POSEIDON'S PHONE
It fits exactly into my hand, as if it were made just for me. Its form is the most perfect form existing on earth. I touch it with my left index, following the road on the top. It is spiraling and my finger and my mind with it, in this movement which has made the universe and develops it further. Big, open curves at first, tightening more and more, life concentrates increasingly, becomes denser, and at the same time the spiral rises to a hill with a little road around, which is now so small that my finger doesn't fit anymore. Finally, the top. The world collapses into one point, spaceless, timeless, where all movement is cushioned in quietude and silence.
The way back, life becomes individualized again, we can talk again of a walk, of a road, of behind and before and yesterday and tomorrow. On the top, the pure being is sufficient for itself; now it moves and is moved, seeks development, becoming, doing. Spiraling around, the old ways repeat themselves, but always larger, with ever greater perspective and understanding and wisdom and compassion.
Until the end, the edge between the outside and the inside, between being and non-being, which is in reality only a different way of being. The edge is huge, sharp, cutting, like the painfulness of transition.
There are many roads now, not only the one on the top, the one on the outside, the most prominent one. All the surface in its unique form is composed of parallel roads like those of man on Earth, and my fingers turn around, turn around, following several at the same time. They are carved in lime, none deviates on its course. Yet each one has its own personality with its own scars. Some of these scars are shared.
After the first huge turn, the way continues inside. My fingers, tasting carefully in order not to commit a sacrilege, enter a cave, the mystery of origin of mankind, of skillfulness and language. The mystery of the world womb, the unspeakable feminine, and also a retreat for the life-tired and heart-broken. Then the cave, without ending, narrows as much as to impede my fingers to continue their research. Behind, in the innermost core of the world, there is the Secret, which can not be understood with human brains and which can only be seen with the Third Eye. This is the barrier beyond which the material cannot go. This is the other realm, containing the Core, the Essence, of which the top on the outside, the point where all movements converge in stillness, is only an exteriorized reflection.
How can such a unique, artful structure with astonishing mastery, a lime reflection of the deepest timeless wisdom of the universe, have formed itself? This can only be an Immortal's masterpiece. Poseidon has made it. And Poseidon, the Amazing, the Majestuous, the Terrible, my beloved brother, has given me his unique gift through the hand of an old friend, the sea-dog Nuredin. It is a telephone. A white mobile phone from one of these salty zones where the Immortal encounters the mortals, given as a souvenir from my Sarandian host, to phone Poseidon whenever I am far away from the sea, to listen to his voice, to hear the sea.
(C) Silke Blumbach