Transparency is the Only Shield Against Disaster

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The following is an essay that I assembled from my comments on Aeolus Kephas's "Owning the Apocalypse; the Up Side of Annihilation." Over the past year, a kind of odd marriage between accident and intent has taken place; any passing comments seem to arrange themselves into a predetermined pattern, as if some presence from the future were projecting a voice into my head. To a great extent, I am familiar with this voice, for it originates in one of the several alternate versions of myself, and yet the louder and more immediate it becomes the more alien it feels. In any case, it seems to know what it is doing. In the labyrinth that leads from Earth to the theatre beyond Time, it is possible that any wrong turn is correct.

Hi Aeolus,

--Swampjism wrote, "If 'galactic consciousness' was only possible upon the deaths of six billion people, I would take the six billion if given a choice. Screw your Enlightenment! . . . .But I don't even think all this is the case. Personally I feel that the 'shift' has already taken place, and in a way has always been there. The Buddha, saints, mystics, shamans of all times and cultures experienced full awareness within this world, the Spell, the Matrix. In Mahayana Buddhism it is affirmed that samsara is nirvana. The whole cycle of birth and rebirth, which is Maya the original Matrix, is the realm of enlightened awareness."

--You responded, "We are on the verge of something truly mind-blowing, and our resistance to the idea of mass death as something 'negative' just shows, to me, how unready we are, even conceptually, for the magnitude of what is coming, as a species and as individuals. I can say this: the loss of identity which (*I* believe) is our only possibility for survival now will be far more 'terrifying' (and undesirable) than any 'horrible' death by apocalypse could ever be. Those of us who begin to experience this 'shift' may well wish we'd been numbered with the lucky 'expendables.' Galactic consciousness is nothing anyone in their right mind would volunteer for, and those dumb enough to do so, soon regret it."

Is it possible that these viewpoints are not mutually exclusive?

To my way of thinking, the cosmos is already as "perfect" as it needs to be, although our perception of this larger context has been obscured from the dawn of recorded history, and perhaps longer. "Apocalypse" pertains to the rolling on and rolling off of stage sets, as embodied in, among other things, the 12 signs of the Zodiac. These "stage sets" activate the potentials that are encoded in the All. As they stomp and fret their hour upon the stage, the actors prove all but indifferent to the larger context they have come from, yet fear, always, on some level, that they are still the stuff of dreams.

Always, it is space itself that acts.

"A world" disappears; the theatre in which this destruction is carried out does not have to go anywhere, or to "evolve" beyond what is already within its reach. The future does not necessarily follow upon the past, nor is the past only mechanically active in the present. As one stage set disappears and another one appears, there is an interval, a pregnant pause, a dead zone, in which the vertical and horizontal axes get realigned; we may experience this as an earthquake or a tidal wave that shatters and then reconstitutes the whole of the inter-dimensional structure.

Many new things then become possible, but this may or may not result in the projection of destruction onto physical time/ space. A continent sinks. The sun burns out. A wave consumes Valhalla, bringing to an end the blood feast of the gods. The Venir and the Aesir, it must be said, are too drunk to be feeling any pain. Or, one actor has been momentarily transported from the theatre. The "pregnant pause" could just as easily result in the ecstasy of a shamanic flight, in the seeding of a more localized "omphalos," or in the birth of transpersonal memory. Our "world" has been replaced with an almost exact duplicate. One actor has returned, only slightly the worse for wear, from his "close encounter" with the vertical axis; having reestablished "contact" with what existed before History.

Time is the magician whose tricks educate the audience; a master of bi-location, he then gladly joins them in a long round of applause.

Our preoccupation with linear "evolution" shows our incomplete grasp of the time-cycle, which, while not a form of exact repetition, does not involve the "creation" of any "higher" state of consciousness. Our experience is, in some peculiar way, important. "How" and "why" will at some point be self-evident, but are now, perhaps, self-evident only to our Doubles. It is he/ she/ it, the Double, who provokes the fear that all too often we project onto the world. Oddly, it is always the next production at the theatre that especially concerns us. If we are haunted by the catastrophes at the end of the last ice age -- when the yogic technology of the Satya Yuga fell, not soon to be seen again -- then we somehow do not locate the source of our emotion in the past.

This could be due to the continual meddling of the Watchers, to whose fascist network the Double may belong. How many cows have been sacrificed to the development of their superpowers? Experiments in recombinant DNA did not begin in the 1970s. We must push the date back by more than 11,000 years, to the wasteland that followed the last deluge.

As they hovered above the flood-plain, having said "goodbye" to the bodies they once loved, trauma became the fuel that powered their glass houses. Objectively, they have celebrated the destruction of their cities. Cosmic; their pathos. They have through the millennia made a virtue of Necessity. All memory of their actions is forbidden. For, now as then, we suspect that they do more than "watch," even if we do not know what laws they have broken.

Our paranoia is, for the most part, justified, but its actual object is far stranger than we think, more intimate than one's heartbeat. More "immanent" than death, which it resembles. As violent as one's transubstantiation. In the end, perhaps courage is of more importance than any sharpening of our prophetic skills. "For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying."--Rilke.

Aeolus wrote:

"'This could be due to the continual meddling of the Watchers; to whose fascist network the Double may belong.' -- This is a fascinating and baffling statement -- my understanding of the Double is a being who cannot be co-opted, since it is hooked into Infinity itself. The double can perhaps be enslaved (as in the pods of the Matrix), but that's another matter -- or is this what you mean by 'belong'? My own experiences of the Double lead me to the conclusion that it is still 'trapped' or distorted by unprocessed or unreleased aspects (karma?) of the personal self, but that in essence, as a Totality, the Double is a kind of tube or opening onto the Infinite-a veritable god-self."

Hi Aeolus,

We do not disagree about the Double. This is only a piece of myth making, and what I say here may be easily contradicted somewhere else.

What I am suggesting here is that the Double, in his aspect as the Shadow, may appear to be allied with the powers that "oppress" us -- although the ultimate goal of these "oppressive" actions is very much open to debate. The Double, of course, is in no way limited by this, or by any other, role. As a "double-agent," he is neither "here" nor "there," neither one of "us" nor one of "them," and delights in playing stupefyingly complex games with our Psyches.

In my non-dual system, there can be no ultimate "enemy"; the original omnipotence of the Soul cannot be stolen. It does not break easily, or perhaps at all, and there is no action that cannot also be interpreted as a gift.

I do not say this lightly. The implications of this power-sharing arrangement are enormous, even terrifying. Placing upon our moral sense many harsh and almost impossible demands, a radical expansion of perspective follows from our contact with the Double; we can only gasp at the leap that we have taken, and the distance that we have come.

Hi Aeolus,

 I am puzzled by your description of my comment on the "apocalypse" as "lateral"; it is lateral only if it has not been clearly expressed and/ or understood. My point was that apocalyptic images are encoded in the structure of time/ space/ consciousness, and can be encountered, as well as understood, in a great variety of ways. A wholesale "die off" of the human race is one that most immediately comes to mind, but this view appeals, perhaps too mechanically, to our desire for Wagnerian drama, and depends as well upon a suspect concept of linear time.

That the "apocalypse" is "immanent," I do not doubt; but it is the meaning of the word "immanent" that I would like to call into question.

Let me phrase this in a different way: we must be militantly open in our descriptions of how the horizontal and the vertical axes intersect. Viewed from the perspective of the horizontal axis, the "apocalypse" is the eruption of repressed archetypal forces onto the stage-set of the objective world; it is the projection of the vertical axis onto History; the penetration of dead cultural forms by the violence of primordial energy.

Viewed from the perspective of the vertical axis, however, the "apocalypse" might best be understood as a reflexively triggered spectacle, a trial by fire at the boundary between worlds. It signifies, quite simply, that the explorer has successfully entered into the axis, taking the whole of both the personal and the collective Psyche with him, and is being powered by a sufficiently explosive degree of force. The person who has entered is not the same as the being who will exit.

Hi Aeolus,

As regards the "encoding" of "apocalyptic" images in the structure of time/ space/ consciousness; I had argued, in my previous post, for an open-ended interpretation of the "die off" of our species, and of all other such "objective correlatives" for our fears. We must guard against what Whitehead refers to as "the fallacy of misplaced concreteness"; one person's portent is another's souvenir.

