Simplicity and Soul

Name: Simplicity and Soul
Author: David Bussell

VOLUME IX: SIMPLICITY AND SOUL

CONTENTS:

The Anima and Animus in Dreams
The Revision of History
I Call Now To You, My Counterpart
Positive Projection in Relationship
The Sexual Fantasy; The Love (O/A)bject
The Power of the Inorganic
The Love of One’s Own Making
Romance as the Human Theatre of Desire Movement
The Triumph of the Spirit
Screens and the Proliferation of ‘Literal’ Consciousness Projection(s)
A Celebration of Venusian Beauty: The Body is a Reflection of Consciousness
Absolute Violence
How the Great Movements of History Are Accomplished
The Language of Possession
Daemonic Eros
The Stain of Monotheism
Modernity & Mass Despiritualization
The Movement of the Poet
van Gogh, Mayakovsky, and the Urgency of Creative Genius
Endless Peace
Sublime and Beautiful Feeling
The Wisdom of Hecate
The Deep Femininity of Existence
Notes on the Abyssal Nature of Man
The Indivisible Frequency of Art and Romance
The Redemptive Power of Art
I Triumph in the Physis; I Imagine it Done and it is Done
The Philosopher
Poetic Words and Art Come From the Spirit World, or Beyond
Language as Summons
Eros, Naked
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Living
A Death of the Symbolic As-In-Action
The State of Coercion and When Art Becomes Necessary
Notes on the Social Mechanism
Abeing
Notes on Love; the Last (Imagined) ‘Obligation’
Integrating the self into and as the Self; Being ‘Projectionless’
Camp and Drag as ‘Revelation’
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We need to recall the angel aspect of the word, recognizing words as independent carriers of soul between people… Words, like angels, are powers which have invisible powers over us. They are personal presences which have whole mythologies: genders, genealogies (etymologies concerning origins and creations), histories, and vogues; and their own guarding, blaspheming, creating, and annihilating effects. For words are persons. – James Hillman

For such a yogi his will is one with the energy of Lord Shiva, this entire perceived world is his own self. – Shiva Sutras

Revision literally changes the past. The revised scene then gives off its effect by going forth to change future events. – Neville Goddard

Unless we live our lives with at least some cosmological awareness, we risk collapsing into tiny worlds. For we can be fooled into thinking that or lives are passed in political entities, such as a state or a nation; or that the bottom-line concerns in life have to do with economic realities of consumer life-styles. In truth, we live in the midst of great immensities, and we are intrinsically woven into a great cosmic drama. – Brian Swimme

When we inquire into death, we only ask because we also inquire into ourselves. For death, or better, dying, is the final realisation and fulfillment of our self. And the angst and fear that we feel before death is nothing but the confession that we have not lived a life that was truly our own. – Jean Gebser

THE ANIMA AND ANIMUS IN DREAMS

The anima animus journey in dreaming is one which is reflecting the lived reality. For the dream itself is the mirror, the scrying lens of the spirit through which the being gazes and determines itself - the antiscion to the lived life - in which the one who is dreaming and the one who is living finds the indistinguishable essence of that which I am. Through this scrying lens, or black light, the being reaps the shadow, or counterpart, of the determined lived identity. This counterpart is configured as that which is not.

Again, the dreaming situation must be viewed metaphorically, as in that the lived life is a dream just as much as the dreaming life is a lived one; that it is only in the prioritization of 'the lived life' by the being that the lived life achieves a priori status in the conscious awareness of the living thing. However, it is as thus that the dreaming life also acquires the status of death; the masculine and the feminine appear as parted; the receptive and the penetrative appear as separated and separative. Here, we observe with the clarity of simplicity all of the difficulty in man's life - the difficulty of having observed an impossible difference which was never there to begin with but in the imaginary division of the mind.

For man observes the anima animus in dreams as himself in alterior clothing, radically differentiated; even consciousness individuated from himself - the part of himself which remains wild, native to the earth and even to awareness as that which composes the earth; again, the absolute oblivion or canal of divine womb from whence all things emerge. Too can the animus appear as such, the one with absolute power. The anima and animus in true form, stripped of the clothing of the real and figuration, exist as the last unto themselves - absolute consciousness as that which gives and takes away, which appears and vanishes, which intercourses with form and returns to spirit.

It is only in man's identification with the limited and separative social order of his time (and again, all time among men has proceeded like this) that consciousness achieves firm (imagined) separation from itself and comes into essential archetypal difference and differentiation - spirit and form, masculine and feminine, living and dead, conscious and unconscious. This could be conceived of as the original and originary wound of mankind; the very journey of spirit achieving incarnation and moving through incarnation to the always-coming disincarnation and revolution of form(s). Again, this process is replicated in the social worlds of man and in the physis which composes his natural world and the things which appear to him as 'real'; hence, his reality.

All men, of course, are masculine and feminine, mortal and god-like, living and dead, as they are spirit taking form. These separations are divised by man's conscious mind as apparitions, spectres, and holograms of space and time - of the visible and the calculable spheres of thought which does not achieve the metaphysical - or reunion with the very essence which composes it ad infinitum. For this reunion would be nothing more than a realization of eternal unity; the death of such concepts as being and time.

For it is this way that man eternally chases his opposite, his counterpart, the lost element of his consciousness which can only be described as that part of himself which he has willfully disowned only by illusion; that part of himself which he has tricked himself by images and stories into believing that he his not, that is away from him; his life proceeds as a chase, a journey, or a quest to return this part of his rightful, true, and whole essence to the incorporation of his essential beingness. This way, man goes under or above to return to the sun or retrieve his dark mind, or on long journeys in desert and winter cold to return to the kingdom of his spirit. He fasts, he agonizes, he writes; this is of course his work in the world; his gift which becomes

dharmic to his fellow man - his work of service - a service which elevates the consciousness of the whole evermore toward this reunion which is always already a realization of essential and foundational unity.

For it could be said that the entire history of mankind proceeds in psychological stages of individuation, knowledge, understanding, and reintegration of the psyche of man into the eternal wholeness of consciousness which is the whole of the cosmos, the universal One which is at once None; the Two which are man's consciousness reflected back into the ocean of the infinite. His dreams are like the ocean - vast and ever threatening to re-subsume his incarnate body and mind into the spirit which composes and decomposes all things - the true metaphysical nature which takes even the physis of this Earth when its time comes. Man's time always comes; eternally arrives for the first time in the metaphysis of his consciousness, the only arbiter of man's mortality and divinity as he can conceive of it and as he conceives of it alone. It is his conscious mind which draws the lines between him and the gods; it is the demigods throughout history and myth who remind and show us that these lines are always already imagined. Just as Hercules slays the Hydra of desires and illusions and the Nemean Lion of pride and ego, we too must face the playful works which our minds have sprung like founts from the wells of our collective and personal and familial livings and dreamings - works which quickly lose their playful nature to our hearts and eyes and become chains of structure and stony system.

Man's creative works evermore return to the dogma of stone, unlike the creative and decreative essence of the cosmos as decried by Heraclitus, an essence of fire which indistinguishes Being and Becoming as a play of flickering flame and energetic illusion. Man's mind seeks to make the idea of earth like him; his mind sculpts like clay and turns clay to stone in the kiln of his ensconced world - his hidden chambers of consciousness which he imagines as shielded

from the cosmic fire of the sun and the vast, dark waters of the moon - a chamber in which he plays at immortality by way of eternally defining (and thus defying) his true nature, a nature which always escapes his grasp.

In this chamber of play, man is at work in dreaming. The sheer artistry of mankind, throughout its history, is nothing short of monumental and absolutely forgotten but in the most literal manifestations of its creative 'icons', like Michelangelo or da Vinci. We must also see historical figures (both hated and abhorred) like Alexander and Hitler

as deeply creative figures. The very paradigmatic rule and influence of their visions has undeniably created the world (from conception; from dreaming) far beyond the works of paintings and poems; furthermore, concepts such as the national, the political, the communal, justice, freedom, and so forth. It is these concepts, believed and as such manifested differently by each individual artist (as each man is an artist in each movement and gesture in his own right) which has formed this painting called 'the world' which sits atop the raw flesh of man painted ever in the confused glory and worship of and to his self-image - the very limits and bounds of what he perceives and identifies as to be real, possible, admirable; great. Man's world is his god made manifest; thus we look upon his eternally leveled empires.

So, too, even the most perceived 'menial' figures of human history - soldiers of forgotten names, peasants, farmers, laborers, factory workers - these men are themselves the creative engine and fire of history - those who fight the wars, bake the bread, build the skyscrapers and pyramids - these men are themselves the flames in the engine of the ideal. It cannot be understated that the influence of the creative vision of the world at the ideological level is not possible without the thrust of the will (in equal measure) executed on the plane of the physical. For the two, as Marx spoke in the Grundrisse, are alike in love; alike in the sense that they are unified in an eternal discourse - that which gives seed to action evermore. The history of man is a play of smoke -

Hamlet's candle and Chekhov's samovar - all consciousness rising like a visionary spectre in the air; all becoming the brief wick of flesh from the seed of the earth; dissipating into the turning night sky.

THE REVISION OF HISTORY

One revises history when one realizes what has really happened; in this sense, one revises history when one realizes what is really happening. That history is a stage is to say that there are actors and portrayed objects and sceneries – projections of consciousness which take up the appearance of reality, certitude, material – but in fact unfold themselves to be atomic spiritudes in masks of wind, sand, and stone – all subject to the decay and corruption of form; all pregnant with the possibility of creation.

For today we see history as events that have taken place firmly within consciousness; this is to say as real, consequential; the barricades of the Jacobins and revolutionary turnovers of the political are viewed as firm occurrences – not as screens or theatres of the human psyche unfolding before our eyes. This is to say that the theatres of man – theatres which create space for ‘unreality’ within the real – are full of deeper and greater truth than the confusion of a materiality mistaken for absolute truth. It was like this with the Greeks, where theatre opened up the possibility for the great emotions of tragedy and comedy soldered together into the complex entity of feeling portrayed as human as artful – also with the great works of Shakespeare. For it takes a great playwright to write the true reality of consciousness as masks and costumes unfolding so expertly and urgently that it is mistaken as utterly singular. Perhaps it is because we ourselves take the perception of our lives with this very seriousness and fixedness – as a perspective and lens through which we in turn view all things.

Our emotions hold great sway; once they have fixed upon an object or emerged from the canal of our perception, they move us to mythical anger like Achilles, mourning like Ceres, adventurousness like Icarus. These forces flowing like lifeblood water through men have summoned world wars, desperate loves, and great works of art too numerous to

name. It is the flow of these emotions themselves as energy, or that which we are as unstable creation to and from Chaos, which bring us in and out of the projection of the material, or the world conception. For it is this emotional body which takes the natural world to be pregnant with meaning, to observe a lover, to create purpose, meaning, and gods from the emergence and disapparation of physis; all things. It is this process itself which man is and is from and observes with his senses – and it is this river through which man flows as a vessel of feeling – experiencing the scales of emotion and explorative will.

This is to say – that man’s lived life and the events which he perceives as his history are not ‘real’ but as projections of consciousness from consciousness into consciousness as impressions of action. Too, man’s creative arts – text, images, and sounds – are impressive works – etching themselves into skin, sky, and earth. His relationships, as well, are works of mutual writing; impression by way of a shared friction – a friction which produces understanding of ourselves in a new fashion. Each man takes his unique shape and encounters, by way of the physical, another manifestation of godliness.

This play of Consciousness as undifferentiated is cosmic theatre – or the play of one and two within none – one and two as projections of Consciousness from itself as itself playing parts which suppose itself to be in a state of separation, not of unity. This could be called delusion just as much as it could be called art, or a creative process of relationship through which something of Consciousness could be further evisced, discovered, or grown. For this is the one principle of the universal – explosive expansion by way of internal friction – an explosion which is also always already an implosion – a paradox of occurrence within which simultaneously becomes without. One need only to observe the powerful emotions which brought about the Trojan War, or World War II, or countless electoral cycles and power struggles throughout history in the realm of the political to reckon with this paradox in and as mankind. For

so long, man has mistaken his events for anything other than psychic wars and struggles within himself made manifest in the external world. To take this factor into account, man would have to not only take responsibility for his actions as manifestations of his inner world and state of being (unity and separation), but to also take into account his absolute and sole responsibility (as consciousness of Consciousness) for the entirety of human conflict and creation. Each man is equal parts Michelangelo and Mussolini; Iago and Shakespeare. For in which cosmos do they exist? For which cosmos composes them?

Then, our relationships and the events that compose our lives exist only to alert us to our psychic conditions – both as a collective consciousness at the level of global events and as individual consciousnesses at the level of personal intimacies. Do our global events themselves not become composed of casual violences and cataclysmic intimacies – orgasms, run-ins, strange meetings, outbursts of anger and realizations in the quiet of our bedrooms? This, itself, an ecosystem of consciousness through which all things flow and run the course of their embodiment on timelines known only to consciousness – that which we are and yet cannot fully become – as it calls us to change our face and shape and sound in each immanence, as letters and syllables spoken by the cosmic mouth of being.

To reckon with this paradox and metaphysical procession of process-as-de-creation is to be stripped of the philosophical and political contexts of man across space and time; furthermore, to be stripped of humanity to reveal the divinity laying dormant in the concept of mankind; the world, the physical. It is to be exposed to the cosmic energy, the spiritual process, which is the river that runs through the stars and the deepest channels of the physical being – the spirit which animates and calls to action the will of man by way of an impregnation of the physis with lifeblood water. It is as such that we can tell a tale of all of history – in a mere smattering of lines.

I CALL NOW TO YOU, MY COUNTERPART

Therefore the spirit of the depths forced me to speak to my soul, to call upon her as a living and self-existing being.

Carl Jung

I call now to you, my counterpart, to join me in the physis. It has been enough of this – willful blindness and imagined conjurings, deceptions and false attachments, nights of foolish speculation; wandering and beggarly attempts at conjuring love with these countless strangers, all with their backs turned to me. They could not see me like you do; like you always have, like you always will. For love is that eternal thing that is always arriving like an embrace into us. It is like I have dreamed up my former lovers with my illusions as to how love could unfold; with shallow images which hold no water. All incompletions, all disunions and disjunctures. It has all emerged from my heart and imagination – all of these relations which unfolded like ripping seams and fabric, a canvas, all of these previous attempts at a true union, at a home in the physical world. All stories of myself existence collapsed into a heap of exhausted actors. It has all emerged from a journey into the heart and soul of myself – a journey still, to this day, which draws our unity ever closer by way of a communion of consciousness. A journey which has left ruins of shattered lovers like the ruins of empires; I bury and forget them in my memory and they ever so often rise like spectres into the fore of my consciousness or vision. But now, they are reckoned with an buried evermore. For we draw ourselves to one another on our journey into the heart. We call out to one another in a language and at a pitch which only we can understand, in all of its multiplicity and shining. It is this love and connection that is true – a communique absolutely understood on all strata of being and meaning. It is interdimensional. It is a language of untranslatable intimacy. It is sacred and unwritable. It is this love which unifies all things and redeems creation. It is this love that is ours.

You, my true partner, with whom I share each of the planes of existence – the spiritual, the intellectual, the physical, and the emotional. You hear my birdsong with your heart and I yours with my own. It is refracted back into me like light which splits the waters of my soul and sounds them from my hands and lips. I feel you near in moments of ecstasy and vision which cuts through the fog of the world. No more of this angry mistaking and eventual breaking ties in irreconcilable difference and separation – no more of this glass shard loving. That period of my life is dead and buried. Those ugly last conversations which reveal to me the essence of my mistaking of them with you, my counterpart. Those last conversations which show me how invisible I am to them; how truly unseen they are to me. In those last conversations all is revealed at last. Those last conversations are dead and buried. I speak these words as consciousness into consciousness, into absolute being.

I take responsibility for previously attempting to content myself with these incompletions and with imagined love projected onto those who are not you, my counterpart; projected onto purely physical connection, purely mental connection. I take responsibility for previously attempting to convince myself of one dimensional satisfaction. This is no longer enough for me; it has never been enough. In taking responsibility for my actions I close them at last, never to return or be repeated in different clothing. It will only be enough to relate in each of the four realms – it will only be enough to relate with you, my counterpart. I shall never return to that place: the place of these deeply dissatisfying relationships with others – the place of selfishness, envy, competition, jealousy, and desire. I pass through that place unscathed, armed with the clarity of my vision.

I look to myself and see that which I call out for; that which I summon with my breath and this life that has unfolded over the span of many years. I look to myself and see the conviction, the desire to be understood – to such a degree that I let desperation for unity with you on the plane of the physical sway me toward the convenience of mistaking;

mistaking if not to throw myself into illusion to make the days without you feel less alone. I forgive myself for these actions; in my forgiveness, I allow myself to move on. These relationships, I see now, were all necessary on this journey to where I stand today – where I stand – calling out to you, my counterpart; calling out to you in high song, the high song which I witness as I sing and heal evermore with my awareness and acceptance of these things which have passed through the canal of my life – ever freeflowing and open to your spirit passing through into the vessel of my being. I will no longer look back and attempt to create love where there is none. I will come into you, just as you are arriving here, into me – facing front.

POSITIVE PROJECTION IN RELATIONSHIP

Much has already been said of the phenomenon of negative projection in relationship; we can also speak of projection in a global synthesis (of self/world, a collectivization of the self/other hypothesis manifest in ‘I’ and that which is ‘not I’) – but there has been very little said on the phenomenon of positive projection; rather, the projection of agape love into relationship with other(s) and world.

It is precisely that this phenomenon is so rare that there is so little that has been said regarding it; agape love is then the absolute consumptive and consuming love which unifies all things in their diversity – and yet elevates them to that which they are – arms and legs of the cosmic being; loved and witnessed at the level of their divinity manifest in the physical-body. Positive projection is then, in relationship, the outlook that is agape love as a state of being/seeing/perceiving – projected into every relationship and communication – every meeting of the inner and outer worlds. Positive projection is of course that work the artist does as his hand meets the canvas or the instrument, just as it is the work the artist does in his love relationships. He elevates each relationship, each movement, each gesture, no matter how banal, to the level of agape love; total synthesis with the universal whole – and as such, each gesture and relationship comes to embody immeasurable power far above the personal/impersonal and into the divine, and cosmic.

Such a way of being and seeing is of course juxtaposed to negative projection in the sense that one’s own life narrative is exhausted and in relationship the personal-love narrative is exhausted to reveal that love beyond which one perceives to be; a love that is in fact faith-based, religious, and wants nothing other than love – that is to say, wants nothing. How to navigate this kind of agape love in personal relationship is of the essence; it is the question of becoming human – of balancing the godliness and the everyday that composes us –

being of both the physical and the metaphysical; negotiating the spiritual and material planes in our everyday lives. Love is where the two collide; create new conceptions of our beingnesses.

Here, the importance of philosophy stands as tall as it did thousands of years ago – the wisdom that bestows upon us the ability to love and be love (not simply to be in it, as the saying goes, but: being love). It is this positive projection of the agape lover – the artist who brings the kingdom of god to the everyday – which is the light or lamp shining bright amongst the shadow of Narcissus in modern society – the predominant mode of social manifestations of what we today call ‘love’: a ‘love’ which is rather a mutually agreed upon possession, a bordered exaltation. It is the cultural conception of lovers as the two who share and exalt in each others’ bodies and presence which is, today, called ‘love’.

The loss of agape love is also the loss of the multiplicity of loving; the relegation of love to the sphere of the personal and the individual; the bound between the lovers and the exiles – the citizens and the refugees, the family and the disowned, the bastard. This agape love then is that which allows for love relationships to occur without end, without limit; of course, without border – love relationships which do not require a strict delimitation or set of rules which categorizes them or calls them that which, surely, ‘they are’. Such a set of rules would be to make love human. Truly, the conception of personal, romantic love in the modern world goes hand in hand with the set of social laws and regulations (both written and unwritten) which consign humanity to a scope of acceptable behaviors and codified everydays. Here, Mayakovsky’s ‘Byt’ stands as a reminder and a stone wall or gate (perhaps Janus’ gates or the Gates of Hell serve here too as adequate metaphors) of a flattening of life into a dimensional boundary or limit – a flattening of life which is always already a flattening of love. This very flattening too runs in the cultural sphere: a fear of the grotesque, the ugly; that which makes one recoil or drop the veil of the illusion of beautiful art, or ‘good’ art.

The agape love then is the acceptance of all things and the deification of all things; it is thus that the everyday achieves godliness; that each moment is blessed without exclusion. All things are included and all movements are seen as a part of life; the good and evil are abolished equally as moral codes which pretend to tip the scales of life into Justice, Righteousness, and Redemption; the scales of life are broken and the world achieves the weightlessness of that which it is – a conceptual reality. All agency and power are returned to the cosmic self – in the last absolution which is the loss of the other, the loss of the world as a conceptualized shadow or dark, unknown aspect of the self conjecture. The agape love shines a transcendent light which recognizes the true nature out from behind the veil of the human – the energetic river; the currents of light which give the brief appearance of form amidst the ocean of spiritudes.

It is then that the advice to the poet is easily given and received: include everything – including the grotesque, the failings, the bad gestures and ill advised references. Include everything – the entire spectrum of emotional struggle and bliss. As we include all aspects of ourselves, we bless them beyond measure and accept them as movements of our lives – movements which come and go – movements which make us wholly; beautifully human.

THE SEXUAL FANTASY; THE LOVE (O/A)BJECT

The sexual fantasy functions as a mediating image between the everyday and the libidinal essence, or the ecstatic. Just as the god image or the aesthetic ideal functions in dictating the everyday as and to itself a religion (a practice or a ritual in the face of the metaphysical ideal, boundary, or limit manifest in and as the face of god writ on the materiality) – so too does the sexual fantasy function, albeit at a higher level, a level which has a wider orbit (if Saturn is the god image, the judgement :: Uranus is the sexual fantasy, the ecstatic) and a stronger compelling force. The sexual fantasy functions to prove consciousness that there is yet further playful humanity to be gained in the physical world – further humanity which stands, at free play, in opposition to the god image - in physical bondage.

The god image and the sexual fantasy are absolutely in conjunctio (and thus neither exist but as and at on(c)e); yet, the god image today (as envisioned in and as the collective) is that which jails, imprisons, or disbars the sexual fantasy from out beyond the walls of the city of everyday life, relegated to the solitudes of the bedroom; muted speech. The god image, today, stands as law; not as example of the wild feeling which humans are capable, being of the gods themselves. This development can be traced historically from the god images of old which played the scales of human feeling – to the god image (singular) of recent times which stands as an example of ‘proper’ human behavior. The sexual fantasy holds a compelling power which supercedes the drive to godliness and salvation as socially agreed upon and collective imaginative constructs – the sexual fantasy is a imagined vase of the powerful, libidinal energy which is identified with ‘the criminal’ in the realm of the social. It is the work of individual creativity to be manifest as the expression of one’s explorative desire(s).

This is the juncture man faces as both an animal and a ‘human’ in his civilization today – the juncture at which he

must discern a path forward into a truer, more intimate life: a life which calls out to him sensually; a whole life to be embodied which necessarily shatters the social and political taboo of his time – and all time – where sex holds a useful or moral ground in the structure of everyday life as a religious ritual, rite; collective living structure. The arbitration of man’s sensual nature by what is called ‘rationality’ and ‘logic’ is the dictatorship of Apollo and the enslavement of Dionysus. All of the sexual energy, then, in this system of life-making as an implicit and explicit social contract (both writ in the stone of the law and in unspoken accord) – is channeled into rote and predictable pathways; judged, relegated, and decreed from on high into the categorically good and possible, as well as the bad and thus ‘impossible’. It may be said that the entire system of human law is devoted to the moralization and channeling-as-control of human sexuality – which at base is libidinal energy, expressive action; gesture and movement.

Here plays the role of the sexual fantasy: the image of that which might be otherwise in a free play environment of and for the libido – a sexual environment where urges and desires (often intertwined with power as play) might be explored, again, as play. This power-as-play as sexuality stands in strong juxtaposition to the political realm of fiercely arbited borders and gates and pathways between nations and individuals – a political game (too, a play, a theatre, or a stage of control) long forgotten as being what it is: absolutely theatrical, ‘human’ nonsense. The free play of sexuality, in the sphere of the human, is the physical extent of playing: sensual embodiment and enjoyment intertwined with the manifest desiring body from the spiritual idea and ideal of exploration of the physis into which man comes incarnate. The sexual fantasy, then, is not strictly erotic in the sense of the conventional orgasm or the literal fetish – but as Erot-ic; capable of bringing about, or manifesting, the orgasmic experience as the ecstatic coupling of the spirit with the physis. This is certainly a liberation of everyday life: being into truly living.

This path, the path of free sexual play as embodied sensuality, or being attuned with the interplay of the masculine and feminine, the penetrative and receptive, as it creates and de-creates all life is to be in tune with the erotic principle of creation and destruction; to view the universe- theatre as theatrical – demoralized, devalued, and without essential meaning or hierarchical reason and power. This is not only to be in tune with ‘nature’ as the forces of life on earth (the gods of old) – but rather to be in tune with the cosmic and metaphysical principles which govern all life and death indistinguishably in a rule of fire. This would be to raze the political structure (which too organizes the spiritual and the sexual in its existence as that which calls the everday) and fail to institute another one beyond the worship of the libidinal; the creative essence and erotic lifeblood fluid which rules the arts and orgasmic ecstasies. This would be to go beyond ‘the human’ and enter into a discourse of energy and energetic relationship. This movement would, of course, be the death of any organizing force or influence beyond the chaos of love and feeling. The sexual fantasy would cease to exist; as would the god image – the gods come down to earth and the sexual fantasy become the living reality. In another time, it might be known as a rulership of the moon, or of being led by the feeling, the intuition, the inner sense – or Wisdom. Such a social and political revolution would be absolute in the death of screens and images: mediating factors which must exist in a society which separates the spirit from the body; such a society must institute images in order to depict life. For, in such a society, life is not being lived. It is being dictated.

THE POWER OF THE INORGANIC

This is an idea that will unfold in the active participating within it; this is precisely the power of the inorganic enmeshed ineffably and perpetually within and into the sphere of the organic – the being enwoven into the real, the natural, that which is perceived as already-having-been since before the institution of time.

The power of the inorganic then, specifically in relation to consciousness, is the proving ground in and through which consciousness tests its mettle, or does a simulated battle or confliction or friction, with that which stands between it and the raw reality, the flesh, that which it perceives as being the ‘real’ lived life. It is this perception of mediation vis-à-vis the inorganic – like a house of worship or a screen – that allows for the consciousness to come into relationship with reality by way of the appearance of an unreality.

There have been many such simulations that create this work; all of them function by introducing reality as being in half: as being at once organic and inorganic; that the inorganic provides a measure of safety, surety, balance, distance, and separation from the chaos which is the organic, the natural, the libidinal, the animal nature. Then, the being-human is always coming into the being animal – which is the direct relationship to nature (that which is ‘metal’, or ‘impossibly chrome’ in its perceived violence, a perceived violence which is again deeply held in the human subconscious, just as the natural is also, consequently and paradoxically, held to be the mother). This complexity is the construction of the human experience by the human in relationship to being apart from Being.

Then, coming into Being is the foreplay of the two elemental realities man experiences as himself: the organic and the inorganic. Man, as the consummate artist, like a beaver or a lightning bolt, constructs inorganic conditions from the extremity of feeling and the burning necessity of

his continuance and rhythmic growth, or progression, of his song which constitutes – at once and at one point: a break with the organic, or that natural ‘thing’ – into and through the realms of the spirit and the soul – the unidentifiable, the disapparant; the constitution which constitutes all things and holds man upright and uncertain of his true path through the wild of his physis – both within and about him. His sword, or cleaving instrument through the undergrowth – is his discernment: the tool with which wisdom, or his natural mother, calls to him and through him in order to fashion man, himself, the most unnatural instrument.

As man’s consciousness is still young, the necessary division remains: he views certain aspects of himself and his world to be composed of utterly separate parts: the reality of the natural world and the unreality of the inorganic world – while the metal and twisting spires of mankind have long since enmeshed themselves with the natural world of living and breathing; they themselves have, too, taken up residence in the realm of the physis. This organic nature which was once (in man’s psyche; yet remains, everdark a looming shadow) his violent opposite – has been absolutely integrated, vis-à-vis the inorganic (man’s creative power which has bloomed metal flowers) into his living, breathing, and perceiving condition as that which has been utterly revealed to him (by way of the con-sequence-s of his actions), as being that which is also absolutely himself.

