The Swan Song of Socrates

Living well means learning how to die, for when we are well prepared, due to proper guidance and education, to leave this body forever, we leave it not with fear or regret, but with wonder within our soul who has finally learned the power of eternal love that holds this cosmos together in this life and all other lives to come.

Anastasia

Excerpt from Plato’s Phaedo, 84e. Translation by Anastasia Harris.

It would be impossible to persuade other human beings that my present death sentence is a form of luck if I cannot persuade you two, Simmias and Cebes…yet I am not inferior to the swans in relation to prophecy when they sense that is time for them to die and upon that last hour before their death, they sing most beautifully and with great abundance, rejoicing that they are soon to arrive in the realm of the divine where they may be of service to the divine. Human beings, however, due to their fear of death, lie about the swans, and say that they are singing dirges in pain due to their death; but they do not understand that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold or experiences any kind of pain, not the nightingale; not the swallow; not the hoopoe, the birds they say who sing lamentations for their death. But these do not seem to me to sing lamentations, and neither do the swans, for I believe they are of Apollo, and are prophets and soothsayers who sing of the good things in the realm we cannot see, and they delight in that day of arrival there far more than in their previous time in life. I myself believe that I am a fellow servant with the swans and a priest of the god himself, and that I am not an inferior prophet of our master, nor more melancholy than the swans are when they leave their bodies.

What Shines Upon

“Well then”, Socrates began to ask “is it clear that there all sorts of different (base) forms that a soul can take on in accordance with what he pays attention to?”

“Clearly”, Cebes answered. “How not?”

Plato, Phaedo, 82a

be gentle to your heart with the light of earth,
and do not be too greedy with her bright gifts,
but instead return all of what she gave to you
for regardless of what you do, in a few hours
her great light will run away from you again,
beneath the horizon, behind graying clouds
the train of darkness will ever carry her down
to return, yes, but not how you remember
for she shines only upon what she wants us to

so listen to the wisdom teachers of the ages,
the ones who warned of addictive pleasures
and boring attachments that burden so many;
unlearn the longing despair for fleeting things:
the world is not here to make our souls forever,
for none can make forever what is already forever
but we can learn of beings becoming unbecoming
how they present for curious and fearless minds
as a recreation of eternal light in space and time.
shining only upon what we want us to.

The old gods

They are the stars in the night, sometimes showing up when there are no clouds. No one can touch them. They can’t touch each other. The loneliness is unbearable for them because they want to touch and feel and be inspired. Instead they have to project into a body to do that and pretend how marvelous it is. If they work hard at it they can sometimes see starlight in each other’s eyes and that gives them moments equal in both great joy as they look upon them, and in great sadness as they look away. Still as their body grows older, these stars, they are abandoned by society. The loneliness grows as well as the brightness of their minds and so they cultivate a cloudy hope that they are actually eternity itself who projects a million lights into the sky, an ethereal treasure to make this hell called human society worthy of all their soulful starry nights.

The Old Gods

They are the stars in the night, sometimes showing up when there are no clouds. No one can touch them. They can’t touch each other. The loneliness is unbearable for them because they want to touch and feel and be inspired. Instead they have to project into a body to do that and pretend how marvelous it is. If they work hard at it they can sometimes see starlight in each other’s eyes and that gives them moments equal in both great joy as they look upon them, and in great sadness as they look away. Still as their body grows older, these stars, they are abandoned by society. The loneliness grows as well as the brightness of their minds and so they cultivate a cloudy hope that they are actually eternity itself who projects a million lights into the sky, an ethereal treasure to make this hell called human society worthy of all their soulful starry nights.