Grof's "perinatal matrices" also speak to this simultaneous existence of a "beginning" and an "end." "Apocalyptic" images are encoded in the very process of our birth; any large-scale "expansion" of the psychonaut's consciousness can reactivate the trauma of this earlier "contraction"; the experience is overwhelming, and immediate, but when an already completed story is reenacted for a "subject," does the spectacle take place in the present, in the future, or in the past?

Biology both recapitulates and prefigures the larger process of "cosmogenesis."

We may feel that some world-shattering event is just around the corner. As always, it is "just about" to occur; this does not mean that the images and emotions generated are not, in fact, the circuitous projections of a "memory." Conversely, the fact that an already complete "apocalypse" might exist in its own dimension, like a bomb, does not mean that its explosive energy cannot spill over into ours; any more than the brain is incapable of exerting an influence on the hand.

That the world has already ended; of this we may be certain. But is it the end of "a world" or of "the world," and is the spectacle of the linear or the non-linear variety? It is reassuring that the prophets of world destruction have proven almost 100% wrong-and yet...One might justifiably wonder if our amnesia as to the length of recorded history is an issue.

A slow, staircase-shaped, sequence of disintegration -- what John Michael Greer describes as "catabolic collapse," of crises followed by periods of partial adaptation and recovery -- is probably the more common pattern for the decline of civilizations. At the same time, this does not mean that there have been no all-consuming catastrophes, in which thousands of years of development have been wiped out (relatively speaking) overnight. I believe that the world-wide network of megalithic sites is a testament to this reality.

These giant-works are cues, the hieroglyphs of Kundalini, which we, in our quest for eternal youth, have chosen to ignore; they point to how easily the evidence of past world destructions can be hidden, by our preconceptions, in plain sight. Each day the polar magnetism that protects Earth from the Sun decreases.

Aeolus wrote:

Brian: "Lateral thinking is about reasoning that is not immediately obvious and about ideas that may not be obtainable by using only traditional step-by-step logic. Techniques that apply lateral thinking to problems are characterized by the shifting of thinking patterns, away from entrenched or predictable thinking to new or unexpected ideas."

Your injection of poetic fiction into the discussion-a more right-brain mode of expression-struck me as "lateral" because it went straight to the heart of the subject, rather than retaining the usual distance required for intellectual debate.

Hi Aeolus,

Thank you for explaining your use of the word "lateral"; it does seem to be a valuable concept. Here is another comment that I was working on before I read your response:

--Incidentally, the excerpt from "To Akasha/ Part 1; An Incantation for the End of History" was also not intended to be "lateral." It was presented as an illustration of movement along the "vertical axis" of which I spoke; where all oppositions -- such as "self" and "other," "male" and "female," "creation" and "destruction," "past" and "future" --are reconfigured by the violence of primordial energy.

Like you, I have for many years been haunted/ fascinated by the concept of the "apocalypse," as well as challenged by the sense of "immanence" that attends it.

During the period of 1990-1993, after receiving "shaktipat" from Anandi Ma, my body/ mind became the playground for the clash of resurgent archetypes. It was no longer possible to view the "apocalypse" as a concept, or as something that might unfold at some point in the future; it was instead the stuff of my everyday experience. The body became my inter-dimensional vehicle; and the breath its means of locomotion.

"To Akasha/ Part 1; An incantation for the End of History", and its companion book, "To Akasha/ Part 2", were begun in 1991, at the mid-point of this breakthrough, but, so complex were the literary and spiritual issues to resolve, that the final revisions on these books were not completed until last year. In these works, I almost always refer to myself in the third person; I do not use the word "I." This helped to correct any tendency towards omnipotence-an almost inescapable temptation when one is drunk on Kundalini.

To what extent should my visions be interpreted as predictions? Should "the mile-high wave," for example, be interpreted as a metaphor? On the other hand, the Arctic and Antarctic icecaps do seem to be melting, and sea levels may rise by as much as 60 feet in the lifetime of my daughter; glacial shearing may prompt the formation of catastrophic waves, leading to the submersion of many cities along coasts. All emotions must be examined, and even our most cherished concepts overturned. It is important to respect the ambiguity of the image.

It has been an age since the Tablets of Destiny were other than dead objects in our hands. The best translation of this "ur-text" was the first one to be lost, while the worst was the one that got handed down through time. There are versions, and more versions of the text, from all of which pieces have been randomly removed. We are the all too human beings upon whom tricks can be played. Always, there are projections-and pregnant ones-of which even the Double remains unaware.

By a kick now awakened from the dream of recorded History, I find that I have only as much knowledge as I need; no more and no less. From each according to his desire for omnipotence; to each, as he learns his lesson. Or so the revolutionary council would prefer us to believe. Time will tell. It is possible that Love will in the end make fools of us all, if Death does not do so first.

That some force has realigned the vertical and the horizontal axes; of that I have little doubt, but the preexistent Voice does not always guide my actions. It comes and goes, as it chooses.

There are many days, still, when I would echo Rilke's lament in "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids-Brigge," where he -- or rather his alter-ego -- wrote, "Have I said it before? I am learning to see. Yes, I am beginning. It is still going badly. But I intend to make the most of my time."

We must kill the gods, especially the real ones; as they have stolen the keys that were to open every heart. For better or for worse, we have no choice but to trust our vision, even knowing that it must always be imperfect; such "imperfection" is not due to any accident of perspective, but instead to the primal schism between worlds. The "inside" looks a bit different than the "outside." Yes, the "above" is a mirror, but it is not exactly the "same as" the "below."

The Square Circle is a work in progress.

Hi Aeolus

--If we follow the explorations of a right-wing visionary like Serrano, one of the founders of "Esoteric Hitlerism," we could easily come to the conclusion that the Double was a Fascist. In my remarks about the Double at the end of my comment on the Apocalypse, however, I was not speaking about what the Double is, in and of himself, but rather about how he is refracted through the prism of our fears. To draw a comparison: in Hollywood movies, for example, whenever the supernatural puts in an appearance-as the music of Anton Webern screeches and plinks and plonks-we can be sure that some orgy of horrific violence is to come; we cannot escape from our metaphysics without immediately being punished. About such things our transfigured selves will laugh.

Below, you will find one of my comments on Gary Lachman's "Archangels of Our Darker Natures" (Reality Sandwich 11/25). In this essay, Lachman explores the connections between Mircea Eliade and the Fascist Right, and I remark on how his vision-as well as that of Evola, Serrano, Guenon, and other such impressive writers-was corrupted by a naïve and arrogant relationship to "The Shadow."

I would suggest that our interactions with "The Shadow" and "The Alien" should be similar, and must be based on a sense of unconditional openness, on a reckless joy; instead of on the projection of our fears. It is we who are predestined to be messengers, not they, who risk less than their all. An age ago, it is we who had volunteered to jump head-first into Death, but some trauma has obscured the confidence that should accompany this role.

The Road of Excess Leads to the Palace of Annihilation

Gary, you wrote:

 "Mircea Eliade remarked that he became ‘politically aware' during his time in India" -- a matter-of-fact comment, but I find it significant that this awakening occurred India, perhaps the only culture whose traditions stretch, in forms that have been interrupted but never entirely broken, to a point beyond the origins of our time cycle. Recent research suggests that there are references in the "Rig Veda" -- geographic and climatological -- that seem to originate the period of 6,000-10,000 years B.C.

Among most of the thinkers you describe, there is a sense that the "modern world" is the slipshod handiwork of the Demiurge, and that access to some higher, as well as more ancient, world is an immediate possibility, in spite of our fixed position within the Kali Yuga. At the same time, it would appear that some trauma has occurred; it is necessary to blame someone, and it is only to be expected that the elite will take revenge. "Eliade remarked that ‘One day I heard an extremist talking and I had to admit he was right. I understood perfectly well that there had to be some violent protestors too.'"