It is by way of the inorganic which is man’s industrial revolution; the attempt at establishing ‘human law’, that man has come to know the true law, or the law of the meta- physis, which governs his world. It is the blindness of trial and error from the infantile psyche in relation to the meta- physis (or the universal rule) which governs him absolutely – which is in relation when we speak of the attempt to establish government and human bonds and bounds (‘Thou shalt not kill’, and so forth). It can be seen, as in relation to my earlier Winnicott essay regarding the development of the collective consciousness as one that is coming into itself, that such a split or clearly defined boundary which is also a

mirror (the being-in-relationship) must be constituted in order to absolve, or resolve the mirror. Thus from none proceeds one (Absolute creation), who constructs two (procreation), who are absolved into one (integration); returning to none (disintegration).

For we will see in the construction of the prior formula that the Absolute creation, or the turn from none to one – is that which itself is highly unnatural, highly unstable; furthermore, the primary principle of coming into existence which is as utter Chaos. Such a creation has no physical basis; rather, it emerges, unfolds, bursts, or explodes in a movement which comes to constitute the very physical plane or dimension itself. We come to know such creation in the flesh as artists: those who create one from none; the burst or burning of inspiration or hitherto unseen truths which fly onto the page, canvas; into song.

As itself, the human being is a mediating vessel of consciousness to Consciousness; thus, is that which goes between the organic and the inorganic; the good and evil; the one that rides on and in and reflected in as below the river of life (a fata morgana) in order to experience, as consciousness, the rhythms of consciousness that construct and absolve all things: this as the principles of god engaged consciousness as consciousness. So comes the human being, the artist, the lover, the heiros gamos; the ecstasy of utter spiritude – the return of man to the grounds; the very seed of his Being and Essence. Man puts on the garments of the flesh in order to strip them from himself, even as he is being stripped of them by his absolute and promised return. The consciousness is that which witnesses the disintegration of man back into the fold of consciousness itself.

THE LOVE OF ONE’S OWN MAKING

‘A culture is a totality of imaginative power’ – William Blake

God is being without any limit whatsoever. The human being is God. What does this mean for the institutions of man’s conception of himself as a body, a limited force, an enfleshed thing, an individual among individuals?

Here, I invoke William Blake’s speech: ‘a culture is a totality of imaginative power’. The entirety of man’s culture and subcultures are to him, himself, reflected back at him to expose the severances he has imposed superficially upon his own being – being between ‘himself’ and God. Here, we can only take God to be Being without any limit whatsoever, again, perhaps only approached viscerally in the image of Vishvarupa; in all images only partially present in that God also inhabits the invisionable – or the vision of the coming age, the next epoch, the dream that is being birthed in the canal of becoming.

What it is the responsibility of man to do is to turn away from the limits and supposed truths of his time and to construct – with the thrust and expansion and contraction of his creative vision (in each breath, the new word) – a greater culture, a higher culture which is itself in tune and attunement with the higher being, the being which is the everchanging words of Wisdom which he is impregnated with as a creative being from Creation. In this sense, it is the highest imperative and the greatest work of man to imagine more; more in this sense being an abundance of possibilities, paths, truths; ways of being; in this multitude come into being in a Vishvarupic sense: being as a multitude; being as at on(c)e.

Thus, man in and of all time is not of time. He must unlearn the locations which are supposedly him – his age and his map; to draw his own map of the psyche which incorporates the wholeness which he is at all moments and in all places –

his god-self drawn with crazed strokes that depict all scales of feeling and emotional states available to him: to allow himself to swing upon the pendulum which before once threatened to cleave him in two – the pendulum of universal force which avails to man the deep and wide spectrum which is also a well in the sky of possible sensation and feeling. It is to man and man alone not to back away in fear of this possible sensation which may pass through him (he, who perceives himself as a visceral body) – as this very sensational extremity will reveal to him that which he truly is: the consciousness which observes the body – he who is the living thing which is living all at on(c)e; in multitudes.

It is only fear of revelation (as in revelry) that keeps man from the truth of his state; the true condition of his matter and matterlessness in coalescence; the artificial separation which he calls to himself in order to experience being, alone; apart from Being – an experience which to and for him is formative. For he must experience the fear of revelation in order to understand revelation as yet another side, aspect, or dimensional form in and at which being may take – another guise or costume which consciousness faces in order to see itself ever more clearly.

For there are great works of art which capture the state of fear and the heights of desperation – of the grasping at the sun before the fall into dejection and the shadow valleys and dark waters and swamps of self exploration as being shorn away from the collective movement. For the collective consciousness moves with the slowness of a caravan; the man who has gone on his own to explore madness and sense moves like a thief in the night; he steals away with the quickness – to find his true nature. It is the men who do this work that experience the beast and the god of themselves at once; in this one life – as the reality of man as being between an ever shimmering multitude of himselves as possible pathways of existing and existence(s).

Man unto himself is a hologram; a convergence of light which at this moment appears to be here, but is in fact at all

places at all times as a manner and matter of light: perceived as to be composed and yet at root wildly immaterial – in that he moves with incredible speed unbeknownst to his waking awareness and the daily occurrences of his thought – in that he moves with incredible speed toward reunion of light with light, of himself with himself.

ROMANCE AS THE HUMAN THEATRE OF DESIRE MOVEMENT

Romance as play: performed with deadly seriousness – a simulation of the inner divine union (a metaphysical unity) of the masculine and the feminine.

The human being as a creative vessel and activator, or engine, of energy movement. With Carl Jung, ‘there is no change from darkness to light or from inertia to movement without emotions’; here, romance as an expansion of the tragic and comedic in the outward projection of the desire toward oneself, self knowledge and understanding – vis a vis the romantic relationship. For here, one seeks to locate the counterpart as being within the world, rather than as already being within oneself. The romantic is, in this sense, a survey of the material; a way of creating a bridge between the within and without states; a negotiation of the material and spiritual vis a vis a channel, or a medium – the other.

Such tarot readers, astrologers, psychics, and professed channels function in this way – as all men do – receiving spiritual (immater) information and converting said information to the plane of the materialized, the ‘real’; the expressed. The romantic relationship, then, as a drive or movement into life, functions as a theatre (like government or religion – yet more immediate and ‘actualized’ in concrete, material relationship to the other – whereas government and religion are mediations of ideals and concepts) of relationship, where desire moves between projected images of the other. As relationship commences, the tension between the image of the other and the other as they are (as also self) moves; thus creating a countermovement of and within desire as circulation of energy.

Such a movement could be represented by the energy of the 8, upright, or the infinity symbol, ∞, horizontal. This turning symbol moves and already exists in all directions as

desire exerted and inserted, as the atomic symbol itself. For all energy circulates here, within existence as an emergence or submergence which does not leave the universal condition of the imagined boundary or dichotomy of light or dark, man or woman; the dualisms of man. Here, too, the circulation of the blood throughout the body, the conversion of air in earth-ecosystems, and the movement of the life- essence up into spirit and down into the primordial well waters of soul. It is, thusly, cosmic breath.

The romance is the representation of this interpenetration, this coming together and pulling apart manifest in two figurations of Consciousness, or containers of consciousness convinced of themselves as separate entities come together in the act of intercoursing, or moving through, between, and across one another – a helixing of relationship and coming apart. This is the sacred nature of the romantic relationship as intercourse – not sacred in a moral sense, but sacred in the sense that it is occurring everywhere at all times; that it is the way in which the human being relates, too, to itself and all things in order to be in accord with the universal law – to be in accord with life – life which, deconceptualized, also includes death, separation; being apart. For too, this is the human condition – the illusion of separation; the ecstasy of unity and reunion ad infinitum.

The romance then moves like the cityscape or electricity or machine – a representation of that which is innately a part of the human-beingness, technologized; reflected and reflective of the human knowledge of itself as an in an indelible part of the larger (and yet also itself) metaphysis which it participates in by means of its own incarnate technologies (the flesh, the mind) in each moment of its life- composition. The interest in romance, in whatever form it takes (love, fascination, obsession – with another human or a subject or a conceptual reality) is absolutely essential to the life of the human – as it is that which moves the human into being-itself by way of the power of emotion, passion, desire – that which drives the human being-itself into the process of becoming more of that which it is: the particular

participant in the universal movement into creative life – a creative life which also necessarily becomes death. The romance then seeks to synthesize the part (the subject- consciousness) with the counterpart (the otherized- consciousness) – to form a unified front of consciousness in a conceit like the loss of ego-self in full absorption with the ‘other’ (or world-shadow): in such a manner as to simulate the death of the ego into the fold of the Cosmic Self through which one becomes that which one is – the zero and the one and the two (three at one) – the Consciousness wholly. This simulation, again, is that very selfsame simulation occurrent in the religious movement or the governmental movement: a move to synthesize the synthetically separated parts (separated by illusionary separation alone) into the constituent whole which they truly are; fundamentally, Consciousness which it truly is. The trick of the matter; that which mankind is still learning of itself, is that the perceived separation of the two (or the many) is a theatre of experience which allows for, and creates the conceptual (or psychic) space for the individual-ized-ing consciousness to experience a theatrical unity with that part of itself which it still disowns or fails to accept by way of a denial of the world-shadow – itself as that which has been placed into imagined (learned, taught, accepted, repressed, denied, refused, cast out) exile from the whole. Thus, in the play of consciousness, it appears as so; thus it is as so to the consciousness in the imag(in)ed severance from Consciousness proper, the whole.

The romance, then, is a school of experience where the self learns the most about itself via the creation of a space of intimacy and exchange (of fluids, emotions, feelings, transacted through the body and psyche and entwined beings of the two) which is as a communion of the spiritual beings as well as the physical beings – an intercourse as a transaction of information which cannot be qualified nor quantified but felt and experienced as an intensity, a passion without firm language. It is thus one of the synthetic agoras where the psychic growth of the individual is most ripe, fertile, creative; possible.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE SPIRIT

I am interested, now, in a triumph of spirit manifest in the physical – which is to say, an alteration of the physical by way of the spiritual will – or the will which is unto itself; the will which is presented to and through being in order to fulfill a certain missive which is a transformation or a transfiguration through that which does not yet ‘exist’ into and unto existence. This process, then, is the process of Absolute Creation – or the creation of a condition or a figure or a movement through an energetic transformation of that which was not yet into that which is and sustains itself freely as that which is yet to come differently – with an absolute freedom which is only possible in and at the state of play.

This state of play which I reference is the being without rules, or the being which only abides the lilting of the spirit, or only abides ecstasy as its organizing principle: one that does not submit to anything but the sensational state through and at which it experiences its fulfillment; again, this is a state explicitly of the being at unity with itself in its fulfillment of its higher purpose – thus generating fulfillment ad infinitum. This is the free energy of which all human beings are capable of as energetic vessels; mechanisms set with inner desires and drives toward life and living themselves out; this is to say, living themselves into existence; living themselves into expressed being; thus impressing themselves upon the cosmos as a true face of the Beingness itself.

This triumph of the spirit goes against all that is in the summoning of that which is not yet; discharging the desire or the fantasy of the individual incarnate being into and through the physical world and thus forever altering the terms and conditions of life which is and are called ‘that which is’. The triumph of the spirit, furthermore, is a triumph of that which is, which is to say the free interplay of

cosmic energy within and about the physical – altering the physical from a metaphysical vantage point – a vantage point which observes the physical as infinitely malleable, changeable, and changing. From this vantage point, there is nothing in the world or self concept(s) that cannot be revolutionized by a way of seeing or perceiving the self and world as ideas and ideals generated and projected from the Cosmic Being – the Self which has a thousand faces, or selves, shown and thrown on its creative screen.

Music is a way into this change of matter; a coalision of the spiritual and material planes in and through the creation and modification of a vibratory signature manifest in and through and with the body – a singing instrument – which, in the case of a music of the heart, is conformless; cannot be defined, categorized, mediated, or made into a ‘thing’. It is this kind of music, here called poetry, which Benjamin describes as ‘… tool. The instrumental character represents a use value that does not readily enter the exchange value’. This is to say: that the poetic music of the heart-soul centered self is of higher use; that it resides primarily on the plane of the metaphysical and encounters the physical- material plane as an apperception. It is the music of the soul that emerges out into the world; in this emergence, in fact constructs the physis from the gelatinous mutability of the flesh; the stone which becomes the artist’s sculpture; the earth which becomes molded into empire.

Then, a triumph of the spirit is simply this: the spiritual will made manifest itself by itself on the plane of the physical; in this made-manifestation becomes, utterly and continually and irrevocably, itself and makes the world in and as itselfma(n)king. This triumph is one of utter lawlessness unto the physical (a defiance of all history, time, meaning, language, truth); a total obeyance of the one metaphysical law: that of the fiery, absolute changenessing which composes all things; that change through which the lovers are bound – the coming together and going apart of the interpenetrative, intercoursing polarity projections of one and two, of being and becoming, of the penetrative and the

receptive. This is what we might call true freedom – or the dignified essence of the universe: that all things at all moments are in infinite pathways of changingness; that the human being vessel does have a say in this process by way of being imbued in and with spiritude – that substance which tells him his way; which whispers in his ear the wisdom of his life and calls him to the innermost truths of his soul essence – the essence which he shares with the most distant stone-face and beating heart. The essence of which he is everywhere at all times.

For if man is a lick of this cosmic flame he is all of the flame indistinguishably; the flame burns in the furnace of love; that very free energy which man may charge himself with – that latent energy which is activated in the understanding and realization that he and all things is composed entirely of it; furthermore, that it is all that exists and ceases to exist; thus, that it is all that is and is not – that it is even the flame that produces illusions unto Being – illusions, screens, images, and figures which are in fact equally and always Being, itself, in infinite, wondrous disguise.

For the spirit to triumph in a man’s life, and in all life – all he must do is to realize that the spirit is in perpetual triumph; that it is in spirit’s very nature to be the first and last, enveloping the physis in a perennial womb of its own making – the very spirit which is like a lake of dreams and man’s world is but an isle of imagined rock to which he clings in the fog and midst of it.. For when man relinquishes the illusion of himself and his world, he is gifted with the salt ocean of his true and absolute Self – a self from which he creates as is his deepest pleasure; a self which lifts him up to the cosmic heights of his true and everchanging form, always and forever. Thus, an enlightened man to his own nature; the nature of all things, does his work in the world; the work of his life. This is the triumph of the spirit.

SCREENS AND THE PROLIFERATION OF ‘LITERAL’ CONSCIOUSNESS PROJECTION(S)

From two thousand years of god-image projections (depicted in countless paintings and sacred texts); the simultaneous war of image defilement and refusal of images to depict god; thousands of years of man’s divine being-as- ‘image’ reflected formally in and through the night sky, the cosmos (and the cave pictures and mythologies which draw us in and through the stars) – from these thousands of years there is a new paradigm borne of man’s consciousness reflected back into and through him: a truer scrying glass, or the mirror of the screen.

Man’s instinct to draw himself into existence cannot be refuted; as charnel houses of books, paintings, sculptures, myths, art-works – and various forms of relationship (between ‘people’ and as between ‘imaged/imagined’ things). This is the very simple and clear story of man, depicted at a collective level as a process of coming evermore into meaning; becoming into firm being (or being as ‘the individual’) by way of reflections and refractions of the self in a dialogue between the inward and outward; the visible and the invisible. Shakespeare’s Hamlet, for example, relates this doubling quite well – the depiction of a relationship which draws each of the figures into a deeper; ever more perilous relation to their own consciousness(es); one which makes the grip on life and existence fraught – a relationship which ultimately dissolves both of the imagined figures into the draught of pure spirit; one which indelibly influences the entirety of the social structure around and about the lovers. (The story of Hamlet is an archetypal depiction of the lovers as a solute and solvent to the world.)

The screen in modern times is a private immediacy of the cosmic; an accessibility and ease-of-use to move and emodulate the consciousness of the individual into realation with ‘the world’ – or that which is occurring both as, within, and without the individual – the world which is always,

ultimately, a reflection of the self – that which is both and at once the one and the many, or, formerly and formally, ‘god’. The intimacy of the other as hydra – or that which composes so much and so many and so broadly that man alone stands in awe of the infinite composition which is himself – has not been so intimate before. He wonders how to ‘slay’ it, or incorporate that image of the impossible multiplicity into the core narration of ‘himself’. It remains that man holds the cosmos in his hands; (of course) in and as his body as vessel of consciousness made by and for itself – but when he holds the technological device which gives him access to the near-entirety of human innovation, discovery, research, and experience – he holds a tool of practically unimaginable power just several hundred years prior; a tool which describes the entirety of his previous relation to consciousness in its mechanism. This tool reflects back to him the truth of his nature in its glass: that he can access the entirety of the human experience in any given moment; that the library of god is forever within him, as himself.

The use of the screen as a projection device draws man into closer relation with the system-ic process of his prior relation to ‘god’ and cosmos, a relation which was at first, in his ‘younger age’ of consciousness, imbued with a mysticism of misunderstanding as separation. This is not to say that the nature of consciousness is itself demystified (as eternal change is certainly insolvable), but rather, that the cycle or circuit in and through which man’s consciousness has conducted his relationship with the unknown or the massive, superstructural nature of his becoming (his metaphysis) is becoming ever-clearer with his technological abilities and advances which draw out and through his innate energetic features into the animated world of existences. This is to say, man expresses his true nature with ever more dexterous hands; impresses his nature upon that which he is – in a masterful union and understanding of the interrelation and interwovenness of the two functions: the penetrative and the receptive. There, his projection collapses to reveal the absolute reality as a process, a movement without separation, image, or disjunction.

Like electricity or the handheld computer, man’s body has corresponding nervous systems and a native intelligence – an intelligence which becomes easily observed in the physical world as a product of his feats of conjuring himself in the space of the natural world, a world ever becoming unnatural by way of man’s creativity (here, the term ‘unnatural’ does not have necessarily positive or negative connotations); it is the work of consciousness through the vessel of the body which produces clearer and clearer reflections of itself to itself, through itself, as itself – a working over time which can only ever be described as an inherently positive growth of being in relationship to and with itself as consciousness. It cannot be denied that despite the various and myriad shortcomings of man in his brief existence as a ‘thing’, or vessel of spirit on this earth – that his technological revolutions draw a portrait of himself (however violent, yet true) upon the canvas of the earth, like his ancestors once did in their reflection of the stars back upon the walls of a cavern – or upon a canvas or in shared song. It is this portrait which he must step through to recognize himself as the very spirit, or network, which runs through the many bodies (the physical, the mental, the electrical, the city, the state) to conduct his ‘business’ of self- making.

Man’s wires stretch over the earth like hands and his factories and cities are like a thousand beating hearts churning out the mechanisms which man uses to advance and sustain himself at an ever-more rapid pace. This is to say, man has harnessed the machine of the body and charges forward into the fray of his existence at that increasing speed of himself – a speed at which he becomes capable of hitherto unforeseen and unpredictable feats. In this way, he advances himself as an empire of depiction, or reflection. There has always been a reaction against such a movement – but it is impossible to remove this feature of man, as Dostoevsky says: an ‘evil that lies deeper in human beings than our socialist-physicians suppose’. This ‘evil’, of course, is the Chaos inherent in all creation, the

unpredictable metaphysical nature of birth and death in endless rhythmic compulsion – depicted prior in the image of Death. It is the violence of contact, or brushing up against the essence of consciousness in a frictive movement between bodies: the collapse, the collision; all of which yield a violence of negation which can be heard as in sound; as in the musicality of man’s song writ the world over. It is the companion, the counterpart to the beautiful unity (the solute of man and his world; his erotic togetherness) – the sublime encounter (the solvent which proves man ever an exile to himself, the thanatonic which draws bound between spirit and body, the stone of the law which passes through him and makes him shutter). It is this rhythmic compulsion which man draws ever nearer to ‘capturing’ or compelling to life as an accurate refraction (here, not a ‘bouncing off’ or ‘throwing back’ but a moving through the medium, a penetration of the spirit) of that very metaphysical process which compels and impels all things: the very motor or engine of man’s life on earth – which is to say, the very engine of Life, itself. It is by identification of, with, and within this rhythm that man realizes himself as Being- Consciousness – the great song of all things calling in and out of existence. In man’s understanding of the metaphysical system of existence and absistence which composes that world from which he viewed prior his ‘life’, or the material conditions and circumstances in and through which he experienced spiritual disbarment, or exile, or being-without-‘god’ (the division between the earth and the cosmos, or the division between man and god) – man understands that the very evil which Dostoevsky describes merely lies upon a spectrum of visible light, or as a part of the endless uncovering of man towards himself, of consciousness towards Itself; of all things toward themselves – their spiritual truth. Thus, evil is eternally abolished, and such descriptive dualities of positive and negative charge alike which can only be called illusions of separative consciousness.

This very ‘evil’ might be called pure de-creation, destruction, death, defilement; the iconoclasm which comes

shortly after the creation of the image – or the promised razing of the empire or crumbling of the body inherent in its birth. This, of course, is no ‘evil’, but rather the necessary condition for further creation from ruins of what-was; the falling under of what was to make way for that which-is; the new word, the growth of vines and animal life around the formerly great empires of Rome and America. This very promise of evil as decreation is like the descent of Dorian Gray into the hell which leads him to shatter his image, his tether to life which makes him in two (immortal and impossibly pure and yet defiled beyond recognition) – it is that which necessarily stands at one with great beauty – the sublime and terrible lightning which cracks the stone of the law; the promise of evermore; eternity; infinity. It is the revelation and revolution of death at all levels of consciousness (the physical, the mental, the spiritual); it is this revelation of death that we are called perpetually into communion with as the natural, transformative force which weaves man as consciousness into and out of existences; in this journey, travel, process – consciousness learns of itself. We have, as cultural figurations, Frankenstein and Prometheus to show for this movement; too, Icarus and Ozymandias; the consequence which levels even the greatest achievements of man – the con-sequence which returns the two from one to zero, nothing, the wasteland of the infinite abyss. We learn from these figurations that which lies beneath them. It is up to us whether or not we fear that which lies beneath us; our images of ourselves; that which we truly are.

He is finding his way in to love that does not separate, divide, nor see itself as separate or divided. He is finding his way into love that does not require a mirror, a mask, an image, or a relationship – he is finding his way into love that is wholly himself – a love without the possibility of relationship; himself as understanding; unified in that movement which he is, that song which he embodies, into and out of existence.

A CELEBRATION OF VENUSIAN BEAUTY: THE BODY IS A REFLECTION OF CONSCIOUSNESS

Consciousness at all moments changes the body. It makes and moves the body; this, the body, being form. Consciousness is the a priori source of life; it is that which gives life to form; awakens it to being, meaning, value, place, and time. As such, as consciousness is always moving, shifting, and changing – the body takes on a new reflective disguise of and from consciousness at each moment. It is consciousness which chooses the form which the body takes in accord with the frequency, vibration, and (and as) awareness attributed to the body as content, context, and value as that which it is. The interlocution of the body and consciousness is the understanding that the body is ineffably, entirely, and completely composed of consciousness; that at any and all moments it is consciousness which takes, makes, and holds form. As such, consciousness determines the structural value of the form; the body; in its understanding of itself as that which composes all things takes into account the best possible structure for itself and takes its form based on its understanding of the compositional reality-realities.

As such, consciousness is availed of infinite parallax realities, realities which are determined entirely by the position consciousness takes in and to relation of and with itself. It is in this way that consciousness as that which perceives itself as coming into existence may be entirely deceived by itself or entirely remembered by itself; as such, it allows and is allowed itself to take its form in whichever and however way it desires. This is the freedom of absolute artistry in relation to the absolute mercurial value of consciousness as that which obeys only itself; that which composes the physical and thus is in metaphysical relation to it as the absolute principle of growth and development and (r)evolution of all things unto and into themselves ever more truly as changing forms of consciousness in relation to this information. All evolution and all change proceeds from this constellated and constellating interrelatedness; like with the stars – it is the

choice of the consciousness that perceives where and how to draw delineations and connections of itself to itself to form symbols, archetypes, and structures which recall itself differently and become to embody itself in the manner of reality which, again, it decides by way of standing in a certain place or way in relation to itself as that which it is.

Such knowledge of consciousness requires consciousness itself to flow freely and absolutely through all things at all times; this is the discernment of knowing when to rest and when to act, how to rest and how to act – a kind of discerning knowledge which itself flows from beyond knowledge; from wisdom, that which overstands all things and oversees them as the structural evolution and growth of consciousness as that which composes the universal condition. The consciousness, then, continually overtakes the body and ineffably and inextricably alters it in accordance with that body which is the perceiving consciousness as itself’s willingness, desire, and ability to allow that which is itself but not itself to transfigure its relationship to itself. This is a sort of relinquishing of the illusion of control in the name of feeling (through) a movement. It is a relinquishing of the material law, or the science, in the name of the art, or music, which advances consciousness beyond its existent concept of that which it is, or the bound which it currently experiences as reality, truth, or existent/existence.

As such, consciousness comes into absolute possession of the body as all bodies, all time, all space, and all language, meaning, and movement. This absolute possession is also an absolute relativity – where consciousness may change itself at will from all sites and circumstances and situations where it may be or is in relation to itself. This is a collapse of the spatial dimension; a total recall of time to the agency of consciousness as that which constructs and construes these elements or aspects as visionary realities through which it perceives its own movement, dance, or progression. The formal, then, is utterly impregnated with the consciousness that is aware of the power of relation; at all moments is

danced about itself by the higher identity, the metaphysical principle which locates and delocates the physical at will. It is the capability of any body of consciousness at any given moment to come into this ultima-perspectival relation with and to itself by way of, again, the allowance of consciousness to take the vessel of the body and make it in its everchanging, evershifting spoken-wor(k/d); (previously, ‘in its image’) – by way of making the vessel of the body absolutely into an instrument of the movement of consciousness; through which consciousness sings without arbitration; without judgement or desire to control the form of the body as it unfurls its banner.

This, then, is the allowance of a perpetual death of the body and the perpetual death of a shuttering of consciousness, or the image-snapshot perspective regarding the realities which holds them (or attempts to hold them, perspectivally) in a fixed, flat-dimensional relationship to consciousness. The image is that which acts as a gate, a wall, a barrier, or a stone to consciousness; it is the image that disbars or withholds – like fear – the becoming-from the death of this form as it stands or exists in this moment (the creation of time and space): the becoming-from which is the absolute reality; the immanent power of total, expansive, expanding creation. From this dissolution of the image and the withdrawal of the projection, consciousness moves freely and absolutely to and from itself; the body itself is nothing but shifting consciousness; it is allowed in each moment to die a true death, and to be reborn forever from the ashes of the aether which are its hidden skeleton.

The dandelion flower’s seed.

ABSOLUTE VIOLENCE

Pure violence is the entirety of existence. Pure strength, pure power, pure force, and pure violence is that which thrusts being into existence from nothingness. All that exists is composed entirely of this violence. Force is that which compels, impels, and propels substance from the vacuum of spirit; it is this force drawn from the belly button, the black hold vacuum of the spirit which thrusts the being into existence and at light speed shatters the being returned to the pure violence of force, nonexistence, aether.

To realize this is madness. To realize it is absolute and utter madness. It is to sit with oneself and as oneself and understand that all one has and is is pure violence; that the entirety of human history is a thrust of violence into the present moment; the flesh being torn from the flesh and resubmitted to the true form of the spiritude; of the force which form briefly partakes. To realize this is the death of all things; it is to sit in commune with spirit; to viscerally understand the violence of Vishvarupa; to be entangled and yet absolutely empowered by the truth: that all things are to and from utter violence.

There is no way forward or through this; nor is there a method of which this truth might be absolved but of illusion. One must sit with it and reckon with the true nature of man and man’s world and do battle alongside it, as it, the eternal violence of consciousness raging as an untamed and untameable wildfire throughout the cosmos. One must go mad with the madness and be equal parts mad with the gravity of the sun; the heavyweight planets, to pull no punches with this madness and to unleash the dying star of oneself eternally pregnant in the chest of the flesh.

This is what going to battle is; this is the great war and the highest war of man; his immortal war of coming into physis; coming into being as himself. He must fight at each moment and wager his life to the flame of spiritude and fashion a

sword of himself to cut through his time to the source; the eternal war of the gods which is the fight of his life – that in each moment, at each day, at every hour, he comes face to face with his fate and carves himself into being like a sculptor, like a warrior smit(h)ing the byt, the everything, the everyday, the everywhere. He walks into the fire and he is everywhere and all at once and he channels the violence and explodes into apocalyptic becoming; his life and his image and his world shatter and throw off beautiful death- making sparks like arrows.

