Thursday, November 23, 2017

thanksgiving update, and allays 852 - 861

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

Today, America celebrates her Gratitude Feast, Thanksgiving, thanking providence for providing America to the pilgrims, and, insofar as the Native Americans can be grateful for having taken the land from the original original Native Americans (a few waves back), they can be grateful too. One Manifest Destiny later and we created a dynamic, self-contradictory, revolutionary republic, continually self-overcoming and redefining myself.

 

I am grateful for Ama, who speaks to me in the depths of the my night, and chases the shadows from my heart and brushes the cobwebs from my mind; I am thankful for my children, we keep me to my tasks and duties.

 

What I've noticed in this small clutch of allays is how persistent a few dominant figures have been in my education: Emerson, Nietzsche, and Jesus – I often refer to each of them, moving in and out of the allays. Whitman isn't far behind, and Kenneth Burke silently and invisibly adds his touches.

 

Take care, Caretakers!

 

 

* 852 *

As the world's oldest story, the Epic of Gilgamesh, demonstrates, the instinct for immortality has haunted us from the start, and has in its way given birth to all the world's religions. The instinct for immortality fulfills itself through having children, creating art ("Life is short, art is long"), contributing to a group that outlives us ("dying for the cause"), and, of course, in fantasizing visions of continued life on earth (reincarnation, resurrection) or in heaven.

The instinct for immortality may be the life instinct itself, yet the sexual instincts relate deeply to it, this giving up of self into children. The masculine will-to-power finds its correlate in the famous maternal instinct, which aims to create and nurture children, and to infantilize the adult partner by using the same gestures and methods. Love and power comprise the social goods.

 

* 853 *

"It is not suffering we object to so much as meaningless suffering," explained Nietzsche. "Once we find a meaning for our suffering, we can even will to suffer more." Certainly, an unfortunate fact can turn into its opposite, as when the early fans of Jesus faced a crucified rabbi. They invented a meaning for it, and thus the defeat became a sort of triumph. The trope was taken from the prototypical martyr, Socrates, willing to die for philosophy – though Plato and Aristotle needn't repeat his gesture. For Paul, Jesus' death mattered much more than his life – he isn't once quoted, not a parable, nor a quip, and anything like a human personality has been completely emptied out. There are no unfortunate facts. Everything can be used – where there is a will there is a way.

We trust our guts, and reach down to the Aboriginal Self in our reflection, and in this snip the lines of overdetermination that history and circumstance weave around us. Reflecting on the Self escapes time and space to that utopic point, the beginning of time, where at last we are free.

 

 

 

* 854 *

"The end of the world is nigh!" they've said for millennia, and they say it today. "Oh, the times we live in!" How they fret and pray their secular prayers. They do not see the universe is moral, that Justice tends everything. Had they witnessed this fact, they would worry much less.

Religious and political factions have been plotting the end of the world from the beginning, as a sort of ultimate gesture. Birth and death are mysteries. The birth and death of mankind are likewise mysteries. And where there is an unknown, pretense prevails.

 

* 855 *

My taste is the opposite of a tolerant taste, and most of what others love leaves me cold and unimpressed. I am difficult to impress, yet so eager to be. Yet, what I love I love with my whole heart; when I find a love worthy of sacrifice, then I sacrifice gratefully. Ama, you are my all in all; I never despair when you are near.

I preserve my innocence through a heavy contempt and cynicism of all the timely issues that electrify the world and its media. Saved by a laugh, I mock at all the fads and fashionable ideas, the great, oh-so-great topics on the table at the moment. Ultimately, time is boring and eternity fascinating. What is eternal in the new is all that matters.

 

* 856 *

There is much that is lovely in each of us, much deserving of love, yet not everybody can appraise this, few can see our deepest beauty, for it takes beauty to see beauty, and what is easily loved and by everybody requires little beauty to see, for it is obvious, and what is rare and profound and divine requires the rare and profound and divine to apprehend, and thus the one who can love deeper gains a mystical reverie.

 

* 857 *

Blessed are the poor? "Poverty is a sin," my Niviana claims, and pooh-poohs my systematic indolence. "Will I be loved as I would be loved?" we hopelessly pine, and settle for what we get. We must contend against the Amazons before we can marry one: you know a truth by attacking it. It is the Poet's to Name, a poet is a namer, and Ama we have named each other in folds and folds. Yes, the wealthy, the rich in spirit, rich in imagination, in creativity, in verve, justify life and make it wholesome for all. Exuberance is the ultimate generosity. Blessed are the rich in spirit.

 

 

* 858 *

"When Jesus is mentioned, men forget their knowledge and accept the apparatus of prophesy, miracle, positive supernatural indication by name and place and claim on this part to extraordinary outward relations; -- all these, which are the prismatic hues and lights which play around any wonderful genius, they regard as of an adamantine reality, and in the select society where Beauty, Goodness, and the Soul are named, these men talk of 'preaching Christ,' and 'Christ's being the ideal of Man,' so that I told them it might become my duty to spit in the face of Christ as a sacred act of duty to the Soul, an act which that benighted pilgrim in nature would well enough appreciate."

