Drunk on the possibility,
Of love. Of oozing tears of holy light that illuminate the path of those who have lost their way.
Drunk on the free love that
Shines out of corners full of cob webs and
draped on lace dresses and torn begeds
crying out to hold your hand.
Drinking, slowly, the masks we wear, feeling tipsy off the revelation that comes when we peel back layers of juicy, painful frustration that liquifies and mystifies our souls.
Sipping, buzzing, dreaming – Drunk!
Off that divine source of magic that sparkles in your teeth and glows in your eyes and is the source of all light when I have taken a wrong turn.
Silly, smiley, warm, drunken mess that makes my cheeks red and dress light up.
The kind of drunken mess that pours out of your breathe and kisses the Ether of God (the place from which you came). Drunk!
Drunk off your lovingkindness, sweet God
Of the celestial fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters that sing the song of the Cosmos, dance on the wind and
Fill our Cups with divine juice-
So sweet on my hands, as I clap the elixir back up to you,
To be at peace- amen!
The universe story is the quintessence of reality. We perceive the story. We put it in our language, the birds put it in theirs, and the trees put it in theirs. We can read the story of the universe in the trees. Everything tells the story of the universe. The winds tell the story, literally, not just imaginatively. The story has its imprint everywhere, and that is why it is so important to know the story. If you do not know the story, in a sense you do not know yourself; you do not know anything.
– Thomas Berry
nothing else but the ankles
have i shared this
i must again
and it rips real like at my
florida is swelt april
new york is imminent
and the traversing ages
I was recently gifted with some niggun field recordings from a gaggle of Chassidim here. The bulk of these come from two main tischen in the Chassidic world, Channukah and Tu B’shvat. Most of these niggunim come from the Boyan tisch, though there are also ones from Slonim, Nedevorna and Premishlan.
They are real rough around the edges, but I feel that they capture the spirit of the rawness of a tisch: thousands of chassidim crowded into one room, clapping and screaming along when appropriate, and on the especially rowdy ones, getting swept up in the ecstatic fervor of the mystical shtetl mantra.