The World To Come

If you are waiting for something different to happen, something perhaps unexpected, then I will first peel and then boil the corn. When it cools, I will slice it from the cob,  mix it with corn flour, roll it out, and dry it until it forms into the consistency of a fine parchment paper. You must be patient, for this takes some time. Read a book of poems while you wait. That will prepare you for what comes next.

What comes next? Well, I will take some lyrical tomato ink and inscribe the corn parchment very precisely with a bold and blood-red calligraphy. It will remind you of the old days — the celestial visitors, the exuberant excess, and the moving sacrifices at the white marble temple in the moonlight. We were standing there before the statues of ourselves. How beautiful the assembly of the harvest virgins, how glorious their willing surrender to the spiraling flames!

Yes, like gods we were, but let us not tarry there, we will be rendered mute, and I must say something. Indeed, we must have our full attention now as I reveal the next featured scene. Look, there is the prophetic parchment now. It is made of corn by-products, and it is finished. We can feel confident in saying so because it is framed and placed in the gallery. You may remark: “Brother, it is just like the time we stood in front of the pulsing Van Gogh, and for how many hours did we simply stand there like hollow statues, utterly transfixed!”

Afterwards, I remember with a fond sense of awe those bare winter trees in the plaza outside the art museum — how they were carefully pruned so that their branches could hold up the stormy skies, and we could only speak in monosyllables at that moment, because it was all so very far beyond any words we knew or could say!

And no, it is not exactly like that tonight. The real god never repeats itself. No, my Darling Dear, it is more humble, but humility is the only way forward from here. How many lifetimes has it taken for us to realize only that! Just so, when they who chance upon it read this text, it will be with wide-open eyes, because it may finally be that one thing which none of us were prepared to expect. It will be like recognizing that you yourself are that very person who has been carrying around a suitcase filled with emptiness all of your life, imagining the whole time that it contained some rare and vital information.

To that end, I will share with you as I would with a dear friend, a friend who may gaze up into my crying eyes just as they are about to pass forth into the inevitable whatever. What I will disclose to you, just as I have on the corn parchment with indelible tomato script to those who have come into this world just to learn this one thing, is that the world which is to come is not really different from this one. Indeed, they are not two!

At last the seekers will know, and you too will know, and that knowledge will be worth the time spent floundering in this limbo realm, and the sheer attention required to focus and endure it, and perhaps that will be enough. In any case, what is it to the ebony night, and the stupendous creatures moving ever closer to us now in the dim but radiant starlight?

About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, in the foothills of the Northern California Sierra Nevada Mountains. I have a number of blog sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Compiled Poetry and Prosetry: Verses and ramblings on life as it is: Verses and Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature: Verses on the Play of Consciousness: Poetic Fiction, Fable, Fantabulation: Poems of the Mountain Hermit: Love Poems from The Book of Yes: Autobiographical Fragments, Memories, Stories, and Tall Tales: Ancient and modern spiritual texts, creatively refreshed: Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: Thank You!
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