So says the Sage, which reminds me of that maxim, "If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha." These cult figures get exaggerated beyond recognition, and yet I recommend you face yourself in the mirror, then look upon heaven, close your eyes, and let the Utter Divine speak to you unmediated by any man.

 

* 859*

We learn our mother tongue during a window of youth: second tongues come with an accent. Likewise, the first time we fall in love, we learn the cadence of love, the language; the first time we experience the divine, whatever tradition or religion, we speak those terms and tropes, the sacred language, naturally, without an accent (or if accepted, an accent common to our people). For every language in the world, there is a corresponding accent when they learn English – so many stereotypical distortions. Likewise, a Christian who converts to Buddhism as an adult will have a Christian accent; a Catholic who converts to atheism speaks differently than a Protestant who does so; our first experience marks us for life. This is why there is such a fight to secure the "innocence" of the young. Every extant ideology hopes to impress them while they are impressionable.

 

* 860 *

The Holiday, usurped, as were many other tropes, from the Mithras cult, continued its gift-giving tradition under these terms: we give on Christmas because God gave his Son to us, and the wise men gave gifts to infant Jesus to honor the new King. So let us give ourselves to the world as incarnations of the All, of Ama, and let us give gifts to others to honor their divinity. Of course there is a spiritual giving; those of wealth can gladly give wealth, but those of other means will do well to give from their own riches: let the poet give a poem, let the singer sing a song, let the charitable give charity, and let the penniless give their bare presence.

 

* 861 *

Our life-narrative on any given day resorts so often to a synecdoche or metonymy of our current preoccupation – "How's life? Well, my car just broke down today" – and indeed, a moment can last all day if we dwell. What at this moment defines your life, gives it meaning, what does this part of your life stand for? Something now in today's terms, and, in tomorrow's terms, looking back, probably something else. What we talk about, think about, feel about, act upon, this is our life, the whole of our life. Know, therefore, how to insist your mind upon a few solvable challenges and ignore unsolvable distractions. What is the dominant fact at any given moment? What concerns us, what do we care about? We have some choice in this.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

 

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Update, Allays 840 - 849

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

Well today it happened; I got the first nip of that frostbit bug the nip of Christmas. As this entire season pivots on a day, and that, the shortest of the year, a stop to pause on meaning of it all.

The Holiday, usurped, as were many other tropes, from the Mithras cult, continued the gift giving nature of it under these terms: we give on Christmas because God gave his Son to us, and the wise men gave gifts to infant Jesus to honor the new King. So let us give ourselves to the world as incarnations of the All, of Ama, and let us give gifts to others to honor their divinity. Of course there is a spiritual giving; those of wealth can gladly give wealth, but those of other means will do well to give from their own riches: let the poet give a poem, let the singer sing a song, let the charitable give charity and let the penniless give their bare presence.

Take care, Caretakers!

 

* 840 *

In a relationship, what a fight is about is never what it's really about. It's always about one of two things, respect or love. To amplify the terms takes us on a journey of all we call motivating in human behavior. Most couples don't know why they fight half the time. Daily life is a theater of seem, while the inner maturation evolves and transcends. We wake up one morning and surprise to find ourselves suddenly wise.

 

 

* 841 *

Deep at the core of each of us shines our Uncreated Deathless Self, which sheds creative light upon all the universe. We exist to unfold that flower, and everything we accomplish and don't in this life reverberates and amplifies through the spiral unto eternity. What a man or woman thinks to offer or prides in may, like the  stag's love for his horns, prove his downfall when he ran from the hunters' dogs and got stuck in the thicket, whereas the legs he blamed as feeble would have been his salvation; so our deepest gift may not be the showy one. It may be the hidden light, difficult to behold, few in friends, and therefore all the more worthy and precious.

 

* 842 *

Our body decides before reason: every gesture and blink accumulates constellations of meaning, till we make a conversion, till we choose an idea, a person, a cause, to fall in love, to assume the mantle. First, we fall in love, then, we see her beauty; first, we choose a cause, then, we see its evidence. Reason is an afterfact, a pruning tool for dental work, to cleanse our capacity of doubt, our teeth, against counterevidence and for friendly evidence. The choice precedes the reason. Our body decides, and so much of our full experience contributes, with daily increase, little button clicks and lever switches, ever and always, always and ever. The spontaneous choice marks the work of a lifetime.

 

* 843 *

The body is memory, remembers all our deeds and words, contains its full past in the skin of the present. Our full body of influence is in the full difference our existence has made upon the world – an infinite sum, and infinite reaching. Not only our brain remembers, but every scratch on the ground remembers us, thinks us, recites our name. The full constellation of changes we've made to the world become our resurrected body after we pass our immediate skin. Thus the eternal return of the same amounts to the widening spiral that begins with our initial difference, and the difference it makes for the universe.

