First Father, Old Man and the golden memory.

Introduction.

I ask all to listen,
the holy children
higher and lower
kin of Heimdal.
He, Father of the Fallen,
wants me to tell
of ancient deeds
that I recall.

Throughout history, human beings have shared stories that would bring entertainment, traditions and teaching together in a magical way. Like a probe of gravity, a story holds the power to unite both present, future and past within a single space of time that descends forever deeper into the mind of the listener. Some tales are even destined to bypass our everyday mind altogether, so as to touch a part of our being that is timeless. Like pieces of flint struck together, great stories strike the enduring material of our very soul.

Although myths and legends have lost much of their original value within our western culture, they may still be used to conjure sparks of vivid remembrance from the very foundations of our human being. Being of a great lineage of tradition, the art of story-telling has the ability to re-connect our consciousness with our most ancestral roots, dug deep within the soil of collective symbolism and code. A story rising from this soil brings us closer to a state where identities dissolves like a drop of water falling into the sea. Such stories can only be created by the heart, since only it knows how to navigate within the waters of this sea.

The story that follows only is fragment of one that forever is greater; one that only the heart can know the entire scope and meaning of. Its the story of our ancient creator, an old man and a golden memory they both shared.

---

Old man.

I'm an old man
a funny, ancient man.
Remind me once again
of what I already know.

This story begins with the lost memory of an old man. As with many other of his kind, he simply couldn't find the most important thing his life contained. He couldn't find the memory of his most true self. He searched for it in all the places he could imagine. He searched both high and low, in hot as well as cold and in all crinkles and folds of the world, but the memory he missed was nowhere to be found. This bothered him very much, for he bore a noble heart and a great understanding of how all things in nature was arranged. What could possibly evade his mind like the memory of his most original making stubbornly did? He felt like something very important was missing in the great jigsaw puzzle of all that he knew; he just couldn't figure out what it was.

Through a long life, Old Man had collected bits and pieces of wisdom from around the entire globe, gathering stories from many countries and passing them on through word and writing. He had brought together wise counsel from countless people. He had compared and he had analyzed, and could easily recount many a tale. He had mixed his thoughts like they where ingredients in a great cauldron, and crafted many fine pieces of consultation this way. He had listened patiently to both enemies and friends, knowing that the whole truth forever is inscribed with striking letters in dark clouds of conflicts. Still, the memory he so dearly longed to know remained ever illusive. This filled Old Man with sad feeling, as he felt he still lived an unresolved life.

A serious old man
that is what I am
who needs to be reminded
who longs back to what was, or is
I can't recall,
but never mind at all.

Born and raised as a great traveler, Old Man had mastered the skill of moving between different worlds and states of being within himself. Whichever realm he jumped into, the man would always enter with many gifts embedded within his heart and soul. Yet, in his great nap-sack of capabilities, he carried one talent that soared higher above the mortal ground than any other: He was a great composer of poetry, and a vivid craftsman of words.

Whenever he spoke, all creatures where seeded by visions of beauty and wonder. With pearl-like strings of pure enchantment, he would mesh together the most beautiful images and pass them on in parcels of neatly ordered rhythm and rhyme. Therefore, just like a moth is faithfully drawn towards a light-bulb, so the man felt that his most important task in life was to continue the stories of his ancestors and gather them around the light of something timeless. And surely, through all the tales of his forebears, he could feel how a certain glimmer of remembrance would shine out brighter than all the rest. Still, he never felt he was able to offer it complete form and manifestation. What he most truly searched for remained like a vivid knowing veiled by thick, impregnable forgetfulness. Like a star in the night sky, the unknowable memory blinked down towards his mortal mind, utterly separated from all he did. How much he longed to become a part of it and place it like a shining particle inside his own body!

I look upon myself
I laugh into a mirror
that shows those golden days,
the time when all was fresh
so innocent and pure.
Vaguely I recall
but now I start anew.

For some reason, staring into the brightness of a fire would make him feel closer to this lost memory than anything else. Old Man often did this, contemplating the beauty of both permanence and change coalesced in the twisting dance of flames. He loved how the fire could play with his mind, teaching him new things about creation and the way it blessed all creatures, including himself. Through the fire, the man felt divinely informed; infused by countless luminous visions, sowed into the back of his mind by a hand wearing the whole universe as its glove.

