I am a thief. I am not a brave thief nor all that clever but I am sneaky and a fair actor so I don't really look like a thief, ever. That I am a thief is no more true than it is in my spiritual life. Don't act surprised. The Divine Thief is central to spiritual life and that character appears in full maturity at least as early as the ancient Greeks, who had Prometheus stealing fire from the Gods for men, many stories of necessary thefts, and Hermes as the Divine Messenger who was also the Divine Thief. Thus it is. I am a thief. I am still spiritual, still devoted, still accepted. I have that confidence.
Wait a minute. Hermes is the Divine Messenger. Communication is thievery. I hardly ever behave as a thief anymore. I have nothing I need and do not need the thrill either. I have not actually stolen anything for a long time. The last time I did so, I stole to test if I still had a thief's heart. I stole a small item, a common thing often stolen from stores, as I would well know. I did not get caught just as I have never gotten caught. I slept just fine that night. I am still a sneak, still a thief.
However I write and write and write. Communication is thievery. I will not try and explain that. I suspect it has something to do with the Divine Power accessed through words. It has something to do with true Magic. To be mortal man and access Divine Power at will is to be a thief, always. Ancient wisdom. I will say no more.
So I am a poet, an artist. That is the current incarnation of my thievery. The biggest context is art in general. Art is communication and itself through and through thievery, stealing the power of god in mortal frames.
The Divine Messenger is a Thief. Both aspects are central. The messenger is a servant. What is true of my position in God's World, I snuck in, stole my way in. The way open was the servant's entrance, and yet I am not really God's Servant. Back on May 31, 2010, I first posted about this. Nothing has changed since November 14, 1966, when I committed my Divine Theft.
In 2010, I wrote:
"I snuck in the servant’s entrance. Along with that, I say I made a decision to prove a point in [a thief's - today's upgrade] argument with God, why I have come, but how I got here, the bus let me off and I have been waiting ever since for it to come back and pick me up. I am sort of deflated. I think I will die waiting."
Nothing has changed. God placed me at this stop, a consequence. There are always consequences.
Stranded At The Bus Stop
I sit on this bench
here at the bus stop waiting
hoping for the bus
to come and worried
if this transfer is still good
or now out of date,
too old, me too old,
so even if the bus does
come it won't be mine.
Written June 2, 2009 9:16 AM
First Posted May 31, 2010
Some years ago my poetry took on a mythic flavor and I became a character in my own poems, a mage, "the man of the Northern Wall". This apellation is not completely fictional. My middle name is Noordwal, a Dutch term for north wall, though in current Dutch it mainly means north bank as in riverbank. I was told that an ancestor, a Portugese Jew escaping the Inquisition, settled in a small Dutch town and took this name from where he settled, near the north wall of the town. I have thought for a long time that -wal meant wall, think my mother told me that. A linguist might say that my usage is no longer common, is an older usage, but then the Inquisition happened in Portugal a few centuries ago, right around the time the Moors lost control of the Iberian Peninsula and the Jews lost the modest protection given them by Islam. Now I write as this mage, my poetry persona.