 

* 844 *

Were your sense of smell magnified a hundred fold, you might not enjoy your friends so much, nor they you. Wisdom is knowing when to overlook.

 

* 845 *

What is fashionably called "New Atheism" at the moment seeks to establish itself as a durable, reproducible, practical set of beliefs able to instantiate a worldview and a correspondence lifeway – as all balanced religions and philosophies do. Since, per its name, it exists as the negation of something extant – namely, theism – the morality of New Atheism is a morality of the gaps. Wherever the Christian morality fails or seems to fail, in popular sentiment, New Atheism markets itself as the reasonable alternative. In this, they are much like the Native American philosophies which emphasize their ecological conscience when selling their viewpoints alongside the much rationalized, much overly-rationalized philosophies of Christianity and Catholicism. Atheism is the shadow of God.

 

* 846 *

The world is cruel. Every joke has its butt, and what makes us smile like the envy of our friends and enemies? Our entertainment is in gunfights, torture, execution; our romantic relationships end in heartbreak and humiliation; our life in sickness and death. Life feeds on life, what we eat must suffer and die; entire species are devoted to living within one another, feeding off each other's loss. We are cruel to cruelty: our hate turns against itself, or otherwise we would have no objection against it. Yet, guilt is merely violence turned inwards, and blame and self-blame are so many modes of sadomasochism. Pity is cruelty with a good conscience; righteous indignation is an excuse to be cruel. We enjoy another's pain so long as it is farmed as a villain's come-uppance. How to escape the suffering? Indeed, what of our instincts, our life, wants to escape it? Only when we come to see life as the Game and living as play can we atone ourselves with existence.

 

 

* 847 *

We've always ventriloquised the Absolute, the God-term of whatever our system, so that priests can condemn and apprise mankind through the rhetorical figure of a God, or atheists by a cosmic eye looking upon the earth as an unimportant speck, or, in our fear of machines, as if a computer would see the truth of mankind, and replace us: every fiction projects our personal views, the way the guilt of the paranoid is projected on a government out to get them. Claustrophobic in our Cave, this skull of shadows, we escape, cast our glance at the sun, and seek the voice of authority.

If whites are the most solitary culture, the most given to austere solitude, or time with God, it is no wonder they are the most terrible and awe-inspiring. God is solitude. Stand alone, regard your own portion, insist on yourself. Perhaps they are cold, perhaps they are hard – lone wolves, world conquerors. Mencken, in his usual manner, characterized them as the most cowardly, and perhaps they are the most familiar with fear – white-as-a-sheet from fear – but the cold climate of their roots, the terrible elements that marked their environment, gave them an iron clasp of power over themselves. This is why they stand as Universal, they lack particular ethnicity.

You call me West Walker, O my Ama, luster after the setting sun. Perhaps you are correct. If in these allays I stray belligerent against this religion or that, this country or that, whatever group I define myself against, I hold it as a necessary fiction for giving myself room to grow.

 

* 848 *

Memories are repeatable experiences. We know experiences can repeat identically because, even if we compare them as different, they must be referenced to a repeated same. Repetition is meaning. Memories are the first meanings, assumptions the second. Assumptions abstract from memories.

 

* 849 *

"Nonbinary" is a one word oxymoron.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Update, Allays 829 - 839

 

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

As I've oft told you, I've been editing my first novel, Madeye (2006), and once I've given it its final rinse and press, I will gather up a large cloud of my various books and blitzkrieg the market: I figure if anything at all sticks, that will be my inlet. After all, it takes just a fissure to let the moisture in that undoes the stone; likewise, the fungus disperses its spores so immensely that few are the places a slice of bread can sit out unmolded.

Natalie remains a struggle; the job remains a struggle; the marriage remains a struggle: they are three struggles that are also educations, which I push back into the mantel of my self-education, bringing what lessons I can from my daily humiliations.

 

Take Care, Caretakers!

 

 

 

* 829 *

If you see two, know there is only the One. Every duality is reflection. The upsetting triad breaks a unity into a progression, a stream into a deltic transformation. The four again collapses into twos and One. Five is power.

 

* 830 *

If I laugh a bit, I enforce my distance. It is not mine to drown in you; it is mine to burn. I am the phoenix, made for flame, the craving and satiation of passionate bliss. You are the Ocean, I very well know, so let me laugh a bit, as with a cruel joke, mocking at tragedy, for I will not be drowned in pity. I would rather be cruel than surrender. Endless moralizations will not absorb me: my innermost virtue is Independence. I flee forever from you. I would rather be evil than owned. Ama, I yet follow you through heaven and hell and love you always. What is this but our dance -- resistance and submission, escape and pursuit?