But once violence in the service of "wholeness" is legitimated, there is no horror that cannot occur. It is only a few short steps to Savitri Devi's belief that Hitler was "the god-like Individual of our times; the Man against Time; the greatest European of all times." He was "Kalki", the 10th and final avatar of Vishnu, and his temporary defeat was due to his being "too magnanimous, too trusting, too good," to his having "in his psychological makeup, too much sun." Insufficiently merciless, he was prevented from bringing the full grandeur of his vision to fruition.-But he will not make the same mistake again.

Upon his return from a UFO base beneath Antarctica, Kalki "will act with unprecedented ruthlessness. Contrarily to Adolf Hitler, He will spare not a single one of the enemies of the divine Cause: not a single one of its outspoken opponents but also not a single one of the lukewarm, of the opportunists, of the ideologically heretical, of the racially bastardized, of the unhealthy, of the hesitating, of the all-too-human; not a single one of those who, in body or in character or mind, bear the stamp of the fallen Ages."

All of this might seem grotesque, but it follows logically from a certain type of loss; a once perfect world has been wrestled from one's grasp. However distorted, this longing perhaps refers to a real object.

Morphogenesis places its thumb upon the Scales; knowing that it is impossible to keep any crime a secret; that one race's god is another race's demon, i.e., that the Devas and the Asuras have, yet again, been scheduled to trade places; that all the toxins that are in the mud will hatch; that there is no real way to deactivate a superpower; and that no "good deed" will ever go unpunished.

We can read the "Ur-Text" in a multitude of languages. We can then translate our paraphrases into other, less coherent, languages; the wealth of which must provoke a "great war" between interpreters. At this point, it is impossible to even begin to tell the Story. Who is who, and what side was one on? Such a babbling of tongues is inter-dimensional in its scope. It is even possible that the war has never ended, and that the two worlds, even now, continue to throw insults. See, it is Arjuna who has wheeled his chariot onto the field at Kurukshetra, between the roaring of two armies; all of whom have or will soon pass into nonexistence.

The "Bhagavad Gita" was one of Himmler's favorite books, and he always took a copy with him on his travels. "These, your family, are already dead, and so press on in the fight." It seems unlikely that Vyassa, the incarnate form of Ganesh, had Buchenwald in mind when he first thought of these words. But one never knows. The elephant poet has again withdrawn into his cave, into the joy of his perfected memory; our own memories are perhaps no longer on this level. We are angry, and have vowed to follow the river of our frustration to its source.

The "world" that stirs such deep emotions may have left us. Still, we love her. If we cannot have her, then we will see that no one else does, either. Through our occult arts we have conjured an exact duplicate of her body!-It is missing only a small ocean's-worth of blood.

From beyond Time, an ultimatum echoes, waiting for its vehicles to hear.

In the face of the immanent energies that flow from this lost world, it no doubt seemed cowardly to Eliade to keep the contemplative and the pragmatic aspects of his being separate; thought and action must again be brought into relation, as the parts of one dynamic whole. To maintain one's ritual purity would be to avoid the responsibility that was the counterpart to one's memory. Life is hard. History is messy, and, like the making of sausages, it requires the spilling of much blood on the floor. To be willing to kill was a test of moral purpose. Evola and Serrano have also described this urgent and absolute need to act on what they "knew." If only one's "vision" could be so easily translated into fact. Of course, however great one's intelligence or encyclopedic one's knowledge of comparative mythology, without a moment by moment awareness of "The Shadow" one is little more than a puppet.

Such awareness is not natural; it involves a radical leap beyond duality, which is an achievement as individual as every person who attempts it, and one that must be renewed with every slight shift of focus. Without such a mercurial awareness, Jung himself, the originator of our modern understanding of this "concept", would no doubt have fallen prey to the resurgence of archetypal powers that gave birth to Fascism, and would also be listed among this group of suspect thinkers. His very ambivalence towards Fascism, in the early 1930s, was itself a sign of his enormous subtlety as a seer; his judgment upon events was not in any way mechanical, but came only at the end of a long process of self-discovery.

The problem is that "The Shadow" does not look like "The Shadow"; it looks like the external world. So long as one sees oneself as separate from the evil to be overcome, or one's slightly more articulate ignorance as somehow privileged by the Absolute, then there is no real hope for a life-changing confrontation with the Other.

For the past 20 or so years, I have also experienced a sense of worlds upon worlds breaking open; of the geometry behind History just about to be revealed; of a lost world being wrestled from my grasp, like an object upon waking from a dream; of some trauma that contaminates all attempts at perfect vision. I can certainly understand the need to test one's energies against events, or to find some external cause that would give form to one's depth of intuition. Space/ Time is an obstacle-to be removed; and any form of action must be better than no action at all. Except when it is not.

To the temptation to impregnate politics with myth, my attitude has been a prophylactic "Just say no." Simultaneously, I would caution: respect the urge if not the act; the urge to revolt against Space/ Time is not different than the one that fuels each creative breakthrough.

Blake, for example, would be an artist who gave positive expression to this same world-conquering impulse. Sealed within the althanor of his transformation, he did not depart from the realm of symbolic action; all contraries met within one energetic body.

The fire of Prometheus, yes; the arrogance of the Archons, no. Quite strangely, the same vision can prompt results that are diametrically opposed. Apocalyptic violence escorts the dream of the Satya Yuga. Ecstasy guides the magus through each twist and turn of the labyrinth, and then finally out through the exit-into farce.

If, as some proponents of the occult right contend, an experience of primordial wholeness can be gained through the act of Tantric intercourse -- whether with a partner, or through the opening of the microcosmic orbit, thus reintegrating the root and crown chakras and subverting the horizontal projection of duality -- then Eliade, Evola, Serrano, Guenon and their like, must, when all is said and done, be regarded as a group of premature ejaculators.

As the maxim says, "In my patience is my soul."

The lost world that imagines us does not need to be created; and we, who are not other than its shadow, must learn how to approach it through the prism of our fear, whose force-fields we must navigate. "The Shadow" that for millennia has haunted us, now a guide, will again demonstrate his/her ability to steer. A hair's breadth of a difference separates discovery from destruction. Hidden in plain sight, the future/ past, already, is as perfect as it needs to be, and our post-traumatic stress only serves to cloud the issue.

--In response to this comment, "Kelleil" asked:

"Simply please...How is the Shadow able to guide now, as in comparison to the past? What accounts for the PTSD? As we are in the Kali Yuga, how is such progress possible and is that accounting for a new paradigm, a fundamental shift in the fabric of our reality?"

--My answer was as follows:

The ghosts of Antarctica and the paradox of the guide

Hi kelleil,

You wrote, "How is the Shadow able to guide now, as in comparison to the past?"

--After asking for simplicity, you have certainly posed a very complex question! Let's see. On the simplest level, I would say that the relationship between the shadow and the guide is a mystery, one that each day I continue to explore. Perhaps this is not informative.

On a somewhat more complex level, I would argue, based first and foremost on my own experience, that the shadow, the double, the inner teacher, and the preexistent guide are all aspects of one single presence; its energy is explosive, and it has the power to obliterate or to transform what it touches.

Contracted, it appears to be one's enemy; expanded, it appears to be one's friend. Quite strangely, it is neither of the above. If its agenda overlaps, in many ways and at certain times, with our own, it would nonetheless be a mistake, on this side of the experience of death, to jump to any conclusions about which side of the millennial war we are on. Luck overtakes us; but perhaps we are being set up for the kill.

On one level, each of us is irreducibly special; we have each come with a one of a kind gift. On a different level, we are all of us anonymous. We are many, like the dead, who must somehow learn to navigate by scent.

Like the alien doctors who invade our dreams, where, having beamed us out of one space but not quite to the next, with wide eyes they conduct their nonsensical dissections; so too, there is a shadow who conducts obscure experiments on our fears. He is the guardian of non-duality. Through the integration of his lower energies we gain access to his higher functions. Bit by bit, the shadow reveals his shared identity with the guide.

Ascending through the worlds, lightning flashes between the connections that join each part to the All. The web is infinite, and our vision correspondingly grows. At the same time, the key players in the drama can be counted on one hand.

Has the shadow become more user-friendly? No. Whether now, or 2,000 or 10,000 years ago, the shared identity of the shadow and the guide has always presented us with an ultimatum. "Abandon hope, all you who enter here." "Live free, and/ or die." True ecstasy necessitates the removal of one's skin. The Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge have never been two different trees.