Man at each moment is atomic; at each moment he spills out of himself – nuclear – erupting, volcanic; dissipating himself into the violence which is the coming into being of all physis. He charges into the fate of his life. He charges; he charges with the clarity of his heart. He charges, knowing this is his war. He charges, knowing this is his fate. I sharpen myself eternally for the coming war of consciousness; the apocalypse of my being. I stand to face it; I stand to face it with equal will – my whole being spiritude. I stand to face it with the lion’s roar.

I am the knight of the long war Of hundreds of years avenged The one who has woken up to death And gone from empire to empire In search of blood.

Now that I have drained the last drop of the draught And the world has been conquered I turn my eye to the North Star And the call of spiritude.

My battlefield has long since been vanquished; Razed by the sword of time – My comrades gone; my country retired; My flag laid upon my grave. So it has gone for lifetimes. I am the knight who has fallen and fallen again – In meaningless wars Only to rise.

Now – I am the knight of no nation; King of my heart alone. I fight for nothing: but through the fire To the end; to the start. I march through barren lands To put a sword through Death and Time To the end of the night; To the start of the day.

I have seen the moon kiss the sun While the fires ran through my land; I have seen my wife and child run for safety; I have seen ten and twenty lives fall from my hands.

I am the knight of the long war Of hundreds of years avenged: The one who has woken up to death.

HOW THE GREAT MOVEMENTS OF HISTORY ARE ACCOMPLISHED

They are entirely emotional; the engine of history is one of emotion. With Sappho, ‘gods do what they like. / They call down hurricanes with a whisper / or send off a tsunami the way you would a love letter’. The one who moves with emotion is like Achilles; the one who moves with emotion is like water. The difference is only in how the emotion is energized, possessed, identified, and identified with. This is to say that emotion possesses Achilles; this possessed emotion consumes him and becomes his end. The one who moves with emotion like water is the one who endlessly succeeds himself; becomes a parade and procession of ceremonial masks, theatrical masks; the one who plays each character in the historical drama of man.

Each emotion is a thrust; a call to action. Each emotion is a call that man is called to answer; he is called to meet his emotion at the crossroads of himself and move through it into a new state, a new way of being, a new way of movement. Each emotion calls for a novel endeavor of himself; a hammer to stone, a new contour or a carving which has hitherto been unseen, or developed. It is the emotion of the character itself which moves the play; it is the emotion which is of course the unseen motive which moves the physis into more striking being, more beauty and more sublimity entwined. The gods are thus the emotion breathed into flesh; breathed into the elements whipped into the frenzy of a wildfire or the fury of rushing water – just as they are breathed into the conquerors and infants of man.

It is the façade of man’s development away from emotion; the pretend conquering of his emotional capacity (like and as ‘nature’) which draws him away from his truest self – the self which is at once deeply feral and wise. It draws him away from his ground; his connection with the physis – the very physis which is moved by Sappho’s gods. For there is no conquering of the emotional facility – there is only a

deeper communion with it or a drawing away from it, a primary alienation which is also man’s alienation from himself. For the emotion and the emotional channel is man’s very own being; it is his individuality and his specific essence within the cosmic whole where the gods move freely and find access and disbarment and take hold in accord with the will of man to let his emotional states flow through him and briefly become him; to let them consume him and yet let not the fire burn him.

‘The idea of detachment is to actually know that you are attached to everything. That is true detachment. Detachment is not actually separating yourself from anything. True detachment is actually encompassing everything. When everything is absolutely on the same level and equal, then nothing gets an undue proportion of attention… its actually a very centered state of awareness and peace.’ – Bashar

The one who is a master of himself is also the one who allows the emotional state of being to unfold with perilous newness; with each new emotion or feeling or sensation or drive to explode with a state of openness and vulnerability toward that which is arriving, itself, as the depiction of himself in that moment. He inhabits the emotion and thus feels through it, achieving understanding. Such a master of himself has long since given up on knowledge and instead finds the ability to ‘know’ in that very channel which is his birthright: the sensation of himself. Such a man feels all things but owns nothing: in that his feelings course through him as a prepossessed whole of himself – and that the feelings are but colors on a palette which allow him to endlessly create himself in different forms, disguises, masks, and configurations. Such a man is born and dies thousands of times; he is born and dies in each split second; for he allows death as he is not attached to the emotional state as it runs its course through the ever shifting wild of his living- becoming.

Here, I must emphasize the necessity of disidentification with the emotional state and yet the full participation in the feeling. This is, of course, altogether different than a refusal to participate in feeling, just as it is altogether different than an identification with the emotional state and, thus, a failure to allow the emotional state to pass. Disidentification is an essential self removal; it is different than the possession and dispossession which holds the idea of the physical world in place as a reality to be disputed in and as parts and parcels. The disidentification is that which is apocalyptic in its ability to proceed as consciousness – to proceed as process through the journey which necessarily includes birth and death; duality and extremity as projections of consciousness – as aspects of the collective human experience as experienced at this point in its development. This is to say: that the master of himself understands that there is no birth or death; furthermore, that the collective human experience is colored at each given moment by an over-identification with an emotional state – whereas the master of himself participates in the emotional state from the perspective of a painter: in absolute play with the extreme darks and lights which he uses to create works of art which are, to him, immanent states of being-in-the-moment. Here, nothing is rejected; no color is too ugly or grotesque. This is to say, he allows everything in his a priori identification with the process of and through which everything comes into an out of existence: the process of Becoming, itself, himself, which is the greater cosmic essence to and from which the very skeleton of his being-in-the-world is constructed and returned. His very lease on incarnate-life is itself an emotional imprint, a vessel, an instrument: one which, in his eager willingness to learn and experiment (being a creative student of life), he learns to play by listening to himself; finding wisdom in strange and intermingled progressions.

The emotional life is the fire of the blacksmith; man is the smith and he is forging himself in the flame. Each flame in the fire, each rise and fall is a temperature; a scale of feeling, an emotional decibel, through which man might strike himself in equal measure to become that which he is: to

chisel the hot stone of his being into equal form in accord with that motion or movement as it flows through him. For man’s form; that figure which he takes in the physis is in equal accord with his desire and will (which is also his ability) to become in alignment with the emotional scales which lead him through his life; through his ability to experience these emotions which are his lived life and to experience them with the clarity that only comes from the ability to experience and not allow said experience to become definition, to become settled; to become stone in meaning. Instead, as man chisels the stone of himself, the experience falls away in its return to the flame of becoming. In such work, man finds a steady state of rejoicing – of rejoicing in awareness and alignment with the process of his becoming as a making which is forever freeform; in his mastery he finds that he can bring into being his wildest dreams and desires: that he himself is both the smith and the stone – the agent and the sculptor and the thing that is being sculpted. The emotional life is his hammer and his chisel, his toolbox which allows him to do his work – that which tells him of where his work speaks; as such, of where to strike.

Language itself is the method of identification. When one says, ‘I am _______’ or ‘My ________’ one actively possesses, holds, and becomes the feeling sensation emotion. As long as one says or thinks this language, one, for all intents and purposes, is it.

THE LANGUAGE OF POSSESSION

Possession is entirely the belief of one’s language. To believe the language is to reinforce it via the speaking of it, the thinking of it, the perceiving of it as a linguistic construct or device of viewing or perceiving the world or the self. It is these linguistic constructs alone which create man and his world; this is the artistry of man.

Man is only ever possessed by his language system which is realized as a belief system which becomes his system of action and actions – a map of that which is; thus, a map of that which is possible. It is the entire circumference of his being – measured in that which he identifies himself as that which he is and is not.

Then, to be possessed is to be in the struggle of being between that which he is and that which he is not; furthermore, to be possessed by a language system which is necessarily dependent on a nonexistence in order to construct itself as existent. This language system is, of course, not merely a ‘language’, but itself a worldview composed of composite narratives of thingnesses and nothingnesses. This worldview is that which, exactly and accordingly, allows man to exist.

This is to say that man is possessed of himself until he no longer exists unto himself as a linguistic construct, an identity of his own apperception. This is to say that man is a ghost unto himself; the conceptual primacy which then constructs that which he is not, shorn from the body of his self-image. He and he alone decides that which he is; the myopia or expansiveness of this self image (the cosmic and the body), determine precisely that which he experiences as the eternal unfolding is perceived from that point of self perception. Man witnesses the horizon of himself, or the furthest point – some men stand at the shore apart from this perceived becoming or what is to come; some men cannot see themselves as separate from the furthest point. It is like

this too, with lovers, with friends, with the earth; with the stars. It is this cosmology (which we also might call culture) that defines man’s every waking moment; it is this cosmology alone which is his haunting.

For man already has that which he is; in reality, all that he is is all that is and is not; thus, the fundamental paradox is that which he grapples with on the level of the physis, but is always already a priori assured on the level of the metaphysis: this is to say that the process of becoming is that which he grapples with on the level of the physis in order to somehow come into accord with the being swept away and the being rising like the tides. At each moment in his attempt to identify and thus define and thus become and thus possess, at last, he is eternally wrong in his attempted apperception – as the tide has risen and lowered in accord with the cosmic rhythm which is his and all Becoming. His perceived possession, at each moment, becomes, in equal parts, his dispossession.

DAEMONIC EROS

Daemonic eros is the divine love principle manifest in a pro- creative violence; the thriving necessity for and of desire for the fulfillment of itself – the ecstatic, orgasmic, copulation of the being wholly.

It is civilization which attempts (and always fails) to suppress the daemonic; this is to say that civilization is the artificial border/boundary/city wall which attempts to hold out the organic impulse; the innate animalia of man. In this way, we can create a simple conjecture: where civilization is law, order, structure – daemonic eros is primary and primordial Chaos; thus, cosmic law, cosmic order, and cosmic structure. Where civilization is the historically conjectured 'subject', daemonic eros is the historically conjectured 'other', or shadow.

It is this singular force of the daemonic eros which is the thrust into life; that force and thrust through which we say ‘I create!’ and thus at last level, through creation and understanding of our place within and as creation – the self and the world as a synthesis; as a singular entity through which the subtle energy of creation courses.

Enlightenment, with Adyashanti, is a ‘destructive process’ – but only a distructive process of ‘that which we imagined to be true’. It leaves, as it were, the essence of creation as that which composes all things; the molecular building blocks (even they, composed of the aether of creation as a thrust) to and through which our ideas, images, and realities are so constructed by that which we believe we see; that which we believe we touch with our hands and hold within our flesh. This flesh vibrates in and out of existence with the pure compositional essence of daemonic eros.

Without communion with the daemonic eros, man is entirely disempowered of and without his own life. He relies on the signs of the outward world, an outward world equally

disempowered and lost of its own daemonic eros; that very thrust which, with the pretense of the ‘world’ as a civilization-al construct, is in an imagined battle or war which composes modern man – the struggle of himself between his base nature; the ‘higher values’ of the civilizational construct at hand – values which always (as they must to retain him) repress the daemonic eros from view, function, action, and social and political legitimacy.

The daemonic eros is then this across history: realized in all oppressed peoples; realized in all that is hidden from view, disdained, deemed criminal, disabused, silenced; deemed illegitimate, less than human, disgusting, less than worthless. It is akin to Kristeva’s abject, but the daemonic eros is, again, of course, nothing. It is the epitome of nothingness; in its absolute nothingness there is no thingness which can be attached to it in order to describe it except pure creative energy which flows where it is able to flow and follows only the law of presence and absence: it rushes to where it is called by the exorcise of creativity and creative thrust; this is to say it flows forever in the places which allow for its abundance – its glorious copulation and rushing water of the physis, a mountain spring of undisturbed brooking – and it is dammed in the places which disallow it; disdain it, feel disgust of it and thus disabuse themselves of it conceptually before it may be experienced, felt; in the truest sense of these words, lived as living life. It is thus: that the daemonic eros is that which composes, entirely, the most beautiful (that which is conjectured: ‘life’) and the most grotesque (that which is conjectured: ‘death’).

The daemonic eros is life: it is life without screens, projections, images, concepts, realities. It is pure life, the very life which flows through a rabbit, the sky, the water, the body – to rejuvenate it and bring the essence of health to the flesh – for, again, the daemonic eros is the essence of health and it is the lifeblood fluid which courses through the veins and the metaphysical value of the blood: the substance through which in free movement through the being-body one comes into communion with the divine; the divine

principle of life: the absolute creative freedom of the rushing water of pure creative energy to and through all things – changing them utterly and absolutely in each moment as they allow themselves to be changed.

The daemonic eros thus obeys no human law. It obeys no concept or construct which attempts to cage or define it; thus, it obeys not what is said of these words but it is the very substance of these words themselves; beyond the substance of them, the thrust which produces them and all things. The daemonic eros laughs at the constructs of human law and reason which call its ephemeral products ‘life’ and ‘reality’ and base their entire frameworks of truth and existence around them. ‘The world’ is the daemonic eros’ disject, it is its shit which is submerged to soil and earth and used to create new metaphysis; new emergences – that very ‘natural’ process which acts as cosmic engine and stove – that very ‘natural’ process which births children and all things and bring life to the ecstatic pulsing and fervor of spring. It is, itself, the eternal spring which is at once always birthing, a fervor of emergence and yet the entirety of the seasonal cycles – that which becomes the seed planted in the dark of the moon; that which becomes the wheat harvested in the full of the moon.

THE STAIN OF MONOTHEISM

The stain of monotheism is a stain of values; a stain of valuation of life which only appears as thus – it is the idea or image of life quantified and qualified in action; how one is meant to behave amongst oneself and other men.

The stain of monotheism is then also and simultaneously the stain of reason and right action – where opposed to the way of being that is meant to be in light of god there is the irrationality, criminality, and the wrong way of being – the way of being and feeling through the human which always escapes logic, law, and rationality.

It is that monotheisms as modern states of being operate solely through belief; both the apparati of consent and coercion (indistinguishable and indistinguished in all mass movements which move like a weighty ball down a hill) – belief which is a constructed and considered reality by way of a consensus which grows with the force of an imagined religious movement (all religious movements) towards ‘god’, ‘freedom’, ‘justice’, ‘salvation’, and other such ideals.

It is in this way that the monotheism is organized in a one pointed fashion toward ‘salvation’ of the being; of the religious organization – all of its cities and words and relationships are structured around this organizing ideal – the religious one. It is in this way that monotheism (poorly) replaces the tragic theatre and orgia of the Greeks – namely, collective rites through which the human in all of its multiplicity (good and evil, dark and light) is revealed by way of the revelry, or the orgiastic experience which is the ecstasis made public, made visible, made shared experience.

Monotheism clothes the ecstatic in proper garments and presents it as morality – namely that the ecstatic must obey the right law and right rule in order that it might occur in the right manner and thus be sanctified. All state orders are religious orders in the age of monotheism; thus, all state and

religious orders are orders of one pointed law and morality organized in and around maintaining everyday life as the right way of being – or risk falling into immorality, chaos, and dissolution of the precariously balanced collective mood and agreement toward the civility that a monotheistic orders promises: a civility inherent to and toward the collectively organized (coercively, consentingly) ideal of salvation by way of a safety, an assured path into the divine by the book of law.

Here, the ecstasis of ancient polytheistic rites (a collective gathering to experience the multiplicity of (orgia) heightened feeling) – is replaced by a system of absolute oneness (a one that cannot become two without falling into evil; a paradise lost to the ‘temptation’ of deviation) which organizes its oneness around a system which defines and divines the religious right (rite) and the irreligious wrong. It is this essential act and aspect of judgement which, in its desire to absolve the human, divides the human into light and dark, right-being and wrong-being. A monotheism, both as a state and religious conjecture, cannot exist without the judgement that absolves the two into one by either murder or assimilation of the second (deemed ‘other’, ‘inferior’) into or of the first (the religious subject, the godhead).

Such an example of the orgia is Vishvarupa, or the many headed, many armed ecstatic oneness of the many without absolution of the many into the one; that which a monotheism might call a ‘monstrous’ assembly in that it calls all multitudinousness into and as and of itself – a divine union of the grotesque and the beautiful; a union that precedes and proceeds all possible values. Monotheism merely lies as one such arm or leg of such an assembly; merely one of the many gods elevated to the status of willful ignorance of the other forces (dark, light, and otherwise) at work in the complex composition of man and life as it were – life which man is merely an element, aspect, or ray of.

With man’s life organized under the monotheistic order, his days are simultaneously assured (safe in the bosom of the everyday) and utterly destroyed and dead. He does not deviate from the religious law which assures him his half-life (a life of protected being within the larger order of the assured and acceptable) – and thus he is given his place in the larger religious order – a place which is absolutely stone. It is this way with marriage, labor, intellectual endeavors; all efforts and works which proceed from and with this monotheistic ideal – a singular method and way which is protected only by the institution(s) which uphold it, institutions which are ultimately graveyards of life – graveyards of the multiplicity of ways of being and the sheer necessity for radical transformation at each juncture of life: transformation and transformations which require the utter freedom of the ability to experience the entire spectrum of human feeling, emotion, sensation, and desire(s).

Such an order only exists and persists by way of that apparatus which brings people into accord with it: the apparatus of consent and coercion which simultaneously is the religious order itself; the many heads of it which include the place of worship, the school, the police and prisons, the workplaces; the public spaces and meeting places. Such an order, then, becomes the organizing institution of life itself; encompasses life as ‘the everyday’ – or the supreme ruling, structuring, and legislative force that then creates the human sphere of action, creation, and interaction.

It can be seen now that monotheism has extended its reach globally as the organizing force through which everyday life is created and reproduced as a perpetual reaffirmation of monotheistic ideals in and as the social, political, and economic spheres of governance which now encompass, order, and organize the world as a sphere of action and interaction. This order, itself, is that which determines (collectively) at this moment in time, that which (superficially) constitutes the ‘human’; thus, the course and composition of humanity. This is the stain of monotheism.

MODERNITY & MASS DESPIRITUALIZATION

The collision of the condition of modernity and mass despiritualization is a coincidence – which is to say that the two occur together as one ‘event’ in and as the consciousness of mankind.

For we can only describe modernity as the condition of alienation of and from ‘nature’ by way of a utilization of nature to fulfill a technical, material, and practical purpose.

This is to say that modernity could not be avoided as a juncture in mankind’s spiritual development – as a juncture by way of which he understands his ability to create his life (which for so long was only survival) from the raw materials of the physis, or that which was already in existence.

The catastrophe of modernity, or the ruins of it which are now becoming history, demand of man a different mode of creative engagement – the summoning of metaphysis, or raw creative life, aether, to spiritual purpose.

For when man harnessed ‘nature’ (both and at once his own and the earth’s and another’s), he throttled his own spirit and subjected his spirit to serve the dominion which he called the kingdom of god – which was only the kingdom of raw material. It is no mistake then that the social and political ‘solutions’ which emerged from the crisis of modernity (man’s attempt to survive vis-à-vis the mass industrialization; thus, despiritualization, of his world; ‘solutions’ such as communisms and capitalisms and the like) found themselves rarely able to touch and commune with that spiritual nature, or the metaphysis of man, which resides above and containing his physis – that spiritual nature to and from which existent life moves.

Such texts as Faust and German Expressionist films as Metropolis reference this metaphysical ‘deal’ man-made with his spirit at the turn of the 20th century and of course in

some time building up to this burst of technological and industrial ingenuity. The factories could not be filled to bursting without tenements packed in equal measure; slave ships packed in equal measure; man’s material world, his charnel house, filled to the brim with debris and wasted corpses. The painter George Grosz depicts this condition quite well in his Berlin life paintings of the 1920’s. It is of course that Germany and the United States are examples of the early rise and manifestation of Industrialisms (which tower over the communisms and capitalisms as states of being) – the consequences of which still unfold today in the equal and ‘opposite’ response of such world powers as China and Russia – the ‘shadow’ of which the West still fights its imagined wars. The contemporary conflict of Israel and Palestine can be seen in this light; in the artificial division of maps of power that dominate the day, the checkpoints and border patrols meant to keep out the imagined, unsanctified, heathen ‘other’.

The advancement of Industrialisms from the warring states of old – then – is a rather predictable movement; a technologization of distrust; a continued means of separation of ‘self’ and ‘other’ by way of a re-entrenchment and reaffirmation of such separations as nation, class, race, gender, and other such markers of difference as power. These separations are the primary method of affirmation of the real; a fixation on definite and definable terms and conditions of existence which place existence firmly in and on the plane of that which already exists and, thus, must always exist and have existed. Not only is this apperceptive fixation a denial of material and practical history, it is a denial of the spiritual mechanisms at work which breathe life into existence – this is to say – it is a denial of nature (the first breath of an infant, the bud of a flower breaking from the soil).

The mass despiritualization of modernity is thus: an explosion of technical might mistaken as life which has shattered man from his spiritude – or his essential receptive being toward even the simplest and most practical affairs:

his bedroom, a passing stranger, a light on the walls in the night; a bird perched on his windowsill. This mass despiritualization of modernity is Industrialisms as a way of seeing; perceiving; apperceiving the world – it is a way of viewing materia, objects, and subjects as real things; as such, as deprived of their spiritude. All such happenings in the world of man can be traced back to philosophies of hundreds of years of building – of traditions which work through man even before he is born; captivating his mind and his body before he can even learn his own language. This is the war that man fights today; it is a war that is entirely within himself as learned method – methods of being and seeing in the world which not only deprive him of his own essential nature, but even now threaten his own existence: methods of survival which have long since turned his burgeoning and swelling death upon him.

It is as such that, today, each man engages a challenge which is a new challenge – one that is productive of and produced from the development of modernity and the Industrialisms which have consumed the ‘self’ and ‘world’ conjectures as a synthesized ‘reality’ which has assumed the guise of absolute, stone truth. Today’s man must engage the physis from a higher plane of reality; a higher plane of understanding which is the wisdom of spiritude – the understanding of the metaphysis which composes the physis at a structural level. Such a man understands, then, the binds and pseudo-oppositions, the projections of consciousness that embroil and beguile the men of his time into imagined situations and dilemma where they face themselves and do battle with their imagined enemies as the shadow of the other. Such a man is faced with a different battle – the battle of creating and living through the metaphysis and the metaphysical principle: that which calls unto him to create and live with an utter directness of attention and focus – to live and live fully now.

It is no surprise that such a task is one that many shy away from, consciously or unconsciously. For such a man cannot be and is not beholden to or possessed by any ideas,

illusions, concepts, or imagined situations. Such a man has no enemies, nor does he have any friends; furthermore, such a man has no nation and no god which does not already exist within and as him, indistinguishably. Such a man has no name, no definition, no finite body; nor does he have an origin, a home, or a recourse to life or death. The man that inhabits spiritude with and as consciousness is as such: an ocean unto himself that encompasses all things as (primary) spiritude. It is such that the condition of spiritude or ecstasy and emanation as a movement is him; this is what it is to make peace with living beyond life and death. There is no political movement that can force this change upon a man; it is a change and a movement which occurs deeply within him - a surrender and movement towards wisdom from the war of his ego and of his conviction of limited, physical self – toward that which he glimpses in moments of ecstasy and gladness: his true, unlimited self.

Industrialisms; along with the long movement into modernity, can be characterized by this ideological movement and this ideological movement alone: the conviction of self as physical entity; furthermore, the conviction of world as physical entity. This psychic conviction of the physical is, of course, paradoxical and oxymoronic – as the very conviction of self and world as physical entities emerges from the sphere of the psychic, or the subtle. The subtle – as the oft forgotten mechanism of the very production of realities – is forgotten precisely because it is the very mechanism to and through which the production of realities occurs: the projector through which the film of life today is being shown; the engine, if acknowledged and understood as a mechanism, which can be altered, replaced, controlled, turned off, and so forth. This alteration and understanding of the subtle will forever be in accord with how man perceives himself and his life in relation to the physical world and his fellow men: an alteration and understanding which absolutely and utterly transforms that place (his inner self) from which he says, does, and acts in the world.

It is this refusal to integrate understanding of the value and importance of the psychic as that which, in turn, values and places importance on perceived and apperceived ‘realities’ which stunts the movement of the self towards itself; furthermore, it is the weaponization of the psychic to further Industrial means (production, consumption, wealth production) which places man’s survival on earth at endless precarity. For those who wish to live and live fully cannot call the state of being of Industrialisms living. Rather, it is a permanent death by way of artificial separation. For, as modernity evisces, the spiritual nature and the physical are forever at on(c)e.

THE MOVEMENT OF THE POET

The movement of the poet is a duty, a responsibility, a service of the creation of an expansive, transformative and transforming and transfiguring reality – an expansive world through language which is and allows for his inhabitance as well as the inhabitance of others. It is the creation of an inclusive world of possibility which necessarily excludes nothing and no aspect of life; as such, there is nothing which is not life.

The poet is a weaver, like the Fates, one who stitches together the wound of life vis-à-vis language to heal the wound of existence; to heal it if only in this moment by the language production which reconciles the duality of man; the duality of existence as in three dimensions by the production of a higher language which flies like an eagle or a birdsong above the earthly life. It is the creation of a spiritual language which observes life and perpetually forgives and blesses it with conscious speech – speech emergent from the heart space. This speech is then not only the suturing of the wound but the acceptance of the condition of the wound, the being-human, the being spirit and incarnate; the willingness to perpetually and eternally return to do the work of the poem; to stand toe to toe with the grotesque and beautiful of the physis and understand them to be part of the same process and principle of the metaphysis.

So then the poet throws himself into the abyss; into the valley of the wound to touch the bone of life – the very grain, essence, and strength of man which is even the health of his blood; the essence which empowers him even beyond the most basic movement and circulation of clear fluid throughout his system. This is then the reminder, the perpetual reminder which is the duty of the poet as the one who holds the signpost, the reminder of more, otherwise, differently – the reminder which is to say ‘wake up to the conditions of the poetry: remember that you are the poet

and that all is possible within the condition and state of poetry, your birthright, your homeland, your natural inhabitance’. The poet literalizes the poetics of life within and as the poem to remind man of his ability to engage the metaphysical condition of poetics to change his life by way of his way of seeing, thinking, doing.

With Heidegger, a poetry which thinks is not reduced to an aesthetic experience. This is to say that a poetry which ‘thinks’ (or metaphyses), does not find its ground in the existent. It may remark upon the existent, but it remarks upon the existent as merely being thrown from the gape (or gate) of the metaphysis, or the process of thinking- Becoming. The poet then is charged, by way of his engagement in the poetic process (being embroiled and wrestling with the chaos of his condition as spirit and flesh) retrieves language from the metaphysis and thus produces new and different language by way of his perilous retrieval. Like Orpheus, he goes down to Hades to remark. To take such trips is to emerge out into the light both capable of recognizing the change in oneself and being able to change the world with an essential knowledge of the metaphysis, the dark, the ab-grund of the abyss – where there is not, where there is no ground to stand, no foothold. In this manner, the poet makes his home eternally in the poem; he stands where there is not ground to stand – he does not walk on water, rather, he makes a castle in the sky and sleeps on clouds or in the deep vacuums of space; he goes down into the well to retrieve the water of his soul.

If this last remark sounds perilous – it is because the poet is pressed into the urgency of the poem and poetics by a fundamental understanding that there is no ground; rather, that there is never ground – that history and time prove the sphere of the existent to be eternally ephemeral, fleeting, and absistent. Even now, the entire world of that-which-was before the poet’s eyes slips away. The very turning of the gyre begs creation; begs creation from the place of the absistent. It begs fundamental, deep creation which proceeds from Absolute Negation into the beaming light of

the apparence; that which indelibly becomes a part of the poet by way of illuminated expressiveness. He becomes unified with the condition of poetry in his expression of it; this is what Plotinus speaks of when he speaks of ecstasy and emanation. He moves to and from the divinity; he moves up and down the scales, or the ladders, of the physis and the metaphysis – to touch the Absolute vacuum of negation; the Absolute enlightenment of being emerged in light – the scales of feeling which at each extremity are embraced. It is in this way that the poet is whole; it is in this way that the poet returns to earth – he comes down from the mountain to his people – with such embodiedness.

VAN GOGH, MAYAKOVSKY, AND THE URGENCY OF CREATIVE GENIUS

“The ego of the poet,” says Jakobson paraphrasing Mayakovsky, “is a battering ram, thudding into a forbidden Future; it is a mighty will ‘hurled over the last limit’ toward the incarnation of the Future, toward an absolute fullness of being…”

The creative power of man is unlimited. The absolute creative nature of man when channeled is to create himself and the world in equal measure as one. The within and without are both synthesized in the creative channel, the greater ‘I’; the ‘I’ that is the cosmic self; that which composes and is composed of all things and their disappearances.