 

* 831 *

I like the fresh look upon the face of somebody I caught off guard. They glance at me with a startle, before they decide how to react. In that first knee-jerk reaction, perhaps a hint reveals itself? I've had those who, due to our official relationship, kept things polite, only to later expose their hatred for me. A few secretly loved me and never fessed. I guess I somehow knew? How is it I meanwhile am so obvious to everybody always?

 

* 832 *

If I speak the truth, they say they do not hear. If I shine my light, they say they do not see. If I reveal my heart, they say they don't believe. Yet they do. They harden their hearts against me, but through a chink in a crack in a crevice my light gets through.

 

* 833 *

Conscious conspiracies are relatively rare, but unconscious conspiracies are the norm everywhere. Every group, sex, and race conspires against the others, all the others, in covert, ingenious, let us say even daemoniac subtlety, and our participation may be so disavowed and hidden that, when faced with an outright expression of the same, we are horrified and oppose it. Talk of world conspiracies bespeaks paranoia, but paranoia is justified, they all really are out to get you, in some sense. As we each belong to various groups, some by choice, some by birth – I'm an American, a male, was raised a Christian, am of German stock, and each of you has your own list -- we are consciously and unconsciously loyal to our various identies and willing to sacrifice for them. We know and are known by subliminal signs, invisible gestures, and secret handshakes -- only this we fail to see.

 

* 834 *

Anxiety is the inner, stress the outer, the tensions that situate us within our worlds. Coping with, managing, and accepting our dominant positions requires wisdom, and the playing of placehood – making the most of a difficult situation. The stresses inherent in our world as an endless clash of cultures, a war of all against all, spiritual warfare, with some material warfare mixed in, internalize into all of us as our principles battle for dominance. That is life from one aspect; true enough for what it states, but incomplete, in and of itself.

All religions state chaos came first. Perhaps Order came first: Mattria reflecting on Ama. That one which is two which is everything – her body is our world of tensions. To escape the game, to escape all situations, is to atone with the None. This is the act of suicide, euphemistically called Nirvana or Peace.

In this life, tension and stress characterize our days. Our necessity expands to the edges of the universe, our spiral clasps all and more. Our wounds bring us bliss.

 

* 835 *

In poetry, repetition is the norm, and disrupted repetition means something; in prose, irregularity is the norm, and repetition means something. Our days rhyme, with habits and routines that reduce whole seasons to a single day. A difference in routine means something, transfers energy into different directions.

The conjunctions of pleasure in the day keep the prose flowing – lapping tea, swigging coffee, having a shot of alcohol, something sweet, a half an hour mirror meditating, all these manage the progression of meaning through time, make life liveable, predictable, endurable, comfortable, fun.

Ultimately, our being and becoming are from our needs, our core. Habits add a rhythmic to the needs, and yet if the routine doesn't answer their flow outwards, from need to fulfillment, we suffer.

So many diseases share symptoms together that a discerning doctor must make subtle distinctions. So with the depressions, anxieties, boredoms, and perplexities of our days. What is needed may not immediately manifest to our imagination. Fantasy helps.

 

* 836 *

Novices see the war as black and white, their side obviously right, the opponent so obviously wrong they must be evil to deny it. A master has proper respect for his opponent. Children make the most noise about super-villains, but adults respect a worthy adversary, and learn from their opponents.

 

* 837 *

Winners believe in necessity, losers resort to chance. "How is it the powerful have imprinted the world with their language; our faith with their creeds, our schools with their math, science, poetry; our economy with their capitalism? How is it the powerful became powerful? Surely, by theft, and theft from us. Yet they preach equality, let us approach them on this ground." This is the strategy of the weaker, and for what it's worth it's clearly effective. Yet we all must continue to hive our genius into art, to pass the fire of fires down to our children and their children. There is no disputing taste? But all the world is a dispute over taste. That I insist on my Truth, my Way, my Tradition bespeaks my Self-reliance and Self-expression. Honor your source. Drink from your roots. All your ancestors toiled to provide you with the tools and weapons to approach your world. Gratefully take them, and add more of your own.

 

* 838 *

We each live in multiple situations at once. We have various identities -- gender, sexuality, religion, race, class, education, occupation -- and various allegiences -- to family, church, friends, culture. These energy fields orient our eyes to certain facts and away from others. A fact is meaningless in and of itself, only interpretations have meaning. So while we live in various situations, those situations cross each other out or intensify one another, so there are vacuums, quiet spots, trigger points, violence or peace. Like waves, troughs can cancel or intensify each other.

So an African American lives in a complex of situations, with clusters, statistical norms, stereotypes, and outlier behavior, untypical, unpredictable. Amidst his identities and ties, there may be a conflict between his race allegience, his religious allegience, his political allegience, and his allegiances to his parents. Where they are all in sync, the motivation is intense. Where they cancel each other out, there festers ambiguity, stress, and doubt.

