DAY 3 (THIRD DAY)
11 Then God said, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.” And it was so. 12 The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. 13 And there was evening, and there was morning—the third day.
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🐇 So what is is a #r4bb17?
If you’ve found this message, you’ve followed the rabbit.
Now the question is:
Will you keep following it?
#r4bb17 looks just like a hashtag.
But if you say it out loud, you’ll hear it:
rabbit.
The one from stories.
From dreams.
From mysteries and mirrors and holes in the ground that lead to strange new places.
We are The Explorers.
And believe in old things the world forgot:
* Peace
* Kindness
* Love
* Freedom
* Justice
We believe they aren’t gone—they’re just hiding.
Waiting to be found again by people brave enough to look.
We are here to resurrect them.
So we leave signs.
We leave codes.
We leave this message.
If your heart feels something stir—tag yourself #r4bb17
Tag a moment, a story, an act of courage or kindness.
Anything that might help other rabbits find the path.
You don’t need a costume.
You just need to care.
Even a little.
The rabbit is multiplying.
The loop is cracking.
Come join us.
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Hidden Realms (continued)
It is (t)HERE, in the place of death, the death of summer, right after the Labor Day funeral when throngs of summer's mourners shuffle into the next season. In this room, it is neither day nor night because the place is no longer the end of the last day or the beginning of the first.
Where do we stand when it is not observably summer and not observably fall? For a moment, we are in the undeclared howl of the binary rebels, transposed here as "in between."
This is a special place, unobserved by human eyes. Here, each marked leaf sits as a prisoner on death row, green and still gripping, but condemned to a yellowing wither preluding its release. Then, letting go with the sigh of emptied breath, the yellow leaf will fall and then fall gracefully to the ground in silent communal prayer. Here is the place, too, where the interstitial flowers stand tall in the sun, like blooming erections at the prick of noon. They too seem still in summer's lease, but will grow as soft as the invisible worms that hide in the night.
In places like this, we have only a brief space before we must bury the dead, before the rot and decay lay dominion over all, but never before the dance of life is done. Here there are sometimes three days---three full measured beats---counted in seconds.
The sky here is the blue makeup on a corpse: it beautifies the dead now lying in repose.
"Pretty," some will no doubt say to themselves when looking at such a sky, but pay attention: this place shares something with the smothering stillness. If you look into the heart of its vastness, you recognize the only truth that matters: you are being offered an unspeakable oath made at the altar of the cloudless sky.
This is the place, too.
It is a definitive moment without being a moment at all. It is an allegory where growth reaches as far as it can, and like a wave with its arm stretched completely out, it can go no farther. This progress, this growth, then stops---and like a spinning coin, for a moment both heads and tails---it wrestles with an angel on the desert floor.
In the .space between the earth and sky, a father-god serves as dimensional glue; he is the unseen paste that positions his son to his daughter. I sit with him now and often retreat to his world, perchance
to dream with him. In such a place, every second holds a thousand lives, and a thousand lives hold countless places to hide. In a honeycomb within a honeycomb, even the self can't navigate its way home, and that's by design. It all can seem so infinitely vast, but it's really no bigger than a loaf of bread or a seed in a funnel. I stay in such places until probability determines a flip, and when the Big Suck pulls at my feet, I am folded in a wave receding backward to the sea.
There is a redacted place that exists in the spirit of paradox, too.
Conundrum. The space between breath. Schrödinger's cat. Room 237.
***
It's in the records....
Somewhere in Silly-con valley.
San Jose: The Valley of the Heart's Delight/Desire
They did it, you know.
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