Old Man would smile whenever he sensed the handy-work of this great creature, dressed so elegantly in a night-gown of constellations and stars. He knew that it was the real bringer of every fine verses of poetry he ever had made, and for these gifts that he received, he remained forever thankful. Yet somehow it bothered him greatly that he had been awarded one memory that never seemed to sprout through the thickness of his mortal thought. Whenever he felt bothered by this, his imagination became hard and barren like a lifeless dessert, yet the willful memory glowed brighter than the sun, like ever before. If only the old man could unveil his most original self. If only he could peel away the skin of both fire and sun, and secure a glimpse of his ancient ear that forever would listen.

---

First Father.

I recall giants
born of the void
who long ago
reared and raised me.
Nine worlds I know,
nine wives;
a vast tree
rising from soil.

For most of us, the image of our primordial past is hard to revive in the form of a conscious being. Yet for some, our most distant past is sensed like an ancient creature living in the deepest caverns of the human mind. Some of those that see the furthest know him as their First Father; the progenitor of the entire world and all human children. For the old men of this land, he bore the resemblance of a primordial giant, reckoned as the distant fore-father of both gods and men. Some believe that he still exists today, with the whole world as his body. Some believe that he forever perceives the hum of the universe through ancient gateways of time and stone.

At the dawn of time
there was nothing
neither sand nor sea
nor cool waves.
Earth was not
nor the heavens above,
only the great void
and nowhere grass.

In the turbid meeting between flames and frost, the body of First Father was born. When entering this world, First Father was a magnificent creature, splendid to behold, although incomprehensible in his altogether spirited ways. First Father offered himself fully to his creation, as nothing could withstand His desire to know himself forever more. He was an immortal being; all-mighty like a great king, and he knew how to maintain life within each tiny crevice of his vast kingdom.

Whenever his mind became stiff and cold, the eternal fires of his abode would rise, bringing movement and flow into all realms of his making. In the unity between his opposing thoughts, all worlds where knit together, and the purpose of life was brought to comprehension. By his radiant desire, all things where destined to unfold feelings of remembrance from the depths of time, just like a flower swirls its fragrance out into the surrounding air.

First Father both knew and saw, and blessed the quickening currents that nurtured and sustained all life, pouring down from his very soul. Whenever he cried for clarity, he would conjure sparks of sacred meaning and send them through the flesh of his mind, mending the wounds of tangled thoughts. First Father knew how to heal and maintain the purity of his own image. He contained a radiant vision indeed, and was content with all that it witnessed. First Father was singular, but he was eternally present in all. He lived within everything. And he listened to what everyone had to say.

---

Old Man’s memory.

If mose will grow upon me
I'll shake it off with mirth;
much there is to remember
I'd better give it birth.

As the story continues, so does Old Man continue to contemplate the illusive memory stored within himself. How much he longed to behold the image of his most pristine self! It was through great patience and practice that he learned to flicker through his mind like they where pages of a great book, written in languages he only could sense through feeling. He often found unfinished manuscripts therein, halfway written out and halfway forgotten, and he labored hard to find the true meaning of them all. It was a tedious procedure indeed to complete the countless equations between recollection and oblivion within himself. "Somewhere within all this mess, the signatures of my true self must be written", and like a blind man, he let his sense of confidence pass over the Braille letters of these strange inscriptions.

The past becomes the future
as future becomes past
through the twining tunnel
that merges first and last.

Sometimes, when he was fully submerged in this activity, he would stumble upon sentences that where so foreign, he had a very hard time translating their meaning into any earthly tongue. Yet he soon found out that where his reason fell short, his heart would know better. And so he ventured further and further into the layered library of his soul, always drawing closer to some great remembrance, yet never reaching a point where he could recall all. The most brilliant memory of them all remained utterly incomprehensible to his bewildered thoughts.

From the very back of his mind, something wore the radiant smile of some unpronounceable joy, unfamiliar to anything he knew from before. He both revered and resented this rebel memory; the sole one he never managed to comprehend. Whenever he fell thoughtful and silent, it would flare up vividly, deeply engraved within his very foundation of being, like furrows in eternity's face. Never would they emit a single word or meaning he could understand, yet they danced around wildly like rivers of molten starlight.

Seed asleep in apple
as inside becomes out
the old becomes the newborn
his name was the first shout.