 

* 839 *

I can talk for a glance. Shivers of you throughout my day restore me to my own. I'm hopeless in my swamp and drowning, but then you skate down a moonbeam and cheer me up, keep to my task to seek my goal at all costs. My life orbits the One. When I am able to shrug off the arrows from my flank, I will feel the better for it. I collect these piercing arrows from my flesh and fire them back again.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

update, allays 824-828

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

I've decided to keep this up as a sort of weekly thing. The allays have slowed way down now that I am approaching 1000 of them. I dunno if the project will end or simply proceed at a modest pace. I am waiting the next project to announce itself. I can't will such things; they will me.

At the homefront, things are better: Natalie is a little less difficult lately. Emilie and Theron are celebrating their 8th and 5th birthdays, respectively. As I mentioned before, we will be financially secure in five years, when I hope to go back to college; but before that I hope to publish (as opposed to self-publish) some of the many books I've put out there.

The therapy I deliver at Pine Rest is a slow-moving education for myself. As a Student, I do hope to learn life-lessons for myself and my family, even while I help others.

Life is beautiful.

Take Care Caretakers!

PS feel free to write me an update about how you are doing.

 

* 824 *

I've for so long enjoyed my memories of our tomorrow that I wonder -- need some day ever come? Will your lips kiss as soft as I remember, will you wake so gracefully as now I dream? You return to me again and again, a foretaste of our fate. Our rite is in our coupling, our proof is in our conversation.

You scratch your name in the oak of my heart. Let us never own much more than each other. Who can command whilst juggling? I am at least an expert of myself, and of you as well – hardly more. That much I will script faithfully: O my Golden Sun, O my Silvery Moon. You are as true as the wide blue sky, as cloistered and hidden as the cloud-cloaked stars.

* 825 *

Were I sick or dying, I would notice all these lovely little things usually invisible around us: the flashing splash of milk drops upon the surface of my coffee; the pour of the white into the depths of the darkness only to return in nebulous fractic clouds; the curious manner of the tree beyond the window, blown in the wind so the leaves shimmer in the sun, from dark and bended to green and straight, like glitter. Yet my secret is known, that I am bereft, for your diagnosis has been laid with a gavel: we must operate. I know it's a mere roadbump, but it intimates a certain truth: you will one day betray me for death, return to the earth, consign your ash in the Ganges, and your name to the ledger. Will you await me in the heaven I've shouldered over this my daily drudge? I've spun us an eternity, and we are knit at the pith, but you are such an impetuous beast, so eager to map edges, and surpass them in laughter. Stay put, oh spontaneous child! You quirky quark, stay put! Since Zeus split us, I've been aching return. Let Aristophanes laugh, but we fit, you and I, like Cinderella's slipper, like skin to flesh. Daily life is such a luxury, a richness of detail thicker than shag. Like the sick and the dying, like the vulnerable poet, I see in your face a fatal new sun. When we look upon each other you say, "Nothing is as real as this."

* 827 *

The range was a stage where everybody played the part assigned, and assigned each other parts, and addressed each other by their stage names alone, and this for so long, that one by one they forgot they had any other name at all. Then I crossed the field, and at times would drop an original name. A player would pause, look distracted, ask what I had said, and, when I repeated myself, would mutter quietly "Who are you?" not knowing, quite so well, which was the game and where the stage. I drifted, by and by, and by casual linkages, into a room of the Few, and sat promptly on the floor – just a bedroom for such a high office -- and smiled as they circled around me, asking me further instruction.

* 828 *

Men are more monstrous in their virtues than their vices. More horrors were committed in the name of Goodness and God than any crime committed under a banner (could there even be such a banner) of vice and corruption. Lincoln admired the religious fervor of the South, which exceeded that of the North. Most wars are fought for righteous reasons on both sides (or at least, these are the reasons the soldiers and the people are told to believe). Nobody fights for what they believe to be a lie, and yet the most persecuted religious movement in American history has been the Mormons, which outsiders sometimes mock as incredible. Certainly, their commitment to their faith is incredible, and the courage and ubiquity of their missions exceeds that of any other sect.

The Nazis really believed the Jews to be evil. So did the Just and Good Christians of the witches they burned. Believing this to be the case, should we not, in fact, commend them? They took their mission much more seriously than you or I and backed it with their lives. How easy for you to condemn them to hell when you have no skin in the game. What do you live and die for? The intensity of a terrorist is to lay his life down for the cause. In comparison, are you even alive? Yet we at last have this advantage – we regard no man as wicked and no group of men as evil.

The greatest crimes in history were done for the "right" reasons, under the banner of "righteousness." Yet those selfish capitalists building railroads across America did more good for us than all the charity workers of the time combined. Christianity with its masochistic cult of suicide has supplied the world with martyrs, but who actually lives the life? Is not religion a Way, and not a belief? What good does dying accomplish compared to living?

The Minority will lead, so long as they have the Majority of the will power. The critics, intellectuals, mockers, complainers, self-righteous, slogan-shouters come to nothing. Passion pure and furious wins the day.