Our guardians lie; it is the serpent who instructs us.

As always, we must begin by reintroducing the ego to the shadow-the most immediate one-which, however strong, is only as large as one's subconscious. Its contents are as unique as DNA. (Or so some think, and here we will leave out several steps in our exploration.)

But beyond the individual shadow there is also a collective shadow, upon which some trauma has prevented us from acting; it is this shadow that is only just coming into focus. Mad geniuses impregnate the technology of the One.

Fresh from the ocean, the ghosts of Antarctica grow dangerously real.

 

Image by kevindooley, courtesy of Creative Commons license.

 

Comments

The Enigma of Fatality

Hi Revolutionrabbit,

Here a poem from "Maps of the Metaphysical Double; In the Footprints of de Chirico." In this poem, an aged--or perhaps newly dead--de Chirico is speaking.

Phrases or images from de Chirico's writings are incorporated here and there into the text. The voice is as much the voice of "Hebdomeros"--de Chirico's somewhat megalomaniacal and daemonic alter-ego--as it is that of the homesick seer of the paintings. A section toward the end refers to his falling out with Breton.

Are you familiar with de Chirico's 1928 novel "Hebdomeros"? John Ashbery called it "Perhaps the greatest Surrealist novel ever written."--which is odd, because de Chirico was never an official member of the group, and did not in any way define himself as a "Surrealist."

Curiously too, Breton and Eluard and other Surrealists who owned de Chirico paintings did not sell them until long after the 1920s--when the feud was at its peak--in spite of their many public statements of disapproval. If I remember correctly, Breton's retirement was financed by the sale of a single de Chirico painting.

Here is section 12 from the book:

The Enigma of Fatality

My intestinal disturbances articulate the vast designs of melancholia! This is what I thought. Pythagorean gyroscopes revolve like children’s toys above me. Against the ruins of a perfect world they crash. “Do not explain the symbol. As to what is going on—do not ask us to increase your share of superhuman knowledge. Just see what you are supposed to.” 

I saw 12 thousand years ago today the Earth flip inside out. Great armies from prehistory curve and thunder across the tundra, in order to impregnate the shy planet with infinity. A foot flattens the wondrous architecture of the void. Electrical technology of the Adamic giant echoes. Enigma. Displacement of the Zodiac by tribes. 

There was a green light to the North. The 1st World War resuscitates the iron espionage balloon. Youth. Transparent the planet—when what I thought I saw. To your servant Muse a statue stretched its hand out—and in that hand a talking stone. Such illumination explodes the ego. I would never be the same.

__ 

Said the 12, “The success of our experiment with the vehicle is in doubt, with too much of the soul being lost during transmigration.” 

The genius, like a drunken god, inflates, destabilizing the controlled environment of Ferrara.  

The silence of the doorway and the hunger of the gun. The death-grip of the Demiurge. The solitude of signs and the record of the nonexistent. The longing of the barnacle for the hull of some global maritime culture. Fear swells with the breeze from nowhere. Again, I accept a pair of dark glasses from the daemon. The stars are fewer than the complete works of de Chirico. Red smokestacks grow enormous.  

Steer my Muse a path straight and glorious for the seer. 

The old blind man was still singing at the great Victorian train station. Around him a crowd moved like the currents of an ocean. It had been centuries since the Argonauts had departed. 

At first I thought you would show me how to act. You would adapt me to your purpose. But by the Autumn of 1912, already, I had seen what I was supposed to. In 50 years I could not add much. To what was perfect at its inception, to a comet whose tail was history.  

I had read a book and nursed a cup of coffee at my table. I took a walk. Outside the factory of prosthetic limbs a great finger on a sign swung. It pointed South, from the circumpolar stars, at a sunset made in Egypt by the birds. No effort would allow me to speak your language. Other signs came. The signs were sharp, but they invoked a different order of experience. I could not live there. Or withstand the force.  

You would not abandon your seer but would not show me what to do. At death I found out. That the halves of the broken symbol were the 2 poles of a magnet; that the self and the daemon acted in conjunction, as demanded by the clockwork mechanism of the fates. 

I did not have to know everything, after all. 

And now the sun has stopped, high in the center of the artificial heavens, and the statue has immersed its soul in contemplation of its shadow.  

My secret—joy. As modernism labored to deconstruct the ideal, by use of sterile formulas and arid systems, it is I alone whose heart was altered by the joy of the Eternal Return. Do you think it is my fault my intelligence wore thin, as was claimed by Breton and his gang of occult amateurs?   

I was tested by the absolute. They theorized about dreams. 

It was written that the artist would return without his advocates, an aged fool, unrecognized by his wife, to do battle with the ocean. Already, the waves recede from the great spokes of the city. Towers reassemble. The statues of the gods look as new as a baby’s bottom. As when he had first forced them to appear. All vanishing points have now converged upon a stone. The tiny comet grows as large as nonexistence. Fear leads to the source of fear. It occurs to him that the Earth should not be tilted at an angle.  

There is no error that the double will not catch and correct. 

Enigma.  

With its boom of distant guns, with its shutters closed in expectation of disaster, the day of the sign appears no different than today. Laughing, I hug the palm tree’s trunk. Shadows are cast with long outlines from the record banks. Beneath the arch, a figure in a bed sheet now gesticulates. It is Pythagoras! He begs for change.  

It is always possible that our history is not real, and that the double may yet subvert its chaos by some act of senseless harmony. The solar system is a joke. Spheroids throw bread to humans in the square. What I learned was: of the Ancients—they watch.  

“Eternity is in love with the productions of Time.”—Blake

Hi Revolutionrabbit,

You wrote, “When I first began writing, that was my only way to write, to get the flow going. Obviously, there are a lot of layers to how that works. How you hone your skills, it's a secret process, but it's also just a lot of tweaking the nuance. It took me many years to find that point where I would just be able to write off the top of my head.”

I could never hope to equal the inexhaustible freshness and wild insight of your creative flow—it is like a natural force, and I hope you realize what a gift to all of us it is. My own method is an altogether more cautious mix of adventure and reflection.

Also, as a parent, there is no moment when I might not get unexpectedly yanked back to earth. The days when I could disappear into the ether for weeks at a stretch are long gone. When mutual friends were first attempting to introduce me to my wife, I had several times postponed our first date because I was in the process of finishing up a book. Luckily, I was rescued by a dream, in which I met my wife and she was escorting me through the house that we live in now. In this dream, when she opened the front door, I was shocked to discover that she was pregnant, and, as the dream progressed, her age kept changing back and forth through the decades. I stopped what I was working on and came to my senses just in time. Thus it is lucky that I ever got to be a parent at all!

But let us return for a moment to the dynamics of the RS forum, as this relates to the issue of language and silence, or of public and esoteric modes of communication—I sometimes wonder if participants have any idea of how difficult it is for a writer to keep everybody in a forum happy.

If I respond to a challenge with reasoned argument, then I am being overly intellectual or "professorial. If I respond more intuitively or poetically, then I am being "free-associative" and self-indulgent. And if I then attempt to locate myself as a “moderate” between the extremes of intellect and intuition, and, during this high-wire juggling act, address a number of key issues in regards to the history of “free-association” and “pure psychic automatism,” then I run the danger of offending an old friend who is a master of free-associative technique. It's a no-win situation.

But such difficulties in communication do illustrate the theme of the problem of using language as a means of getting to the Beyond. Great vigilance as well as great subtlety is required—a “tweak” here and a “nuance” there, as you say. I am reminded of Jung’s 4-fold division of the Psyche, most often presented as a cross; with intellect juxtaposed to emotion, and sensory perception to intuition. Jung argued that the key to wholeness was to always move in the direction of one’s weakness—turning awkwardness into insight and making a virtue of necessity—until all 4 forces could be aligned in the approximate equilibrium of a wheel. For better or for worse, this is the method that I attempt to follow.

Once brought into this dynamic state of equilibrium, these 4 forces can become a source of anti-gravitational power; transforming language from a tool of “description” into a “vehicle” for primordial creative action—at last, we might be able to get from “Here” to the “Beyond.”

