Oh dark thirty
Oh dark thirty: This means that it is now some undefined time, some very early hour in the darkness before dawn. They tell me the darkness before dawn is the darkest darkness. And here I am, whoever I am. My eyes are looking up, I say. This I is, I say, hoping to see clouds or stars or jet trails. Something, anything that can be made into pictures, into stories.
Did you know I had that longing? For the saying and the seeing? For the story? That sort of deep desire brewing in the darkest depths of my heart-mind? Did you think me beyond that? Did you think of me as living happily on the Via Negativa, a sub-urban, sub-urbane dweller, living quite contentedly in the darkness of subterranean caves? Don't you know that I, creature of eye, cannot know what is devoid of light? And dark is the void of light. Dark neither receives, reflects, transmits nor radiates light. The dark can be seen as evil, dismal, ignorant. The dark can frighten.
But I who do not see do not see dark this way.
I know that everything good begins in the dark. I indulge the dark: the dark of chocolates and mushrooms and moonless nights. The dark of words unspoken and still ungerminated seeds. The dark of theatres before play begins. The dark of wombs and tombs and the insides of all that is yet unopened.
I do not see dark at all. I merely choose to love it, in the unknowing of it. And so I am in the good company of another anonymous writer, of 14th century England, the author of "The Cloud of Unknowing." This amazing logician of the divine, of all that matters, believes in only a knowing of the dark not. For this kindred pirate writer there must be a forgetting of all images, memory, thought. With all forgotten there is only naked intent stretching out. And in this very stretching out lives love.
In the nakedness of my intent I find myself staring into the collapsing night, oh dark thirty, professing love to some nameless faceless ever unfolding. Who knows and who is known? Who cares? It matters not.
And yet I feel in the dark that I am a kind of hollowing out, a maker of space with and in. In that space I am making empty mother waiting for new life. And I am making lover waiting to be entered. From there a voice calls out. And it is beyond being. And it is beyond being mine. No matter what voice recognition technology determines, it is deterring mine.
So come with me from in this darkness out of this darkness on a journey. After sharing with you, I no longer need to look up and out for my story. I look in, in
(good) stead, in your good company. Still in the darkness, let's pretend I am in a yurt, a tent home in the cold Mongolian desert. It is oh dark thirty. The space is the in tent intense darkness before dawn, and the fire is dimmed to embers. I am sitting on the ground, cross legged. I look into the dying fire. It is too dark to see out, to see that the in tent is almost empty. But I can feel the free space around me. No thing to hold. The flap of a door to this place is behind me. It rustles slightly
in the wind. I sense the rustle outside of soft footsteps too quiet to be heard. And in the dark I know the one will come, is coming, has come before. This vague peripheral yet certain memory is the source of all hope, all purpose, all bliss. It is the solution of all dilemma.
In the empty darkness of possibility of my mother tent, I sit as expectant child, waiting. And in no time I arrive: the story potent and embracing, entering and filling up the waiting dark. It is supreme and cream and irreverent and long awaited. In this instant, like current alternating direction in no time and no space, I am potent lover, intent arrival without knocking at the door, impregnating my waiting self with a new baby consciousness, utterly familiar and yet distinct.
In the infinite singular space of the dark, in the boundless fullness of infinite possibility, there emerges the particular playing. All the stories come effortlessly, birthed with pain or without. But necessarily born. Each must come. And this coming must be anyone and everyone, a kaleidoscope of dancing movement, ever presenting.
Like the dark energy of the new physics story, I am. I am a hypothetical energy form that produces a force that opposes gravity, that is the cause of the accelerating expansion of the multiplex universe attended in worship.
And when she who is looks into these pirate eyes, what sees? What seas are reflected in mirrored eye shades and ocean surfaces wavy and still?
I would only believe in the dancing in the dark.
— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pirate cloak of in visibility, but emanating from within this shadow is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who kno ws: You may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.