Babylonian idols are “a burden to the weary beast”
But the creators “yolk is easy, and his burden is light”
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Recurring dreams of flying…
Over the city of los angeles
In the depths of winter
Over the trading floor of Barclays Capital
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“My yolk is easy my burden is light”
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An old white fat man… vacuuming his porsche in a los angeles car wash at venice beach
The calm mexican manager saw me looking at him funny
“He doesn’t want anyone else to touch his car”
…
“A burden to a weary beast”
Tired… fat oveflowing… eyes bulging… frustrated… impatient…
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Dreads blowing in the wind… a dinged up surfboard… nobody on the road but indonesian cow herders… who knows where they even sold the cows or for how much
Green rolling hills… the blue sky of dry season
No idea when the sun would rise or set
Listening to folk music from o brother where art thou
15k to my name
The freest I’d ever been
The happiest I’d ever been
Peace in motion
Faith in motion
Passing over
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“You’ll never know pain until you see a young dad in the basement crying because the check book doesn’t balance”
A trophy wife
A mcmansion
Two or three cars
A couple of kids
The wife with the 15k credit card bill looking at you in disgust and disappointment: “Are we OK?!”
Idols are quite heavy to carry… “A burden to a weary beast”
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God delivers.
The universe delivers.
Material things, wealth, power, beauty, strength… it all fades
We rent it all
Steward it while you can
But it’s gods.
It’s not yours.
It’s not ours.
Accept the yolk of god, christ, the buddha, alah, whatever the fuck you believe in.
The source.
Material things came from dust and will return to it.
Worshipping them is useless.
And heavy…
A weary beast you will become… grasping, fighting, owning…
All of it is a burden to carry around.
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“The way of man is not in himself
It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps”
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The work of man is made from the substance of the creator
Worship the primary source
Not your own finite creations
Let god and christ and buddha and alah and yahweh and whatever you believe in carry the weight of all the blessings
because blessings are what they are… something outside of us… delivered by something greater than us…
they’re the opposite of “a burden to a weary beast”
But when they’re mistakenly attributed to oneself, and worshipped as a benevolent creator in and of themselves… their lifeless weight will bleed you drive of energy, the fear of loss will make your walking state endless paranoia, and when you have to let it go… instead of coming home to our creator… you’ll die gasping for your last breath
A burden to a weary beast…
Or
An easy yolk with a light burden…
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After the drive I’d hop in the ocean…
Crystal clear water
Nobody else around really
No beach club or anything… just a couple of straw roofs held up by driftwood and a local indo woman selling fresh whole coconuts
Dirt roads through a valley with the cowhearders
Prettier beach than most any I’ve seen
A couple of waves
Light as a feather
-Publius
letters from publius. 