Gǣð ā Wyrd swā hīo scel! — Beowulf

A split pear lies dust as ants spider through. At nape’s breath looms the abuser, heavy breast in rot and flesh — a crack in fabled dawn to Leda and the Swan. Collapsed, a sheared corpse whom fascist pregnant bends cries, coughs, and sputters as the Serpent speaks untwined God’s oppressive judgment. From sheer throat and swollen tongue gasp hymns and buried hooves, the hollowed lectionary of children speaking death (stench and eraser) as a mare in threadbare saddle ghosts the cloth of history bare.

Everything memories quiet, stained glass emotions echoing genealogies of us-and-them. Dooyeweerd: Being is meaning. Being matters, the unveiling of a world imbued with meaning, the placetime of intertwined Uniquing. What meaning is is the Unique. Uniques create, bringing out of nothing the some-thing that they are. Uniques beget, echoing by repeating what came before and transforming it. And Uniques proceed, narrating both their self-conception and their identity with others. Each of these operate at the same time, with every self-creative act echoing and every echo narrating one’s place in history. Echoing is begotten of creation and history proceeds from it, each Unique dwelling in the tripartite relation of past-present-future, each an energeia of the whole. “The three are testifying— the Spirit, the water, and the blood—and the three are united in agreement.” Kyrie Eleison.

I am goodbye, frozen in salt dreams night twists rain across the sky while mirage crosses solemnly our frame of mind. To wyrd is to matter time. We wyrd the world by gifting meaning and being gifted meaning in return. A thought is not a proposition, but a ripple in an ocean, the mental fabric of the Unique forming a semantic geography, an en-worlding. There is no thing which is the thinker, no thing which is the thought. The soul is both person and world; people and cosmos. In wyrding, we say: I world the world that worlds me. Motionfull, the dead wake present-tense, psalming souls communing in their who-ing. Who-ing says I am, historing says we are, wyrding says we will be for we have always been. These doings emerge from our togethering, the dialogue of signification that unveils our common mattering. Our souls mean, but only in souling-with-others, in gardening our common placetime with the flowing water of poetic animation. Our togethering rubberbands locutions into fractal collages, paint splatters of possible futures swaying longingly in the present. Nesting gentle, we dream unity-in-difference, the common-soul trembling infinite teleologies. We were wyrded by the gods and so too we wyrd the world.

Magic is the knowledge of true names. — Elder saying

Image: Macbeth & the Witches by Thomas Moran (~1858-1859)