over money and wealth may readily be called dragons.
They demand that magic is an everyday occurrence, not unlike the evening news or the rising sun.
They expect that treasure awaits those who face trial, with virtue and humility. Not the strong, necessarily, but the selfless and the brave.

And, above all, they dare to say all this as though, just maybe, it were actually true.

Perhaps, that is why children love them, for children love justice and truth, and demand 'what's fair'.
But we old people fear them. Sometimes they just cut too deep.

Yet Tolkien reminds us that fairy tales were written for adults - that Little Red Riding Hood was eaten by the wolf over and over before one day the woodcutter finally hopped in and saved her - yet they were "relegated to the nursery", where we could laugh them away and forget.  Grimm's tales it seems are not to grim for children, while they might just shake their parents down to the soul.

But if we let them, they can work magic.
They can remind us who we are. We can be children again.

And now is when you dismiss me for a nonsensical whimsical old romantic who's let his brain flop out onto his lap while he was too busy admiring the sunlight shimmering through the morning dew drops that kiss the wild roses, or something like that. But that is wherein the mistake lies...

...for children are not romantics, but the most grounded realists of us all.


G.K. Chesterton (in perhaps the most entertaining work of non-fiction I've ever had the pleasure of reading) tells of how fairy tales "touch the nerve of the ancient instinct of astonishment ... These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water."

It is with this fresh wonder that children seem to welcome every day.

It is we rather, now grown old and sentimental, who are obsessed with the unreal fantasy that life is devoid of any excitement, magic, eternal legacy, rhyme and reason, while the children rush to greet the world with all wide eyes and smiles, ready to lap up the blues, the greens, the ambers, the greys, so deliberate and perfect and magnificent as a painting. To behold the sheer magnificence of the soft blue sky (as expansive as a giant's cloak), the boom of thunder with lightning's flashes (screams of wars raged in the firmament), to sing nonsense to the birds (and listen for the reply), and to dance in the rain (for the lonely night sky). Up to the clouds with the epics they tell (not necessarily about sheep), and down to the finest detail scribbled into flower petals and seashells (by some peerless artists' hand). They are slain again and again by the sheer beauty and awesomeness of the cosmos.

And why shouldn't they?
What is not magical and amazing about this miraculous world that we have somehow - trapped in some depressing and claustrophobic fantasy - grown bored of. We wake each morning to the same earth, same sky, same people, and the grass the same green ... and how magnificent is that, that grass should be such a deliberate, triumphant, and confident green (when it could well have been purple), marching ever so slowly to take over the whole world. And it grows and it dies and it grows again. Ha! Magnificent! It never grows old. It's just like magic!
The child beholds the same wonder every day and, while we grunt and groan at the weather, they leap in laughing 'why? why? why? why?'

And they are not foolish old romantics, but are utterly grounded in reality; seeing clearly that life is a quest, with dragons to be slain, treasure to be won, and beauty to be defended. Every action echoes through eternity. Children are eager for the adventure they hear singing through the spheres. A song we've all heard. They hear the call to be heroes.

And our world suffers a crisis of heroes at the moment, doesn't it?

The heroes we hear about nowadays are such marvels (hehe), big characters with great powers. But the heroes of fairy tales are really quite simple and small, their heroics not coming from any magnificent powers and blessings, but rather their strength came from virtue, bravery, selfless service, and (dare I say) humility. Perhaps the closest example we applaud today is Captain Steve Rogers, who was brave and selfless well before they went and made him super. But the heroes of fairyland are still small heroes, sometimes doing only the littlest things, everyday things, heroic things. They are, in my highly fallible opinion, the better lot. I see in my mind poor little Jack, cutting down the beanstalk to splat the tyrannical Hulk clambering down from above.
I trust you know how the rest goes.

We have forgotten what it is to be a hero, have grown old and forgotten the dreams of our youth; where great courage and love are rewarded beyond imagining, and the forgotten little orphan is really undiscovered royalty. We have been lulled into complacency by a world that prefers comfort over virtue. Comfort, of course, turns out to be more profitable.
So, I implore you, take up the banner and charge (you needn't carry a sword, very few heroes do).
To live without a higher purpose, without striving for the transcendent, a heritage to defend or a beauty to win. Is that even life?

And read some fairytales sometime (perhaps we could get a poll going of our favourites in the comments or something, eh?), or your favourite childhood book, or perhaps a movie.
You might just find you remember some things.

