the juggler

Here is the soft burn of daylight. Here are the brass bleatings of the night. Twilight always in some dull sense, some half reflex half demand, separating the schema with the usual swapping shells. What is left to significate but the order of occurrence, what is left to incarnate but the ease of the sap and the grain of green wood? Inquisite as the magician or frolic as the fool, what is left to arcane but the course of these collisions, or to shape them with empty hands and physical intention. Find a pattern for the pieces, line them up like days or ducks, the turning wheel or the cascade of instances. There’s something to good footwork, there’s a bonus to knowing what to do with your hands.

It goes without saying that the deck is stacked. The puzzle is begotten by the jig, the building begins at the brick. The order of suite and arcana, the naming and the sigil, the symbols in our clay. The spirit will not hold still, it’s stitching has no end. The agent and the entity move through the mindset, they keep the vahana at a cantor, they call cadence and embody all the kata at hand. The weave is awake with the dreaming never sleeping. The juggler gets a handle on the happenstance, they go with the flow that fits.

We live with the weight of all this falling, gravity and inertia always taking their cut. Still the world is full of flight. Wings and whims and meteor wishes. The candles on the altar, the candles on the cake. We work the wheel and burn and feel, devouring time and life. The direction of the reading depending on the sojourn of the hand. The fickle moment, hanging upon the feathers of the swallow. This magic, this faith, this sustainable creation. The breath and blood of the open stance, we build trust out of thin air and the objects available. The only freedom, acknowledging every force and form as one, the revealed path another slight of hand.