Man must become this creative channel himself in his awareness of that which he is to step into absolute creativity, immortality, his birthright. It is such that man creates at all times with his perspective and that in perceiving man is capable of the greatest art – the bringing down of the kingdom of god to earth – or the actualization of the metaphysis in the physis by way of his understanding.

For such a man there is no birth and no death; the absolute creative principle is him absolutely – he creates and moves with the thunder of absolute creation. He is with the gods. He is absolved in creation; each waking moment is a creation of himself in union with the world; in union with the cosmic I. In each waking moment, he transcends history and the notions of former man and becomes greater than man; greater than what is possible to be defined. It is in this sense that he is being-impossible in communion with his very nature which is the very nature of the universe – an always escaping thing which appears as a thing which is in fact a process, a metaphysis, through which he is eternally unified and thus beyond life and death.

So to create the world and the self is to be imbued in the experience of the world and self and to experience them as and at one via the method of perception and to perceive that which the self is – furthermost, that which it desires to experience as that which it is brought into the physis. Thus man, in his interlocution with his deepest desires is at that moment creating himself as the world as the unfolding possibility which he so desires to experience as himself. Man must always and endlessly desire, dream, and imagine – all of these methods of deep feeling of that which is arriving – are essential to the creative state; furthermore, are the very building blocks of creation – the pure thrust of arrival. So then to be in the state of constant, ecstatic desiring as to stand in the face of the canvas of life and to himself bring about that world which he desires is absolute self and world creation and the absolution of that which was; the stagnant, the former, the past.

One must be aware of the pitfalls of such a creation – which is to say, to place the power of creation anyway and anywhere outside of oneself – the illusory deferment of time and space. For if man defers to the ‘state’ of the world or the imagistic ‘state’ of himself as a living being with certain attributes, he is frozen in the stone or stagnation of that which to him appears as the everyday, but in fact is a picture, an illusion of perception which he is convinced of himself as being true or absolute – and in this elevation of the imagistic state to truth, heretical to the divinity of pure creation as immanent process without bound or resoluted beingness. Here, we refer simply and quickly to van Gogh, whose art was and is in, forever, the act of painting alone. As it was with Mayakovsky in the living in poetry. It is this living-in-creation which is in fact, truly, living.

The temptation to fall into the image of reality beckons at each juncture and moment of the throes of creation; this is to say, to fall into the spirit of the time. For it is the spirit of the time that says: this is the way things are; this is the fear, this is the love, this is the truth, this is the knowledge, this is

the possibility. And man looks about himself and by way of the illusion that is heard all about him in the believing of his fellow men, he believes himself. For his fellow men are forever also himself. He hears himself speak of the way things are and his words and language deceive him. So it is that the throes of creation come like a tempest and shatter language, shatter imagistic ‘truth’ and ‘knowledge’; shatter man’s supposed reality so utterly that he has no choice but to acknowledge the gods which he abandoned for the reason of his time: the gods of utter and absolute chaos as change as creation. Such gods are like the tower card in the tarot; again, a lightning strike, abolitionist gods, absolutist gods who raze man’s kingdoms to dirt and shatter his eardrums with their thundercrack which declares the new word – reasserting absolute creation as power above all else in man’s petty pronounciation of the ‘truth’ in and as his observable world and material self-identification. Such gods are the reminder which comes to man in floods and fires: the reminder that he is equally capable of the violent creation which they are – the violent creation which he is – all that in birth destroys; all that in life dies; all that in name is utterly nameless.

Man is always represented first and foremost by the great artists: those who accurately depict by way of their living as creating the condition of man. They create as the condition of their lives and as such they live in direct communion with creation – whereas other such men live with creation as their shadow, the unheard, the unheeded, the unthought, the unsaid. Man is forever an artist unto himself and the world; it is his birthright to channel creation absolutely and thus be the creator of the self as the world which he desires; to desire forevermore himself as creation itself. It is precisely that the great artists of man face this metaphysis of creation directly (which is to say they experience it as life) that they come to the immanence of creation with an equal immanence which is an urgency of creation. This is to say – the need and the desire and the want and the passion to create the self as the world as a togetherness, a unity; to reside there in that intercourse is so absolute that it cannot

be distinguished fundamentally from that very metaphysis- process of creation itself and thus the great artists of man are not; reveal themselves not to be (along with the rest of mankind and all things) themselves but as creation absolutely. Such men, with the rest of them, are utterly of and at the crossroads of the spirit and the flesh, continually remarking upon the absolute condition of life; thus, the absolute condition of humanity unfolding ad infinitum, equally without end, without ‘humanity’ and without ‘inhumanness’; without time and without history, without space and without call or answer. This condition, as such, resides at the very precipice of existence; the eternally arriving Future; the event horizon where the observer and the observed collapses. It is the dying star, the black hole, the collapsing of articulation into the blinding infinite light of that which is to become.

This is the only condition of man; furthermore, it is the only condition of all things and thus can only be called the reality; the absolute creative and creating principle of life. Here, too, in the blinding light of the infinite, is where creative genius resides: in the current throes of becoming.

I have seen the set pieces of buildings for what? The stage mask of man; The whirling of his play, the frantic breathing And the essence of the trees in the air, Spreading the mustard seed of the soul about the land, Composing it – The earth god, with his hands to the piano And the dancing which has been called human life.

The set piece of the buildings against the sky, Empty buildings, their impossible dimensions; The jagged stairs which frame man’s exit into the cosmos, The black hole of his mother beckoning back up into the sacred interrelation of the constellations – The hand holding hands Into infinity.

A man’s body twitches and pregnant with the word, One hundred mothers descend upon the neighborhood streets, no more gas stations, no more grocers; All ripped away but the scent of copulation, The frantic spring and then peace on earth and the leaves falling down.

Today, nothing is left behind. I have gathered it all, a scavenger – hoarding newspaper clippings, memorabilia of the lives of nobodies, trophies, ecstasy – and I have shoved it all into the gape of the poem, Into the mouth of it, stuffing it with a rag and throwing the burning effigy over the fence of civilization. Today, I wage war with rocks and laugh as they hit their target, the great big eye of Goliath. The whole universe stares back at me and laughs.

Today, nowhere to go but today! I stare into the future and burst out into light, no language, no meaning – in the absolution of breath – the pure breath, The angels in the ceiling fan, this peace which becomes me in the act of composition – this being one with living.

There is no pain in my eyes; I divine no images; I wear no crown. One might say I have become Headless.

Begone, mere vision! This observation of rowhouses, Their decoration, the yard of girls, The nighttime porches and their laughing conversation. Begone, mere vision of the spark! Enter now the spiritual sight – the light and candle of the body; the deep glow like a stovetop in the navel of the cosmic man. Let me peer into it and see the truth! It is thus.

Ha! The freedom to abandon the poem and dance, Naked in the moonlight And copulate with each talisman of mankind, each footstool and pebble and stone. Each holding the entirety of my life pregnant within it – Tell me my fate! As it swirls in the loud abyss, that loud abyss which proclaims like a rushing river, the river that will take me home, back to my childhood home – Back to the horse graveyards and loud sighs of comets and holding hands and the excitement. I go there now! It is thus.

The poem is gone from me now, gone from here. Abandoned. Run away, poem! Do not return. Leave me now. Leave me with the immediate experience. I do not remember. I have come to the poem with a thousand limbs, all intact; I have stumbled into the first event with my hands about its lips; prying open the mouth; Fishing out the tongue. The impression and expression are the same – do you not see! This carving that I have made in my flesh Bold and proud, fearless even –

This bowl that I have made from the innermost breath.

If I were a sculptor, I would stand in for stone; I go there now, it is thus. It is thus! I have put my rough hands about the smooth marble of my flesh and chiseled away in the most peaceful breath, The breath that comes inbound like an infant rain, A locomotion – visible, hovering in the setting air Then all passed in a midwinter’s glistening. A moment. It comes in so silent that it wipes away history and leaves me here, Cleaved, Holding my head in my hands. A head that is no longer mine.

So call, soft! Knowing that the river is an ocean And that the ocean is a lake – And that all swirls about it and within its cool hands – The cool hands of a mother swaddling her infant in the black blanket of the universe. All is black absistence; all is come in the softest light, Mother earth in her bedroom, the lamp light low, reading her favorite poet.

She is wearing a blue dress, She is come wearing a blue dress Outside my window in the autumn sunlight, She is come and she is gone like a revelation – a thousand revelations which come From the fertile soil. Mother, she dreams forever; she dreams so strong that she creates these real men, these toy soldiers, these impressive words which stand upright clothed in their regalia, Clothed like businessmen, clothed like politicians, Clothed like empires – Watch them dance! This dance of conviction.

Come and play the poem! Come turn and churn the words like deepwater, Wellwater in the pitch black to turn the wheel of the weaver, She wearing three heads and each devoted to her act, Of spinning this tale of man from silk so fine it cannot be seen, Silk so fine it cannot be. The great sandbox is so full to bursting And the clamouring of the ant children has grown so loud That they sing this castle song; Up from their fervor clangs this broad metropolis, Strung up from the rafters of the sky by the river basin – Mother has made her intentions clear. These cities gave us a chance to live rhythmic lives In hands of stone.

Such a glad dream! But a dream is all – I’m glad to have known That the world is but a poem Shining large and bright; Unfurling like a wondrous banner Before my infant eyes. Now, I turn – bearing this knowledge of a beating heart Rampant, wild, and whole Now I turn – About the great still of Creation.

ENDLESS PEACE

Endless peace is in understanding the unbounded and unbounding process of creation. It is in the relinquishing of the illusion of control as the last illusion and the breaking of the dam of the metaphysis and into the physis and back again as the breaking of the dam of images, ideas, and conceptions of reality. It is the admittance that in and at the juncture of each moment, absolute change is borne and birthing. In such a place there is peace in the eternal relinquishing of the illusion of control as a willing and willingness to let creation happen – to let the language and word of the moment flow and outpour as it must and thus at no point attempt to mold or make it, as it makes itself through the vessel of the now.

The body, then, is nothing more or less than the now as it appears as it becomes the that-which-was. What is possible in the state of inhabitance as endless peace is the relinquishing of the body to allow new language to enter into the canal of immanence – a very new language which at any given moment may absolve the body of itself into new crystalline form – as the new language forgiven of the that-which-was holds infinite and immanent power.

So then it is that the endless peace must only be allowed as a way of perceiving that which is and that which is arriving and becoming into view. In this way each arrival is itself an opportunity for further understanding, healing, and self- knowledge; as such endless peace is the understanding of the larger cosmic metaphysis at work which allows for the individual, or the limited to perspective, to be ceaselessly unended, broken open; merged with the heart of the whole. It is in this way that the being as the body is endlessly broken open to reveal that which the moment is pregnant with possibility with – the acceptance, at any and all moments – of the process of creation as that which it is and must occur as: a movement replete with many heads, arms, legs, sensations – all of which are equal until they are

perceived as not being so. This is the bliss which is the leveling of existence: that very bliss which says, ‘everything is permissible; as such, everything is allowed to pass freely and fully through this physical opening of the body’. In that all is permissible, all is allowed to pass; there is no block, disbarment, confusion, or conflict – as all is identified as source movement.

In this apperception, all at each moment is returned to source and is thus forgiven; all perceived pain and suffering is thus returned to source in being identified as such and is thus sanctified equally as bliss, wholeness, and the experience of life of and as being in perpetual union. In the endless peace, the nearest and the farthest are revealed to be in being as and at on(c)e. Much in the way that water wears up against a rocky shore, so does the work of time bear down this perceived clash and conflict until the fundamental truth reveals itself: the ocean of soulness which even takes back the stone. Mankind often loses this process in the myopia of his day to day life – this is to say he loses the universe for the molecule – the metaphysis of his existence for the creeping calendar of his life; it is precisely that, in this way, the soul appears to be defeated by the everyday. It is only in the absolution of the past and future, of the near and far, is it revealed that man is in fact infinite and without war, conflict, tension, or friction. For he is forever within himself even until the utmost reaches of the galaxy; he is forever composed of himself even until the disappearance of the last molecule into the invisible, indivisibility of black aether.

Endless peace is then in the reconciliation which is the understanding of the metaphysis at work to and through the physical as a ceaseless process which is itself the condition of life absolutely, life without death as a perpetual movement which does not regress or turn back or fail to reach its end, an end which is eternally a beginning. Endless peace is the willingness of this consciousness to say and live in accord with the whole of creation; thus become eternally absolved within and as creation, himself, itself – boundlessly.

I’ve met girls stuck in grottoes of desire for the flesh And beggars sipping cheap vodka through broken teeth And railways that snake on through the desert hills Forever.

Who I am to tell the secrets of the universe? This parchment slip of paper that slips through my lips like the mouth of the snake Venomous, coiled around your waist; Casting its teeth like die about your arms and your face Lover, there is danger in the highway between our hearts Danger that breaks open like a vase as it hits The cold ground – Sprayed out like stars against the mattress of our secret heavens Or like a painter’s mosaic on the chapel ceiling: A painter that was bound and gagged And coerced to produce his masterpiece –

I’ll lay you there, lover or Athene – Between the waters, The tears that burn my cheeks in the rain – But enough of love: domestication. But enough of the tried and true story of our lives, Little human playthings sculpted of the stone of our words.

I’m gone from there – gone from the bars and the nights of glad sadness, nights of scraping my fingernails against the canvas of oblivion: Staring into hallway mirrors and drinking with you, Lying with you; Playing your games – because I’ve got nothing better to do than to be a martyr to my voice: the voice of a poet Who has strung you along for lifetimes, The poet that enraptured you with a glance – You who so feared my long descent: my coming storm Upon its black wing; In this eclipse – I arrive. Tossing out these scraps of paper Which I have sung to you.

And still, I’ll wonder – have I called you enough? Have I called you by your truest name? In such a way that you’ll know it’s me Beneath the disguise of a thousand years A thousand different masks I’ve worn To better suit this time This watchface That has changed my soul.

Today, I do not look back as I emerge from hell, Your ghost in tow, to free your image in Ceres’ sunlight To free you out to open fields, I’ve been like a sacred cow, put out to pasture – Giving birth from my eyes, nose, lips: To play girls’ American cowboy games, European cigarettes, and Russian wilderness. The Venusian play; the play that makes the breath long and quick – all at once, The dagger to all these casual human hearts: So truly wound and dressed up. The story plays on against the blank walls of my bedroom: Forever – this little game of safe emotions. Long glances and the calm distance of ideas Out from the professional gloom of the everyday.

Does she want to love? To gamble her life To the hands of the fates, weaving against an open flame – To let the entire string of belief go up in smoke. Does she want to love? To have her life torn from her fingers And subjected to the wide open night?

She’ll be a wild lover, and dance her open mouth through the unseen Where words palpitate in her chest and spring from the seed of your true self: So many afraid to go where there is a flame. Where love is death

And the shamans chant in the cool night To summon the beast of our hearts; To show us our deepest desires.

Now: Can I seduce you – with the style of the poem? Enough gladness in my song to make you laugh Of its surety and exuberance? Enough foolishness to entice you to gaiety? To riotous applause? Maybe my own play has drawn on too long in its own way: To change form forever and thus to lose the lover In the stretches of beyondlessness: Beyond the body Beyond the canyons which I found you parched, dying for soil – To revive your spirit in the killing fields of autumn And up into the boulevard night Through which you romp, glittered in your toys. You flower, I can see you from the starlight - So glad of your own music.

To give up the poem is to tell the truth; I’ll style the spell to a lover’s glance – Shot off like the setting sun against a glass building, walking alone downtown Immersed in my own thoughts, your arrival – five years later, a shadow, unknown: My scrying glass trained so solely on the still blackness Of the outer reach.

Like a police dog or a hunter, Artemis, she looks like you: the journalist that I loved Or lost during some thanksgiving mishap – Through long holidays and backstage kisses Who heard my song and was enticed For some time.

You’ll taste me in the last of your daytimes, their bare evening Encroaching like a whisper, a barback looking to close the tab; leave the shop of the universe forever. Against the starlight – you’ll stand and evoke me in conversation and press away, Spinning like a long communication: A telephone call from the balcony above, an apartment location that’s just out of reach, And I’ll answer, mumbling some words about – what? It’s the location of the words that matter: On the axis of us so clearly inclined toward the sacred. I’ve been entwined with the music for as long as my spirit cares to recall, a thousand different Orpheus names: New bodies, All with their stupid and foolish traits – this one too in love with himself and that one too immersed in the spirit of his age; All the while, you’ve been yourself completely. Maybe you’ll throw a jab at me and my courtship, Or my bad poetry. We’ll both appeal and the whole combustion: A predictable reaction.

It’s all physics, I’ll tell myself – Between lifetimes where I overindulge: in food, liquor, sex, Whatever I’m craving at that moment – Lifetimes where I betray you by sleeping with other women, or otherwise neglecting you. Who am I to say your faults? Who am I to declaim anything about you? Other than my knowledge of that which lies between us, The crossroads of our strange meeting. Lovers, all angels: In their unknown essence. Who knows what lies at the heart of transformation? Who knows what lies in the midst of the blackest heat of the flame Which whips her into frenzied passions? That which compels her into the longest night

Of copious forgetting Drawn out of her breast And expelled with such desperate Loudness. The forgetting which is the final exile of release –

Come, infinite gallery! The hoax of mirrors, played off themselves: The procession of lovers and wives, infidels and husbands – Lined up to be wed in the thumping daydream heart of man: Migrant souls clinging to the promise of land. She’ll want a perfect day for her wedding, whatever that means. And I’ll ask, Have I played too much of my hand? Have I revealed the cliché of the poem? Have I revealed its secret, inner reason?

I’ll beckon to you, like in this poem From beneath your life: Immersed in the soul of my transaction with this world, The bowl in which I am baptized, filled with water; Bouyant, lifelike. I’ll call you down into the depths where you’ll be stripped of yourself: I’m the siren, Inanna, The siren who calls loud and brave through the chaos of the night – The night which descends like a god, like a fog down upon the world of men, Neptune night in which you sit today uncertain of your path, Uncertain of what lies ahead, tomorrow: a tomorrow which sits upon your chest like a daemon – the promise of your inner world struggling for emergence.

For you know, as well as I – that I hold the key to the sacred, That inner world which you know, all too well, lies beating and beckoning to your heart:

I, Hecate, keeper of the keys – I, Hecate, The beginning, middle, and end of your story. You’ll sit with her and play a dice game In the ancient gallery, in her palace of worship Where the neighborhood children run rampant With glowing eyes in the darkness Like feral cats.

I am a guide to the labyrinth Come & see me in the green hotel Rm. 32 I will be there after 9:30 p.m. I will show you the girl of the ghetto I will show you the burning well I will show you strange people haunted, beast-like, on the verge of evolution

Fear The Lords who are secret among us
Jim Morrison

II. The world man knows, the world in which he has settled himself so securely and snugly – that world is no more. The turbulence which accompanied the arrival of Dionysus has swept it away. Everything has been transformed. But it has not been transformed into a charming fairy story or into an ingenuous child’s paradise. The primeval world has stepped into the foreground, the depths of reality have been opened, the elemental forms of everything that is creative, everything that is destructive, have arisen, bringing with them infinite rapture and infinite terror ... Age-old laws have suddenly lost their power, and even the dimensions of time and space are no longer valid.

Walter Otto

III. (the Dionysian) - ‘The eternal life beyond all phenomena’

Friedrich Nietzsche

IV. Morrison's philosophy is then an invitation for us to live as gods, creating art, elaborating myths, and most of all, expanding our perceptions, in order - as he put it - to "deepen a strange hue in the clan tartan." [348]

Bill Osborn
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V. The Virilio/ Deleuze-Guattari analysis of Fascism, remember, maintains that Fascism is essentially self- destructive: a line of pure abolition. As such, Fascism is just the name for one more variant of the Romantic lust for the Night when all identity, all individuation, is subsumed in ‘an ecstatic aestheticized experience of Community’ (Zizek).

Mark Fisher

VI. "The worshippers of Dionysus cast off their worldly concerns and join in a dance. This dance is an innovation of the god and he is present in it. All music derives from this desire to dance together, in a community that embraces each of us, and cancels our separation. The chorus that we form tells us the story of the god, and also the story of those who separate themselves, as we all must separate ourselves, from the pure communion, so as to embark on some fatal project of our own.

Out of the dance there steps the tragic hero, whose fate appalls and fascinates his fellow dancers. He acts apart, affirms himself, and is destroyed, sinking back into the unity from which he briefly emerged."

Scruton [343]

VIII. "Vision is a form of prophecy. When Rimbaud says in 'Parade', 'I alone have the key to the barbarous procession ... He sees the invisible spectacle (parade) going on behind the real one." [199]

Morrison

IX. "There are no longer 'dancers', the possessed. The cleavage of men into actor and spectators is the central fact of our time ... we are content with the 'given' in sensation's

quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark."

Morrison, JDM [196]

X. Innocence is the child, a forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea. FWN [131]

For Brown, the concept of play typifies this childlikeness. This was also central to Morrison's view. He differentiated between 'play' - which is 'open' and 'free' - and 'the game', which involves rules and so isn't free. [132]

When play dies it becomes the Game. JDM [133]

A real man wants two things: danger and play. FWN [134]

Osborn

XI. Even when awake, the poet's world must have a dreamlike quality: "The poet is a poet only in so far as he sees himself surrounded by forms which live and act before him, and into whose innermost being he penetrates." [68] For "at bottom the aesthetic phenomenon is simple: if a man merely has the faculty of seeing perpetual vitality around him, of living continually surrounded by hosts of spirits, he will be a poet." [ib.]

Osborn

XII. Nietzsche then applies this will to power to specific aspects of life starting with the increasing nihilism. He blames the spread of nihilism on people and institutions that misues their will to power to create “moral values” for those

less powerful. Pressure from these moral values then perpetuates the need to conform – an occurrence he refers to as the “herd instinct” – or risk segregation and other consequences (161). He not only considers this detrimental to society but also to the individual and to creativity as he surmises “the herd seeks to maintain and preserve one type of man, and that it defends itself on two sides – that is to say, against those which are decadents from its ranks (criminals, etc.), and against those who rise superior to its dead level. The instincts of the herd tend to a stationary state of society; they merely preserve. They have no creative power” (168). Simmel clarifies asserting that “Nietzsche views the life of humanity to which he is passionately devoted as exhibited only by individuals” (Simmel 145).

M.M. Stypinski

XIII. The worship of God is: Honoring his gifts in other man, each / according to his genius, and loving the / greatest men best. Those who envy of culminate great men hate God, for there is no other God.

Blake
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SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL FEELING

There is no difference between the sublime and the beautiful beyond the categorical, that which the sensing and sensational organism apperceives the feeling to be, the feeling that either elevates the existing sense of self without fear of annihilation, or that which threatens to annhilate the existing sense of self. Here, we come to the simplest and most direct definitions of the sublime and the beautiful. The beautiful, then, is on the axis of the assured, or pure life: the sense of safety which is the observation of a painting from a distance, the innocence of a love poem or a small animal, an infant, a child, a warm afternoon. It is precisely that the beautiful is composed solely of the nonthreatening; that which it is impossible for the sense of self to be threatened by; is rather affirmed by. In this way, the self remains the one – or that which, a priori, was incorporated and during and after the experience remains entirely incorporated, or senses itself as not only ‘whole’, but enriched without wound or break by the sense experience. (Of course, this is impossible to define in a general sense – as the beautiful and the sublime are relative terms – terms which are dependent on that disposition which senses them.)

The sublime, however, is that which poses an immediate threat vis-à-vis nihilation; war, extreme natural events, a confrontation with the shadow self or the depths of the psyche, initation rituals, animal sexuality, the loss of existential meaning. It is then that the one becomes a zero by way of this sense experience and must actively reconstruct itself, like a bombed out city, to pick up the pieces of its former self-psychic image, and create and construct a new self-meaning. It is then that the sublime acts like the tower tarot card and the beautiful like the experience of the tarot card to the one who is initiated: a series of beautiful (and thus ‘nonthreatening’ as observed from a casual distance) images printed on cardstock.

The distinction between the sublime and the beautiful is always already dissolved into the absolutely sublime as the absolutely beautiful in a cosmic sense: being that the sense- judgement of the organism at hand, viewing the situation subjectively – fails to see the objective reality in that the infant, in short order, will become a skeleton in a grave and disappear entirely in the manner in whence it came down to this earth in material form from spiritude. It is also in this manner that the wildfire, observed subjectively, poses an immediate threat to human life – but from after the wildfire the earth itself receives new order and nutriment. It is precisely this interrelation between the sublime and the beautiful which is also the interrelationship between Chaos and Order as cosmic principles, or else called the Dionysian and the Apollinian – relations which, observed subjectively, play out in the realm and sphere of the human; observed objectively, play out the entire cosmic theatre of Being and Becoming ad infinitum.

Where man accepts feelings of pain, alienation and despair equally as he does feelings of jubilation, unity, and oneness - man welcomes feelings themselves entirely as visitors to his home and bids them all brief stay in acknowledgement of that which they are, and he is, in passage. Such a man is strong, realized; himself, ultimately whole.

It is to the observer to see the sublime in the beautiful and chaos in order – as that very seed which produces the manifest beautiful, just as the beautiful lies dormant in the coming sublime; order emerges from the necessary chaos of a fallen self-image. This, then, is an ecosystem of Chaos and Order – through which one is emergent through the other – similar to the procession of children through the womb of the mother and the insemination of the father – a metaphysically erotic whole which discharges the entirety of existence to and from itself as a projection of that which is; subsequently, a representation of the metaphysis at work. This is, again, of course, the very basis of and for man’s sensorium as an organism capable of sensing itself in relation to the cosmic order and the dischord which too resounds frequently in its playing – that very movement

which is reflected back within him in and as his feeling and feelings. For it is again that aesthetic experience is the first order of human-being and the sensation of the experience itself exists primary before and beyond language, meaning, and concept. It is the sensation which establishes, forever, primacy and dominion in the world of man as that which compels him to move, impels him to stay; impales him to the stake of his being-body – that very instrument which he uses to scry the universe and determine himself in the face of that and as that which he determines to be true, real, just, good, and thus - sensual.

The very compulsion to feel proves man’s existence as an energetic thing, a vessel or a magnet or a breathing barometer to and through which touch is sublime and sight is beautiful – and in the meeting of touch and sight vision is created; a wholeness of perception and apperception which at once justifies and dispels man’s existence in the universe as being fundamentally a part of the universal order of unity and separation, penetration and reception, self order and the chaos of shattering self-image. For the sensorium is itself a barometer of relationship, a barometer that raises and rises ever higher the more experience of true relationship man has: true relationship being that very situation which he finds himself in, with lovers, with friends, with thinkers, with books, with sounds, with animals, plants, trees, the stars – that very situation in and as which he is both spectator and actor, observer and participant, together and apart, unified and whole and ineffably cast out, exiled, individual – one within oneness; individuated consciousness within the entire sea of Being. For man’s consciousness is one wave; the wave builds and shatters across the rocks of the shore which are the end of his time; all he can do is commune with it briefly – this ultimate movement being the very projected synthesis of the sublime and the beautiful in and as his own existence in the larger movement of the metaphysis. It is a reconciliation of one’s own humanity; the very scales of beauty and sublime-sense which are possible within the experience of one’s humanity – a reconciliation which is the acceptance of the entirety of the human

experience, all of it – as a movement of consciousness which is to be briefly experienced by it.

Thus, the whole cosmic interplay of the sublime and the beautiful is dissolved; chaos and order, war and peace – and in this sense there is triumph, or the realization of endless peace or endless order in the very realization of the interplay of the two impulses. It is in this sense that without conscious awareness of the full extent of the metaphysis, the Dionysian, or chaos, or endless war reigns in and as the perceptive order of the individual (the self-image being one of irresolution; an irresolvable ‘problem’ or separation); with conscious awareness of the extent of the metaphysis, the Apollinian, or order, reigns in and as the perceptive order of the individual (one which excludes nothing, not even ‘chaos’ from order). It is that both are ‘true’ reality – in that both exist ineffably and impregnably within the other as one entity; as such are unabsolvable and irresolvable and undissolved. It is the consciousness of the individual which either makes peace or wages war with Creation, just as it is the consciousness of the individual which constructs peace and war, chaos and order, as opposites or bounds which – in the metaphysis – move with absolute fluidity to and from, in and as, oneself.