As flame devours all it touches, and converts all to its own substance, so passion is irresistible. My lips lick your lobes in fiery thirst. I whisper your name.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Thursday, October 19, 2017

Update, Allays 819 - 825

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

This week has been better for me: my special-needs daughter has been more manageable, work more sufferable, life as a whole of a purer tonality. October brings the birthdays of my younger two.

I've been editing Madeye – my first novel, written in 2006 – at an even pace; most of my creative energy lately addresses this editing, with a few Allays, as those I've included, to balance me out. It will be a while before I have the stockpiled dynamite to begin a new project. The Allays took a lot out of me. I hope to write a myth cycle, finish the Emilegends, and one day write an epic with Ama as the backdrop. I know this is an age of tweets, not epics, but I am eager to find an ambition large enough to excite me.

Take care, Caretakers!

 

* 819 *

I read you as a prognosticator reads a goat's intestines or an augurer reads a bird's dance. I need no approval to know I have succeeded. Some of you bless me with a frown: that I offended you proves my achievement. Nor is it word-for-word and sign-for-sign, but I must read you subtly, for you do see things I do not, you see things you do not know you see, and I can see them finally in the way you look away, or sigh, or make a jest. You give yourself away, each and every time. It's not so much that I have to do a thing, I merely must prove to myself I could.

 

* 820 *

Pride is power. Cease to fret over nettles, drop distractions, or relationships that bleed your ego, and root yourself in your source.

 

* 821 *

In any romantic relationship, the invisible power dynamic is formative, the overarching emotional economy conformative. No grand romantic gesture will save a sinking marriage, but the emotional tones of caring, protecting, nurturing, and below that the material substrate, the doing of caring, the actual providing, the literal protecting, make the difference. Words aren't worth the paper they are printed on, unless the ink is blood and the paper skin. What matters is protection, nurturance, mutual support, a safe space to let your vulnerabilities show. The substances of libido and money are like oxygen and nutrients in the blood: they are for the system, not the system for them: food for the stomach, and the stomach for life.

The invisible power dynamic inspires romance, that burn with its twenty-year afterburn; emotions enclothe naked power. For woman no less than for man, sex and power comingle: each dominates in their own way.

 

 

 

* 822 *

From each according to his ambition; to each according to his contribution – with a minimum standard of living for the disabled and the dependents – children, and elderly; and a maximum standard of living for the affluent, for wealth is a limited good.

 

* 823 *

The wound is stronger for the hurt. Sacrifice is investment. Need is fatal – what we need will come to be. The exchange of substances, the give and take of meanings, makes for a solid relationship, the way each organ gives and takes within the organism. Habit is hard, a complexity of habits harder still. A man exudes a routine like a snail exudes a shell: we find uses, and we find official and occult meanings for all those around us. Were eros lacking, something will be eroticized to compensate. Lust is a reflex. And if we cursed lust by equating it with adultery, nevertheless, we will on some level, nevertheless, lust, were it as innocent as to bless the babes. Mysticism is a purified internalized eros. Where the outlet / inlet lacks, roles must be assigned. Were I the last man in the world, and you the last woman, we must stand for all the world to each other. In a way, it is already so for every couple, where the husband represents all men, the woman all women. We may call sex selfish, but it is the basis of selflessness, since we put ourselves at the mercy of the other. Selfishness and self-interest may be opposites, after all, since to sacrifice others for the self is to diminish the self. We need that reciprocation, that give and take, nor can we own a thing till we earn it.

 

* 824 *

I've for so long enjoyed my memories of our tomorrow that I wonder need some day ever come? Will your lips kiss as soft as I imagined, will you wake so gracefully as I dream? You return to me again and again, a foretaste of our fate.

You scratch your name in the oak of my heart. Let us never own much more than each other. Who can command while juggling? I am at last an expert about myself, and of you as well. That much I will script faithfully: O Golden Sun, O Silvery Moon – you are as true as the wide blue sky, and as cloistered and hidden as the stars cloaked in cloud.

 

* 825 *

Were I sick or dying, I would notice all these lovely little things, invisible around us: the flashing splash of milk drops upon the surface of coffee, the pour of the white into the depths of the darkness only to return in nebulous fractic clouds; the curious manner of the tree outside the window, blown in the wind so the trees shimmer in the sun, from dark and bended, to green and straight, like glitter over a painting. Yet my secret is known, that I am bereft, for your diagnosis has been laid with a gavel: we must operate. I know it's a mere roadbump, but intimates a certain truth: you will one day betray me for death, return to the earth, with your ash in the Ganges, your name on the ledger. Will you await me in the heaven I've shouldered over this daily drudge? I've spun as an eternity, and we are knit at the pith, but you are such an impetuous beast, so eager to map edges, surpass them in laughter. Stay put, oh spontaneous one. You quirky quark, stay put! When Zeus split us, I've been aching return. Let Aristophanes laugh, but we fit, you and I, like Cinderalla's slipper, like skin to flesh. Daily life is luxury, a richness of detail thicker than shag. Like the sick and the dying, I see a new sun.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Friday, October 13, 2017

Update and Latest Allays

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

Life has been more of the same: struggling to keep my job despite struggling with major depression; managing my special needs daughter Natalie despite how difficult this is; trying to be a good husband, good father; and writing, as a self-therapy for all the previous stuff.