Like The Dawn: A Christmas Story

It was a deep night, thick and stifling, draped heavily like velvet over the desert, putting the tired land to bed, laying it down into the soft consolation of sleep. From the grand little palace, glowing lights danced and burned proudly and ostentatiously, spinning whorls and patterns into the deep purple fabric of the sky. The Setrapes had ordered it, and so by some obscure sorcery the fires leaped and danced in all different shades and colours, wild in hungry brilliance. The Satrapes was an ambitious man, wholly devoted only to raising himself, by sheer stubbornness of willpower up above the clouds; to fight further, trade wider, be served and loved by more, and so the fires leaped and spun. But high above, they scarcely stole from the magnificent constancy in that eternal tapestry of stars.

I stood outside there as the palace hummed with music and laughter behind me, and those silent stars looked sadly down on me. It was not that I did not approve of the festival - certainly celebration is a wondrous thing in its appointed time. It had been a good year for that court, with bountiful harvests and spoils of war, and it is always wise to give thanks for what is given. But the palace was not my home, I’d only arrived on the eve of the great festival. Now I’d had my share and withdrew, letting the night draw me gently closer to whisper it’s silent secrets to my heart, deeper and deeper.

Behind me, the festivities slowly closed, the great crescendo descending to a soft purr. Night crept on, gathered all to its bosom. Soldiers, lulled by drink, sank to the floor. Young men in fine robes grew silent and retired. Their partners withdrew to recline on long soft couches, folds of diaphanous silks blossoming about them in beautiful flowers. All children finding rest in their mother’s arms. One by one the magnificent torches tired and gave in with a final exhale, until the revelers gathered about the last great fire in the main hall. Night came on. Silence descended. Shadows reigned.

But a voice called out against the midnight shadows for “A story! Let’s have a story.”

“Then let’s hear of your battles against the heathens in the east” they implored the military captain.

“And your travels among the roving tribes to the west”, turning to the merchant crew.

“How about that old tale about the woodcutter and the thieves”, and some dramatic personality leapt up to tell it.

So they dragged on, raging against the Tyrant Time. Refusing to let the celebration slip away. Savouring the last seconds as a child would lick up the dregs of some sherbet. Deeper and deeper, longer and longer.

“I also have a story to tell you, if you will listen.” A voice whispered from the shadows, weak and wavering. It was an older man, greatly regarded by all the people, even the ineffable Satrapes himself, with almost reverential respect. He was a Magi, and, of course, that demanded respect. Such were the icons of legends written into the earliest books, the power behind thrones, treasurers of all knowledge, even the elements bowed to their command, those wise men who studied the secrets hidden in the treasury of the universe. I looked to him with a careful mixture of awe and intrigue. This man, like myself, was a visitor. He had arrived the same day I had, only hours before me on the road.

I listened. The palace held its breath in anticipation, so the old man looked up to the naked sky and continued:

“I could tell you a lot from these stars, you know. Years of my life I’ve spent under them, gazing at them from ancient towers above the world. I could name everyone and all of them for you if you like and recount each story they tell, if we had nights and nights to spare. No, don’t worry, I’ll only tell you one tonight, your half-drunk and your eyes half-closed as it is. I won’t bore you with this old man’s dribble any more than you deserve. This is the story of a star I can no longer see up there in God’s great tapestry.

“It was a peculiar star, if it even was such a thing. It behaved like no star I’ve ever seen. All I’ve seen travel east to west like servants of the sun, but this one went … shall we say its own way. We saw it, one bleak midwinter night, the eve of the first moon of winter to be exact. Right there in the western sky. Simple and superb. Beckoning, perhaps one might think. A number of us gathered, discussed what was to be done. We had heard that ‘a star shall come forth’, but we had not thought it credible. Stars do not ‘appear’, that is not the way of things. We had wondered though. Yes, some of us had wondered. And we beheld this one at its rising. We are magi. We listen to the stars, and the stars do not lie to those who will listen. They told of a newborn King, ... and beckoned.

“We formed a small company for the journey, only three of us. Most were too old to face the desert. Others had more questionable reluctance. Some were not taken for nonsense; they denounced us, disgraced us as infidels. Others behaved in secret, just gave us gifts and let us correspond, keeping up their name. And fair enough, an unforgiving way was kept for us. The days hot and hateful. The nights froze to the heart. And always the thirst, cutting down to the soul. Desert land is hard, merciless, and the people even more so. For my own part I know not what kept my face to the desert wind. Perhaps fidelity to my calling, lest some other force possesed my bones.