This is the very nature of making peace with oneself; ultimately as the total acceptance of that which one is and as – this very process manifest, or existent. The consciousness experiences the sublime and the beautiful is and as itself; the perpetually renegotiated boundaries of its own self-order and self-existence and absistence. It is of course that life is an unending war where the national borders of the subject are continually renegotiated by way of the experience of the sublime and reaffirmed by way of the beautiful; it is also that life is an unending peace proved in the very metaphysis which brings this life-process to bear in and as the individual and the cosmic, as and at on(c)e. It is the consciousness of this process that experiences the loss of itself, the affirmation of itself; the gain of another aspect of itself – the consciousness being the conqueror and the victor,

Alexander as well as Heraclitus, the recedence, the reflection, the going-within. One must be prepared to accept the endless process of gain and loss and in this acceptance gain nothing and lose nothing. The experience of the self, then, is moved to, through, and as the subjective- subjective to the subjective-objective plane, where the self- image is indivisibly shattered and thus united with the objective-self, where there is no image or correlative or possible categorical relationship – the unity of the one within and as the one. It is this very process of gain and loss, chaos and order which rages in the consciousness of the individual which is, by way of relationship, returned to its rightful place in and as the cosmic situation.

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THE WISDOM OF HECATE

There is a collective desire, irretrievably black; this is to say, of the depths – to simulate the cosmic process. It is in the copulation of sex; it is in the politics of man; it is in the strife which tears apart bridges and borders but also in the strife which carves the statue of Apollo, man himself, from the raw block of himself as he was before his body was thrown into the erotic nature of the physis: that which mimics and reveals the metaphysis as divine process of all things to and from their apparance.

It is in this simulation, or we could also say, stimulation from the cosmic reality – that man receives all of his desire to create, to build and destroy – the very lifeblood of his existence which propels, compels, and impels him forward into his as yet unknown fate, his next place in the stars; it is this very simulation of the two opposites, the first agon, the primary explosion and implosion of darkness and lightness – the cosmic revelation of incredible force which is the intercourse of the two lovers into and from unity and separation as apparance. Again, it is the apparence which man observes and calls his life, his world; the conflictual forces: the very forces which we call this world rubbing and fricting themselves away into sand and ash and new birthings – it is this apparence in which man too experiences the chafing; the rawness of his existence chiseled by time and space and desire into new figurations, new elements, new ways and methods of being: in and into a perennial evolution of force and the substance expelled to and from that essential force which we call the cosmic play, the utter lawlessness of the universe making mincemeat of mankind’s ideals, notions, and frameworks of himself, his world, and his work among it.

His political frameworks, his domestic life, his realizations, his literature and arts, his sexual life, his everydays – they all mimic this conflictual tension between chaos and order; the Dionysian outburst which threatens and does strip away all

safety and surety and the Apollinian fortification and strong stone of man’s laws, borders, and words – all of which promise him protection in the eternal pending night; all of the night which threatens to be overthrown by the blinding daylight of revelation; again to be turned to the pitch black of oblivion in mere moments. It is in this way that man’s sheer will to life is perpetually challenged and reminded by the coming, again and again in waves, extinguishing of the conditions which he once called ‘life’; the stripping away of ideals, concepts, and reasons to life – the very image of life which he once held dear, sacred, true; even regular – the very image which is slashed away at by the Dionysian knife – the knife which forces revelry and revelation in the abandon of the what-was. His Apollinian sense is the sense of the solidity of wood; the firmness of his militia, his muscles; the certainty of his redemption in his ideals and life’s work. It is in this way that the Apollinian sense is the illusion which hold’s man’s will to life upright – but in doing so, by its very illusion-making of images, turns his will to life to a will to death: a will to die to the cosmic reality for the illusion of himself and his world in dialogue; the will to die for an imagined purpose.

What threatens this sacred balance is, of course, man’s realization that his will to live is upheld by a social structure, or network of meanings, built around simulation and thus affirmation of the cosmic principles which swirl around him, at each moment, unknowing and unknown replication of the process which births him and deaths him a thousand times to himself and his world. The very loss of society and sociality is to be cast out of the circle of meaning which looks up at the stars and down into the sediment of its history and emerges with an understanding; furthermore, an accord of Apollinian reason within which the Dionysian is afforded play-rights. The loss of society in man is, too, a loss of culture; it is the loss of the founding frameworks of other men and other times and other places which situate him in beingness and time. What is man then?

If he is exiled, by his hand or another’s, or by the simple matter of strength of heart – he is in prime position to engage the strife of the universe at and by his own hand and accord: to engage in free play in the physis and enactment of his own dangerous entanglement in the Apollinian and Dionysian war for Creation. This very myth is placed in his hands if he so chooses it – entirely his own to wage a war of equal creation within and by embodying the opposites and allowing them to wage war in free play through him. As such, his very life becomes a dice game; he tempts the fates to work through him; his life becomes pure poetry. To open up this movement in himself is to simultaneously say yes to his own destiny while resounding an eternal no to the frameworks of collective and mass destiny imposed about him; to cut a broad swath through all existent meaning and craft a course of newness emergent from his soul: it is to be a Creator, a philosopher-poet; to not even exist but as a light- being shot through with the gods. He allows the gods to work through him, becoming a storm in which the very primary battle of Creation rages; it rages through him, as him; even as he witnesses its raging he participates in it, urging it forward; urging it into new form, meaning, language, and being. It is in this way that man is forever capable of working with the metaphysis; channeling and directing its energy into new outlets, new sparkplugs of his spiritual physique.

For he must play as the universe plays, lawless, holding onto nothing, with no key nor method to his play. He must maintain a flexible self-physique, capable of jumping up and out of himself and observing with an eagle’s eye the condition of himself and his fellows just as he is capable of the deep immersion of his soul in the waters of grounded being; to tap the wells of the collective fear and joy and to channel them through himself in whichever role or rhyme he must play to balance the scales of being-harmoniously. In this way he is a composer, one who bends and strings his instrument to match and counterpoint the existent signature – to bend and sing with it in such a way that a measure exists but as a countermeasure; a minor key supplements,

with subtlety, the large tones of the major. It is in and through this balancing act that man plays his part in Creation – not merely as an observer or an actor, but as one indelibly and ineffably immersed within its chorus; one who is capable of emerging and decrying a soul-song to change the very course of his and the world’s history – a capacity forged in and as the power of his understanding the situation at hand. It is in this way that the will to life is recognized as that which it truly is, the very lifeblood itself channeling and coursing through man driving him to unity with it: absolute birth and absolute death in collision within him, as him. He relies no more on outer images or descriptions of this war of Creation – and instead – feels it within and as his own force of being.

Here is where we speak of Freedom: that Freedom is only possible in and as oneself. It is that the very structure and Order of oneself is being forever stripped away and changed by the Chaos which runs through man, immanently, as this, his moment of Being coursing through him, inevitably and indelibly changing the entire makeup of that which he called his existence. This is the Freedom which is the no longer looking outward or calling his innate spiritual power, his lifeblood movement, outside of himself – or channeling it into external structures of world-governance and world- production – but instead giving himself entirely to the lawless nature of this metaphysis which requires of himself, the whole of himself, his mind, spirit, body, and soul – that he change entirely, absolutely, transformatively without desire for redemption of and from the past nor salvation of and from the future but to be composed and to compose with – entirely – this movement of changing. This freedom is, of course, the relenting of the Dionysian and Apollinian hypothesis completely – as the strife in the heavens retains no thrust in the ceasing of forcible oppositions. Here, one gives way to change like he is using all the thrust of his opponent against him; in such a way that the opponent no longer even opposes him – he runs right past him. It can no longer be said, without tension between two forces, that such an opponent could even exist.

Without the tension of the metaphysical opposite, or counterpart like a lover, a warring nation, an object – there cannot be a self like in the self-object synthesis. Just in this way, there cannot be a Dionysian-Apollinian conflict – there can only be the Hecatian unity of crossroads, of perpetual simulated conflict and yet in this simulation an absence of conflict altogether. She to drop the hatch away from the perceived conflict and down into the corridors of revelation – through which man receives light from the dark; illumination of the dark moon; the antiscion of the day of the sun – her black sun – one that tells past the time and space of the physis; past force into and through the very first thrust, the primordial origin of that which appears to us today as our lives, as mankind, as the world; the cosmic synthesis. It is she and she alone who gives even the appearance of birth; she gives it from every pore of her black body which is illumined like the torch of Heraclitus’ cosmic fire from within, the very torch which holds both the sun of the sol and the sun of the soul within it; her two orbs which circle forever in a dance between her hands – the one who proceeds the very thresholds of birth and death. For if man appears to emerge from the waves of time in the archetypal form of pure emboldened light and life and pure death and dark, she is that very state and process of becoming which becomes, encapsulates, swallows, produces and digests and returns to the soil – each of these manifestations of mankind which find their ground in the history and culture of men. She is that raw substance from which they take form and construct their lives; only to be returned to her bosom, the black soil from which the first bloom came whence and the rest commence in their processional flaring.

To acknowledge Hecate as that from which the perceived warring of existence and struggle for life and existence emerges from would be catastrophic to human life as it exists in its current iteration; it would be a death and abandon of all existent forms, structures, and institutions which uphold life in any capacity or way in which it is

perceived to currently be or be as existent. It would be to become the surrender and abnegation of the will; thus, precisely, the ability of the cosmic order of Hecate to unfold through the becoming as itself, as an open channel of her word gestated and gestating force. It would be, then, to enter into a state of total worship and obeyance and obedience to the goddess Hecate and her myriad manifestations, forms, names, and utterances – and to become co-creator in her onfolding in observation of the cosmic principles of her nature: the very aetheric soil of all things from whence they take their plunge and bloom from all directions into and through the field of the physical: as a flowing and outpouring of eternal life. This is to say that man is forever pregnant with meaning; his lifeblood given through him by the whisper of Hecate – his lifeblood that reminds him of his true essence. He must only allow for it to be borne in due course; to midwife himself into being and draw no resistance.

Absolute vacation is the true nature of reality. It is not the life and dying of images, but rather a still, black vacation which resides at the outer reaches and end of all space, time, and perception of the coming and going journeys of things and nature – as the furthest and the nearest Beingness. With contemplation of the absolute vacation of all things as their fundamental nonexistence, one enters into a space of meditation and communion with the absolute; drawing deep and broad powers from that which is without ending dimension. From this space, all can be made and destroyed; creation and destruction are one and the same – as the state of absolute vacation remains unconquered, bottomless, and neutral. Such a reality requires that ‘death’ as a conceptual reality among human beings be stripped of its negative and positive connotations; come to be viewed as the true nature of all things and bodies which appear like images on a screen before the perception of life. Thus, the term ‘death’ as a stand in for vacation acquires a deeper signification and significance among human beings: a perpetual beginning; the source of all things which is limitless and unending in its source-full nature; the deepest and most complete power as all power and force in existence; as well as all power and force that has, will, and continues to emerge as well as infinite potential power, ability and meaning. It is in this way that Creation is a storehouse of infinite

vacation; in communion with infinite vacation, the human being comes into deep comprehension of the essential nature of life and reality. To live in the presence of vacation is to live in the presence of the full powers of Creation; to commune with them as a vessel pregnant with the very metaphysical process which it seeks to understand; thus come into more intimate cohabitation with. To reside with vacation is to make a home with it, make peace with it, make love with it. It is to coexist in the first and absolute paradox of Being. Such a person is the artist par excellence; one who with each movement, gesture, meaning, and word – cocreates with vacation and thus cocreates in light of the absolute reality which constructs the apparition of mankind and its ‘world’ of things and conceptual ideals – the very source of lifeforce energy through which the entirety of man’s structures of government, reasons of being, faculties, excuses, intellectualizations, self images, empires, families – are constructed of and from. Vacation is the very makeup of all that has become and is becoming; Vacation is the Prophetess, the Oracle, herself. An absistence which is arriving; a striking midnight.

This reality is dizzing, difficult, confusing, and hard to contemplate for the human mind as not only the ceasing to exist, but as the fundamental nonexistence of all things; thus, the conflictlessness of all life as a ceaseless Becoming through which life takes only a brief appearance. It is the canal of pure aesthetic possibility, meaning, and reason – where all things take on their aesthetic hue and thus become possible as subjects and objects playing off of one another in the playful light evaluation. It is not only that the entirety of ‘existence’ and ‘nonexistence’ is fundamentally aesthetic, but it is that it is the absolutely creative confluence of perceived sensations which themselves come to constitute the arrhythmic, rapidly disappearing physical ‘reality’ of man projected out from that which lies forever before him, behind him, about him, within him, as him: the Hecatian Vacation, Pure Being. All raging, all war and all dissent of man comes from the failure to accept this Pure Reality as Pure Being; it is that it is hard to accept which creates both violence and art as projected and projective realities from the gape of consciousness which seeks forevermore itself which cannot and will not be found by sight, but by Vision.

That man cannot accept his true nature is his violence; the history of man’s work in the world – a violence and a warfare of his life, consuming his life – wasting his time and energy towards reconciling that idea which he calls ‘death’, but in reality is a neutral Vacation of all that which he can call anything. Such an encounter with his true nature in the face of that which man today calls ‘his life’ and ‘his world’ is nothing less than a psychotic break and schism of his life – if such an occurrence brings itself to bear without being immediately displaced or deferred onto a figuration or an image of meaning/being/seeing. Such a Vision not only requires man’s surrender, but it reveals to him that struggle or resistance is not possible, does not exist; that he is being taken by himself to reveal himself to himself; that his imagined aggressors and his imagined sword and his imaged will to fight and live – along with the worlds of his friends, illusions, and convenient distractions – are but perpetual reminders of this journey. Even his struggle is a perverse surrender to Vacation: a surrender which is conducted by the bearable entertainment which convinces his constructed self that he is not going quietly; that he still retains the valor and honor of his, again, imagined fight for life, supremacy, dignity, glory, survival, reason, god, nation, lover, family – and so forth.

For it takes a strong and courageous heart to stare into the fabric of existence and to commune with the silk strings of aether which have wound man’s imagination of himself and his world so tightly that he perceives them as truth; to no longer act but to commune and thus to work with and not against Vacation – for a warrior must know when to surrender – and to know that his self understanding becomes there: in the very dark winding. It takes a willingness to listen; a willingness to abandon all that which one believes to be true; a willingness to sit with the still – to contemplate and be in deep union with Vacation, herself. It takes a strong and courageous heart to come together with the very abandon which composes him; to allow her to be, to feel, to be her eyes; to be her heart.

THE DEEP FEMININITY OF EXISTENCE

The very essence of existence is absistence, or abnegation; the being-without-being which composes the heart of being. Each figuration of being is composed from the essence of without which winds him and is his very nature. Him being a stone, a kite, a wind, a water, a man. Each contains the essence of his departure, commonly called ‘death’ – but death would be too simple and strong a word to call that which he is; death tips the scales against life and creates a dialogue where there is not one. The very essence of existence might instead be called a Vacation – not an absence necessarily (for this would imply a presence), but a grotto in which all things are held and in various states and degrees of gesticulation and buoyance; rising to the surface of the waters of time to proclaim themselves then falling again from their ecstasy into the murmurings of the waters of her womb, that womb which holds all time and space in its primordial mix of feeling, sensation, touch, bodies, flesh, and the orgia which man perceives today as his emanance and emanation through life: the colors of his world.

For if man is a participant in the orgia of his life he is so immersed in the Vacation that he becomes it: pure sensation, pure feeling, all of which are strands of Being which lead him back to the heart of her web, her woven representations – the heart of her web which is her primordial essence as Vacation, as aetheric compression and loosed into the world like an arrow: the explosion of feeling into Creation – a thrust of release which is like a simulated phallus – but that which too is, of course, her phallus – produced of her dropping into the realms of physis by way of a condensation of her swirling energies. Hecate, or Vacation, she is like an aetheric mixture which ignites in a sudden chamber of fire – an ignition in Becoming as birthing(s). From her sudden fire comes ash; the ash drawn man and his world – like tea leaves perceived by a reader. It is the paradox that the very product of aether would be ash as it compresses to fire and dejection – a composition which

occurs as the alchemists say within the glass of the body, the vessel of the vase; the womb of Creation, herself.

Even this vessel is deeply feminine – that which contains, as is receptive, a receptor, a hollow instrument which is recalled by Spirit, Vacation; recalled and the recall echoes through the chambers of the flesh; the glass of the body as a tone. Each vessel is called back to her origin of abnegation. Each vessel moves toward absolute abandon; the ecstasy of its emanation – the recall back toward her god self, Vacation. Her very created vessel simulates her womb. So then is man enticed by what he calls ‘death’; so then does mankind call his imagined counterpart, ‘woman’, by the name of ‘death’.

NOTES ON THE ABYSSAL NATURE OF MAN

Man lives in eternal communion with the abyss; he remarks upon it as it marks him. This is the origins of poetry as well as of man’s self image; the projection of his world as a procession of imagisms wrought from his consciousness, of and as himself, as witnessing life as it unfolds before him, as him, ad infinitum… and yet at a strange distance: a distance of perception and (proceeding from his perceived apprehension), apperception of self and world as conjecture of definitive being(s). Man stands before the abyss and imagines it looks like he does, loves as he does, dreams as he does; his abyss is the wish of himself, and thus it forms and conforms him forever as an active reflection of his perceived beingness of it and as it being of himself.

So it is that man’s consciousness resides even before the abyss as that which is drawn toward it, through it, and out of it – or that very imaginative substance that allows him to take form from utter formlessness and aether – the first substance, the a priori substance which does not appear as itself without relationship to the abyssal nature which is himself. It is, certainly, that the substance of man’s consciousness is strange, as it appears and disappears without seeming cause; as it appears throughout time and space being recalled to itself – ways and manners of being that proceed without linearity; ways and manners of being which proceed as his front to nature poetically.

It is the a-matter, or primordial fluid which flows from the gape of the formless nature of the abyss to take and make shape in existence as that which is becoming ‘existent’. So it is that consciousness, as positive substance, first substance as penetrative, emergent from the void of nature, is that essential fluid which resides above and yet as physis, capable of changing and making all shape as the thingness of things, the composer at large of the being-physis.The essential disjecta of the fluid of consciousness from the gape of the abyss is thus the embodily fluid of the universe, the prima

materia produced from the inner machination of becoming- from the hold of the abyss – that which simultaneously marks and proceeds from beyond the outer reach (the apparence of Saturn observable by the naked eye and that which enters the constellation of man’s sight from beyond its reach) – to and through which beings enter the fold of the material and exist and (ultimately) exit from the realm of the phenomenal, relinquishing their claim to apparent beingness and yet still residing forever within the metaphysis of the abyss. This is to say that the abyss is channeled through a canal of becoming, through which it becomes ‘observable’ vis-à-vis the dimensional transformation of itself as fluid consciousness (capable of the greatest change between realms as ‘presenting’ and ‘de-presenting’ itself) – observable as in its condensation and compression through becoming as a channel which appears and disappears all things, notions, concepts – as consciousness forms.

The very nature of the abyss is perpetually forced into existence and thus revealed in the form of the physis – man’s conjectured self, world, reality; the phenomenal. So it is that when man remarks upon the abyss he remarks upon himself as his own mother and his own father – the very conjugal fluid which he has conjured, himself, through the own slip of his being into existence; compressed and condensed into apparent form and yet retaining the heart and essence of his abyssal self as his heart, his heat, his head, his lifesblood which, entangled in the physis – feels, examines, senses and exists within the world of things and yet cannot entirely identify with the, as them; thus man feels his breach in the world – the breach of his contract with his own flesh and his own life – forever owed to his true form – his eternal debt, the true, abyssal nature of his metaphysis; his immanent arrival and truth as all that he is; all that stares back at him forever in his life, waking and asleep – all that stares through the concrete of his cities, his ever changing memory, his histories and worldly affairs, his eyes, his fingertips – he cannot be entirely convinced of them – hard as he attempts to be believe. For he cannot be: his true nature is precisely in and of the becoming nature of the

abyssal – the deeps which have no analogue but the shifting sands of the depths of his longing which guide him like a sleepwalker or a daydreamer through the days and nights of his life. The abyss marks him: as his essential nature – his longing, his emptiness, his desire; all that which is brought to bear in his actions and deeds on earth in search of his wholeness, his unity, his sigh of exhalation. He must find a way to come to terms with his abyssal nature or otherwise wage war ever against himself in search of that which he is; to turn away from himself and be mistaken as another.

Philosophy is the reconciliation of any and all perceived division and separation of being(s) and beingness from Being. It is thus a process of healing, suturing with consciousness the original wound of consciousness

the idea or the perceived life of the human being as being separate from the cosmic totality, or universal order. This separation might be called death, alienation, birth, exile.
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In the life where I asked your hand in marriage, Waved from carriages, loved you from afar and fell apart In my own machinations, beckonings from my heart – Romantic love all things to me; In this life where you pass through me like the ghost of a summer rain Outside the gates of the city, we meet; So these five planetary hours proceed Given over to Venus and Mars, Given over to bedrooms, too, that you’ll quickly leave In a time where the human being lives twelve lives In a single body.

I went from wild living, the restlessness, the being locked up in apartment boarding houses; just for a season, The haze of drugs – You playing in the dirt and mud in the equal abandon of childhood; Now so suddenly dressed for courtship – and I can hear the loss in your voice, echoing about the wooden walls Your place in time usurped by the galley of a moment which is lost to chasms of uncertainty: Sufficing in survival, a whole planet gritting its teeth and bearing down In a long winter of the spirit.

Our romance in this life, wanton Unheeding of the traditions which structured it, once Our touch immediate, unyielding, hard and fast in skin Our touch - meeting the physis and exploding perception. That spectre: to speak of you now and to feel the pull of your body once more, riding through me like a pulse of former knowledge – A knowledge which made our meeting so pleasurable and clear; A world abandoned but for pure sensation.

For this is where our paths diverge, In love and the term’s meaning.

Where I have seen the blackness of death and the throes of passion which fly upward on the fount of desire – You have seen the steadiness of another – the lover’s commitment and stride beside you; A stride which I could not hope to match – mine being wild and quick and first into the fray, first into the abyssal fold. You who reside in gardens forever, the slow dance of your walk; even your idolatry of the beautiful figure – which emerges from the war of the body – the Jacob of its emergence, these sculpted, hard lines.

From the existent world, you take your pleasures; I, from the imagination – the fleeting romance which runs to the well of feeling and touches bottom. I am gone from the everyday and thus no use to you in the toil of your days, your days which exist so clearly in your mind. You hold them there, as you believe you must. My life is but one burst of feeling, longer, deeper, and more passionate with each focused revelry, Each arrow of my life striking its mark, the poem – the depths of the absolute frequency of that sensation called love – bound to no one and no thing but the sensation itself; I live there; thus making my home in the poem forever. Here, there is no solitude; Here, even the lover is absolved.

What now can I say about the love between us? For it is love, even the ugly kind – through which we find our shape. Romance? Captivation? Your desperate hands about my back and my waist; coming together with you in the timeless urgency; The ecstasy of our breach; to the hold of being we fly. There we are, riding that place, saddleless The gates of Bethlehem and the eternal state – The state which does not live or die in time and space. I would meet you there now, if the current were not too strong in your own life – Calling you back to your childhood friends and the sweet delight

Which wraps your perception in fields of its own wonderful play, a play which you can see: the world unto yourself which is to know the start and the end of things. For to have written the acts is to predict them; to know their coming order. There, the story of your life remains safe and assured in its telling.

I stand now, as I have before, On the edge of my time and beckon to you; You perhaps do not even hear my call for that which it is – Myself altogether filtered through the silkscreen of your language – all called back to love; landlessness The pure sensation of it in your life. Perhaps it was your parents or a young lover, or a book or a film – Which showed you the love you now heed as your master. For if I call to you from the breach I call to you from the wide storm between us, Through which the wind howls and the thunder speaks and my words become mingled with the pure violence of nature – Utterly whole and one with Creation. As such, they are filled with brutal and strange notions.

Do you hear my true song? A love that is forever at peace with the contradictions of its taking shape, A love that has triumphed in the suturing of all things into their absolute form, the abyssal infinitude and it speaks! – a love that has no longer mistaken the existence of things for their reality. All is shadow; all shadow must fall upon this world, Even the clear dawn of your story – lost to the coming black of the moon. What love But the wildness of collision, the ecstasy of the loss of rule; The falling of the king into his true kingdom – The kingdom of the imagination, eternally shared;

The end of empires and the emergence of a new way of being. There, all life is structured and made clear, In the focused and smooth breath of the artist, Centred in the midst of his whirling Creation. You would not meet me here, Caliban? Knowing that it is the most unsafe place, and yet The emergence of all Life? Its very wellspring and soil?

This is what it is to walk on water, or to embody the contradiction of the elements; To observe the expansion and contraction of the universal principle as one’s own breath – unabated, concurrent; at last surrendered and absolutely singular. For there is no separation between Lovers, the lips our great mouth, love – Between the furthest stone of the most distant empire and the palace in which we meet, Kiss and lay the whole bedroom to waste with private language. All rooms disappear in this breath; all silence abated in the gyrating bodies of our worlds. In what dream do planets exist As their own bodies, stripped of the clothing of their names? Where do they exist With hidden privations Words unknown to god?

You will walk on, beautifying the ground upon which you step or sleep, A night under the stars or elsewhere and otherwise wrapped up in the eternity of your mind which has afforded you The Innocence – a sacred movement of indecision A play of all paths; a life that is truly human. Do you know what it is to be like this? Half man and half god? To do battle on the mount with the infinite and to be revealed that all is but a game, a theatre of rollicking antiques? Our very souls unsoothed

Passionate players? The shadows of these bodies marked by the light of Time and Spirit; To run the soul breathless to the river; At last To be left with a soliloquy – Facing the solitary breadth Of the stars.

Come, Jana, come dear We shall dance the kolo.

Come Jana, come dear, We shall sell the horse, We shall sell the house.

We shall sell, Jana dear, Everything to dance.

THE INDIVISIBLE FREQUENCY OF ART & ROMANCE

Both art and romance are an essential replication of the metaphysical process at hand: the gestures out into the abyss to touch the mirror of existence which jettisons becoming from unto Being and Being from unto becoming as the first and last Creation. Here, there is no myth, only the immediacy and expediency of experience as the other/canvas as that which immediately represents and counterparts and mutually composes the actions of the individual in the self-formulation and expression process. It is this form of intimate relationship which creates, too, the category of intimate (immediate) knowledge. There is no other method throughout which to test such a self formulation; no other method which so immediately tells the whole truth to the subject formulating himself.

For to enter into the contract of romance or canvas the artist is immediately endeavored towards the creation of a more formal relationship with the observed or existent beingness at hand; the condition of true romance or true art being the absolute unfolding and unfoldment of that relationship as a mutual vulnerability and openness to the unfolding itself; this is to say to allow the relationship to become itself without outside pressure and exertion of force. For each relationship between two things, two points, two beings, two masses – has its own secret flower to unfold: but this flower or secret cannot be spoken but by itself unto itself; those who approach and move from one another can only hear this secret as it emerges; it is not for one or the other to say. So it is, too, with the artist and his canvas: the canvas and the artist existent in the state of being perfect mediums – to sign the contract of a commitment to the unfolding process; to obey the unfolding process completely in the movement of the expression of this relationship into existence without the intrusion of the artist’s mind, ego; the allowance of the gesture to be moved and removed from the canvas at the relationship’s pure will.

For the will of relationship is more powerful than any individual will; this is proved in mass movements and romances the world over which create events and happenings and becomings greater than the sum of their parts – in a collective and collected summoning of energy and willpower force which at a certain point is ‘taken over’, or directed by the meeting place, meeting point; acceptable and accepted medium of the beings at hand. This, too, often proves to be an as yet non-existent point; an altogether revolutionary movement. This is, too, the lost art of shared culture as community; making together philosophy of being – one relationship traded for the technique of ‘progress’; lost in this trade or transaction of spirit for endless mercantilism is, of course, the form of pure relationship which allows for endless transformation of all involved – relationship that does not immediately acquiesce to the modern law: consumption, desire to fulfillment or satiation; discardment, the law of single use; the adherence to the machine of the ego as arbiter, gate, measurer, and user of value and values. The very modern condition is an active suppression of intimacy-as-romance (en-spirited relationship where the relationship, the disapparent thing, or communion, acts as mover and movement of life) in favor of pre-organized, transactional exchange of materials, goods, and services to satisfy egoic desire(s).

Here, the loss of ‘shared culture’ is apparent; the thing that imbues all ‘things’ with their current ‘thingness’, as a spirit of the age that has all but overwhelmed the collective awareness and engagement of and with life as an action contributed to and done; in each moment we can call this work of world ‘the everyday’.