Plato: The Fate of the Impure Soul

No one would believe the things that she sees at night. For while others struggle to sleep with restless dreams and worries, she sees the spirits who wander about, generating fear and worry in those who would be better off being free to sleep, to heal and dream of the beautiful day that awaits them. But instead, they only feel depletion and rely on coffee or tea to get them by. Some seek out doctors and medications, herbs and various other salves, in hopes to find a better way to find rest. While she is the one who knows, that no drug will free them from the spirits that haunt and feed of whatever light they have left to provide. In order to solve their sleep problem, they would have to arise in the midst of their own darkness, where what haunts them lurks, playing tricks on them in dreams and visions. Souls who have died that refuse to leave the body and so feed off the ones who are still living. For when we sleep, the souls of the dead cling, still wanting to feel, to be, to exist. We do not see them, because we have become blind. We have forgotten the way and path to the underworld, for we have rejected our true purpose as custodians of the lands, the earth and heaven that we have inherited. We have rejected our duty to continue to keep our earth pure, our heart and soul clean, and our intentions in the divine.

One must consider this to be a very weighty and serious matter, this material consciousness of the visible realm: The soul that is attached to its physical manifestation is very weighed down and is dragged back into the visible realm due to fear of the invisible and Hades, as it is said, and being tossed about from tombstone to tombstone and grave to grave, around which are always seen the dark shadows and phantoms of souls, the kind of phantoms that these same attached souls themselves project, the souls that have not cleanly freed themselves the body, but still hold onto the visible realm, through which they still can be seen.

Plato, Phaedo, 81d

ἐμβριθὲς δέ γε, ὦ φίλε, τοῦτο οἴεσθαι χρὴ εἶναι καὶ βαρὺ καὶ γεῶδες καὶ ὁρατόν: ὃ δὴ καὶ ἔχουσα ἡ τοιαύτη ψυχὴ βαρύνεταί τε καὶ ἕλκεται πάλιν εἰς τὸν ὁρατὸν τόπον φόβῳ τοῦ ἀιδοῦς τε καὶ Ἅιδου, ὥσπερ λέγεται, περὶ τὰ [81δ] μνήματά τε καὶ τοὺς τάφους κυλινδουμένη, περὶ ἃ δὴ καὶ ὤφθη ἄττα ψυχῶν σκιοειδῆ φαντάσματα, οἷα παρέχονται αἱ τοιαῦται ψυχαὶ εἴδωλα, αἱ μὴ καθαρῶς ἀπολυθεῖσαι ἀλλὰ τοῦ ὁρατοῦ μετέχουσαι, διὸ καὶ ὁρῶνται.

Plato, Phaedo, 81δ

Erotic

O, how this spring of love resembleth
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!

Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I, scene 3, line 84.

Before Creation, Eros was,
primal Being of Eternal Love,
before the dark and the light,
before there was fight or flight
Love was all there ever was:
always loyal, never gone astray
never rejecting ever accepting,
Eros was free, abundant, whole.
But Eros was, although blissful,
quite alone.

And although this great Being.
was by itself, it finally thought:
I am now two: myself and my thoughts;
my thinking of Love and Love itself.
How much more beautiful it would be
if I could create a master puzzle of Me,
where a trillion thoughts fall as rain
together mixing glimpses of earth,
slivers of sky, nighttime, daytime,
creatures living what they’re thinking,
whether the body is gone or still alive.

the Great Cosmos will it be so named
and all the creatures will adore it
as they live held in thoughts of Mine.
But in order for them to remember
how to live inside my Love’s splendor,
I will give them each two separate hearts:
an invisible heart who sings only in Love
and a visible one, the rhythm of their life.

All will be gifted bright eyes three or more
that they might see Me in every corner,
in every face, in every eye, in every song,
they will be reminded of who they are,
their Love, a tiny light as if before the eye,
that will see them through the darker times,
lest they forget that they are born of Me,
of the Love that only the hidden eye can see.