I've decided that ownership is discipline. The tax of parenting Natalie disciplines me, makes me more than I was. Every occupation is an education: if I can do well on this job for at least five years, I'm sure I will have learned as much as in four years of college. So I keep going and trying despite my self limitiations.

Here are the latest Allays!

 

Take care, Caretakers!

 

* 814 *

Poetry is possibility. The hard cold clamp of math, the frozen toe tripstones of science, which would, could it, speak only math, hopes to choke all connotation out of existence. Yet the letter lives. A man does well to cushion his days and relationships with suggestive ambiguities, investments, dissonances, and resonances which pay off when opportunistic moorings seek their sail.

Limber your lamb-soft talk in ways, days, and possibility -- the finale of seem, the double of dream. Be sure to double all your truths, to veil yourself in wonder. Prose frames a fair skeleton, but everything vascular rhymes.

Only a sense of could, a flirt of suggestion, keeps open the gate of maybe, the child's freedom of such it can be. We flirt with existence, and half our sense is nonsense, till at last we see and believe.

 

* 815 *

How did you find me, despite my disguise? Why did you ambush me when I lay hidden among the deaf and blind who can't at all recognize me? I've made sure of it, that nobody would see me for what I am. Boring, predictable, 'weird but harmless,' so I have deigned to seem. Yet you come on the scene with high congratulations as if you had a clue. Save it! Save it all! I don't care for your praise or bare recognitions. You speak as a man drunk, who feels unfettered enough to slur a few truths. I've worked too hard to crystallize my aspect. Harass me no more, I care not for your praise or flattery. Even Ama plies me with criticism, complaint, and every manner of critique. If I can so hypnotize her, in her earthly aspect, equally will I chain you down, once I learn your name and givings. I will be owned by no one, and so I fake my chains.

 

* 816 *

Beauty created the universe and beauty sustains it. We would conform to our age and our time, the motives and directives of our generation, yet when the innermost shines, time melts away. As Milton sang when he spoke through Satan, but wheezed when he spoke through God, so there is no faking inspiration: where there is fire, there you burn; where there is ash there you dim. So ask where a man or woman sings. What gives them fever? For fifteen years, my Niviana, and she alone could make me sing. How to escape her? Why can no other spring the tune? Love certainly is not a convenience. We sing as we must, not as we would. The themes of the times, the "inspiration" of monetary gain, mean nothing, say nothing, fade like the waves, which bow down, forgotten. Likewise, we may ride the tide, and ebb with the sea, yet that fountain heart, irrepressible, sets the tone of eternal youth. I can never escape you. My Self is a Will; I must submit to you, the allthing, the without-which-not. There is no god but God, and to each man this is his very Self, groom of Ama All.

 

* 817 *

Intuition: the fetus thinks. We develop our gift, our talent, our difference, our Name, our meaning, our purpose, our logic, our crea, our vocation, our logos, that eternal unique life, from the beginning, and ever after in all that we do.

Some outer forms correspond to the inner urge. If Socrates had a genius for definition testing, and Jesus for hyperbolic one-liners, so too do each of us have our difference which, if we attend it, expands as far as we care to take it. My Niviana has a genius for antithesis, and myself for combining divergences.

Editing is to make a work more like itself, self-similar, to develop the native genius within it. Bring out the best in everybody – their best, which will be unique and difficult to recognize, as all new things are.

Give, but just enough – never completely. Let your gifts irritate and provoke, let your truths shock and titillate, expose only glimpses, and save your greatest grace for Ama alone.

 

* 818 *

If falling in love gives you wings, frees the soul, whatever curlicued bit of prosy you prefer, know at least this: love is slavery. As power is freedom, love, therefore, as a submission to the beloved, as a trance to her beauty, also amounts to a sacrifice of power, and hence resentment. That love and hate so completely coexist so as to be simultaneous aspects of the same – one felt consciously, the other unconsciously – is evidenced by the wrath, fury, resentment, and thirst for revenge freed during divorce proceedings. No new emotion erupts during a breakup, but the repressed underside of love itself, the resentment at sacrifice and submission to the beloved, her expectations and demands. Hate is the obverse of love, and its unconscious support: we love her under these conditions, and in this way – set the terms, coach the codicils – but should she forsake them, then our righteous fury erupts. In no other relationship are we so vulnerable as in love; in no other relationship can we be hurt so intimately and irreparably as in love. It offers us our highest highs and our lowest lows. Cupid abused Zeus blamelessly and without punishment. Thus we are all done in by this prankster son.  I know of nothing more evil, and innocently evil, than love. Power at least commands respect with its dignity. Love undoes us all.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

update and allays 805 - 813

 

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

Lately life has been more and more of the same: Natalie, my special needs 11-year-old has been a challenge; Theron and Emilie are learning more every day, it is an education watching them create personalities out of themselves. The job as a peer support specialist at Pine Rest also remains an education, and I suspect that after five years of it I will have learned something I could not have otherwise. Instead of writing, I've been busy editing my first novel, Madeye, which I will publish once I am finished.