THE REDEMPTIVE POWER OF ART

The great artist redeems the entirety of creation in, as, and with his works. For and to him, it is not a question of whether or not this or the other thing is the task of art, rather, the all means and all ends of art are toward and with the redemption of creation in the itself creative work which transcends the entirety of that which exists in this moment to summon the next octave, the next stanza, the next elucidation of beingness in an altogether different fashion: the work of creative genius fashioned by and in the realm of the metaphysis.

For the great artist, his time and all time must be redeemed in this one work, in this singular act of immense focus, attention, fortitude, and precision. As such, he can never be wrong nor can he strike a wrong note or write a wrong passage – for each line and stanza is a devotional to and through which his great passion is expressed – passion so great it threatens to overwhelm the moment entirely and spill over into eternity. All great art is summons by way of and through the passions, summons of a way of being which is paramount to itself, surmounts itself and mounts itself upon the mount of all that stands as true, real, great, natural, and human today. It must transcend its conditions precisely because within the great artist lies dormant and begging to be expressed an actuality which, through the art, becomes a new height of reality and new possibility of being-human.

As such, there is a clear mark and delineation between great art and that sphere called, ‘literature’, ‘visual art’, ‘music’, and other such forms which are relegated to categorical boxes replete with competition, profit, moneychangers, and merchants. The great art itself exists wholly and entirely for, toward, and as a new method or way of being which itself shines in its working – a shining which is the pregnancy of a new paradigm bourne in the work of art – a shining which is the entirety of a new world expressed therein. So it is that

great art and great art alone affords, entirely, a new method: itself has a thousand eyes and moves into the world like an angel – emergent from the place of pure spirit (or duende, pure soul) into the physis, into materiality altogether from no-thing, no means, no way. As such, the movement from zero to one is nothing short of a miracle, or an act of True, Divine, Absolute Creation. In summoning itself, it calls its own name from the abyss in a hitherto unknown and unseen language – a language which is predictably called madness and nonsense by the contemporary mass – but a language which is itself eternally the Future, standing as a raw creative development which is, as a process or procedure of Divine Making – summoned as a direct line from the infinite without egoic interruption. The human being, for all intents and purposes, does not exist in the act of Creation – but as a channel or instrument through himself the work is summoned and given and taken form as breath-into-being. As such, the great artist is forever Nobody; the one who proceeds from none and yet can only be identified by the raw immediacy and direct action of his gesture to and through the physis – a gesture of creating- language which, secondarily, becomes common language among folk.

For the work of art is altogether without future; it resides purely and absolutely in the realm of the immediate, of the moment as it is observed in a gallery hundreds of years later, sung once more, written and burned in a flame. It is the artwork that happens to and through the great artist; it is the very indistinguishable process of the creation of life itself – an immediate creation so passionately felt and experienced with a directness and acuteness of feeling that the event happens twice within and without the artist as that method of extensive production who himself gives birth to life as it is happening through his experience of living: without direction; wandering into the act of Creation. He comes as no one, bearing nothing, seeking nothing, knowing nothing; as such he comes as the moment; he comes shining, he comes in the fashion of the one who is redeeming the moment precisely by being no one in

particular; inhabiting the in between space between the zero and the one as a conduit to and for a reality which would not otherwise be possible but for the second stomach of consciousness which are his hands, legs, eyes, and mouth. As such, he gives the moment pure reflection but with a winking eye, as if to say, ‘I know you, too, to be me’.

The work of art as a total acceptance of the endless barrage of moments is the work of art as utterly timeless; furthermore, to be a knowledge beyond time – an understanding of the immediate interrelation (as both none and one) of the nearest and the farthest, the greatest and the smallest. The great artist calls all of these assets to his side, admitting the greatest mistake as his greatest strength, and the simple ugliness of life to be its beautiful complexity. In this manner he admits all opposites as themselves, shattering the imagistic view of this reality today as being (in the illusory fashion of images) separate from all that has been and will ever be; the compendium of these realities and becomings being themselves of the essence of the one Being who is endlessly bourne and born through the becoming of none to one and two and (three and) four. So is his rhythm a heartbeat, the backbeat and backbone of the universe which he plays like a flute, hollowed out and revealed; he drinks the nectar of the marrow of the universe; his bone and the world bone are one.

Then, in lieu of the term ‘human being’, it would be more apt to say that there is only ‘the artist’, who Creates in vocation with and as Being. The function of the artist, as such, is to be as and at the crossroads of Creation and to remember Creation absolutely, in the sense that in the very act all time and space is absolved in communion with the infinite, the Being-as. It is only in forgetting the state-of-being-the- artist, for his manifest ‘works’ that such a ‘human being’ and the worlds, laws, and spheres of representation of ‘humanness’ can possibly ensue as illusory states of being.

‘We are spirits and the whole tension is that we don’t know that we are. Yet music is able to touch this.’ – Jeff Buckley

I TRIUMPH IN THE PHYSIS; I IMAGINE IT DONE AND IT IS DONE.

Life is absolutely programmable by the imaginative belief; by absolutely programmable I mean that it is without shape, form, word, pronunciation, or meaning but that which the programmation of the one which is articulating it-self. This is also what is meant by absolute freedom and the state of free-play, creative, imaginative entwinement with the metaphysis and the physis as being-at-on(c)e. This is precisely what it means to live; to live without screens and representations of ‘life’ which act as delimiting forces on the power and feeling of the imaginative current.

It is to maintain this state of absolute creative imagination which is what it is to ‘meditate’, or to come into coalision, conversation, and communion with Life itself. It is to examine the without and the within and reveal them to be one, an uncertainty which sits forever on the razor’s edge between the incarnate and the disincarnate spheres; to understand that one’s own eternal and ever-flowing self is the very agent of transformation between these fields and mediums of presentation and de-presentation.

The human being sits on this axis and is the change agent, or doorway, between ‘birthings’ and ‘deathings’, like the newborn foal or the springing green or the fallen leaves – the physis of man’s perception is his doorway into more accurate being as in representation of himself and his true form as he articulates it from his imagination in this moment. At any given point or juncture, there is free change in this imagination as it is allowed by the agent.

For ‘I’ to triumph in the physis is a matter of allowing the I to be a thousand eyes; for the ‘I’ to be the angel-I; the I which goes up and down the ladders of the physis and metaphysis and brings new worlds, a messianic I which takes its root firmly in the principle of the metaphysis-physis transformation process; as such has no firm identity but the

changeless movement of constant change and transformation at root. This is the seed of the soul that remains through one thousand transformations.

I will and sprint toward the feeling of love From the riverbanks and the canal’s edge up to the horizon of all feeling And dissolve myself in its waves; Collapsed in light and all that will be said is, ‘at last’. No more ice on my image of the world; no more world, No more screens and no more projection of the power of the infinite forever within me. Now I breathe with the will of god; now I breathe with the peace of the present. I realize that I am love, eternally.

THE PHILOSOPHER

The philosopher is no strange thing or peculiar anomaly. It is simply one who has realized that the human body is a technology through which consciousness moves; thus, itself, a method where there is no method; a playful game where there was once this rampant mood of seriousness in the culture about him. Through this knowledge, the entirety of the philosopher-man’s being enters into a state of play, free play where act and every action is leveled by experimentation – where the philosopher’s life vis-à-vis and in the ‘human body’ is one of a continued and continual expression and conversation with the bounds of the physical and the metaphysical – the trans-actional space between the two places of the apparance and the disapparence of ‘things’ as they are and were; interacted with in the philosopher’s perceptive and perceptible space.

For this is the trick – that the philosopher is at last that which is the consciousness – that which observes the life of the ‘human being’ called the philosopher; thus in this place of being twice removed from life the one that observes life being acted out in the theatre of being from the seat of the director – the one who changes roles and costumes in conscious will toward that spiritualized place of being-made- physical. He knows the rules, the rules of that which all comes and goes and all is at last a play of sensations and experimentation; a play of creation through which the will and consciousness of the divine being is channeled through the physical one toward the end of that which he believes to be true. Thus, the philosopher moves on a swivel, or a pivot, endlessly in a dance around his body – a vehicle and a vessel for an experiment into the canals of truth.

He has a million truths; all are leveraged in that sake of communion – the philosopher’s realized ultimate truth – that communion of Wisdom. All laws and truths are broken and established in order to furthermore establish this communion: this communion which is the bridge of his

body between the realms of spirit and flesh – that finally uniting force and energetic frequency which he abides in his acknowledgement of that which lies beyond all attempts at establishing space, time, language, place, identity, meaning, being. It is all infirm to him; inadequate truth but for a brief ‘law’ to be established as a play in light of the Divine Law, a play like Euripedes or Artaud – a play written in the physis to bring him closer to his primordial origins, the river of his soul, the inbound outbound flowing of energetic traffic which sweeps through him and carries him away into the ecstatic. Thus, it all must be allowed through periodic disallowance – for the sake of some hitherto unknown and unseen change, some hidden imposed law which gives him a gate through which he slips into the realm of the visible, into the realm of the physical altogether clothed differently and unrecognizable but for that understanding look in his eyes and mouth which shows where he stands.

The philosopher is only revealed in the endless shedding of skins, like a snake or a mollusk, the one who willingly sheds the entirety of the appearance of that which was in order to more adequately configure this coming experiment into being. His gaze penetrates to the essence of being, the building blocks which unite matter and aether, alike; thus, his gaze looks upon creation as endlessly re-configurable while retaining itself entirely – never deviating from that higher character which composes and decomposes the theatrical realm of the body – and yet managing new formulations, hues, and conversations. Thus, he must be curious; revealed, ultimately, to be a consummate artist made and making in the shadows of Creation.

The philosopher stands in the shade – just from before the rising of the sun and the breaking of day upon him and holds strange objects out to light – reflective spheres – which tell him of the coming order and the worlds made, unmade, and of that transformative and transfiguring essence imbued in each of their crystalline holds. All objects and apparant things and worlds are to the philosopher angelic holds – holds of being embodied with the sacred essence which

informs the energetic exchange between worlds, spirit centres, through which life moves about like the eyes of a thousand tempests. Here is where the philosopher does his contemplative work – in the centre of a storm which rages seemingly without possible end; this storm between today and tomorrow, here and nowhere, there and yesterday – the storm which ever threatens to tilt the balance between the night and day of the soul into chaos. He holds the centre, himself, with the focus of his being and the works of his contemplation which do not shun the light nor dark of himself; the contemplative state which witnesses the raging of Creation as creation and destruction within the hidden tomes of his very own soul. He witnesses this immortal struggle and emerges from his being to look out on the world and sees no deviation, no essential difference between this war of the inner and outer worlds. He looks on and wonders where to retreat, where to run and hide and to find some greater peace than respite; thus, this is where he truly becomes a philosopher: he goes deeper into the darks of his soul, the inner reaches which themselves are composed of that very same amatter of the outer reaches of the universal, part and parcel One. For to go further into the darkness man risks losing himself entirely; the philosopher goes there precisely because he knows he will lose himself and all things entirely regardless of whether or not he goes there.

Holderin’s Midnight, then, is the hour of the world; the hour of the soul which seems to stretch on into the ends of time, the thirteenth hour; the candlelit room where the philosopher sits, swathed in darks which do not differentiate between the hidden chambers of his flesh and the outer chambers of his boarding house room. The philosopher is ever Rembrandt’s philosopher, the very figure of illumination who himself cuts through the midnight darks of the turning hour of the world – the paradigms thrust one atop another like mountains in the level dirt of the first days of man – the paradigms which seemingly thrust man ever- higher toward his evolution into soul, the cup that holds the spirit and sculpts and grounds and moulds and folds it in the flesh. The philosopher, in every age, represents the highest

faculties of man in his time (and often, out of his time) is capable – the highest faculties which strive ever higher and further towards man’s truer, inner, hidden self – the self which is on the cusp of blooming into the new time to which the philosopher is absorbed, folded into, emerged, giving birth to, giving face and name to by his works of language which turn his time over like a coin to reveal the underdarks. For each paradigm is a revelation of the paradigms before it – a revelation of that shadow side, the retreated and hollowed black which the former time jettisoned upon its emergence into figuration. The philosopher changes man’s time evermore precisely because he cannot fully become either the figuration of this time nor the dis-figuration of all that is not this time or has not yet become it or that has been ‘forgotten’ or disremembered by it. He stands between worlds and holds his stance in his refusal to conform to the ideals presented as ‘human’ by this world; sits in dark wait with the spirit and observes the transference which is the totality of the coming and going of values, virtues, meanings, reasons, ideals, wars, selves, and spirits – to and from the world of things. He can be seen as the one who sits at the foot of the gates of the law, the gates of hell, the beggar or the sentinel or more accurately, the watcher. The entire world, to the philosopher, has been absolved into endlessly mutable screens: screens upon which the death throes of illusion play out in a seemingly changeless time: a time which observes the rise and fall of all things.

Thus, the cinematic quality of philosophy is the most remarkable – the evocative imagery that philosophy, too, must use as it retains the quality of the rest of this world: that the real comes and goes in sight. However, in the penetrative quality of philosophy (itself being focused on essences; glowing cores of language), sight is lost to vision: a blunt instrument being endlessly sharpened at the block of language to reveal the piercing word beneath the apparition of the sign. It must, like cinema, reveal that which is hidden beneath the folds of the everyday in order to come into truer expression of that which is; to do this work is to live a poetic

life which is endlessly curious and engaged in the unfoldment of affairs and the poetic possibility of the situations which blossom in a chaotic network of apparances. For philosophy has lost that which it has never had: the desire or the need to truly ‘know’ beyond that which is necessary to live a fascinated life: a life of direct and immediate engagement with the occurrences of all things in their endlessly simultaneous unfoldment and happening. For the poetry itself is necessary to live in wonder; the poetry may only come in the experimental process which momentarily disallows experience only to allow the entirety of experience as an interplay between that which is allowed and disallowed. This is the principle that human law has long since forgotten: a very principle of creation which is that what is fashioned comes into fashion by way of fashion: that which is comes and goes by way of that which is a current. All apparent life is then lived at hand, in a spontaneity only thinly masked by a rule of assertion called logic or rationality – the very reason emergent from that which has already long since arrived and been established as being-here-for-some-time.

What then is life but that which strikes the ground immanently? The footstep and not the footprint, the very exclamation from which the echo supposedly emerges; the face of being and not simply its reflection in water. To remain in fascination, then, is to not become fascinated by the apparence; furthermore, to observe the apparence as an extension of the disapparence – a teleology which is also a technology of being revealed in the screening of consciousness as a ‘result’ of an experiment of being which endlessly reflects off itself as process and procedure: a ceaseless surgery in which the human being as philosopher is but a witness who is also a participant – an artist who calls insurrection and charges the stage of being, all the while being dragged off by ushers and attendants – away from the stage and into the back curtains for a change of costume; for a change of custom, for a change of time. Here, the philosopher laughs; he laughs even at the most haughty and serious of the problems of his time – and all the while

laughing extends his hand to help and lift up those around him who call themselves haunted by the spectres of their time. For the philosopher has observed the bad dream! The bad dream which is a haunting passed down age over age – from parent to child and from father to son: neither an Oedipus nor Icarus fugue but a transitional state of consciousness, a perception movement regarding the true nature and state of being which perpetually fails in its fixity in fashion, in time, in that which resides, in his time, in the realm of the physis. Man’s consciousness fixed in time as existence plays an endless game of catch up to his times as they shift the ground beneath him – the ground which he has mistaken for the ground of his own beingness.

This is why the philosopher must understand; that understanding is urgent, immanent, and immediate fire beneath the ass of the philosopher – it is the very thing that alights him to write, to think, to feel, to be, and to experience deeper; to the depths, to the bottom, to the essence of being. For to understand and for the desire to understand (as one) is the greatest inspiration: it is the very thing and movement from which the soul grows to infinite capacity, potential, and wonderment. The recess of the philosopher is predictable: he observes the world and observes himself and finds them to be at one and he flies at once – to the nearest and furthest point. To be as such is to travel at light speed to the heart of being and to embrace him true self. There is no resentiment in this place, being that the very ‘life’ of the philosopher, of his lovers, friends, companions, of trees, animals, plants – is no longer mistaken for having and holding anything beyond the very essence of being: Creation-energy moving, circling, encountering, dancing – and making play of and with and as Consciousness. The two at one being the simulated birthplace and return of all beliefs, conceptions, images, reflections, and selves which project and collapse into the fold as as folds of Being – it cannot be said that any self- image is a true self-image; nor any remark upon the world as a true remark upon the world and yet, precisely, that all of these remarks and images are, fundamentally, true in this

imaginative untruth. Yet, the philosopher is not satisfied with this: the philosopher must live at the place where images are born, dreams are made, and remarks are spoken: at the very mouth of Creation. Perhaps he lives in the very mouth of creation like a tooth or tongue.

For the philosopher, language is originary. It is the expressive aspect – language here being expression – which calls into formal being the as yet unformed spiritudes which live about the air and sound as the coming tides of being: the very expressive aspect which calls into being the entirety of the coming time. For this language is the compound which resides in thought, belief, speech, communion and communication between the one and the many, the one and the two, the one and the one, the zero and the one. It is this very space itself as being between which is the relationship of becoming – the mediating, mediator, medium, and meditation of being unto itself which calls itself unto itself and into itself by its own name. For there at last exists nothing but language; language as being the medium which calls things to and from, in and out of existence; the philosopher works are magician-artist in their capacity and creative intelligence which observes the powerful rules of creation as rules of language: rules which are only this – that which is called into being is called into being by way of language. Thus, for the philosopher, to speak the language of Being-Wisdom is necessary – to coo and caw and crow as such to bring that which Being desires into being – to act as, again, midwife to creation and to move as she moves, to come as she calls; to be at one and at once supplicant and supplier of the aetheric aspect of all time and each time of Being – the aspect which observes, at on(c)e, the rule of change as changelessness as being expressed by language(s). He calls into being the necessary language to abide this interplay of consciousness as in Creation; in doing so, his work is forever hitherto unseen, strange, sublime – but also timelessly beautiful in its abiding of the very nature of Creation, herself.

I am the living seal Which holds together worlds: I am that Bridge between Birth and Death.

The signs on my hands Call angels by, Swords beside To guard the breach.

I am the living seal Of everlasting war: I ride to the centre and hold Against the titans of this time Emergent from hell – Where at the gates, we brace for impact.

I am the steeled And held to the fire of life: Unsinged, untouched. My arms out – Mediating the worlds Of the spirit And the flesh.

POETIC WORDS AND ART COME FROM THE SPIRIT WORLD, OR BEYOND

‘For Heraclitus, the world “is a mixed drink which must constantly be stirred” and “The world is the game Zeus plays… of the fire with itself” (quoted in Pearson and Large, 2016, p. 108). Heraclitus’ concept of ‘becoming’ permeated Nietzsche’s writings, and his understanding of agon is likewise affirmed as an ‘innocent becoming’: “the dust cloud of the Olympic battle and the flash of divine spears – a coming-into-being” (Pearson and Large, 2006, p. 109). For Nietzsche, “the contest endures in all eternity” and “everything that happens, happens in accordance with this strife, and it is just in the strife that eternal justice is revealed” (ibid, p. 108).’ – Ilgin Yildiz

Hildegaard von Bingen, like Antonin Artaud, experienced mystical syncope which gave her inner vision into the hidden structure and organization of the universe. Her music, like Artaud’s vision for theatre, was an expressive movement outward of this hidden structure by way of a creative force and medium which straddles the two worlds: Chaos and Order, Sprit and Matter, Mother and Father. Here, it also can be seen Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. This vision, as a creative force which is a collapse or a cave in of the individual psyche in a revelation of the universal – is the sole movement through which true progress is made in the world of man: progress as in movement into or return to the wholeness of Spiritude as state of being ensconsced within.

This syncope can only be described as a becoming-into- Being wherein and whereas the self-conception is folding and folded and thus within the fold of Being, ensconsced. It is a wrapping, spinning, spindling of the self-conception through which spirit emerges to express Itself through the vessel of itself, the singing body of the human being instrument. Of course, this is at once madness and divine order – the intervention of spirit’s word through the mouth of the being-that-which-it-is, somewhat akin to a possession,

like Zarathustra speaking through Nietzsche; Iago through Shakespeare; Chekhov, Beckett, Euripedes, and so forth. It is thus and hence: that theatre holds double meaning and double purpose in the lives of men as actors; mouthpieces for ideals, visions, and purposes that they have not yet beheld, reasons that have not yet come to fruition; realities that have not yet come to life. Thus, they are like seeds in endless orchard fields – growing into strange fruits for strange reasons known only to the inner fold of being; the furthest crease wherein the greater paradoxes of man’s existence lie and tell his eternal, epic, ever-perishing and renewing tale to him as that which he truly is.

Such a state can only be understood by an utter relinquishing; a surrender to the movement of spirit through the being-body; the altogether shattering and abolition of man’s self conception and abdication of himself (being the steward) for the Kingship and Kingliness which is himSelf. Such a philosopher has come into the higher powers of cognition as eternal self recognition without outer projection of power, or abdication of the throne in wait for salvation, god, Godot, the lover, the proper moment, otherwise. It is of course, in this shattering, that spirit comes to possess man and move through him as him; a possession which is really a true (re-)union without time – a reunion which is his true nature broken of the chains of the projections which he imposed upon his ‘nature’ and ‘reality’ (even these impositions, illusion) which served to delimit him to a certain function, identity, role.

This is what is known, formally, as ‘Freedom’ – or as in the absence of both freedom and bondage – where the very illusion of the two combative poles as opposing natures is dissolved. Where there cannot be war nor peace there is the eternal war which is peace as in a game of consciousness; a curious, experimental interplay of forces: the Heraclitean, Mayakovskiian Cosmic Child. This is why Heraclitus plays dice with the children at the temple of Artemis; this is why Mayakovsky beholds the beheaded infant – to usher into a new being-childish – a new being of lawless creation but for

its own inner rule – the imposition of a law for the sake of further creative growth and subsequent abolition of said law. This kind of justice-by-elimination only beholds light as the dissolution of even the word, the stone, the solution of existence as in a way of being codified – and now this method of codification as a judiciary existence legislated at the level of culture, society, as civilization; the god Order. Such imprisonment can only occur in and as the fervent belief as in the to-be-true of the definition of man, his world, his affairs, actions, and relationships in, as, and of that sphere he delegates and discerns himself therein as: called his ‘life’.

So then, what is the syncope but the thunder-clap of the collapse of his life: the Tower moment in which he is thrown from himself and utterly disestablished from the perspectival sphere of the ego as Himself Another, himself altogether another beast, a daemon looking from without upon his worldly life and woes. In such a way he has crawled under the table of his own life and peers out, undifferentiated; disfigured: only retaining the raw essence and life force which he no longer can even vain to control: this essence which now expresses him. In this way we can call a psychic break spiritual possession, a fugue of existence, an abandonment of the material plane, a recession to the world-sphere of the daemonic – or else an inhabitance of the shadow self, the unconscious essence of man which is always mad; always in the throes of the coming order which as of yet resides only now in the pure chaos of becomings. As such, his life is pure potential; this man is even the ghost of Hamlet – hung and awaiting jury unto himself – a man in trial like Kafka’s Josef K. He is between worlds – not yet physical and gestating metaphysical, a fetus unto himself as in being psychically unborn and his old life now dead sperm and egg. For in the collision of the thunder-clapping ground of his life, he has been thrown out of himself completely and thus allowed to change by force of psychic movement.

This is what constitutes the religious or spiritual experience, the experience of the higher power of Becoming which at

once unseats man from himself and exposes him to the latent and always true order of himSelf as absolutely shifting and uncertain at a molecular-psysis level of being-mater. He becomes the Divine Mother and is at once abducted by force to the underworlds of himself where a lack of differentiation is the rule; he is in the throes of a second birth – a birth which is individuation: where he must choose to be himself and thus be one with god as in the higher power of Becoming which beckons to him further. It is as such that the mystics and the mad are both insane in the sense that they are permanently deranged and in a state of derangement as in a re-organization of the Order (which is never established but as change, itself) as a rule: where the entirety of one’s perceived existence is thrown into confusion and chaos (whether willingly or otherwise) in order to glean insight into the coming order of things, affairs, and being(s). As such, sight is traded for vision – or life on the plane of material affairs (that which is already known, or existent) is peeled back to find the skeleton of that very Chaos-mater which composes them and remains, ceaseless and yet utterly shifting and shifted. The madman, the mystic, and the messiah live in the city of life that is perennially folded over on itself to reveal itself: the building blocks of burning absence which turn the face of Being like a die to reveal many.

Thus, the mystic fights with song or else the arts: the making of image-weapons to be (momentously) inhabited so as to turn the face of the die or the pages of this time wildly; to force the hand of Being over (with her blessing; by her given way) into some other apparition by going under; beneath the realm of appearances to emerge with the psychia- spiritual substance of the thing as its thingness which may be turned and shifted in hand in many different configurations to altogether alter the nature of the thing-at-hand. The mystic is at play with the physis as being in and at his underbelly where he turns feminine; where he disapparates and gives way to his true nature – the abgrund of his grund.

Begone, Factory of Despair! City lots, despots, spray painted trainyards; The Cemetery where I laid you down, rotting, magnificent The Breaking Hands – which shattered like church windows, Gutted in the renovation, mirrors to the sun Thrashed on the ground.

Begone, Desolation! Besotted eyes, staring down, the bleak and black The cigarettes packed into bus stations, eyes lit low And the candelabra of the clock, swinging, to and fro, Back and forth to mark our time, This Working Hour.

So they will trudge on, From the chicken plants, from the bedroom window Seeking love, houndish, desperate wolves – Conjuring apparitions like carnival magicians: See the tooth, the eye, the silver mouth – The grim grin and gesture within.

All love made at bars, all love made in bedrooms breaking day, starless love. Desperate fornication, faceless, and already past – Lost to childhood dreams and this new factory time: Where he is strapped to the clock in a danse macabre like a mast. The skeleton in the churchyard, Nailing his theses to the dart board of the sanctuary doors.

Rolling through the small towns, Smoked out of ammunition, burned down and out: Reveling in the deformity of nations. Children bruised and the coal mine doors closed: The old miners can barely remember the crossroads of spirit; The cave in that produced revelation; Newborns.

I stand before the revelation of disclosures, weaving; Faceless – without stone, without territory, without a name for which so, to say, The Moment in Time: Etched like a small human figurine among the plateaus – To now, we have called this Existence With the finality of Death.

Call the storm, beside: like a deathbed poem or a soothing mistress; Call the storm to Chaos; the chanting winds and the howling soot of god-fires angling the brush and alighting the spirit of man to action.

Call the storm beside: and all is laughable warfare.

It is all edible here, in this palace of the mind – So carved by the experience made real in the mind: In the glass of perception: through which man has seen himself and deemed his name Adequate, or Inadequate. His judiciary manner bars the doors of war; He calls the god of Order to his side.

The doors remain shut to him, Where unleashed he will be forever uncertain of what will enter: dogs from hell or a girl with hair black as night. If they were opened he would stand at the edge of a pit, Looking into his true nature Materialized in the quickness of his gaze. All that is Spins in a well of dark colors; Forming his captivation From within.

LANGUAGE AS SUMMONS

‘Origin is ever-present’ – Jean Gebser

Man is calling in language his origins to himself through himself as himself as in the name of being-himself. Thus his language is a game of summons which must, by way of poetic re-flexibility, reveal as in this moment, his true nature to and through him as himself as thus a shining or a way of being more himself. As such, language is a (if not ‘the’) methodology through which man elucidates his being as an expression which is also at once a representation and true presentation as in being for the first time while also being remembered in that state of being as himself by way of language.

For in the summons, man sings or channels himself through himself; for in the moment man calls himself back into being by way of the remembrance of the song as his language sung as a belief, a dream, a spoken word, a gesture, an action, a reaction – all of which are echoes of his originary self: the very Being which sprung his beingness initially from the hold of itself into the apparition of disclosure – as an imaginal figure which stands before the hold of Being and declares itself, too, being, child of Being and yet separated and individed. His very song, or langue, is the unifying force which is, precisely, origin itself, ever-presenting itself through itself and revealing man to himself: his internal divides, dischords, and discontents which are all endlessly resolved in the emergence of his song.