In Defense Of The Written Word

The Joy of Using Language

 

I will try to examine the polar coordinates or latitude and longitude of language. Fathoming the Alpha and Omega is possible since "words" really have no boundaries or limits, merely an illusion of forms. The process of "ciphering" is a "pulling at the roots." The roots of words. These roots are elastic and not at all rooted. They can be planted and extracted at will and then miraculously replanted. From end to end letters stretch revealing the wide open spaces between them.

 

Lettering or littering is a form of Spellcraft. A myriad of meanings are revealed in the trans-location of letters. Inversions and involvements evolve in the re-ordering of letters. This is the process of dis-composing or de-composing words, a kind of rebirthing of litters. Spinning a long yarn gives us perspective. Desires are enlarged and expanded. Meanings are inflated. Di-visible and dis-solvable, Names are like Numbers.

 

Naming is stretching the imagination. Images like seeds flourish in the scattering. Whisperings travel on the wind. Words breed/breathe and the brooding begins. Prolongation and protraction of sound and symbol preserves and perpetuates the great myths. The mother tongue mouthing new forms through repetition of the seed syllables. This ensures the durability of the vernacular, the inky inklings of insight and intuition.

 

The artist sketches word-symbols in the sands of time. Double-entendre is his forte. Word play is not an abuse but a reuse of language, breaking silence in the pen of a ready writer, he who adores slips of the tongue.

 

Written by (c) Dark Nerve

The Origins of Sacred Speech

Hi Dark Nerve,

Here is an excerpt from the “Rig Veda” that you might like—these debates about the different levels and powers of speech do not seem to be new! The translation is by Wendy Donniger O’Flaherty:

“The Origins of Sacred Speech

“Brhaspati! When they set in motion the first beginning of speech, giving names, their most pure and perfectly guarded secret was revealed through love.

“When the wise ones fashioned speech with their thought, sifting it as grain is sifted through a sieve, then friends recognized their friendships. A good sign was placed on their speech.

“Through sacrifice they traced the path of speech and found it inside the sages. They held it and portioned it out to many; together the 7 sages praised it.

“One who looked did not see speech, and another who listens does not hear it. It reveals itself to someone as a loving wife, beautifully dressed, reveals herself to her body to her husband.

“One person, they said, has grown awkward and heavy in this friendship; they no longer urge him forward in the contests. He lives with falsehood like a milkless cow, for the speech that he has heard has no fruit no flower.

“A man that abandons a friend who has learned with him no longer has a share in speech. What he does hear he hears in vain, for he does not know the path of good action.

“Friends have eyes and ears, but their flashes of insight are not equal. Some are ponds that reach only to the mouth or shoulder; others are like ponds that one could bathe in.

“When the intuitions of the mind are shaped in the heart, when Brahmins perform sacrifices together as friends, some are left behind for lack of knowledge, while others surpass them with the power to praise.

“Those who move neither near nor far, who are not real Brahmins nor pressers of Soma; using speech in a bad way, they weave on a weft of rags, without understanding.

“All his friends rejoice in the friend who emerges with fame and victory in the contest. He saves them from error and gives them food. He is worthy to be pushed forward to win the prize.

“One sits bringing to blossom the flower of the verses. Another sings a song in the Sakvari meter. One, the Brahmin, proclaims the knowledge of the ancient ways. Another lays out the measure of the sacrifice.”

Bumpkin Bogomil

I once attended a university course in the history of religion. The professor, a staunch supporter of the noble academic tradition of passing on secondhand desctop information, lectured on some tribe, who talked to their crops. In the then fashion of cultural anthropology, all about symbols and ritualism, and how your grandmother's first name and initiation rites were important, he had constructed a quite elaborate system with crossreferences and diagrams.

Had I dared to mention alternative possibilities, kind of 'The secret life of plants' pragmatic variety, I would have been kicked out in disgrace.

When language stays a map, it can be quite useful. When it starts to get a life of its own, and is elevated to territory status, it's a double edged tool and can be extremely dangerous. We have wonderful fairytales, art and humour, but we certainly also have the inflammatory speeches of Hitler and the fire-and-brimstone churches and the hypnotic talk of wanna-be gurus.

If the potential for experiencing real territory has gone below even homoeopathic levels in the dilution of words, how can we ever find up or down? ....Oh dear me; I forgot, up-and-down must also first pass a semantic mangling, because as in all good fairytales even gravity can be TALKED away.

High magic indeed.

The Sounds of Silence

Some nuggets from the "Treasury of Common Wisdom":

1) Silence is golden.

2) Practice what you preach.

"Gone Hallucinogen Freeway"

Hi Revolutionrabbit,

Much thanks for all of your wildly inventive comments on this forum. As always, it will take me a while to fully digest and assimilate them.

A number of comments back, you had mentioned your new novel "Gone Hallucinogen Freeway." Could you tell us a bit more about this book--what it is, and how someone would go about getting a copy?

the novel

I have been writing poetry since i was 19, it is a work that has gone through the changes of my life, my poems are scattered all over hyperspace, or bits of poems, or poetic bits.My mentor was always writing a novel, he always told me to write a novel, or got me thinking about that.I read lots of novels, of all kinds.A few years ago, i decided that i wanted to write about my life as a poet, but i realized that i could begin at the beginning before i got into poetry, to begin where i came in, and how and why i began a poet life.I suppose a got into poetry by default, i really wanted to be an artist.I took art classes in Jr collage, and i was living with a musician when i left home.

So, i realized that the years 67, 68 when i was a 17 year old teenager, in 67 were a great place to tell my story.I have not taken any creative writing classes and i only went to Jr collage for a few years.So to write from the perspective of a 17 year old teenager with an inner narrative by the poet/writer in the future would have to suffice.

I just wanted to recreate those times, to channel my memories through the prism of my poetic will to art.The novel begins with my first marijuna experience and goes on from there through episodes with my relationships and friends caught up in the psychedelic wave and the magic in the air of the late 60's.

I see it as a kind of novel within a novel,a poetic invocation of the forces and energies that broke through from the underground, from the "lost generation"I really wanted to bring to life the people i knew in those wild child days, of rippling rainbows and free flowing night trips.The music weaves through the scene like a surrealist artist bush, the lyrics and the sounds make up the tapestry of trip of trips.Dylan  Donovan,Morrison Hendrix are our trip makers, Beatles and Stones round it out.We turned on, tuned in, and dropped Owsley, and whispered sweet psychedelic nothings into each others lent ears.Mind bent we invented ourselves against the backdrop of star splashed banners, the crying mary on the wind of changes flashing.

After i wrote the novel i could not even look at it for over a year.Then began the painstaking process of putting all together, and then the other agony of getting self-published.I rather don't think that there is another novel about the late 60's quite like this one.I read a novel years ago by a Biker cat the became a hippie, and went to the Keasy Acid tests and such of those times, that book influenced me, and i did read the 'Electic Kool- Ade Acid Test' years ago.But the real big influence was the fact that i picked up a copy of Naked Lunch by William Burroughs by chance one day back in 68, and that sealed my fate, I was hooked.

I had the book on Lulu publishing, but they sent me the wrong revision, and when i tried to tell them, and ask if they would send me the correct copy they just ignored me.Very weird, so now Gone Hallucination Freeway is on Amazon.

I was thinking of having a disclamer in the front of the book, "warning, this novel may cause you to take a psychedelic trip"

"enter le rabbit hole"

The Reichstag will again burn bright with dancing human UFOs

“The Reichstag will again burn bright with dancing human UFOs”—B.G.

Hi Revolutionrabbit, 

When I read your work, I sometimes feel that I have been picked up and transported through a mirror into the world of 1967; at the same time, I am very much aware that I am in a dream that a magician has conjured for my enjoyment, and that I might at any time wake up.

As I breathe in and out, and scan my psyche and my body to take note of my responses, I find that this experience brings with it a great sense of nostalgia—a kind of bittersweet nostalgia—which is very different from any kind of sentimental longing for the past. I use the word “nostalgia” in the way that it was used by de Chirico; it refers to a complex and multi-dimensional emotion, rooted in one’s perception of the infinite, which has to do with being seized by the vertigo of Time.  