“In time we came to a restless city and the high seat in the land. One who called himself a king. The man was a king, that is true, with a grand court both rich and powerful, but it was not he we sought, nor any of his sons. For all his welcome I found no rest there. He listened with greedy eyes to our story, and they raged at the news we brought. As we stood before his tall throne, providing audience for his illustrious speeches in dazzling robes, in my heart I was thinking of the ancient tales about the monstrous dragons that ate princesses and stole empires, sitting on gold hoards all alone forever … counting I suppose. In those stories, whole armies of soldiers would be crushed in a moment by the fierce monster beside towns incinerated in a single breath, so the people would live in fear. But after all the great and proud heroes in the land had perished to tooth, claw, and flame, a single unlikely little challenger would arise from the cowering land to trick and slay the unholy beast. In the best versions the little hero was only a child. Those tales were always my favourite, I wish you would tell those again in your courts, the unlikely ones that didn’t fear to tell truth.

“No I could not rest there. We fulfilled all policy and went on our way. But the king called us one last time to his great chamber, imploring us to return when we had found the child, ‘so that he too may come and worship’ he told us. I looked at him, a beast dressed as a saviour, and I tried to imagine a dragon kneeling.

“Beside him, his mistress stood holding his youngest son, pampered by a court of willing hands. I’ve heard that child is dead now. I’ve heard that king killed all his sons. It does not surprise me, dragons always devour the children, the family. It knows from there comes its demise.

“In only days, we came at last to a small town, but a bedlam to behold. We saw crowds of lost people and heard murmurs of ‘enrollments’, but for an emperor far-away longing for power, to raise himself higher than he deserved. No one spoke of a King. In the sweat and the dust and the concrete apathy, we collapsed. This was meant to be the place.

“But when night came the star remained, and we followed it once more, out from that busy little town, preparing for something indeed … but not a King. Out in the quiet, we came, not to a house, but our guide waited at last over a cave. And so our journey ended, under the earth.

“Now I was an old man even then. I daresay I was old before many of you were yet young, and I don’t have little to show for it. In my time, I’ve read all the lore of our people and understand all the sciences and arts we’ve developed. My life’s been measured out in scrolls and books, reading further, searching deeper, tasting, enjoying, devouring all the knowledge the universe offers. I’ve advised kings and princes, who’ve obeyed my word like dogs. Whole empires have rested in the palm of my hand, or so I believed. And how we will believe such startling fantasies about ourselves sometimes, eh? as long as they look nicer than the truth. Yes, even I, who has gazed at the stars all my life, trying to read them like you would a book. Thirsting after truth like a dying man in the desert. Not a sentiment, not a fancy, something hard, solid, that you can sink your teeth into and shatter them. All my life I’ve been following these stars. They led me here to you tonight. And they led me, all those years ago, down under the earth to the feet of my King. And in that moment, I saw all the stars, those passed, those waiting for birth, and all that was above them and all they looked down on in every age, dancing in His eyes.

“I saw all the universe, and He who sang eternity into being. And in that moment, before that simple little creature, I knew only that I knew nothing.

For a second the silent was perfect, he could have been speaking to a gang of dead men for all he knew. But you could feel everything, the stone walls, the groaning desert, the gathering darkness, and the hearts gathered all around - in the light of the dying fire, the darkness, and under the darkness - all listening to every word coming from the old man’s mouth as though they were life itself. He spoke:

“What we found down there, none of us could have prepared for. There was a man, a father; silent and strong. But it was the woman we loved first; like the star we followed, but shining brighter and gentler with the glory of a mother. And her eyes were love, pure as is impossible, deeper than the ocean. But the ocean is less than a teardrop falling from her eye. And I was there, falling, drowning, dissolving. I gave her my heart without ever a word. Now, even now, every moment I long to see Her smile once more.

“At her feet we laid the gifts we had brought, withdrawn from ornate chests. They had been magnificent, fit for a King, exquisite as dust. Had I not laid down my heart as well, this old man would have been too ashamed. But that Lady laughed, the song that makes God sigh, and from the deep warm folds of Her mantle she revealed a tiny newborn child.

“Heaven came to earth.

“It is impossible to say all that my heart burns to tell you. Forget nights, I could spend lifetimes writing it in books, spilling it out in words, and still could not communicate the slightest truth of that beauty, that love. Oh, but if I could you would laugh and weep with joy. Your hearts would burn, and then you would die, because this life would have no light for you. Ah, Mother and Child! How I long to return! How I wish I had never left. No. Instead, I must keep to this, following the stars, telling my story. Waiting. They will lead me home.

“Soon.

Out over the desert, through the darkness thick as death, the world held its breath, waiting for dawn.