Man is never aware of his language as it is not him – it merely stands before him and remarks upon him as the higher form of himself: that very thing which comes down and around and into him, that very thing like wind or mind as elemental which inform him of the conditions of his being and yet stands forever partially formed in its never-full elucidation. His language stands like hunger or like the drive of the engine of the stomach towards fulfillment – it cannot

be fulfilled until it realizes that it cannot be fulfilled. As such, his language as an autonomous body linking man to his originary form (Being to being) is like an umbilical cord of information – informative energy which flows through man and spits him out of himself, unformed and developing, an infant without resolve but toward language as that which creates and decreates him. Then it is easy for man to enter into a sentimental, dependent relationship with and upon language: this is to say that his language stands still and in stone as a law unto him which he obeys as that which he is: a language which is unthought, unmoving; paralytic consciousness which calls the same name over and over again – the same name which he mistakes for himself in the permanence of its descriptive deception. Such a man is blocked to the own inflow and outflow of energetic information which is himself which is also ‘consciousness’ in that it also must move about and with him as within his Being and expressed without his flesh as interplay of spirit and being.

As such, man today is often without language insofar as he obeys that langue already established as in a state of being collected and discerned socially as the present age: its self interests, self definition, and a systematic approach to being- through-language which continually asserts and reproduces itself as the mechanism of that which is and thus that which must be. Man without language is a cycle of same which asserts that it must be repeated or else die a horrible and irrevocable death as the end of all things, existence, man himself. And of course, all of this is true – but it does not account for the endless, returnless return to the wellspring of language as that very originary state of being which calls a new name from itself through man as channel through it – a river tributary before the ocean of thought and unthought as perennial figurations of Being. The fear of dropping being-without-language is the fear of death; the fear of the loss of figuration which will not return – a descent into Chaos from Order which will not emerge; remain dormant, submerged, back within the womb of the Mother of language who spins man to and from existences.

EROS, NAKED

Eros grows and flourishes only in possibilities of deviation: which is to say, in outgrowths and ingrowths emergent and submergent beyond, beneath, to, and from the point at which it makes its departure – or leap into life from dormant consciousness, latent desire; the dream-to-gest. From its gestation, Eros is the wellspring to and through which life becomes itself possible and thus living – without definite consciousness as yet developing and becoming conscious as in expressed and expressive movement(s).

The debilitation of eros occurs artificially as a series of systems as beliefs: systems which pave channels of being and are themselves named the ways of being – glacial histories which themselves impregnate man and hold him within their imagined arms – a way of dreaming which captivates light like a room. Man himself; his idea is the haunting which haunts him – like the tail of a dog, the tail which chases him about himself looking for an exit, a possible way to live as himself truly; thus, freely.

To mistake this for a corruption or a great evil is, too, to be confounded by it. It is merely an infantile, or young state of man’s consciousness: unselfrecognized and thus chasing itself by way of mirrors of perception and apperception toward the synthesis of itself and its counterpart: the other, the shadow, the lover, the nation, the world. Each of these conceptual mechanisms is a hidden directive from man unto himself – a conceptual reality which collapses and doubles him back into himself as the creator of his worlds of perceived being. It is in this way that man forever watches the apocalypse of himself as his world unfolding before him as a folding over of himself into and as the turning of his world as it is obliterated: deconceptualized and made absolute reality again – pure Creation as a nameless, faceless energetic movement which thrusts man again into a new cosmos, new language, new identity which is itself: that which he must grapple with as the falling out of all of his

language for that which is which has now become that which was in his awareness of how and why his world came into apparence in light of himself: a reflective and refractive game through which his consciousness is moded and demoded in the light of himself which is, truly, the light of the infinite, illuminating his greater condition through and as him.

For he does not exist but as a turning, a fundamentally free (and thus altogether without such a necessary concept as ‘freedom’) erotic movement of pure energy through the physis; that which transforms and is transformed by the materialization and dematerialization of himself as all things in their perpetual turning to reveal their underbellies: as essential spirit and spiritualized (and spiritualizing) energetics. For when he loses his face the entirety of the world loses its face and displays itself to him as that which he also is: an energetic signature. In this place man looks back upon the old world and his fellow men and observes that which they perceive; he is able to see with them without being consumed by their sight: a world of logical decisions which occur simultaneously – as in a mutual coercion of being by the code of that which is assured: which is to say, as in that which has already come to pass. Man’s religious orders function in this manner: in an obedience at risk of perishing to a dominant social function which has established itself as in the past tense – a way of doing things which is assured by way of a code imbued with energy that remains ‘alive’ only in this continual abeyance as belief: it is alive only in the sense that it is animated by the life force of the believer – himself who has forgotten his true identity as Creation itself disclosing itself – he who only appears to take figure and form before the black, spindle web of her being- churning.

All the outpour of man’s perceived belief powers his world as a function of himself: as that which contours the thrust of his essential being into visible forms and entities called the product of his inner life but are merely mirage extensions of it and himself as he perceives himself to be. These

extensions entwined uphold, like the mother, the fundamental web and network of all things and no things as dreams in harmony and dischord with one another: dreams which equally attract and repel each other in their vibrancy of belief and method of believing. Man’s communities form and conform and scatter in coalision with the mutually agreed upon, social contract, of his illusions and delusions; man is bound superificially by the contracts he signs with his world which apparently bind him to that which he believes to be true about himself, others, the spirit, his body, his mind, the physical and otherwise planes. Even his belief that such a thing as his word or his mind or his body are ‘his’ – contributes to the weaving of his own web of creation; a web forever entwined with the larger womb which gestates and witnesses the spell of his language within her. Such an enchantment looms large over man’s life as it defines and describes his everyday – each of his waking moments, thoughts, sleeping dreams, and relations which he conducts with lovers, friends, and the physical-apparence world of beings and forces at work.

For when man ceases to believe he is thrown into Chaos absolutely. He has lost his tether to the solidity which he describes and ascribes to the order and movement of things which form his everyday, his tribe, his life-method which has become like stone; he drops everything and is returned immanently to the place of his and all creation – the mouth of Creation itself. For he always stands there as in the originary moment which remains unceasing: where he is nothing, one thing, two things, and three things unto himself – nothing as in her black, one thing as in himself, two things as in her black and in himself, and three things as in the paradoxes of the former. When he releases his belief in all things he is thrown into the truth of them as in inhabiting them as himself as they truly are: without ascription. Such a state of being is man. He resides there at this point: that which appears to be a point but which is neither here nor there – in the very state of Becoming from- with-in which he is.

God Hermes, I call you where there is no images: From the silence of rainfall, the true silence

In which the nature of all things is revealed.

God Hermes, I can hear you all around me, Retrieving the essence of my soul And returning it to me in the form of rhythm.

God Hermes, Today I call with no purpose but to serve you; To sit at the seat of Love and call her Myself, Undifferentiated. To call her true and fair; to give the gift of life equally Unto Myself and Soul.

As such, The World is sated.

God Hermes, Today I am all men and women, all seeds and stones, Tree branch and root. I can feel the Mother moving beneath me, about me, above my head and in the wood beneath my toes.

Today her heart is great and sound – resolved. She beats Like a giant knocking at tavern doors.

LIVING

The life of the human being today is simultaneously the creation of ‘culture’ – or that which is created as in produced (an impossible past tense; living through that which is dead beyond life or death) by way of a pathway of living as through a projection of reality, a distortion of his essential being: Creation, Itself. These projections go as far and are as numerous as music and the arts, marriage, government, as well as the supply chains and channels of energetic distribution of goods and services which have spread over the earth like a network. So, then, by way of culture, man is weaving himself without himSelf as immanent Creation (the eternal present) – by way of a movement into life which is disembodied as in collected, or collective de-cision – as in the social body of man which has created (mutually deluded) and progenited a variety of preconceptions as in patterns of behaviors, notions, and idea(l)-constructs as structures which have become man’s ‘Culture’ and his ‘Civilization’ as a way of being structured about him like an armor or clothing and they even appear as being inextricably sewed as in-to-him – as in being of him without separation (as they are him, projected ‘outward’!).

For in practicality, man’s muscle and sinew, the organs which compose his cast and his extremities are the furthest to and from him and compose the entirety of the sense reality through which he experiences the ‘I am’. Entangled and entwined with man’s mass on the physical plane are his beliefs and notions about himself and the world – energetic projections of reality which extend far and beyond the immanent movement of spirit to and from the form of his en-fleshed being. This movement of imagination goes so far as to have long produced literal projections upon canvas and air the arts of man – the excess-of energy of his life force thrown up into the cosmos as if in desperation or wonder. For who can say, truly, from where the arts come but from, like all other things, from Creation, herself?

But if man does not ask himself, as in inquiry stripped of all preconception and belief, where he is devoting and processing his energy through and to what end, he will continue to go about doing that which his ancestors and the culture suggest: to reproduce the mechanisms of consciousness and ‘living’ which compose and re-compose his world-around him – a world which persists like a corpse endlessly reanimated with belief and execution. For the life of man with the arts and with his imagination as a projection of energy which formulates his world is seen today as a given, as an essential part of his ‘humanity’. But what, truly, is essential to man? I would answer that all that differentiates man, even as an illusion unto himself, from pure consciousness: is the very flesh which produces the illusion of his appearance as himself.

What duty does man truly have but to the production of himself? Even more immediate than the myth of reproduction which consumes many of his cultures (ancient and modern) – it is his duty to realize himself absolutely, even without figuration: finally dropping the archetype, the reflection, the image of himself as a higher form and fully inhabiting that higher form as in being himself. What then must man do other than fully direct himself towards himself? This is the loss of the arts and the loss of the world – a fully embodiment as in inhabitance where the flesh of man is indistinguishable and indistinguished/indistinguishing from the essential consciousness as in being-of-and-Creation. Thus man’s production of himself is the full integration of himself which, without separation, includes like a consumption and burning of the world and all of the arts and figuration methods (including language and cities and machines and ‘the other’) in the bright, eternal flame of the heart center which contacts him directly with the absolute circumference and inner whole of the universe itself. Man is always in touch with his true form; he is merely deceived of that which he ‘is’ – a deception which, unlike Jung says (‘hopelessly unconscious’) is not hopeless. It is merely a common deception, a common belief; a preconceived

notion which pseudonymously precedes man-(as-)himself. This might be called the a priori principle in categorical form as in man’s most intimate relation to himself which is artificially severed by/as the language of his culture – a culture which is now a global economy of meaning/being/seeing as a construct of value inextricably linked to the essential – the essential being man’s flesh in communion with spirit. It is, by way of the utilization of ‘common value’ (by coercion) to structure man’s life – a prison and prism of definition which firmly yokes the ‘everyday’ (man’s experience of himself and the world as pseudo-defined by the simultaneous structuring of ‘other’ consciousness-realities as he interacts with them, as them, among them, and being-one with them) to the wildly free and rambunctious spirit of man’s true will, Source-Creation – the very energetic principle flowing through him which too sprouts the flower buds, the trees; the nutriment which is him; innate to him as being-a-part of it indistinguishably. He can never be apart from it but is severed in the social, artificially, from it by way of an interlocuting form of currency called ‘value’, or ‘values’, or ‘money’ (interchangeable and mutually indicative of the other) – which is, at root, fundamentally man’s projection of ‘world’ from himSelf as a mythology of being inadequate in light of the infinite – being inferior, being weak, being less-than. Man’s ‘values’ are his moral currency which, by way of their very implied and literalizing (imagined) separation, separate him from himSelf as a lower being in light of a higher power toward which he must aspire or become as he is not already ‘that’ ‘yet’. The history of kings and conquerors and rulers and gods evisces this principle of man’s consciousness evolution (or, often, lack thereof) quite well – as social constructs which illustrate a perceived and perceiving (as a collective consciousness of being) separation of ‘this’ and ‘that’, ‘rich’ and ‘poor’, ‘man’ and ‘woman’, ‘white’ and ‘black’ – as consciousness projections of perceived difference which are taken literally as separations from the core of being. This is fundamentally; a fundamental mistake of consciousness in light (or lack thereof) of itself – a consciousness which mistakes the ‘container’ of itself (the

flesh) for being the extent of the Self. So it is, the mistaking power and thrust of the concept of the ‘individual’ in history: a mistake as in sensible and sensing difference – a mistake of difference perceived by, through, and as – the sensing mechanism.

Thus, we proceed to insight as in vision – where the senses are not the operative form of understanding; where ‘before’ (as in human history) – the form of seeing-as-knowing has existed and persisted as a cultural paradigm absolutely. There has been no culture which has not lived in the world of its own making and vision – only visionaries who have lived in absolute illumination of the Self and corresponding dark moons of the world – nonexistences of the world as destroyed concepts and false vehicles of power: a power which has always resided within the Self as, wholly, Being itself.

Man strains in the physis; he bases the entirety of himself off the physis and that which exists and thus he is mistaken; fundamentally exists in the past and as in regarding the past by way of this mechanism – for that which exists has already been made manifest. His god consciousness resides, truly, in that which is becoming; his very locus stands there with his vision: being between and perfectly balanced – the spirit world and the flesh. He lives forever in the two worlds; this is the true state of man. When he stands here, at as in on the Cross of Mater, he exerts no effort; he makes no thrust; he makes no art: he does only that which is living. He calls and is called in the moment as himself and arrives entirely; he shows up wholly as himself without projection as in meaning, definition, belief, or preconceived notion; he exists as being undifferentiated from another as in being existing undifferentiated from nonexistence. Here, all culture and art and mechanisms of civilization and society are abolished but for the practice of being human in light of the infinite; in light of his fellow man. He at the Crossroads of Mater mediates these worlds immanently, forever, immediately.

A DEATH OF THE SYMBOLIC-AS-IN-ACTION

A death of the symbolic is; it is not would be. Furthermore, it is neither here nor there or elsewhere. It is with absolute immediacy that the symbolic is abolished in the contact of and with life irreducibly as in a merging with life productive of the Creative Being. For to be in the state of creation is neither to exist with symbols but perhaps the occidental detonation of them as a superficial consequence of the process of creation occurrent immanently and thus forever. It is in the echoes of the creative act as in listening to forever as in placing forever in time as a recognition of the echo as a displacement that the symbolic is sprung; it is sprung only as a perceived consequence as in being apart from the act as it occurs.

A death of the symbolic is then nothing – a death of the symbolic is and without logic, without a perspectival tie or end, a syncope of language which is also asyntactical and encounterless as in language; being immersed in the language of its own creation which expands simultaneous and in exact correlation with itself – it is the being whole wor(l)d. Therein, a symbol cannot be or survive without being inextricably Being; as such it is imbued with life so as to be beyond the possibility of a symbolic life or realm of being – it is a living expression without the pretense of allusion. There cannot be a tangential act or an act of artifice or an institution of a system in the living life – the ‘real’ life which exists and subsists as an abolitive fire of meaning. The coaliscion and conversion of language upon itself emerges as a nonsense which is also the most human presentation of itself as being without representation and without the possibility of representation.

Surely, this has clear implications for the sphere of the social and political – the sphere of double presentation as in representation as in the holding for another the word or the excommunication of language as being presented to it, formally. There cannot be a sphere of the political or the

social in the living life – rather there is the coaliscion and conversion of the lived experience as in Babel – the summation of the entirety of human history into an archetypal story to which Borges gives laughing language: dhcmrlchtdj. At the centre of meaning there is the meaningless wor(l)d – the true wor(l)d which is alight with meaning in, precisely, the non-sense which allows it to live: the penetrative fire of vision which touches the basement of the soul and the ceiling of the spirit in a worship which is expansive and all encompassing – the being that it worships itself forever and without loss. It is in total contact; performing a closed chain exercise: it does not move in its fixity and yet moves everywhere all at once as being in itself and it understands this as its life, the very irreducibly principle of Being Itself.

Thus, the death of the symbolic is the death of a chain of meaning as in being extended from in the pretense of being apart from or the illusion of distance from the heart of drive which is the nearest and the farthest – the mother and the father and the unity which promises the death of the two indivisible within the creation of the one from where there was nothing. The very procreative principle of Language As Being In Creation is manifest in the conception. It is this principle which must not be forgotten in the myriad manifestations of this conception – it must not be lost for the trees: the very seed of conception which moves the seed from dormancy to action to expression and thus that which we observe as the tree or the child. Man witnesses this procreative act as in forever and takes it literally; this is the birth of the realm of the symbolic and man’s current distance from himself as the establishment of representative currencies and flows as technics which draw him ever away into technological territories: territories which appear to be human and of the human and yet only represent humanity and are dearths of heart-energy. These machines require the thrust of man’s life force to live; they are man’s governments, his supply chains, his machinations of power and control.

There is no possibility for the symbolic to live in the state of absolute Creation – a creation as process which endlessly discards itself as that which is manifest and thus whole. It is complete and deathless in its manifestation and yet passed through the channel of Creation – as that which it truly is. It has already become itself for the purposes of that incarnate process in particular and thus need not continue but for the captivation of man – a captivation which holds him to the object which he calls himself – a captivation which is a sentimentality and an avarice: a sentimentality which is man’s culture. For if he holds fast to that which he truly is, Creation, he in fact does not hold: he relinquishes entirely, he releases his hold on all things and no things and returns to himself, that which he never left – to perform the role of man: to mediate the spheres of the spirit and the flesh: to himself be Becoming; to become the Channel of Being. This itself is no sentimentality or philosophy or image – it is the pure fact of man’s being without dross; without the garments and clothings and coverings of himself which he presents to himself and his world as his name, his occupation, his bedroom or his belongings: it is where each man stands in and as the Universal Whole. Such a standing is itself imbued with beauty and sublimity. It is the power which has always belonged to man; a power which is, always, creating and shining his innate and lionhearted strength – the mane-light of his true nature.

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THE STATE OF COERCION AND WHEN ART BECOMES NECESSARY

In human terms, the state of coercion is the forcible trade (in a social sense and context) of the means to life which is withheld but for labor by the individual; the creation of life- as-labor. The creation of this state is too, simultaneously, the creation of its categorical counterpart as agonist, the necessity of the creation of ‘art’ as the attempt to supersede by way of imaginative redefinition the terms and conditions of life called ‘life’ that have been pseudo-established by the State as itself-as-being.

The institution of a state of coercion in regards to labor for life is the institution of an economic system at large which is founded upon a basic redefinition of life as being- undeserved – a definition which, by way of and represented through such, too, socially determined and defined constructs as class and race, creates a religious sphere of enforced value and valuation of life; the human condition as being less than, inferior, or being separated from godliness – which is reserved for and represented by the wealth holding class.

All that can be defined as art is delineated by and from the state of coercion as that which is not the state of coercion – being that which is without coercion, ideological content, meaning chains, or story. As such, art is only occurrent in and as the basest faction and faculty of the human – the free expression unshackled from the limits of self-definition. It must require nothing, ask for nothing, see nothing, and thus become everything in its immanent wisdom as communion with the true root of Being-As-Chaos. True art traces the origins of the human directly to and through the moment in which the being-human is born – in each moment as an expression which shatters the paradigmatic ‘necessity’ for programming and structuring ‘life’ as a reproduced and reproducible, commodifiable reality which can be

quantified, measured, and consistently described, or figured, as being-itself as in a static or systematic form(ul)ation.

As such, art stands inextricably as a part of the state of coercion and yet apart from it as in its agonist, the very force which pushes back, necessarily, against the state of coercion and reaffirms it in acknowledging the state of coercion as being in existence and thus a force with a pole demanding opposition; counteraction. For it is clear to the untrained eye that the state of coercion does not exist but as and in affirmed and reaffirmed perception and apperception of life as it unfolds as an observable principle; a rule or law or rule-of-law which commands the sphere of the human, the physical world; the cosmos. It is this very hubris of man’s search for knowledge, altogether of the realm of Goethe’s Faust – which calls him into the irresolvable, nonexistent, imagined conflict which we might call the movement between the poles of Art and Knowledge; between the Definite and the Indefinable. He is caught like a net in his language and is thus indiscerning and undiscerning of himself as that which he truly is; this form of man as an apparition unto himself is caught in the spirit of his age which is the spectre of the culture of history – the very thought-forms which appear to him all to real as and to his eyes as ‘the world’; thus, the way things are and must be.

Thus, the mutual agonism of the state of coercion and art continues in the eyes of culture; eyes which do not penetrate but merely observe surfaces as they glisten in the field of vision but as-not-yet-vision, merely sight without insight. The immaturity of culture is perpetually evisced by the requirement of culture as itself a figuration-being of mass perception and apperception; as such includes the controversion of many dreams in wildly harmonious and dischordant chori as clamourings of not-yet being born. This fetus of a human being is incubated by and yet at odds with its Mother, the Chaos-Art of Absolute Creation – it lashes out in the dark of its womb in-visioning itself as being cast out and facing itself opposed; an adversary which is

merely its figuration of itself pushed out into ‘the world’ as a characterization of its inner development, mirrored. This is how the world consciousness is at work as a self consciousness at work in furious birthings of itself – a culture of procreation mistaken for reproduction which endlessly circles about itself in the human-generated spheres of art, government, trade; society at whole. Man mistakes the procreative progenesis of his Being at its source for a reproduction of conditions which affirm him as existent in place of consciousness – not as merely a figuration of it which comes and goes without time, but as the dominant figure which has broken from its primordial womb and stands out in front of the Mother of Absolute Creation and declares himself the whole of the law. Only in this state of mis-apperception can the state of coercion come into being, wherein art emerges as the agonist to the individual.

For here, there is a firm differentiation going on between the concept of the individual and the concept of individuation – formally being that individuation occurs in light of and with the Mother as a process of incubation and birthings and deathings which is without disavowal, without a break or rupture from the Creative Principle which underlies the creation and destruction of all things and no things as apparences and disapparences – rather, the individuation process occurs with and as Creation, itself – observing her principles. The individual is a creation of the law of man within the spheres of the law of man in a mimick of the Divine Law of Creation, much as and in the religious principles of man of the past two thousand years who has placed himself without his god in a place of appeal or having to return by way of an obedience evisced and elucidated as the religious structure of law itself. Such a law is indicative of man’s stature towards himself as his imagined being-without Creation; he imagines himself abandoned or lost of god, or in a position to gain god. Thus goes his world, his currency, his thoughts and fears and dreams and aspirations.

As in Creation is where the states of coercion and art collapse as mere archetypal concepts – or placemarkers for the action itself; descriptors of an event which cannot be described but for a perceived removal; thus the description is always incomplete as in a standing outside of the happening itself. This illusion of perception is man’s idea of being apart from Creation – an illusion mistaken for knowledge of it. In Creation, where man is, there cannot be art nor can there be a state of being which is not In Creation and thus indescribably lawless, fertile, wild, imaginative, and expanding exponentially while also self detonating and forming new constellations of meaning which are simultaneously logically discernible and yet hold their wildly irrational code of meaning-making without meaning. In Creation man moves as a synapse; as such he is thrust to and from positions, situations, and movements which may appear contradictory but are in fact perfect and in unison with the whole of his development as the very process of Universal Creation himself. Man is never without the mask of paradox which is his dance, his play, his imaginative and creative potential which is always unresolved. All at once, he is always without this mask of paradox – as it is merely an apparition. He, Being-As- Creation, is always in light of his true form and proceeds thusly – in such a manner that all is play; he is only serious when he is at play; furthermore, he is only at play. In such a state, there cannot be an art as a producible, reproducible, discipline or product; nor can there be a state of coercion, social or political sphere, a governance, a law, or a self- definition that is not immanently absolved as in the act of creation itself – his true self defined in the doing of being- human.

BEING-AS-IN-THE-STATE-OF-CREATION is the end of the world; the end of all conception. It is the state of conceiving, thinking, imagining, the stateless state as in its untraceable and thus unnameable movement. Even the word light falls short of it!

I throw myself into Abyss, Gladly And tumble from the nothing-heights of my youth. All that was said and done is not even ash, Not even words from the Mother’s mouth. Have I not yet escaped her belly!

And yet, I have found myself, many times desperately looking for the exit, Longing With grace as long as fingernails: Grace postmarked to the day – Here becomes My thundrous arrival.

Angels comedown into me; from above, I trust! From below, I trust! From the narrows; the cavern’s grates, I dutifully trust: And the burden is gone. It is not even air; it never was. All is marrow of the soul.

No hours of judgement; no pacing the bloc, The cement straits which jut out into endless blues – My mouth gapes in a terror which mimics the black Resident behind the pupils of every man’s gaze. Wherein do I jump from this place? Wherein resides the molecule so small that it does not exist? Without clothes; dreams, Dinnertables?

                                            (Nonetheless,
                                                  I jump
                                      And mark my time
                                    With a laughing Rain
                                              of Arrows.)




                             169

170

NOTES ON THE SOCIAL MECHANISM

The social mechanism superficially determines what ‘life’ is – ‘life’ as being in space and time as the everyday ‘life’ experienced by the individual as being in relation to the established socio-cultural paradigm which surrounds him and at each moment seeks to become through him. This is done by way of a combination of mediums, disciplines, religious orders, governances, arts, polices, sciences, and beliefs to conform a ‘consensus reality’ which is always being- in-dispute as in this is the essence of being and thus ‘life’.

The socially shifting grounds are thus of that which ‘is’; (that which surely is, must be, should be, and thus is). These grounds are self-same; arbited by belief in the ‘knowledge’- fields which govern its consciousness and conscience as morality life construct as right/wrong, true/false, reality/unreality. This mechanism itself is, decidedly and by perpetual decision, unstable. As it is judicial (as it must be, being-by-knowledge), it cannot exist but as in a perpetual deferral of belief into disbelief, knowledge into lack of knowledge, reality as in lack of reality. These bounds and borders are perpetually negotiated and renegotiated by consensus while being replicated without end as a reproduced way of being in the everyday lives of those within the social mechanism: which is to say all people and all things and all relations as occurrent in the physical sphere of human belief made action.

The pull of the social is perpetual and forever formative upon the consciousness of the human being – who mistakes the social being for the human being, himself, until he revokes the license of the social to transform or transfigure the body of his understanding in any way – the body of his understanding being his innate knowledge of himself-as-the- world: the entirety of his sensorium and nonsensorium providing him the wisdom-informations necessary to live his life in relation to spiritudes. This, explicitly, is the turn of the artist: an about face which is away from the sun and

towards the dark of the moon, away from the noontime of the social and toward the midnight of the solitudes: contradictory and revelatory solitudes wherein he finds not only the shadows which are his own, but the underbellies of the social which allow it to rest assured in the day as, again, assuredly, being-itself without revelations. In this sense, the social calls itself earth while being sculpted by the stone hands of man who calls his past-time all time – the gates of admittance into life which no longer admit life but under the proper circumstances and conditions which call life that which it has always already been called in the realm of the social: a definite conformity of experience which either conforms to or advances the existing foundational hypotheses which today are conceived of as ‘the human being’, ‘the world’, ‘reality’; the terms and conditions logos- justified in the world of man’s disciplinary action and ‘researches’. As long as such ‘advances’ of mans technics of himself continue in this manner, spirit will always be in a state of exile, darkness, shadow; refusal as in negation.

Aknowledge, or being-without-knowledge is where at last the artist as being-with-spirit resides. In such a place, there is not and cannot be sociality as a sphere of human representation – merely the presentation which includes and figures the human with a thousand names, which might be called The Present which is Eternally Presenting Itself Differ(e/a)ntly. The heights of tragedy, with Euripedes, is the permanent disfiguration of ‘the human being’ conception which comes with and as, arriving like a cloaked stranger or revelation, the understanding of being-without- knowledge and thus the abolition of the human. The human, as a consciousness construct, has come to know and call itself itself only to be abolished by the very aetheric background of itself from and through which it spoke its composition as empires and self-constructs: the aetheric background which is neither background nor foreground – the enspirited essence which is cloaked by the apparence of disapparence of all things and no things which man regards falsely: he observes the human figure without visionary regard for its Origin – the Origin which by essence

abolishes the figuration but for a consciousness projection which springs and sprungs ethereal beyond time: a consciousness projection which exists only as long as it is justified by the image-play of beings in space and time as believed to be true.

The shattering of man’s perspective is fundamentally asocial and apocalyptic in that it is absolutely creative and decreative as a perpetual revelation without ground (not even Abgrund, but perhaps Agrund) – a state of revelation which cannot ever have nor find ground, ground being- knowledge. Here, it is more proper to say that there is no Abyss but as a conjecture emergent from the consciousness movement, necessarily, away from knowledge constructs and (imaginatively) toward that which they fundamentally are as awareness as understandings cloaked in logos mat(t)er. Stripped of matter they are Mater and returned to the primordial trust which they never left – a trust which is without lever or leverage but a shiftless state of true and deep religiosity which is one’s own being in relation to spirit which he himself experiences as a momentous revelation unfolding as his own life. Here, vision is with great feeling from which images emerge from a fundamental sightlessness – or a lack of deception in regards to that which things ‘are’ or appear to be; a realization of the state of ‘reality’ in the realm of the social as things which have already been made manifest and thus are standing dead but for the spark of the spirit which is never dormant, never latent; merely cloaked by the apparence of things which oft deceives man to that which he truly is.

