The Divination

yggdrasil
Opus Mulierium

Old Toltex seers say there’s an eagle in the sky, black and white,
of infinite size. From this bird awareness springs with the beating of its wings.
Rushing us with consciousness with its cosmic winds.
When we die this awareness floats from us, like a luminous cotton puff,
for the eagle to take back.
We’re feedback, so old Toltex seers say.
 
The Norse legends say at first there was a gap, a black hole,
magically-charged, the yawning void, the silent, humming Ginungagap,
vibrating just above the speed of sound.
Either side of the great divide stood Nifleheim and Muspelheim –
elemental water and elemental fire, dark and light, black and white,
the duality of life. Like the ourobourus drawn by the other Cleopatra,
seven revolutions of the heavens later. Opus mulierum.
Later the practice of men, later still the Malleus Maleficarum.
 
But back then ice and fire met with highly charged emptiness,
and with the butterfly effect came Alda,‘The Big Wave’.
The first frequency from the darkest grave.
Riding inside was the frost giant Ymir, which now means ‘Big Sound’,
or, Big Bang.
Hang on a minute, how about that?
From this giant, this one great sound, the universe was made.
An orchestra of his bones, playing different notes, washed up on different shores, making different shapes and forming different worlds. The vibrating of the planets. We hear an octave all around.
 
Musica universalis, the harmony of the spheres, that Pythagoras’ disciples could apparently hear. The music can be played in ‘The Region of Concrete Thought’, on the lower mental plane, where they would have picnics by The Ocean of Harmony, a second heaven below the first.
A lake of all the waves.
Maps of relic light show the ripples in space time, since that first big sound
the cosmos has grown endlessly, enlarged with every frequency
absorbed and emitted, have you looked up cymetics?
Vibrations in space make shapes. The Holy Grail is just a state, so be buried in a chapel, the ceiling of which is in tune with a hexagonal vortex in Saturn.
This particular Motet has a B natural pattern.
 
Notes activate parts of the double thread, the helix weave, supposedly,
like the women spirits bestowed at birth, in Norse they’re called the Norns;
who weave your fate from the threads of space beside the Well of Destiny. Some follow you around, but for most they lie in sleep, blindly spinning fate –
Unless you’re born a hero, then for you they are awake. Like shamans rocking forth and back, with weaving they achieve a trance-like state.
Can you turn on DNA? Then why not bring back the dead? With solefeggio frequencies awake these sleeping threads, these Harmingers of fate.
No. We haven’t got it yet.
 
We absorb four hundred million parts of reality per second, but only process two thousand (they reckon).
Imagine the information drenching us that we wash off at night while
man mimics god again. A universal void that devours the collective
experience of human life, the zeitgeist
and undercurrents that run in our subconscious and are leaked out at night, sometimes over wine. With your thoughts, your dreams, your fears, your meals, this blue and white black hole makes a map, a grid of what you feel you lack, so you are easier to track, your spirit sold to banks,
your thoughts fed straight back to Zuckerburgs’ Ginungagapp.
 
The universe is like a computer so astrophysicists say,
with particles – partiki to be precise – that turn off and on, on and off,
off and on; their own binary code like zeros and ones.
These charged particles don’t have a ‘definite’ state unless they’re being observed,
like when someone’s watching your back, staring at the nape of your neck, at that moment you’re a definite state, it just doesn’t stay intact,
because as the eye of the beholder begins to glass over, the waves of time diverge.
The universe is like a computer, so astrophysicists say, but what they mean is that is us; us, this stuff, this angel dust, and rather the cosmos is
a Master Code. You know what the alchemists say: as above, so below. 
 
In Egypt, if you’ll come with me, the Tree of Life was a cypress tree,
which enclosed both life and death, and came from the infinite light of a bird,
who came from a primordial egg.
For mystical Jewish thinkers, the beginning was ‘Light Without End’,
from which all of the energy came, and which could never be drained;
like the Djed Pillar and Tesla’s coil it’s the symmetry in it all, the infinity in 8.
See the symmetry in this?
The Trees of Life across the globe, from the Mayan’s Cieba tree and Babylon’s ‘Tin-tir-ki’ to the Norwegian ‘Yggdrasil’, connect all the different worlds,
dark matter is all the branches, these Trees of Life our galaxy.
Kabbalists believed in the tree as a formula for existence, where the waves of the numinous vibrate to earth, stay in us, and then they vibrate back again.
Like the Toltex seers say: where we end so we begin. 
 
Lucid dreaming pharos could control their consciousness in the sleep of death, so would dream of passing through doors, and spent the days in enlightened ways, practicing between the frames, or any holes in walls;
So as this life starts to drift, in sleep they stay alert, in their dreams they concentrate. When breath slips they hold their spirit and pass through the other side, through the door of light, and their awareness stays with them, transported to another plane,                                                         to the milky way of thought;
while doctors back at home ponder the sacred geometry of their heart.
 
Zen and the Art of Parking,
Toa and the Art of Googling,
Death and the Art of Embalming.
Diana was an Egyptian Queen.
The poles are moving and the seas are growing,
Melusina the mermaid rising. 
 
But, don’t ask why, in the ancient Vedas there are aliens. Flying machines, sometimes with golden wings, cosmic cities and nuclear wars.
Or is this us? 
Who? A pause for thought?
Mary mother of god, Matter mother of everything.  
Or me?          
Oh, Me.
Well I am the Monkey Puzzle Tree. A mantle of epiphanies.
There is no way to unriddle me, for the eagle of which the seers speak,
forever rests within my tricky leaves.

yggdrasil

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s