[I am possessed by the spirit of preparation, for the upcoming wedding ceremony of myself and my beloved partner, Calvin. We are now less than two weeks to the day, under the totality of the coming solar eclipse. Just about everything is all sorted, and yet everything remains unsettled. The curdling excitement of a coming large threshold. Union. The celebration of union. The commemoration. It is to be a small ceremony, immediate family and a few others, coming together in the round, in cosmic re-creation. I have a book which I have completed — Odes for a Golden Age — which is in large part a collection of the first 33 poetic missives and received visions, in inverse chiastic order, with certain specific additions. I ended up designing all components of this book, as well as its full layout—as per the instructions of a vision received on 2/11/24, around 5am—and will further embellish it with gold when in hand. A short-run artifact; a full printed book of 180 pages. A symbolic codex-grimoire of my wholeness in the lead-up to this next phase of my life, and of the world. There are so many things happening, all at once, as always. A great ice storm; an opening up into a deeper layer of alchemical understanding through Sulfur and Mercury’s interrelation. And in the midst of all this comes today’s missive, arriving on a vision of mountains: three-as-one, blue and red and green. Last month I was fortunate enough to be invited to give a talk at Johns Hopkins to a room of receptive inquisitives (a very warm welcome to those of you in Baltimore who subscribed to receive these little missives!). The talk was titled “Visions as Cross-Cultural, Trans-Dimensional Language”, and began with discussion of my own visions of a Red Mountain, of Christiana Morgan’s Blue Mountain, and of others. Here we have not one mountain, not three, but many — uncountably many! And we open with a variation on the famous line of Ezekiel 7:6-7. From Joy to Panic and backforward again; to joy. To joy~] Received 3/26/2024 | ~6pm
Listen to the Recitation:
THE MEND IS HERE
The mEnd(iCant) has come, it has dawned for you;
Behold, it has come! There is joy, not panic,
On the Mountains high, blue and red and gold
Glowing emerald green, hollow and teeming
With life radiant, a holy halo cloud round the top
Spinning pole star axis, the tree remains still —
Or is it spinning in reverse? Which one spins, and
Which is still? Which way forward, and which way
Back, to the place of mending, the place of just
Mends, bones stitching together fragments of
Glass stained red blood red deep garnet red, thick
Tonic tones, red light therapy radiating through
The rich red blood, the fibrous pink muscle strains
Expanding and contracting, clouds of acid rain
Filling and emptying, the misery of those down below,
Those on the ground looking up, mouths dry,
Parched lips cracking, desperate for any drop
To drink, they drink the poison that is given and drop
Even lower, to the ground beneath them, into the ground
Sinking in sand, swAllowed whole by a creaking
Cracking rumble pulsing up from the depths, nearly
Inaudible, a humming glimmer faint in the edges
Of what can be perceived by any sense, by every
Sense, see what cannot quite be seen; hear what
Cannot quite be heard; accomplish what is so great
That it cannot quite be achieved. There is not enough
Time to lay these blocks, these cold stone slates,
Pebblestones, cobbled paths, upswelling and up
Surging with the melting earth, ice dams flowing
Free again, the hidden waters of the earth, filtered
Pure and clean, transparent as ice, invisible in the way
Of Spirit, which moves and mingles and storms
The gates of hell, begging them open, to harrow
And bend the straight narrow route taut in the bow
String of fate, tensed and aching to be snipped,
Let loose the poles so they may become one again
And diffuse the magnetic compulsions — we are harmed
And ready to go, at any moment, leaping into the void
Clutching our own escaping self dignity slipping
As a shadow vanishes midday beneath itself, time
Vanishes in the miniscule conch scowl, blown harsh
With resonant air, animating breath, exhausted
Expelled from within. Do not breathe in what you
Breath out. To take back in immediately what was sent
From you is poison to you, an acid bath filled with
Fiberglass, microscopic parasitoid wasps, filtering
And flooding the fruit you so love, to eat, crunching
Eggs and exoskeletons, indistinguishable from seeds
They are all seeds; we are all seeds; everything is
Seed, seeding that which follows. It is all moving
Itself and ourself to a selfless self without self, yet
Individualized, indivisible. Unity is the cure. Union
The medicine. Separation is necessary for propulsion
And gravity for reunion. The relationship renews the
Latitudes of our reach, pulling out and pushing in
Calling forth a ripe yearning, for the solely derived
Density of a single unit, fleshed and fulfilled, hunger
Relinquished and sustenanced. The hungry ancestors
Must be fed, their dreams ended, through the
Accomplishment of the descension, the descEnders.
