[Four days ago I went to my local county probate court to attend a hearing for the changing of my legal name from Timothy Hall Brandow to Cybele Hall Brandow. It was in August of 2015 that I began to introduce myself as Cybele, a little over 8 years ago. All the stars aligned for an easeful, smooth update to my personal name in the eyes of the law. It was time to become more coherent. Today I went to the Social Security office with my court documents to process the change to the name attached to my SSN. And then to the BMV to void my old license and issue me a temporary one, with a new card en route. This is an incredible process, remarkably good feeling, elegant. No road blocks. All perfectly orchestrated, every gate open for me to waltz through. I thought perhaps Missive #29 would arrive last Thursday on my official name change day, but it was not to be coaxed through. We may not have control over anything really, and yet our full participation is required in order for anything to occur. How odd the way time works and whirls and plays with us, in beautiful and funny and awful turns. What was impossible for so long becomes easily done in one waking moment. This mystery continues to move us, and we it.
I woke this morning with a sore throat, a light cough, some unanticipated fits of sneezing. My voice is a bit congested, rough around the edges. Breathing is awkward. You will likely notice it in today’s recitation recording. May the condition of the present come through clearly.] Received 12/11/2023 | ~4-4:30pm
Listen to the Recitation:
IN OCTANNUUM CYCULORUM
The 8 year cycle, figure 8 dancing
Eights on eights on eights on eights
The Rose of Venus blooms in 8 year patterns
Five petaled, with thirteen solar points
A pentagram or rosy cross, bleeding mana
From heaven, little crusted grains to keep us
Alive, we live, over and over again we live
Being ripped apart; I am being ripped
Apart! In bliss and joy. Wounds heal
Are stitched up so they can be torn open
Again, and again — open, open wider, wide
Open ears to hear the scintillating call to
Prayer, to movement. It moves when it wants to
Move; when it wants to move, it moves, and
Not a movement before. Do not try to move
What cannot be moved. It will move of its
Own accord, gently or raucously, rampaging
Melting island glaciers of spring melt ice
Down major arterials, articles of disintegrating
Climate, falling apart before it can even come
Together; we are never not together, in the field
Reporting live our very witnessings, raw and risky
We are risking our lives every moment of
Every day of every eight year cycle, coming
To a close just as a million more are open,
Opening or well underway. And do not forget:
None of this is linear. Not even the line of the
Year, eight seasons wide. We move straight
In a nonlinear way, like a screw, like a
Solar System, each element protecting itself
From every other element within and without
It, and too protecting eachother in ways
That too must be protected against.
The shield which incinerates the outer onslaught
Must be shielded against by those the shield
Safeguards, lest the denizens of the system
Too get incinerated by its holy ward.
The word of god must be mediated, by
Angels or otherwise, lest it incinerate
The hearer, who themself is the beneficiary.
Around and around, we follow and chart
The lines which go between, arbitrarily at
First, until with time some beauty is
Revealed, to our mere mediated eyes,
Medicated with meticulous timing and
Themselves serving a mediating function.
The figure skater glides, points, jumps
Twirls and twists, so beautifully, and
Lands, in the hearts of the watchers,
Watching and judging, sphynx-like, invisible
Masses constantly consuming the very thing
Which destroys them, inside out, again
And again, we drink the sugar water like nectar
Ambrosia for the gods, for the humbled and
Irritable, irritated, irritating individuals.
They say, heaven looks like a life of endless
Irritation. We seek it so! Poking and Prodding,
Researching researching researching — endless
Research. Searching for . . . ? Something. Nothing.
The usual. Something new. Something fresh.
Surprising. Shocking. Upsetting. Irritating.
We are inflamed and agitated, a chemical soup,
Rivers moving turbines in giant concrete dams,
Harnessing and redirecting energy to local
Villages, built below water at the foot of
The Dam, waiting for the caldera to burst,
The Krater inside us is hot, bubbling magma,
The limbs and ligaments of so many passed
Lives, past versions of ourself, of ourselves,
Pounded, heated, stirred up to a fervor, hammered
To tools — meat hooks and nails and more
Hammers, anvils, tridents and pitchforks,
Swords and shields, maces and morningstars.
Venus, too, is a morningstar. Shining
Bright before dawn, the herald of an
Ending night, an endless loop, down
And up, and down and up again,
Dawn and dusk and daylight and evening
Midnights and twilights, winters and falls
Springing forth hours and soils and soiled
Forevernots, forget me, forget me, forget
Everything and relive it again, anew, researched
And resurged — resurgence of life and bliss
And torment and torture, sore everywhere,
Hurting, cracked, bleeding out, dry, chapped,
Cracked dry lakebeds where water used to be
And will yet flow again. Try not to worry;
You will not be likely to succeed. We love
To worry, and to worry ourselves sick
Coughing and wheezing, to garnish attention
And serve it on a dish, overseasoned and
Underripe, plucked too soon from the Tree
To be able to enjoy one’s just desserts
Crunchy, tart, mealy mush, filled with
Worms and micro wasps and clicking beetles,
What ensues is not fun though it is desireable
And must be underwritten, underwent,
The underworld where Persephone reigns over
The forgettance of so many lost souls, cherished
Currency for the gods who are conniving,
Scheming something dastardly, something truly
Magnificent, for them-as-us. Of course
We too are them, which makes it all
Much worse, at least from the personal onset.
Tarry, tarry, tarry. It all moves precisely as it
Wants to. Push and parry and pry apart the
Soggy wooden beams — let the water in! Spin
The turbine round and round, as fast as can be,
Allow the full force of the river to come raging through
To generate power, unlimited power for all —
There is no limit to how much power can be
Generated in this closed infinite system.
An eight on its side is enclosed and
Unending, self-consuming and parthenogenetic,
Like frogs, like snakes, like winged serpents
Joined together in council, conjuring up a new
Tractate, a new alchemical end goal, an
Expanding table, with seats for everyone
To join them, and enough philosopher’s
Stone to go around. The whole stone is here
Afterall, and ripe for the undertaking.
One cycle of eight years has come to a
Close. Rejoice! The next is just beginning.
Some cycles of eight are more important
Than others — yes, even though they are
All necessary, all important, all powerful,
All present, and all knowing, exactly
Where they are meant to fall, in time and
Out of it, in the great time outside
Of time, which itself has not left time
Nor rewritten its rules. Tarry with me.
Tarry again and again. Until the whole
Thing is accomplished, and done, and redoing
Itself out of existence, stemming from
So many snowdrops yet to burst forth
From moist, unfrozen soil, moss-covered
Dirt just poking out, between brown
Decaying leaves and thin patches of
Icy white. The blood is melting. Allow the
Melting. Allow the fresh pumping of hot
New blood, recoursing through our icy winter
Veins. For winter yields to spring every time,
Every year it is the same. The ice ages
End. The new deserts unfurl unto the world,
Golden and sparkling, clean and alive and holy.
Dig deep, delve into the earth, and plant
Yourself, richly tended, nobly circluded
And ready, at any moment, to pop,
To emerge, fresh and green and growing
With small bulbous buds building up
To their grand movement of blossoming,
Brightly colored petals, five in number;
Nourished by the sun, sung to by the bees;
And encircling the earth in impossible grace.