And so this how we play this cosmic game,
you begin to seek for whom you’re named,
shedding this name crooked, that name false,
abandoning ideas that you once called your faults
until you finally see that you are not created,
that you are neither lower earth nor upper sky,
neither sun nor moon, nor falling star’s lullaby:
that you are not a creature who’s designed to die
but that you are simply only Me and my thoughts.

and so that is the game, the play that is this life,
the theater of Shakespeare was exactly right,
if you run amok in thoughts despairing or of pain
you will repeat that dark fantasy again and again
until you finally see, in joy, relief, and humility,
that those clouds were to challenge Love’s eternity
and all your life here is just Your Love’s playful dream,
your death, an illusion, the Joker in your final scene.

Erotic

O, how this spring of love resembleth
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!

Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I, scene 3, line 84.

Before Creation, Eros was,
primal Being of Eternal Love,
before the dark and the light,
before there was fight or flight
Love was all there ever was:
always loyal, never gone astray
never rejecting ever accepting,
Eros was free, abundant, whole.
But Eros was, although blissful,
quite alone.

And although this great Being.
was by itself, it finally thought:
I am now two: myself and my thoughts;
my thinking of Love and Love itself.
How much more beautiful it would be
if I could create a master puzzle of Me,
where a trillion thoughts fall as rain
together mixing glimpses of earth,
slivers of sky, nighttime, daytime,
creatures living what they’re thinking,
whether the body is gone or still alive.

the Great Cosmos will it be so named
and all the creatures will adore it
as they live held in thoughts of Mine.
But in order for them to remember
how to live inside my Love’s splendor,
I will give them each two separate hearts:
an invisible heart who sings only in Love
and a visible one, the rhythm of their life.

All will be gifted bright eyes three or more
that they might see Me in every corner,
in every face, in every eye, in every song,
they will be reminded of who they are,
their Love, a tiny light as if before the eye,
that will see them through the darker times,
lest they forget that they are born of Me,
of the Love that only the hidden eye can see.

And so this is how we play my cosmic game,
you begin to seek for whom you’re named,
shedding this name crooked, that name false,
abandoning ideas that you once called your faults
until you finally see that you are not created,
that you are neither lower earth nor upper sky,
neither sun nor moon, nor falling star’s lullaby:
that you are not a creature who’s designed to die
but that you are simply only Me and my thoughts.

and so that is the game, the play that is this life,
the theater of Shakespeare was exactly right,
if you run amok in thoughts despairing or of pain
you will repeat that dark fantasy again and again
until you finally see, in joy, relief, and humility,
that those clouds were to challenge Love’s eternity
and all your life here is Love’s playful dream,
your death, an illusion, a Joker in your final scene.






The River

I watched the River flow, longing for the restful earth,
where fish linger, gifts glistening as mirrors for my eyes
until they swam to the shadow sides of steeper waters
where I found myself asleep drowning inside their deep
to finally emerge with the fish of glistening golden eyes
swimming in that River flowing endless along the skies.

Yes

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Every action is an affirmation of that action.
Every step is a Yes to where you are going
and a Yes to what you are leaving behind.

You are always being the creative Yes
With every step you create a sound and a vision
and your words are magical spells that resound.

Your emotions are an affirmation of your emotions.
Your anger is a Yes to anger.
Your kindness becomes a salve for enraged pity

You choose to be in a certain way because you say Yes to it.
You think it is a complaint, but you are just playing a role,
an actor in a stage play, you enjoy the troubled characters.
You sing the songs of tragedy so that you may keep the tragedy,
and you blame others for causing what the song despairs.

There is a light in darkness that you cannot now see,
and so you believe there is no such thing as the light.
for Mickey Mouse didn’t believe anything either,
for Mickey Mouse has no consciousness to believe
and you pretend to be a cartoon character that is drawn,
not a human being who always chooses what is Yes.

You are That ((सो ऽहम्)

there’s nothing wrong with the seashells left behind,
the sea has escaped them quick exactly in her  time
Why do we weep when we lose what’s not to keep?
summer sun falls far into the frozen autumn rains:
and the snows arrive yearly to only go backwards again
Why do we expect to live beyond what Nature rules?
until God is reached, you are That Who eternally recurs.