We who descend from those who never left us, nor
Were ever apart from us, are the realization of every
Prophecy, of every wish, of every desire hope and
Faith, trust in the greater photologue of language's
Soul-forward lurchings: re~enchant the verb, the word
Again; this is the way through. Language is not so
Limited as we think. The skillful word is the key to the
Golden Door. unLOCK it, that rusty hole, blocked with
Wax; it must be melted before it can be opened.
Apply your fire; do not worry about the door. It is
Immune to your heat. Put forth the key and twist
Left then right, then in, then right then in then left,
Then out — with a click! And pullpush with all your might
We are all pushpulling with you, every hungry ghost,
Every starving ancestor, yearning and cursing the
Living, the death they were given, the lessons they
Passed down, as if down were anywhere other than
Now, arcing ever backwards into the future present,
Gifting the whole union of time with a particular frame
Which is not so limiting as we think. Lean back into
The aching groaning hinges, still so unforgiving,
And heave, hew, lunge with everything, with everyone,
Until the door at last budges, undisturbed dust puffing
Out the cracked opening, dark inside, faintly
Glowing, emerald green. A mountain just barely seen
Through and behind. A mountain! In a small, endless
Room expanse of crystalline dark. We are all sucked
In to the room, and the door shuts behind us,
And is sealed, and disappears into the dark, seamless
Without a light to see by, one must find their way
Fumbling and groping and diseased and disabled
Tumbling down to the absent ground, yet supportive
And reaching to the cold sharp exterior of the mountain
Which responds with a red response of inner light
Rippling as water through its solidity, pulsing alive
With a deep drum-like beat, barely inaudible,
At the base of the range of what can be received
An impossible range of mountains, of every color and
Shape, smooth and soft, tall and overbearing,
Bearing down on our heads; the mountain curves
Around on its side, and the top haloed summit comes
Down to the crown of our being — or are we curving up
To meet it? The two meet and join, peak into crown,
Halo about body, as one, and the blood of the mountain
Is the blood of the body, pulsing red in response
We ripple out to meet it, hollow and teeming
With life, with strength unmatched, with the full
Fullness of an ancestor's satiation, complete and
Forever full, no longer hungry, no longer yearning,
Now mended, now whole, now green, and red, and blue.

THE General Explication OF THE Embleme
It ought therefore to be thought sufficient to see in this Figure, as in Looking-Glass, the Abridgement of the whole secret Philosophy, which is contained in this little Book, in which all the Parts of this Emblem are explained as clear as it is permitted to be done.
Those that are initiated in the Philosophick Mysteries, will easily and presently comprehend the Sense which is hid under this Figure. But these who have not these Lights, must here consider in general a mutual Correspondence betwixt the Heavens and the Earth, by Means of the Sun an Moon, who are like the secret Ties of this Philosophical Union.
They will see in the Practice of the Work, who parabolical Rivulets, who confounding [or mixing] themselves secretly together, give Birth to the mysterious Triangular Stone, which is the Foundation of the Art.
They will see a secret and natural Fire, of which the Spirit penetrating the Stone, sublimes it in Vapours, who condense themselves in the Vessel.
They will see what Efficacy the sublimed Stone receives of the Sun and Moon, who are its Father and Mother, of whom it inherits presently its first Crown of Perfection.
They will see in the Continuation of the Practice [or in the Progress of the Work,] that the Art gives to this Divine Liquor a double Crown of Perfection, by the Conversion of Elements, and by the Extraction and the Depuration of the Principles, by which it becomes to be that mysterious {Rod} of Mercury, which operates [or performs] such surprising Metamorphosings.
They will see that this same Mercury, as a Phoenix, who takes a new Birth in the Fire, arrives by the Magistery to the last Perfection of the fixed Sulphur of the Philosophers, which gives it a foreign Power over the three Genders [or Reigns] of Nature; of which the three-fold Crown (upon which is set for this Purpose the Hieroglyphic Figure of the World) is the most material [or essential] Character.
(translated from the original French)