The vertigo of Time! As I say this, I think of those crude special-effect hypnotic spirals that you might find in a Hitchcock movie or in the opening of “The Twilight Zone.”

On the simplest level, there is the dizziness in the head and the sense of falling in the solar plexus that many of us feel when we think about lost youth. On the next level up and out, there is ache in the heart produced by loss of the “American Dream”—as embodied by the Golden Age of the 1950s—or by the sinking of the neo-Atlantis of the 1964-1972 version of the Counterculture. As we spiral out, there are even more expansive and almost incomprehensible levels, in which we feel that entire worlds and all records connected to them have been carried off.  

You wrote, “At the point where the gibberish begins to make some kind of sense, we will be speaking an alien tongue. The exact sequence of this comes in some table of elements—to be sure science calls it this; ancient texts speak in the original language, which follows a series of transformative visions. Poetry is the opening of the way, or third eye, or 4th dimension...”

As you move from Lautreamont to Rimbaud to Breton to Bukowski to Lamantia, and then from the Beatles to the present to 2012 and then back, I am escorted around each turn of the hypnotic spiral by your language—which must be regarded as a kind of revolutionary enterprise. In the same way that the failed revolutions of 1848 gave birth the European avant-garde, your writing transposes the visionary promise of the Counterculture into the realm of symbolic action.

yes

nostalgia of the poet, it's all about symbols, it's all about the word.William Burroughs said : "rub out the word" and those that control the symbols, are the ones that control us.I grew up in the 50's as a kid, i was the first TV baby generation, "TV Baby" like Ginsburg said.I already knew things on some level at the age of 6, because that is when i chose aliens in caves over Candyland like all the other little kids.I was already looking at the pod people.I learned to read very easy, and i wanted to write a Sci Fi novel in third grade.But the 50's were for me living in a tract home and living 5 miles from Disneyland.In second grade i wore my bugs bunny costume to school, i misunderstood that i was suppose to wear my costume to the Anahiem downtown Halloween parade on Saturday.The kids made fun of me, i was a fool, so i walked home and cried to my mother.I think i made my first entry into the rabbit hole that day.

the late 60's was one big rabbit hole.In 1967 one night i saw a black line in the sky, there were three other teenagers that saw it too.I must have been a full moon night,but i recall distinctly seeing a black line in the sky that just hung there.I really thought i would read about it in the newspapers the next day.The other kids had already forgotten about it.So, yes there is a kind of nostalgia for the golden age, or some memory of a great day.And there is the line between the worlds, or the cosmic crack where the light gets in, except in this case the crack was where the light went.

the novel begins with a young woman giving me two zig-zag rolled marijuana cigarettes, she draws pictures of me like some psychedelic flying ace.

The lost world that imagines us

Sometimes human beings undervalue intuition and forget that rationalism is fallible. Because our current store of knowledge is inconclusive and our sensory perception limited, we must make room for the indeterminate and the unforeseen as consciousness evolves. Our present understanding is always tentative, experimental, relative. We refuse to admit this, thinking that our current estimation of truth is complete. Optimists are vain in this regard. In their exaggerated enthusiasm, they overestimate the reach of rationalism. Pessimists of course are just as limited in their underestimation of the marvels and miracles that continue to break through the veneer of reality.

 

All knowledge-seeking is an investigation, merely an attempt to understand. We can't fully grasp the complexity of truth, its absolute wholeness and paradoxical nature, but we can open ourselves up to the mystery and awaken our latent talents. There are always other avenues available to the investigator of knowledge and truth. It is fair to say that we could all benefit from developing a certain double-mindedness so that we can grow more comfortable with paradox because paradox is the rule and not the exception. Our consciousness will remain limited to what we see, hear, touch, taste and smell until we begin to utilize our inherent gifts of telepathy and clairvoyance.

 

It is important to review our current conjectures. Rational explanations are not always forthcoming and that's all for the best. We should always leave ourselves open to mystical elements. We should not be too eager for strict interpretations of our place or purpose in the larger scheme of things. The strict logician refuses to open his senses to the divinatory aspect of human consciousness and is therefore unable to see and hear his way into other worlds. Because he finds the prophetic, problematic, he seeks evidence to support his incomprehension. We must not be blinded by hope or despair. The ultimate nature of the riddle of the universe will not be fully discerned by either the credulous or the skeptical. We must move beyond skepticism and superstition to even grasp an iota of the complexity of our role as humans in this vast universe. There are always unknown quantities lurking beneath the surface of what we call reality.

 

 

We are presently living in a dark age, an age of bewilderment. Our ignorance about the nature of our place in the universe and our ultimate purpose is fast becoming our ticket to oblivion. We have misinterpreted our place in the scheme of things. What we once thought was wisdom has proved to be folly. Our overuse of land and sea, our misuse and abuse of Earth and her elements have brought us to the brink of extinction. For far too long we have ignored the omens and the oracles and refused to trust our instincts. Unwilling to heed the augurs who warned us, we now await our collective demise. We have refused to question our way of thinking, our way of living. Our beliefs and ideals mired in greed and fear have led us astray. And still we rely too heavily on reason as if reason will get us out of this tangled web.

 

Ancient knowledge essential to our survival as a species has been lost or buried. Unexplored yet inherent powers of mind. Our wild nature, our capacity for oracular visions, our connection to the stars. What we call metaphysics and relegate to the margins of our culture. Within these mysteries is the other side of truth. We must reimagine reason not as the ultimate measurement of truth, but as a limited partial view of it. We must come to trust and understand our heart's core. We have neglected our spirits for too long in our worship of logic. The poet and the mystic, at home in the realm of soul and open to exploring the enigmas that await them, peep behind the curtain to catch a glimpse of a larger, more paradoxical truth. Willing to live with the contradictions, the strange enigmas they might find on the other side, they eagerly traverse the confines of reason to discover new possibilities, new practical applications for a wider and wilder reality.

 

What was once considered impossible now becomes possible. What was once considered contrary to reason is no longer unreasonable. Unafraid to digress, fly off at a tangent, or even jump the track altogether the visionary or dream voyager exploring human consciousness, is more than willing to ask outlandish questions and wander beyond the borders of reason. At ease with ambiguity and open to new adventures in other dimensions of reality, he probes the secrets of the universe, rousing the cosmic consciousness of a sleeping giant.

“The Poles are within us, insurmountable while waking…”—P. Celan

Hi Dark Nerve,

What a luminous comment—far-reaching in its implications and yet matter-of-fact in its tone.

I sometimes feel that we are standing side by side on a ledge, overlooking a vast landscape—exploding with life and pulsing with arcane geometries—which we are attempting, in our own small and yet inventive ways, to describe.

“Those would seem to be conifers,” says one, “but what are they doing so far South?” “Yes,” says the other, “and why does that road appear to lead to a constellation? Perhaps there is a buried megalithic complex where it intersects with that other road?” In a shift of focus, the first one then remarks, “Have you noticed how the sun keeps changing color? It started out as yellow, then went to black, and it is now a kind of Islamic green.”

Meanwhile, small groups of critics are always eager to remind us of the laws and prohibitions that we have somehow overlooked. For example, ““You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate Me…”

“Do you not know that it is impermissible to comment on a tree?” says one critic, “Since no one tree can embody the full breath or complexity of Nature.” “Similarly,” chimes in another, “It is best to avoid any self-indulgent talk about the existence of a “landscape,” since a “landscape” is just an abstraction made from individual trees.” And so on, and so forth—ad infinitum.

Who needs reptilian overlords when we are all so willing to subvert our own perceptions?

Such criticisms are quite often labyrinthine in their stealth, and can be just as easily phrased in the language of scientific reductionism, or of social justice, or of a popularized version of Zen Buddhism, but, behind it all, there is a Western distrust of direct contact with the Absolute that goes back many thousands of years.

Exploding with life and pulsing with arcane geometries

Hi Brian I like this comment alot, so I will start here: “Meanwhile, small groups of critics are always eager to remind us of the laws and prohibitions that we have somehow overlooked. For example, "You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them."”