Somehow, the old man knew he beheld a truly sacred language, one that was spread out like wings of reconciliation between the great constellations of the universe, including his mind. It appeared to him like a fabric of light woven elaborately into the black dress of his creator. It was a tongue he knew he had encountered before, whenever he stared fixedly into the brightness of the fire, or the piercing rays of the sun. He did not know where it came from, nor did he understand why it settled so perfectly in his mind. Yet he loved to behold its magic splendor. It reminded the old man of something beautiful he had known a long time ago; something that lived deep below the skin of all sacred radiance, and which would unlock something so very secret each time he gazed directly into its heart.

Yes I do recall
just give me time to make;
by doing it once over
I'll give back all I take.

If only the man could tell what lay on the other side of the shining memory. If only he could embrace the newborn image that lay cradled in the gladness of his soul. If only he could peal away time's petals and consume the delicate wisdom of stars, like his most ancient fore-father already did.

---

First Father forgets.

Sun shed from the south,
moon's companion
and right hand
across the sky-rim.
Sun did not know
where she had her place,
stars did not know
where they could stand,
moon did not know
what power he held.

Each new day, when First Father awoke, he would turn his attention towards the east, towards the place where light first broke through. For a moment, he would stare fixedly through it, and his heart would revel in communion with its bright rays. While this was done, the sun would grant him keys to unlock a new day's secret, which would make his thoughts quicken and dance in the likeness of pure sound.

The sun would forever caress his entire body and greet him like a dear friend. In the radiance of such moments, First Father felt whole and happy, as he conjured the splendid image of all that lived and breathed in countless compartments of his conjoined self. How he loved to admire this image! How he loved to see the sun spread its wide grin across the entire fabric of his far-flung mind!

He was always busy, First Father, conversing in silence with all the holy spheres - planets as well as tiny particles - while all creatures brought him tidings from the entire world. All things where his close friends, as he knew the wordless language of eternity. All was near to him, and no limits existed for his radiant thought. Completely at one with his creation, First Father rode upon currents of remembrance to all the places his heart already knew. Nothing was hidden for him, and no place was ever too far away to visit. First Father was extremely wise, and memory loved him like children love their grandfather's lap.

They played in the meadow
and where content
lacked nothing
made of gold,
then came three
troll-maidens
full of force
from the Other Side.

But suddenly, there came a day when the sun could not find the wholeness of First Father's image. It looked everywhere, but some strange part of his being was nowhere to be found. Because of this, their ancient line of friendship started to grow withered and frail. It was if though a creeping cloud of forgetfulness separated the two, slowly dissolving their daily line of communication and heartfelt exchange. First Father could no longer honor the other beings that surrounded him like he used to before, when each ripe sun gave him bright keys to unlock a new day's secrets. In the end, the sun completely stopped sending luminous letters into the mailbox of his heart. No living creature knew why this happened, any more than First Father knew himself.

I'll bring forth what is not
and mirror it in matter,
unfolding this old flame
the former from the latter.

Following the fraily spun
the tiny cord of truth
that simply tells what surely is
and doesn't need no proof.

From that moment, First Father's mind grew hard and cold, and his thoughts slowed down to near standstill. He found it harder and harder to appreciate the immortal ways of nature, and eventually he found it difficult to even remember his original self. Slowly he crept into a shell of dark forgetfulness; yet by the hand of his immortality, he seeded the wholeness of his vision in earthly form, so that matter would ripen and consume the radiant wisdom of stars once more. He, First Father, encapsulated a whole star-field of life within himself, and distilled this lucid memory into each fragment of his creation, knowing that it would pro-create endlessly within the soil of flesh and time.

Yet, time itself was the shell that contained the most lucid image of First Father. Like a curtain of smoke, time was draped around this slumbering image, seeded in pockets of longing and form, yet infused by his will to awaken. Often, the curtains where so thick that he was no longer able to sense the greater continuity of his existence. He was no longer able to perceive eternity through the finer details of life, such as the buzz of crickets or the quitter of birds, which so fervently tried to peck their way through to his deaf heart. In his darkest caves of forgetfulness, no new day brought him any radiant news. Nothing could penetrate the most lonely parts of his body. Therein, all the small voices of nature bounced off from hard shells of shallow thought. A cloud of dull forgetfulness crept through his mind, just like a grey fog permeates a great forest. And so the sacred image of First Father was forgotten by many; yet for some it remained like a distant memory.

---

The golden book.

