The Sun

The sun dazzles in yellow over summery aqua skies reminding me of lemon drops and vinyl wading pools. When I was a child my grandfather had a wondrous supply of balloons decorated with smiling suns wearing sunglasses. This sun startles me so, not smiling, very serious, bordering on mysterious with those almond eyes boring into me. So alien it seems. How it reminds me of the moon. The sun and I regard each other. Do I dislike the sun? No of course not I tell it, but that is not all true. I do associate the sun with qualities that are my enemy. The domineering world of men, of light, of lances and other surgical instruments, prying, demanding, and superficial. The night always comes. The winter always comes. The sun laughs at me and argues that the sun always rises, the summer always returns. It sends its emissary, a friendly little naked baby on top of a white horse, his crown capped with a red feather, a red flag waving, sunflowers bursting to life behind him. Yes, you make warmth. You make things live. I would perish without you. Are you not your sister’s captor then? You are her support, her twin, different but complimentary? Yes. Of course. And the photographer with his bright lights, he is testament to the artistic creative use of light. There he is capturing an image with lights. There he is concentrated on the invisible other, bringing her to life just as the sun concentrates on the moon and endows her with some of his own light. She is his reflection. He was first, like Adam in the garden, lonely in this cold garden, so he called some others to come orbit around him, including his wife, the earth, Eve, and he made for himself, from the collision of two larger planetary bodies, a little moon to be his mistress. But the moon was cold and barren, a Lilith for this Adam, while the Earth gave him all the children he could want. Now she hangs around Eve and her children, making them mad and delirious, desirous of a life eternal, a life a sun and an earth cannot offer. “Something else,” she whispers, “there must be something more.” Cruel little mistress. But the sun continues his great labor with the earth, and perhaps that mysterious look on his face is the key to it all. What he won’t say to either Earth or Moon, his great secret, is that they are all three the makers of life, and that those other companions drawn into his orbit are also involved in his labor. And if no one understands the nature of that labor, it matters little. So long as they orbit around him, they help his work. So long as he labors to pull them round and round, it is good for his work. Life, the real thing, is a process more than a state, and the sun knows this. He knows that it is through the combining of things, many different things pulled together, crushed together until they burn and melt and change, that the process is furthered. Like the photographer, he can work his magick without the others knowing what exactly he is doing. The serious mysterious sun glitters and dances mischievously over all, as it did when I was small, coming down in rivulets of light to line my face and shimmer over the water’s surface. The sun and its many flowers blazing in warmth and glory, red banner waving in a sigh of the earth’s warm breath. The sun and I regard each other. Do I dislike the sun? No of course not I tell it, but that is not all true.

Thermodynamics

What can I say before every liquid fire brain drop has scattered into the vacuum to be evenly distributed throughout an infinite expanse in which there can be no center, only an endless number of stars emanating light in waves of particles quivering out to fill every crack and crevice? The laws they tried to teach in Sunday school were overly converted, there was very little there to power this system.
There need be only two clearly understood rules to begin this game:
That the amount of energy available within the universe as we know it is constant and neither reducible nor increaseable
That energy can be more or less convertible, and once converted it can not be unconverted.
Once converted it is as unusable as the scores of born again Christian spread about the floor of the inland valley, waiting to be sucked into the bottom of a black lake, or into a rickety tavern, or one more shopping center converted into an ALANO club meeting place or a House of Christ’s Little Lamb Chops of Hope. Conversion and re-conversion is the magic of the black sages hiding on the other side of your bathroom looking glass, in that world where they walk around on the ceiling and drive their cars from the right side. Yes, I mean England. Isn’t that where Aleister Crowley dwelt? And didn’t he after all write The Book Of The Law as dictated by his half baked love nun, dear Rose, during their honey moon under the wretched and blessed heat of that giant plasma ball called "sun" along the rank shores of the river Nile?