 

There is a great pleasure to be had in creating a corresponding body, a body of work, a body of symbols and ideas, even a body of clay or water for we are both a lake and a likeness. Words themselves are not corpses but living bodies of water. Bodies with predilections and preferences.

 

Bodies like flowing rivers that navigate the threshold between pleasure and pain, between life and death, with its good odors and "bad." We don't like the smell of death but in the demise of the flesh, there are no sweet or balsamic scents except those said to be exhaled by the bodies of eminent saints at death or upon disinterment. With each of the five senses we move closer to what we desire. And with perceptions altered or heightened, we move even closer to rebirth. In Western culture the body is suspect and all of its manifestations are suspect: bodily secretions and excretions, bodily airs and scents, aging skin, failing eyesight and hearing, the odors of decay.

 

In this mindset, flesh is untrustworthy so it only makes sense that the ‘word made flesh’ is also unsuitable, untidy, untimely. But we are the written and spoken words of Earth whose harmonies and discords abound in sight and sound in the eyes and ears of each unique beholder. In a particular eye, the act of looking creates a thing of beauty or ugliness but we must remember that it is Morpheus, the god of Dreams, the son of Sleep, "the maker of shapes," that gives fleshly form to our outward appearances. Our bodies our merely suits that we can take on and off and there is a great pleasure in this pursuit.

 

It is "good" to change appearances, to change forms. The body is not bad. Abiding by this abode, we remain, wait, dwell in our habitual residence of flesh for the time being till we are ready to move on. We continue to live and to trust and to rely on this abode that is our body, to endure, to have faith in its elements of air, fire, water, and earth. This is our compact with the word made flesh. Earth is weird and so is the word and all her senses. The earth entreats us, and so we are beseeched. We are the offering of earth as flesh-filled air. Of Earth as sound-filled ocean. Of Earth as word-fed fire. Earth watches and observes, stretching out, reaching out in her awareness till we become awake and content and give thanks for this likeness of clay holding water.

 

Awakened, enlightened we ask: Are we apparitions of lake or bog or even phantoms of air or are we the material image of Earth, the word made flesh? And she answers: If you learn to trust you will become the fire of your renewal, the living force of your passions. And like "the upper pure bright air" from which you came, you will burn and shine.

 

In ancient cosmology, this element that filled all space beyond the sphere of the moon and constituted the substance of the stars and planets is the spirit that instructs and guides us. Aristotle included aether in the system of the classical elements of Ionic philosophy as the "fifth element" (the quintessence), on the principle that the four terrestrial elements were subject to change and moved naturally in straight lines while no change had been observed in the celestial regions and the heavenly bodies moved in circles. In Aristotle's system aether had no qualities (was neither hot, cold, wet, or dry), was incapable of change (with the exception of change of place), and by its nature moved in circles.

From out of the empty shells of theatres

Hi Dark Nerve and Revolutionrabbit,

The idea of a “metaphysical landscape” reminded me of a poem by George Seferis called “Memory II.” The stage set and lighting and sense of perspective and the layering of different time periods in the poem is similar to that of a number of paintings of de Chirico. (Translation is by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard.)

Memory II

Ephesus

He spoke while sitting on what seemed to be

the marble remnant of an ancient gate;

endless the plain on the right and empty,

on the left the last shadows moved down the mountain:

“The poem is everywhere. Your voice

sometimes travels beside it

like a dolphin keeping company for a while

with a golden sloop in the sunlight,

then vanishing again. The poem is everywhere,

like the wings of the wind moved by the wind

to touch for a moment the seagulls wings.

The same as our lives yet different too,

as a woman’s face changes yet remains the same

after she strips naked. He who has loved

knows this; in the light that other people see things,

the world spoils; but you remember this:

Hades and Dionysus are the same.”

He spoke and then took the same road

that leads to the old harbor, devoured now

under the rushes there. The twilight

as if ready for the death of some animal

so naked was it.

 

           I remember still:

he was travelling to Ionian shores,

to empty shells of theatres

where only the lizard slithers over the dry stones,

and I asked him: “Will they be full again some day?”

and he answered: “Maybe at the hour of death.”

And he ran across the orchestra howling

“Let me hear my brother!”

And the silence surrounding us was harsh,

leaving no trace at all on the glass of the blue.

jipsy moon

the dogs are barking at rags some animals miss the barn by light years they kidnap little kids in broad daylight the jipsy on the town's edge looks at the town folk and shakes his head some kids ran off with the gipsies they travel from some place to place that once existed in the imagination, all that bits of lore that spread from mouth to mouth corner to corner hand to hand sign nod to nod oh they have their own ways Hitler went after the jypsies first, then they went after the rest of the rag tags all them poets and artists and those Talmudians chanters, story tellers fortune readers lookin at them lines written in the palm those star travelers in dreams God in the word the wyrd in supernatural cars on thought wheels they steal your pants them jip cats

the poetry is everywhere and nowhere it exists between the poems written on the graffiti walls where the wild flowers grow from the alchemy of the deepest doodoo oh the voodoo of them made up sings sung at the moon  when the story tellers gather around the camp fire and toss some paper words into the green flames wrapping themselves around the distant trees becoming leaves of fire and stolen dreams again in darkness along the luminescent sparkles that hop through the masks of sleeping gipsies, they rose from the landscape once when shadows dance on the crossroads.

A weaver's work is never done

Hi Revolutionrabbit and Dark Nerve,

I have been assemblng revised versions of a number of comments from the forum into an essay called "I Left at Dawn for the Eternal City; It Seems That I Have Misplaced Several Days." Below, you will find the revised versions of several recent comments that I wrote to you. I have edited the quotations from your own comments slightly to make them correspond more exactly to my responses. I hope this is ok.

“The Reichstag will again burn bright with dancing human UFOs”

“The Reichstag will again burn bright with dancing human UFOs”—B.G.

Hi Revolutionrabbit,

When I read your work, I sometimes feel that I have been picked up and transported through a mirror into the world of 1967; at the same time, I am very much aware that I am in a dream that a magician has conjured for my enjoyment, and that I might at any time wake up.

As I breathe in and out, and scan my psyche and my body to take note of my responses, I find that this experience brings with it a great sense of nostalgia—a kind of bittersweet nostalgia—which is very different from any kind of sentimental longing for the past. I use the word “nostalgia” in the way that it was used by de Chirico; it refers to a complex and multi-dimensional emotion, rooted in one’s perception of the infinite, which has to do with being seized by the vertigo of Time.

The vertigo of Time! As I say this, I think of those crude special-effect hypnotic spirals that you might find in a Hitchcock movie or in the opening of “The Twilight Zone.”

On the simplest level, there is the dizziness in the head and the sense of falling in the solar plexus that many of us feel when we think about lost youth. On the next level up and out, there is ache in the heart produced by loss of the “American Dream”—as embodied by the Golden Age of the 1950s—or by the sinking of the neo-Atlantis of the 1964-1972 version of the Counterculture. As we spiral out, there are even more expansive and almost incomprehensible levels, in which we feel that entire worlds and all records connected to them have been carried off.

You wrote, “We are learning to speak gibberish—this is no joke; the more we read everything under the sun, moon, stars, and galaxies, the more insane things appear…Speaking gibberish is not unlike speaking about history, or philosophy, or looking into the heart of ancient texts. Gnosis is total gibber-gabber, and the Gnostic is like a patient who has been let out of a mental institution, who then stands beside the highway, waving at cars…

"But there is a deeper dimension to this and I believe that this what Brian George is getting at; it's the lines between the lines of all this language that has been getting the better of us since the first word was projected into light, and then all the rest has been chaos masquerading as order…At the point where the gibberish begins to make some kind of sense, we will be speaking an alien tongue...Poetry is the opening of the way, or third eye, or 4th dimension…”

As you move from Lautreamont to Rimbaud to Breton to Bukowski to Lamantia, and then from the Beatles to the present to the Apocalypse and then back, I am escorted around each turn of the hypnotic spiral by your language—which must be regarded as the instrument of a perpetual revolution.

Your language is a foreign agent, only sometimes comprehensible; it is a stone against which no philosopher can argue. It is the telepathic charge of the Lingam at the Yoni, and of the happy couple against the critics that man the Out of Doors Museum, on whose barricades the couple has now volunteered to die. Your language is a map that is the same size as the city. It is the “negentropic” songbird that Dada highjacked from the cage of Babel.

