Melbourne 2015. I am mid-way through this year’s Man Booker Prize winner, The Narrow Road to the Deep North. After getting off to a rocky start – I mean what the fuck are editors doing these days? In the first chapters of the book there are at least five examples of really irritating grammatical stuff-ups interrupting the flow of the text. These should have been picked up by any half-way decent editor. Having said that however, I don’t know if I just got so involved in the story that I stopped noticing the errors, not sure, but now I am totally immersed in the whole thing. He really is a VERY smart writer. Structurally the novel is perfect, its emotional timing is impeccable. One is sucked in, punched in the guts and spat out, all the while experiencing a state of “Aha!” in which the possibility of judgement, the very categories good and evil become meaningless.
Nothing touches it, yet it sees and delights in all.
I would call it me.
But it sees and delights in this me also, as she comes and goes.
Oh rest here beloved one, rest in this perfect rest.
How long you have sought it in the labyrinthine ways of the mind.
Until exhaustion turned futility to silence.
Rest here oh beloved one,
Where nothing touches nothing and sees and delights in all.
Infusing the body with delight,
Overwhelming it with the music of silence.
Emanating, permeating, suffusing…
This. The untouchable ineffable…
Sees and delights in all.
Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion. – Rumi
Sleep finds no space in this body tonight,
Breathing you in, I dissolve in you oh my beloved.
You, whom I cannot possess, possess me.
Drowning in you,
Ridden by waves till there is only ocean,
Dancing with the delicious agony of desire.
Dying into you … such life … such love.
No I … only You.
I come late to your house and the doors are closed,
Thinking I have missed I sit in the small jungle of your garden.
A cool breeze and here you are, all around, within the without.
The ocean, swollen and dark without.
A room filled with people dancing as if no one’s looking,
Danced beyond repentance by the five rhythms,
Above the pounding beat,
I hear the laughter of the angel Gabrielle
mingled with mine.
To find out about 5Rhythms in your area.
The supermarket. A friendly Greek woman sells me a bright pink bucket.
The pharmacy: a porcelain Chinese pharmacist says, pointing:
“There’s a Persian shop just across the plaza”.
And on the way a friendly Aussie girl who could be something else but probably isn’t any more, from the sound of it.
Rosewater, nuts, dried fruit, Yazdi – sweet honeycakes.
Women’s voices, poetry in the air.
“It’s Farsi, our language, she laughs”
“We were talking about how hard it is to put children to sleep.”
And on the way home a church sign:
“A Jesus Metaphor: I am the bread of life.”
An Australian suburb.