The race of Gods
on ever-green plains
raised great temples
and timbered shrines.
They brought fire
and precious things;
wrought lore
in shining letters.

As First Father's mind became frail, wise men would start to collect stories preserved in the past, so as to never loose the image of their true source and progenitor. It was told by such elders that the body of their most ancient father once was sacrificed to a younger race of gods, so that a new world could be formed. This younger god-race emerged for the purpose of founding a second realm of creation, as the former was brought to completion. These gods where the old men of renown, great warriors and seers, as well as shining craftsmen of poetry. From what was old and decayed, they wrought beautiful creations wherein life could be stored. In unison, they spread out the entire carcass of First Father, and thereby created our present world with all its splendor and beauty.

From this subtle knowledge-stream
are petals that entwine
and pealing back these layers
unscrews what some call time.

At the edge of this great world, on a far-away western island, lies a snow-covered mountain that represents a part of First Father's ancient body, namely his ear. The mountain itself is an old volcano, long dried out; yet wrapped in an air of majesty that - according to some - can set one in tune with the grandest of thoughts ever conceived by the human race.

It is said that anyone who climbs up the slope of Snæfellsjökull will be swept in currents of an enormous tale; a tale that even is worthy of entering First Father's ear, filling his mind with countless visions of both beauty and wonder. They will become woven into a story that vibrates through the wholeness of his creation, since First Father was, and still is, the immortality of pure silence itself. And just like First Father once offered his body for the creation of this world, so will anyone placing their life into the hands of this sacred mountain sacrifice a part their eternal self too, weaving it within the ephemeral image of mingled hearts. Only time separates these hearts from melting together with the image of their creation. Only time keeps them from knowing the oneness of they posess within.

As the bud unfolds
thoughts descend in letters
here I open what I know
released from ancient fetters.

Some elders would speak of shining messengers that would emerge out of nothingness, appearing like flesh-covered sparks of remembrance, born to engrave fine tales of unity into the grey matter that contains all mankind. These messengers would deliver testimonies of their sacred ancestry, beckoning others to realize how family lines always are rooted in the radiance of stars. It is their light that forever weaves the delicate construction of mingled lives known as our future as well as our past. It is them that conjure the splendid image of our conjoined self for the admiration of our inner eye. They are the eternal bringers of new creation, yet their true names will forever remain veiled by human thought.

Some of these messengers would deliver tales that shone out like golden imprints from the depths of their mind. To this day, the images within these tales are written on golden pages containing the wisdom, as well as profundity, of all human speech. Such an image lives within us all, calmly asleep, cradled in the shining cloth of its own consumption, and destined to be born when feelings and fire unite. And with that, an old man's story is melded into eternity's skin.

---

Old Man’s offering.

I recall men
first to enter
when gold-thirst came,
was pierced by sword
and burnt alive
in High One's hall.
Three times burnt
three times born
often, unseldom,
yet still they live.

In the quiet of evenings, the old man would sit by a fire and offer the stories he found wrapped in his flesh to the consume of flames. With his heart he knew that the fire received everything he told. Through time, he undressed the voice his entire body and offered it to the fire's neutral, ever-listening ear. He realized he contained the luminous keys he had been searching for so long; the keys he had played with in the gardens of his distant past, in the very youth of his existence, when all was so innocent and pure. "If I only could press my heart close enough to this place", he thought, "maybe I then can pick up these luminous keys and unlock my secret existence in eternity ".

Within this secret existence, his true self was sealed. It happened so that in one holy moment, consumed by pure illumination, the old man unlocked the shining gateway placed at the very back of his mind. Shedding the impermanence of his human form, he entered the body of his distant fore-father as pure light. From the very pit of his fiery altar, the old man felt himself rise like a wingless bird, infusing the cool night air with a sheer curtain of smoke and a fleeting trail of gladness. Old Man was transformed. He was at one with the fire's eternal nature, and his feelings where completely set free.

Nothing that I know
is worthy one more round
unless it holds a seed of truth
to plant into this ground.

Beauty stays the same
timelessness does too,
old and young both understand
why the sky is blue.

Somewhere, an old man's being was filled by an awesome cry of silence. No sound could echo more fully through the ancient halls of his conjoined flesh. And so, the old man melted together with his true self, like a teardrop of longing melts together with the greater sea. Only his feelings could trace the trajectory of this teardrop, like a rebel tale of fine golden letters, written so elegantly upon the back-side of his mind.