Your language is not bigger than the Zero; it has cut the head from Goliath, the champion of the International Monetary Fund. It is a slight-of-hand more powerful than any weapon in the universe.

Your language testifies to the value of the “transvaluation of all values”; it is a mustache drawn by the Mona Lisa on Duchamp. It is the key to the centrifugal catastrophe of Surrealism, to the spiral that drives each transported genius mad, thus turning One against All. Your language is a kind of “free associative” wound, by means of which the dead are encouraged to be healthy. It is a flower sprung from the fallout of Chernobyl, the chant that will levitate the Pentagon, a Molotov cocktail thrown against the “glass house” of the technocrat, whose plumbing it will illuminate, and whose data banks it will flush.

In the same way that the failed revolutions of 1848 gave birth the European Avant-Garde, your writing transposes the visionary promise of the Counterculture into the realm of symbolic action.

“The Poles are within us, insurmountable while waking…”

“The Poles are within us, insurmountable while waking…”—Paul Celan

Hi Dark Nerve,

You wrote, “It is fair to say that we could all benefit from developing a certain double-mindedness so that we can grow more comfortable with paradox—because paradox is the rule and not the exception. Our consciousness will remain limited to what we see, hear, touch, taste and smell until we begin to utilize our inherent gifts of telepathy and clairvoyance…

“We should not be too eager for strict interpretations of our place or purpose in the larger scheme of things. The strict logician refuses to open his senses to the divinatory aspect of human consciousness and is therefore unable to see and hear his way into other worlds. Because he finds the prophetic problematic, he seeks evidence to support his incomprehension…. The ultimate nature of the riddle of the universe will not be fully discerned by either the credulous or the skeptical. We must move beyond skepticism and superstition to even grasp an iota of the complexity of our role as humans in this vast universe. There are always unknown quantities lurking beneath the surface of what we call reality.”

I sometimes feel that we are standing side by side on a ledge, overlooking a vast landscape—exploding with life and pulsing with arcane geometries—which we are attempting, in our own small and yet inventive ways, to describe.

“Those would seem to be conifers,” says one, “but what are they doing so far south?” “Yes,” says the other, “and why does that road appear to lead to a constellation? Perhaps there is a buried megalithic complex where it intersects with that other road?” In a shift of focus, the first one then remarks, “Have you noticed how the sun keeps changing color? It started out as yellow, then went to black, and it is now a kind of Islamic green.” “I am quite familiar with this particular shade of green,” says the other. “It is the green of a hieroglyphic leaf on the World Tree; the green of the Tablets of Hermes Trismagistes.”

The sun rises and sets simultaneously. Many years pass in a fraction of a second. Says the first, “I feel certain that we are standing at 30 degrees latitude, and 33 degrees longitude—just west of the center of the landmass of Pangaea. Already, we can observe a few tectonic cracks, from between which leaks the light of a split atom.”

“We cannot stay here long—in this state of free-associative transparency, “says the other. “But, then again, perhaps ‘space is the place,’ as Sun Ra said; it is always possible that there is nowhere else to go. Even now you can hear the chant of the intoxicated multitudes, as they praise the current that has taught them how to die. Their Kamikaze battle cries are not different from their laughter. ‘Space is the place’—first rising on a froth of drums and flutes, the mantra circulates around the 4 corners of Pangaea, before crashing against the 'glass ceiling' of a 64 cube tetrahedron.”

Meanwhile, small groups of critics are always eager to remind us of the laws and prohibitions that we have somehow overlooked. For example, “You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate Me…”

“Do you not know that it is impermissible to comment on a tree?” says one critic, “Since no one tree can embody the full breadth or complexity of Nature.” “Similarly,” chimes in another, “it is best to avoid any self-indulgent talk about the existence of a 'landscape,' since a 'landscape' is just an abstraction made from individual trees.” And so on, and so forth—ad infinitum.

Who needs reptilian overlords when we are all so willing to subvert our own perceptions?

Such criticisms are quite often labyrinthine in their stealth, and can be just as easily phrased in the language of scientific reductionism, or of social justice, or of a popularized version of Zen Buddhism, but, behind it all, there is a Western distrust of direct contact with the Absolute that goes back many thousands of years.

here are my tears

here are my hexagramic tears

they bleed into my thunder words

I can't bleed them anymore my ancient drops

are shadows painted by de Chirico in his lost dreams

but you who find these Lapis rain amulets

can read them in the lunar dust

the poems that i have read so long, torn from me

have been etched into my medicine cabinet heart

their bloody insurrections have written me

here is my painted hand pointing at the moon

all my leave poems are made of this zero rune

one motion and my poems are leaves

that have fallen from the one tree of poetry

the flood from my eyes is the same as the deluge

from my mind's eye for I have seen the tree sun

I have awoken from the tomb of my language

and risen like the written revolution in a spiral

of holy words that leave me in all directions

I am standing at the star station of the night train 

looking for the woman of my hallucination

I came from the Great War of Reason trenches

I saw Apollinare's ghost reading a burning newspaper

on the worm-eared benches of the left bank

I too was Rimbaud in a last life weeping like a wild child

on some lonesome roadside my fragile universe

had shattered in a drunken bout with Dante's shades

I put on rosy cross shades on in the Library of Babylon

and open a Volume of Jungian Symbols and read deep

in the cryptic underground of universal transformations

the words there are made of Illuminated manuscripts

and each one is a masterpiece, a greater knowledge

thee Abrasaxian Gnosis whose grand promanades

open upon Alchemic Theaters of Artaud's doppelganger

whom I chanced upon in one of my midnight sojourns

I had entered Lamantian lucid landscapes with compass

looking for the quantum-Hopi  mask of the Sun Chief

I feathered flame thief arrived from infinite direction

when i come home the crows are whispering in the

empty rooms on my dreams, you who find these marks

in the note book of eternity shall gather the song wings

for my Egyptian priestess muse once wandered here

and sing-chants the mother-tongue of white light

my blinded sight by the Goddess of floating wheels

within wheels of forever far

 

 

Thanks Brian and Revolution Rabbit - Enjoy....!

Pandemonium

 

Forbidden, broken

Disavowed words

Linger unspoken

On the lips of the void

 

From a mouth long silenced

Toothless and absurd

Comes a language for the tongueless

Voiceless and unheard

 

Desperate murmurings

Fill the air with dread

Deplorable gurglings

Startle the dead

 

Guttural laments

On the brink of speech

Drowning in dissent

Echo in the breach

 

As polyglot soliloquies

Without syllables or roots

Rupture the vernacular

Of the banished and the mute

 

Written by © Dark Nerve

 

Odin's Gallows

 

Turn the right key

Strike the right chord

A strange mystery

Taints our every word

 

The roots of a tree

Determine our worth

Indeed what are we

But wards of the earth

 

You next to me

With a long slender cord

Our combined destiny

A hangman's reward

 

The familiar agony

Of a runic rebirth

Wrenching ecstasy

From the brevity of mirth

 

Drinking precious mead

Blood pouring forth

At a terrible speed

On a galloping horse

 

We rip at the seams

But how can that hurt

Children of a dream

Made of shadow and dirt

 

Written by © Dark Nerve

A note to participants in the forum

Hi Dark Nerve, Revolutionrabbit, Bogomil, and others,

I have been putting together an essay out of revised versions of my responses to comments on this forum. It is called "I Left at Dawn for the Eternal City; It Seems That I Have Misplaced Several Days."

Drop me a note on the RS contact system if you would like me to send you a copy.

The point, and the only

The point, and the only point of any value whatsoever, in our focusing our attentions through reading religious prophesies, and indigenous prophesies and any and every converging prophesy, is that, because the Prophets have spoken, and told us all in advance of certain inevitable events, when the time comes, we will know in ourselves, that either, we did everything conceivable to prevent those events becoming our own individual fault, or, we were the scavengers of human catastrophe baiting it into existence.

 

when end be nigh

We'll let out the sigh

But that was for real

And the best of all deals

The end that began with each feel

Into death being over and real