Right now is one of those moments where Creation takes a full breath, a wind in the sails kind of breath. Where he takes a moment to look behind, at all that has risen and fallen, all the roads travelled, and then exhales as the heart quickens in ignition, and faces forward to meet all that begins from here… ‘Begins from free’. A standstill as we pass through creational 0 into creational 1, where all that has been written into the threads and fabric of existence can be seen and unseen, can be touched and known with a transparency as they are released into the unwritten unmanifest timeless fluid creation. Held points, tied-together, knotted and frayed in loss, aeons and aeons of destruction and loss…sigh… Weary and slack-jawed he wipes the salt spray from his face, oceanic entanglements, timelines staying the mainsail, never enough lifeboats.. the tidal forces ever spiralling and pulling at the lifelines…heavy sigh.

The little sail boat held in both hands, the young boy with the sand coloured hair stands at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. Introspectively he gazes out over the many shades of blue as his toes disappear under the white frothy coverlets. Without a backward glance, he gently sets the tiny sailboat with the many-coloured sail afloat onto its watery course. The look in his eyes fathoms deep and unknowable to all those who have not walked in his steps. He looks only forward to the infinite horizon, the ocean is home now, familiar, belonging, not a force to be reckoned with or fought against, but a a vast fluid domain of which he is king.

Your son, captained the ship. He was at the helm, wheel in hand, navigating by a distant event horizon, not yet see-able to the naked eye. He chartered this path long ago.. it was a horizon he sought once, as ancestor of his now form.. he acquiesced then to the deliverance of a sunken world. His time would come, he would wait.. timelessly meeting himself in time-space, once again donning the captains hat and steering now by the map so indelibly ingrained into his bones. The matrix of his blood, coursing the tide through his veins.. an Apollonic form rising and riding the dolphin to his new home, cresting the waves of his eternal infinite liquid light current.. his course is set. He holds the boat now, in his small hands, gazing steadfast on his horizon.. this time.. he has waited aeons to be this child, all the creational code complete in his tiny form, he inhales, and his hand-painted sailboat is ready.. where did you go? Mum? Not again…. Creation heaves another weary sigh for the never-ending loss and the choice to sink and drown in the oceanic home that was created to give life, support and nourish, a generative never-ending font.. The many star navigators stand aside their waka, saluting him with their paddles.. freedom held in his hands, the blond haired boy, sets down the tiny sail-boat, ‘Begins from free Mum?’… and he is gone.

One White Waveform…8:04

David and the Ducati

Masters of form and precision engineering, “style sophistication performance” it reads on the walls, white on white. Michelangelo’s sculpted form emerging from the marble, white on white.. exquisitely sculpted, designed, perfected form. We gaze up at David, as the sweaty tourists bustle, having stood queueing in the heatwave outside for for too many hours. Is he worth it, the line hasn’t moved.. didn’t they say they were letting in 10 people every 15 minutes? Head counting the quarter hours, weighing up the risks of heat-stroke or whether the Accademia will simply close its doors, capacity reached, time run out.

Expiration. Time. Expired time. Timeless time. Timeless form.

Yes, there he is, David, “hello old friend”, just as perfect as when we stood here last. Just as beautiful. The perfect form. One of the greatest masterpieces ever created.

“When all was finished, it cannot be denied that this work has carried off the palm from all other statues, modern or ancient, Greek or Latin; no other artwork is equal to it in any respect, with such just proportion, beauty and excellence did Michelagnolo finish it”. Georgio Vasari

Perfection of form… what are we looking at? the art, the sculpture, the David of biblical times.. what are we looking for? ourselves, some part of us we lost long ago, but can behold in the face and form of David. Time expired. Timeless form. And a perfection of body that is ever out of reach. What draws the eye, his stunning proportions, his contraposto posture, his face.. his form, his timelessness.

For in it may be seen most beautiful contours of legs, with attachments of limbs and slender outlines of flanks that are divine; nor has there ever been seen a pose so easy, or any grace to equal that in this work, or feet, hands and head so well in accord, one member with another, in harmony, design, and excellence of artistry. And, of a truth, whoever has seen this work need not trouble to see any other work executed in sculpture, either in our own or in other times, by no matter what craftsman.

Timeless perfection of form… the sweaty tourists each want a piece, an iconic selfie, smile drawn on as the long arm of self photography lines up the shot.. measuring perfection, ideology, form, or checking the insta feed while David looks on. What is he seeing of this time, of these people, of these many bodies bustling around him. What do we wish to capture? What has he lost?

The boy, the man, the king. Standing there, slingshot in hand, ready to confront Goliath, David has already been promised a throne, a kingdom and a blood-line that will never fail. The House of David, his temple on the mount, the birth of the messiah, his temple standing on the plinth. We look upon the holy of holies, divinity in form, embodied perfection of God as Man, of spirit as matter. Sculpted as form, we marvel at the hand that created the form, Creation, that salty old bastard, smiles down upon us.

Creational form… formative… generative… Embodied perfection. Divinely designed.

She created it too. By the same hand. The same codes held in the bloodline of David, the same embodiment of perfection seeded, to be fulfilled in form. Art as life. Body as divine. We are not born of lesser mortals, of lost and corrupt code. We are not born of a fallen line. We champion no hero or god humanity reveres. Truth is destitute to form when humanity has lost its standing. Dead flesh of co-opted genetic lines and religious sabotage. Lost in the mist of the ranks, forlorn and blinded, we were seeded to be giants. Cerulean skies of heavenly chords, uniting the song lines of our past and future ancestors. Harmonics of home, we weave once again. “Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord that David played, that pleased the Lord…”

Bio-termini.. train tracks of currency to the dead-end station

Oceania, Once she swam these waters, known harmonics of a white home.. where the ancestors of our ancestors belonged, unwritten time, written out of time.. those who formed us, creational beings forming form.. many stars forms.. human star form, human home form.. we knew ourselves back then, our template, our reason for being, belonging to a larger universal design. Holding a full complement of star codes, our potential to fulfil, gather and integrate the star codes, the keys to the kingdom, in these biological forms. The design, plain and simple. We were built for this…

Form of my form… form of all form.. coded lineages await.. the kingdom hath not fallen, the bloodline of white winged kings… universal biological matrices…this human form, built for union of all coded origins.. built to hold the design, the blueprint of many as one.. he who stands as king, holds the container, to unify, gather and integrate the star codes, to hold the keys to the kingdom in the blood.. the heavenly realms assumed and assumpted.. Maria of my blood, mother of the Immaculate child, the baby born to be king, freedom carried in the bloodline of universally unified origins.. our family tree through time and space, sons and daughters of God, as Source, from Source, to Source.. Creation is the Master Game, the game-board, and all the pieces. Home is the ultimate assemblage point. White heart of home. White home molecular.

Girl in the white dress, holding the white orb in her hand..

Her face, white-on-white… white art, on a white canvas, in a white frame, upon a white wall, in a white gallery… every detail formative in purity of home form. Creational form of non duality, there is no black to this white.. no split into two, no dual forces to reconcile.. she is whole, and templated beyond union. Creational form never fallen in timeless time.