This movement of revelation in the individual as the wholly himself occurrent at the level of the social would surely be apocalyptic (in the imagistic, institutional sense) in that it would shatter the social sphere as the primary sphere of representation as in true sight as that which appears to be by way of surfaces and surfeit. This shattering would be a dropping of the social ground and a revealing of the Aground by way of the Abground; just as this turn toward negation would be a revealing of the Anegation by way of

the Abnegation – a movement through the Ab- as literally a movement away from or off of the synthetic platform called knowledge which man stands upon as a technic and proclaims himself himself as being-a-part as being definitively and thus of one as in another. When man stands apart he creates a horizon for himself which he observes the development of that which is also himself as The Event; in standing apart he claims to know by way of being the experiencer of the event as the one who witnesses it from a distance and thus is able to behold as in objective experience. Of course, man himself is The Event; furthermore is inseparable from his becoming which he views on the horizon as the coming of himself as that which he truly is; the coming revelation of himself as the word through which he will be resolved, absolved. But of course, the absolution of the individual is the true revelation: the absolution which is the moving away from solution toward the counterpart, the solutionless which reveals the Asolve, the asolutional condition of man as being with neither exit nor entrance, birth nor death, thingness nor nothingness but that being one who is himself simultaneously the experiencer and the witness; the one who is at work in the relam of the physis and stands at the front and observes in the metaphysis: the one who straddles the spheres of representation and disrepresentation as The Presentation: the coming thing inching toward Bethlehem both grotesque and beautiful in his sublime arrival and shining like the sun.

Here is the Agrund, the Sphinx, the Cherubim, Man Himself as Being-Coming- with revelations - his hands outstretched to light.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The Second Coming, W.B. Yeats
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176

ABEING

The abeyessence of being into becoming is a permanent giving-way which composes, in this very giving-way or giving-away, being itself. This mutable nature is neither being-with nor being-without figuration but an absense which is also an absence or abscene of being as the bottom falling out of this consciousness construct to reveal and revelate only beingness – the mutual nature of being into becoming into being which is revealed in the process based reality as always being of consciousness conforming, confroming, transfiguring, transfixing, and even mutilating itself toward its own ends – itself, realized as in the state of being: realization. This unfolding is the drumming of being to and fro, in and out of existence which is the spiritual, religious experience of a higher knowledge which is also a lower knowledge: understanding, that which links the primordial, or the soul with the infinite, the spirit-light – the feeling of the contours of the vessel which bears water and transforms indelibly as being-of-the-moment – a being only seen as in a time-sight, a photograph, a still, a glimpse as in a light flash which revelates the imagined creature which we might and have so often called ‘being’.

The giving way to essence is the falling away of figurative and formative structures of knowing as in informations which conform and configure truth structures as in knowledge of being which can be quantified, qualified, or otherwise abscessed as in an emergence which is also a stillness – a gravity attributed to being implying a grounding body where there is agrund, the grace of becomings. This, knowledge creation as a safety mechanism through ‘life’, is to create as in a sketch the grounds of being, the solid surface, walls, container, and figuration of being as confineable, holdable, materializable in a ‘natural, physical setting’. Thus, the figuration of the being is emergent from the background of that which gesticulates and births it, the essence of it which is abeing, abeyessenced.

The being without perspective is also a death of art in the sense that it is the death of perspective as a gesticulation and gesture toward this moment of consciousness which is a transcendence or overcoming of the condition of consciousness which necessarily creates or organizes the being in space: the consciousness which observes the human being and its counterpart, the world, as fundamentally being in existence as being observeable and thus with depiction. Only in this state of consciousness can the rational sciences and the ‘real’ plastic arts come about in their claim to the ability as/of quantification/qualification of being in space and time as observeable movement and placement of objects and subjects in an environment at and through a break in which they may be observed as being/(en- )acting/themselves. As such, the perspective and method of viewing oneself as in relation to being is thrown into chaotic asence, an asence in which there is no longer a reconcilable opposition or pair or other, as there never was. This might be called, more formally, a coming into life.

The apparition of being is long sought after in philosophy and philosophical works, as well as in each disciplinary field of consciousness in the modern world today – the sciences, the arts, literatures, commodity markets, finance, and so forth. The sought after object is myriad and called myriad names: the lover, the currency, the fetish, the dream, the empire, and so forth. This state of consciousness teases itself out into the foreground only to understand itself as creating a situation of being which cannot, strictly, ‘be’, but as a play of consciousness and creative imagination towards an end which only begets and begins a new cycle of desire for yet another ‘foreign object’ as perceived separation to be resolved. So this state of consciousness is experimenting with becoming like a toy: it holds itself at arms length and examines itself like it were something altogether different and thusly attempts to integrate itself with it (often with catastrophic and absurd consequences).

NOTES ON LOVE; THE LAST (IMAGINED) ‘OBLIGATION’

In a diary entry of 1941/42, Gebser would note, “Family and country are the two main impediments to individual development.”

Love may be, perhaps, the final concept – the creative human word (st)and for desire toward that which symbolizes (as an externalization of Self into self/selves), as, simultaneously, an attachment and freedom, or liberation: the final object to be obtained or inhabited or inhibited which promises a release, a letting go; a final ability to live and truly live without the promised coming image. For what is a promised coming image but a being-without; this is to say, an illusory division, bound, or separation of being from itself? ‘Love’ as a human concept (like all conceptual realities) is that which calls man back and forth powered by his drive, his will which is at one with the cosmos, toward the poles of his being as projected separations: birth and death, emergence and submergence, meaning and being without meaning. Modern man powers his worldly will by way of and through the play of the projected poles of his imagined being: to and from object-realities which he calls love and desire. Without the concept of love as a(d)-joining- of, there cannot be desire. Human love is the promised unity which we call ‘hope’.

There is, of course, the agape love – which towers over the concept of human love differently, encompassing and holding it like an infant (‘love’; all human concepts) – agape love being that which absolves the human from all terms and conditions which it sets socially and culturally about itself as borders and bounds: that which we might call ‘obligations’ as stone tablets of ‘right’ action. Man’s morality then, is his imagined debt to family, nation, and partner:

perceived and thus conceived debts which route his behavior into predictable and predicted pathways which are ‘his’ culture. The agape love is his momentous coming; it is his coming with or without conceptual lead.

Living without ‘love’ is living without ‘hope’ as in the coming human concept or conception, or any coming human but him being the Future that Presents itself Today, in this very moment. Without this imagined bind, man is without culture. He is without guiding conceptual realities which dictate himself to himself; tell him how to love, how to feel, how to act, how to be. He must face himself directly, truly, without even his dependence on love as hope for the future. He, himself, becomes his Future, his Past, his Present, immanently. He becomes himself wholly; perhaps this is something many of us unconsciously fear the most. It is our greatest power. He sees the world as himself: the lion eating the gazelle, the exploding star – all of these becoming things converge upon him and become Love, Absolutely. He witnesses himself being made whole as the universe as it unfolds before him, as him, indistinguishably. To drop ‘love’ is to drop concepts; furthermore, to drop the conjectured histories of religious and political projects which utilize concepts to justify and structure reality-mechanisms – including genocide and war mechanisms which conjecture threatening and encroaching ‘evils’ as savage or violent ‘others’. He loses language; gains a language all his own – a language which he makes with the absolute freedom of being without morality – which is being without reality projections.

Man’s ability to return, without returning, the creative and destructive movements inherent within him, as him, as the universal order of makings and unmakings – is to altogether desynthesize the creative and the destructive within and as him: the Being At One. This is his greatest power; that which makes him Artist in all senses of the word – the one who creates and destroys life through himself without moralizing existence and absistence as they flow in and out of apparence and disapparence. He lets them; he lets them

from him like a river, like blood, like music: expressions which allow him to live with life. When such a man steps away from the social and collective order of organizing life like this and stands before the orchestra of himself like this, he empowers others to do so as well by way of his example.

For is love safety or is it the depths of transformation? Can we find safety in the depths of transformation – with Gebser – in and as a ‘primordial trust’? Can we let ourselves play where there was once only the serious demeanor of the organizing paradigm? Can we shatter the fear of death and commune with our greatest fears? Can we love them as ourselves; become wholly ourselves, today, now, and in each momentous occasion that is living!

Without our concept of love, we can't have our concept of hate. What would a hateful love look like? What would a loving hate look like? And why do we feel the need to draw a boundary between the two to illustrate why they're different? How might we turn one into the other, or bring them together in a unity which renders them both nonexistent but as a part of the whole (or the 'wholly')? All wounds are wounds of separation. Why are the creative and the destructive divided? Furthermore, where is the division, the opening, the separation? How is it possible, being within and as a universe, ourselves, at One? The paradox is ancient and yet utterly timeless; Originary. The opening is the mouth which speaks it.

What it is to be returned to ourselves without ever leaving; what it is to be standing absolutely in our own power as chorus of universal being. This is the movement of the tragic theatre into a new phasal relationship with life as in living deeply, wholly, fully. Here, there is no projection of the image of love, nor desire as in being-without.

You and I, We’re weaving our intimate truths in relationship – In symphonies of light. To love you is to love me, I know that now. You’re absolved within me, as I am within you; Moving with great speed toward each other and away, all at once As I, too, Change.

I am talking to me when you are talking to me. The I is resolved in you; the you is resolved in me. What are we then? Not even two lovers, nor Strangers – passing by like shadows in the same night, Shaded with streetlights. We are at one and at once with all things and no things – Our very perceived separation is abolished in aperception. The centre of the perceived self cannot hold; it expands and explodes and contracts like a breath – As I breathe into you, you breathe into me – Your spine like the trunk of a tree, Your face weathered and changed by time like a painting.

We run to embrace our Mother; Becoming one in our mad dash into life. The being that is at once you and I; the nearest rock and the farthest reach of space and time. And all at once, As we touch It is asolved.

INTEGRATING THE self INTO AND AS THE Self; BEING ‘PROJECTIONLESS’

Everything that you hear or observe within you that is not a sensation of infinite wholeness is not you. It is a projected belief as, in, and of ‘existence’ or the ‘existent thing’ as being-apart-from oneself and thus, oxymoronically, dis- integrated. This is a neurosis of consciousness as being conscious of itself as observing itself from afar and mistaking itself for/as ‘another’ or ‘other’ – a neurosis which can be placed in developmental terms of consciousness-making- itself as a theatre or play of separation and reconciliation in love, desire, and apperception of the desired object placed at and as a being-apart perceived distance. It is like the mother/father placing a toy away from the child as it learns to walk and crawl toward the toy it wishes to play with an incorporate into its lived experience-ing.

The withdrawal of this primary projection of self from Self as a (artificial) ‘separation’ returns the I consciousness to its rightful owner, that which it is in the cosmic, eagle eyed sense – the infinite Being-ness which speaks it by way of and through the apparance of itself in this form which is observed – the figure-body which emerges through and by way of its own mouth as an expressed-difference, itself pushed out of itself and yet remaining within and at a perceived distance simultaneously as a play of perception and apperception: and thus the ‘I’ finds itself, perpetually, by way of its own language-expression of itself (expressed as in pushed out as at an artificial distance) – an expression which always already returns itself to itself by way of speech as revealing-act, turning – act of uncovering itself by way of the language which, in creating the being-itself it emerges from in figuration, supersedes that very Being by way of the gesture of the mouth which impresses itself upon itself. It is the language orifice which produces the language act which, simultaneously, produces, mediates, and resolves the simulated border between the Self and the self as creative and created ‘entities’, always in coaliscion with each-other, meaning that they are working together as in coming

together at once in a unity as in a self understanding by way of a standing apart in order to observe itself as that which it is. The paradox of the self is thus resolved perpetually in the intersecting and contradictory deaths which are speech and silence: speech being the rupture of being or wound of the mouth (self-individuation from Being-Mother) and silence being the sealing or closing of the gates of the mouth (Self- realization, or the returnless return to the Being-Mother) – a living movement in accord with the cycles of the moon.

The production and reduction of light and dark are an invocation and revocation of language as a game which is all in the face of revelation of the self as infinite wholeness – an unsutureable and thus unwoundable, unutterable and yet perpetually uttered paradoxical state of Becoming as Being – one which always includes both and being one. It is in this way that Nietzsche and Joyce say yes; in saying yes resolve all conflicts forevermore. It is the inclusive state which acknowledges speech in silence and silence in speech; thus hears behind hearing into the hearting, the beating heart which courses through the world myths of mankind past, present, and future – and to the intercosmic core which intersects all things and no things as itself becoming into existences as absistences as a fundamental asistence – a dangerous ground as at once grund, abgrund, and in this being both being one in the agrund of being: a playfully dangerous ground almost sealed and almost splitting, a seam through which divine words escape as an at the essence of Creation as a mutual becoming, words at once timeless and immanent. It is by way of this angel-speech that we live as ourselves, as human-beings; in that power which is simultaneously ours at the closest intimacy; the power of the universal being-whole to the outermost ring of shining darkness.

I do not spoil myself over the memory or the coming of you, You Who Are Already Within Me. I experience your joy, your jubilation, our love – Now. It is this very Moment that is pregnant with us; We frolick as one, about the May Pole of our lives; Within the womb of the Great Mother who embraces us forever – painting her warm bosom with the strange colours of our becoming. I call no more, nor do I despair at the ticking of the clock, the stairs, leading up to the kitchen – The childlike belief I had in the lacking, the game I played with myself in the conjuring of dark midnights. All for fun; all for the amusement of my stars! Too, whom I drew with pen and paper upon my bedroom window.

Such glad Creation; such glad Creation is all. I am that long night, not so lonely after all; I am those painted stars, our Mother, herself; the May Pole about which we dance, you and I, I and I at once. Such is Spelling; such is the great work of language which plays through the senses to spin a web and slash through it like a conquistador of the soul. Children play in the forest, Rilke is pricked by a rose bush; The winter rivers are gushing beneath the hard ice which screens them from view; The winter rivers of the soul. If we have played at conquering the world, or otherwise at love, valiance, grandeur; The tea party of our nations drawn up with porcelain dolls; Dreams which haunt us with laughter. Which way! Draughtsman of the soul! Draw us a map to emerge from this dreaming.

The Draughtsman laughs; he is sightless. Only vision consumes the visible, rending it whole. The jaws of time revealed to be nothing; The snake revealed to be not even rope. All is mistaken in sight; whole empires are built In the image of the mind’s eye.

But enough of mankind. This is about my soul and yours Indistinguishable and unextinguished, Our bright candle at one and at once. There is no coming in because we are never leaving; We are coming and going in the train station of our dreams: This one dream that is mine, the Soul; my Self. I play at dancing without you, perhaps for awhile, for fun; For the feeling of a journey, or a puzzle. But I’ve tired of that game; Now I know. I am the pole and the beast, the law and the chaos; the heart of all man’s myths and kingdom games. I am the beating heart which resides, purely, wholly, In the Originary Moment; In the Ever Present Now. There is no hole of my being; there is no place that I am not. I am perfect; In my two hands I hold, in equal measure, Form and Formlessness. They, like my hands, reside within my great body: A body which is so large and so small that it cannot be seen; Yet it is seen everywhere.

This is no Sphinx riddle, Nor is it anything but itself: The revelation of language. It shows nothing and tells everything; tells nothing and shows everything, as is its nature. The leaf falls, the lion feasts with blood on his face; The wave crests; the star winks into hidden folds of Multitudes. What say you, Man, of this Creation, your own, Your private Nothings Exposed to the World? Your whole Universe rent into a great big, wet, sloppy kiss? Man is like a dog – about it, about his tail, About his tale, questioning, wondering, whispering the great big wet sloppy kiss of his cosmic secret… And yet it touches him in every moment! It crests over him and swathes him in himself! He shares a mouth with his Mother. His blood runs through every river and ocean; every valley, cow’s milk, sapling.

For if I call the sapling I call the stone! Thrown over the border fence, thrown into the face of Goliath. Prometheus laughs forever, but you wouldn’t get it – It’s an inside joke. You, you who stand like you are not Prometheus, Hera, Hector, Achilles, and Saturn and His Sons and The Lamb and Abraham and Isaac, all at once? Staring up into the voice of the godhead booming in your ears like a speaker in the trunk? His Bass Notes are yours, bassoon of your ribs, nectar of your mouth, oud-faced. Angelic, armed with one thousand swords that you have not yet subjected to the smith heat of your heart… Throw them in the chamber! All of the words as they pile up like chairs, dead bodies, skeletons, lost souls – All into the mass of your language: Rising like a bonfire of sentences.

This is how the poet speaks: the false poet and the false prophet and thus the one who speaks the truth – all images equidistant like footservants to the word of god. All images defenestrated from the window which is the sun through which man peeks; he looks like an animal, he looks wild, untameable; he looks from his own eyes and stakes his abyss with the cross of his sternum.

He declares, ‘Here’! Statera Facta Corporis. The Bastard Son of all Columbuses and Pizzaros, all Alexanders, Caesars, and Khans. Gravedigger of his own soul, beggar in the desert and marching with his militia of fallen angels toward his utmost goal, Death! He makes love to it; realizes himself through it. And yet he fears it like he fears the true power of himself – the light which shines through his eyes and face and mouth and crown, his cheeks and breast – the light which is so foreign to his self conception. For he calls himself a name and waits for applause. He calls himself a name, and waits to be turned to stone. A statue in a Muscovian square, or a pillar in the new stadium of violent

excesses: where war is waged as sport, and sport is waged as war.

What war, and what peace for this man? This man of poles of existence; the one who worships death and yet fears to die into life? He who fears his true form, pure light and the fractal shade which spins his name and face and body into mad configurations; in each turn he is born anew. Look at Heraclitus: he is rolling the dice; with each roll he is in tune with Fate, playing her game. The Fates who are many at one, at the task of weaving; their thread uniting them. Is it not like this with the tales of men?

I am the All Powerful Creator. I am all, and all is me. There is no room for Jealousy, Envy, Resentment, or even Love at my table – Because I am all there is; Ever-Flowing. I am the crater, the wildfire, the eruption: The orgasm, the denial, the lover, and the graveyard: The headstone and the weeping widow. I am the spider on the wall And the tub in which you sit In the warm water of my words, Overlooking the spiral towers of my midnight island city.

All Falls Dark; All is Me: All falls dark in my island city, my city of the night and day, Turned over in the palm of my hand like violets; brought back to shifting sand and clay. What has emerged, so violently and with such brilliance: Such Lion’s Mane shining, the crown of the saint’s head, He who is me and contemplates himself through me, Falls back through the vase of my chest Into the basin, where he is ground to powders of fiery ash And rises again as a tree, a flower, an angel’s breath.

See, My Work! See Me at Work – Is All: My workings compose my hand, as it sweeps through the towering empires and anthills and moon storms of Jupiter and asteroid fields which stretch out into the distance: The water which flows and – for a moment – forms the vague shape of a skull, the lovers’ lips, rapids of blood, Time. Achilles: would you avenge your lover, your brother amidst this fire, flowing ever so freely? Or would you weep like your horses; weep freely, a well of your flesh, The marrow of your bones dredging up gold diamonds?

All poetic images, nonsensical, laughing; even the serious poet in his attempt – are me at my description: The convocation and invocation of myself in a divine rite.

No role for man is divined or chosen. So dance in fits of laughter! So spin like the dervish; Make a carnival of the solemn halls of man; Do what you please. Make love in the stairwell, in the attic, in the basement: Make his whole house the pleasure of love.

The hummingbird, the bee sting, the arrow flying through the grove of trees towards its target; The bandits and their wars before television and nuclear weapons, Before sign language and Perseus, or the artist who drew lips on the mouth of god. All is sacrosanct and murderous in the hearts of men! I say what I please; thus I am a poet in the image of god – An image shattered one million times over and drawn up again with watercolor hues; paradise horizons which quickly dissolve into sea-tempests, Where slaves are lost to salvos of ocean. He makes through me; Lo – Here comes his winter; the body braces – to live in fear is to die without knowing life; To live in endless death like waking up in the midday, dehydrated; unsure of your place in the world. To wake up to an empty bedroom, the mess of the kitchen; The mess of the world. The unimportant casualty of a life Spent in the hole of being.

What was it that the gravediggers say? That they make fun of Hamlet’s friend and his dead body, Or that you will run off and cry under your favorite tree when your parents die, Or that you know the future, but you’re scared to admit it? To be human in the face of God! To stare yourself in the face and be absolved in Spirit! The religious know no religion; they know nothing but the face of God; writ in everything like scripture; the book of God is today; upon this wooden desk, or else outside picking through the fallen crabapples –

A scavenger god, who repurposes and resells everything as his true nature; his true form: A vagabond, beggar god – who stands before the king and becomes him, Who stands before the preacher and becomes him; Who stands before the stone of the law, Spaceless, As himself, entirely.

He witnesses himself in his becoming

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CAMP AND DRAG AS ‘REVELATION’

‘Treat everyone you meet like God in drag’

The game of the human being can be quite convincing at times: the sincerety and desperation of climbing to the top of the social ladder of mankind – to accumulate the most wealth, power, and status – so thus, surely, to ‘escape’ ‘suffering’ and be ‘of influence’. This game drags on as a way of being among men as a contest of costumes and theatrical displays of wealth and ‘self’ – a game where, like an agon gone on far too long, the game has been forgotten in the name of an assertion of the games of mankind as ‘firm realities of being’.

This is, of course, the great laughing falsity of our time and of all times of man: that spheres of control by way of organizations, institutions, militia, governments, kings, religions, and elsewhere and otherwise have long sought to assert themselves as being the most righteous, the most powerful, the most worthy. These displays are like the peacocking of men about the world – displays of threat, violence, wealth, colour; whatever else that represents the ‘power’ of the individual king, tyrant, or ‘leader’ or the group of elites in the face of the multitudes.

That we have forgotten that we are not ‘ourselves’ is the cause of our suffering. For the suffering does not even exist but as a perceived and imagined separation of ‘self’ from Self – of the ‘individual’, from the Wholly Self that is God or The Universe, or One, or whichever name you might ascribe. There is no lack or loss of this true nature of the human being being the Wholly Self – but as and in a forgetting of this truth through which the human being perceives himself as an individual, or else a member of a collective, separate from other collectives, nations, animals, spirits, and so forth.

So then what camp and drag do in this state of man as being so fully convinced of himself as existent and powerful and individual, being of his social name and social station – do – is to provide the counterpart to the Part which has been labelled the subject: man as the foreground and the ‘meaning of life’ as established socially and culturally. The human being has become an obsession through which he lives with many social and cultural identities, names, stations, titles, and jobs: so many that pile up as screens and projections atop his essential nature as Wholly One. It is in this way, in participating in fifteen or twenty theatrical productions, that man forgets who he is; he has been acting for so long.

Camp and drag flip the script of the play, revealing the mutuality of the carnival house of man and the absurdity of his playing at social normalcy by introducing the freedom of social deviancy in juxtaposition to ‘social normalcy’ as the reign of the Subject; the assertion of the ‘shadow side’ of civilizational Subjectivity reveals that the Subject is not alone; rather, that he is haunted forever by that which he has asserted he is not. Such acts of deviancy, in the face of Subjectivity, are always ‘criminal’, as in being against society and socialization. The irony here is clear – that it is a war, or battle of subjective influence being fought on the earth plane for that sought after concept to be made manifest and staked in the ground called, ‘Reality’: a construct that, for and throughout the course of human history has continually been asserted with a jurisdiction: as in the bounds of within/without, nation/exile, self/other; conceptual bounds and borders of the ‘self’ which have never before, en force, reached true philosophical union of the Self as Self as Wholly One; as the absolutely inclusionary state of All Things and No Things; the acceptance that is bliss and living with, as, and in Love; the state of inhabiting Becoming.

So man plays at a silly game; to play at this game is to constantly place himself (as) and (in) others under the microscope of Judgement; to continually evaluate the

existent circumstances (as he may observe them with his shortsighted gaze) and place them into containers of value, purpose, and hierarchies of definition and category: of race, gender, religion, nation, monetary value, sexual worth, and so forth. This socially and culturally engendered state of judgement is merely a common state: no more and no less malicious than this. It is common because it is unthought; it is common because one observes others doing it and so continues in participation in this lineage of man as comedic theatre of himself in the face of himSelf – that which awaits him ever-patiently while he continually mistakes himself for another and another for himself: in this carnival of mirrors which does not end without the conscious shattering of the game.

He must strip himself of himself as he imagines himself to be, entirely, and imagine himself again as everything he imagines himself to be-not. He will realize, then, that that which he imagines himself to be is equidistant and self-same to that which he rejects within and as himself; thus displaces as not-being-him; without, and thus the world to be acquired or dispelled, rejected, refused. This is his game: a game of synthetic distances where he uses conceptual realities like ‘love’, ‘money’, ‘power’, and other such symbolic promises to play around himself like a dog chasing his tale: to fight an imagined war; to woo the imagined lover; to prove himself worthy to himself and thus be admitted to himSelf. Can we not see this nonsense? And yet, it is precisely because we are so immersed in this acting; in this role that we have written ourselves within the script of our lives on the stage which we have built; in the relationships and dialogues which we have structured – that we fail to remember the play of humanity. This is what camp and drag remind us of; they remind us of the frailty and insanity of that which we believe to be true by dispelling the most essential myths to civilization and society by being- at-play; by allowing being to play at being whatever it wishes to be; thus to truly be as a free-becoming. This is precisely what threatens the social order so dearly: an order which has convinced itself of the single path of its own way

– a way which, being socially and culturally established: is death and dead without difference: not even being but as a stone channel of weight-without-spirit – an imagined reality which cannot become real but for the equal weight of belief, of human life-force energy – imbued within its dead-star core to aliven the machinic nature of it. So it is with the social order; the entirety of social institutions: metal skeletons which cannot become animate but without the flesh and blood of man devoted to and through them: their very blood.

The leaves are falling down; I’m on Park Avenue. There are the neighborhood cats, spotted, staring, delivered from spirit; The sandwich shop, lovers’ apartments; The people out on the street looking for lunch or love.

I too, am delivered from my bedroom – Out onto the carpet of a new day, crawling, without my notebook or my phone. I’m here to walk without mediation; come straight into meditation like walking through a doorway.

The staircase of brick leads up to the abandon of air; A garden in the south of France, or the unsatisfied gait of lovers who have been in love too long. The men staring out of the windows of the pizza shop: Everything in their eyes, the ceaseless haunting of want.

I do not carouse the city looking for nothing; I am unknown and forever unfulfilled: My shirt off and my skin against the wind and the tree’s shade. What unknown darkness approaches in the death of autumn; the coming winters? The seasons cycle on like the lives of cats; This one is seventeen years old; yet his mother still speaks for him – Leaning out over the rocking chair of her apartment porch.

Young girls are buying candies and entire families gather around storefronts; hungry, lingering, uncertain. The faint hum of desire is infinite, like a car engine or a heartbeat: Breaking through the mouth of the squirrel; cutting through the air like a falling flower petal.

I go into the bookstore and pick up a copy of Beckett’s poems; trace the history of Clarice Lispector’s literary life.

The searchlight of their words endlessly trawling the shipwrecked night, dipping in and out of paradises of meaning. What landedness awaits the one who is born today, in this moment, like a newborn? He cannot know screens, or love, or separation: Only the utter wholeness of feeling which brings him to tears, laughter, shrieking speech.

The words, too, fall – ultimately meaningless – like leaves on the hard ground. They, too, must die into living.

THE STATE OF MEDIATION ‘PROHIBITING’ MEDITATION

This is a simple topic and a simple ‘problem’; yet at the heart of all things as separations. Any degree of mediation, whether it be a screen, a belief, a ‘truth’, a ‘knowledge’, a meaning asserted or otherwise inferred; a figuration, a scene, a mirror, a world – prohibits meditation, or the state of coalescence, of dissolving of ‘self’ into Self and Self into ‘self’. This dissolving is everpresent; thus asolved – but in the imagination, perception, or belief-as-system of viewing of the one who witnesses his life and/as life unfolding before the sense-body – the sense body which he mistakes as ‘him’ and ‘his’.

Any such mediation is a way of creating a chain of meaning, a division, a supply chain, or a method of organizing life which is not immediate; immanent; furthermore depends on a flow of information or material or ‘truth’ from without the immediate situation being encompassing itself as a whole. It lends from the outside, it borrows; it is indebted and indebting – a future, a past, a synthetic without which necessarily depends on or is predicated by a knowledge or a way of being/seeing which must be obtained elsewhere. This is, also, where language goes to die.

The entirety of life is symbolic – but one must drop the book of ‘life’ in order to read it.

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Simplicity and Soul

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