Take care, Caretakers!

 

* 805 *

Ah, to be nonchalant in the face of certain destruction! We only lose the Game when we take it too seriously.

Ama laughs! Oh, how Mirror Meditation cheers any infamy. You stained my dagger with your blood, and absorbed my mind in the menstruum of your discourse.

Mother Life is Mother Death. Having forged our heterocosm, we will find Her there.

 

* 806 *

Eru fell into a swoon when napping by an underground fountain. A Dreamweaver sank into his head and filled his mind with fevered dreams of ecstasies, mysteries, and such bliss as he had rarely discovered in waking life.

He awoke the next day and promptly forgot his romp. The next night the dreams returned. Enraptured and enchanted, he lay in bed, and only woke up fitfully, and after much persuasion.

Soon, Eru slept at every free moment, and gave his charms and loving regard to the Dreamweaver. As God of Rhythm, the seasons fell out of tune, summer lingered into fall, and day strayed into night, nor was the animal kingdom regulating itself, and chaos seemed to be the order of the day.

Ovath knew what he had to do. The stern Allfather approached his son's home, and, when given no entrance, let himself in. Eru slept fitfully, and demanded his father go away. Ovath took his pillow, his blanket, but Eru would only grunt and not so much as open an eye.

Ovath recited Eru's responsibilities and duties, cataloging the disasters his absence had caused. Eru shrugged in his sleep.

Nonplussed, Ovath opened his mouth and began odling. The song produced such a god-awful din that Eru's spell finally broke, and the dreamy-eyed upstart yawned and said "Ugh."

Ovath departed, and let the chagrined Eru regain his Rhythm.

 

* 807 *

My heart virtue, Independence, grew from my blessed curse of difference: I found myself different from others and at first lamented and later celebrated. This relates to the virtue of Self Reliance, which Emerson presented as the fountainmouth of all virtues, that upon which every virtue necessarily depends. His essays, which present the opposite of a democratic free for all, but instead a carefully balanced tissue of doctrines, epitomized in the essay specifically about the subject, and explicated in every other, do not so much define Self Reliance, for though truths are definable, the Truth is indefinable; they give its various senses. We come into the same experience as the giver of Truth, and then, without proofs or arguments, we know the Way. So I strive in these allays, which you must at times nimbly skit across like a goat upon a mountain's crag, not to gain the expected "Aha!" epiphany, but a deeper sense, first of all, down in the dark of night when alone amidst the intimate starts of your dream life. I set a tonality, not in the words and their cadence, but between the blanks and amidst the in-between places. What is best in my writing, what is best in me, is not quotable and illustratable. Neither this nor that, or, perhaps, yes, both this and that, and also the other, the ineffable, which, like a contract, imprints but a skit of ink, but means, in the end, your life.

 

* 808 *

My, this shy of reddened cheek! How deep do today's humiliations sink? I am shamed and speechless. These narcissistic wounds will knit and scar. Ama! Heaven help this raw stark naked break of a pride-tried heart. Where to bury my shame? What, but to bare my aching heart to you, to open my neck and let you kiss my wounds. I do bleed, silently, alone, struggling in ways others don't, trudging through mires nobody else felt. If heaven is made of ratios, I must celebrate modest gains as exhaustively bought. What a glare of muddle, this wrinkled brow. Austere yourself! Meet your gaze. Hold your own. You yet will win.

 

* 809 *

"The unconscious is structured like a language"? Mind is experience, meaning, interpretation, language – and the images, or nonlinguistic concepts and ideas, the I of the eyes, require interpretation for translation, to convert from experience to language. Civilization is this clash of ideas – their competition and cooperation. Magic in itself does not command nature, but it does command that part of nature that we so eagerly wish to command: other men and women. Words control words, convert experiences into meanings and interpretations, and allow us to express those meanings to others. We each generate formulas, jokes, names and nicknames, to structure the meanings of the mind. Language structures meaning. A gesture contains an idea; a smirk is enough to keep a potent idea at bay.

In this way, we internalize our civilization, and then walk through the "artifacts," that is, its material aspect, while not yet contacting parts, by, perhaps, holding a sacred idea free from us as a joke – for most of what is called sacred is poison to all but the parishioner.

 

* 810 *

Belief is God. That we have a theology, robust and thorough, the brainchild of generations of sincere and not-so-sincere thinkers, is God enough – fulfills all the uses we need for God.

 

 

* 811 *

Marriage is a conversation. Would you marry well, marry a person you can really talk with. Different meanings for different friends, but of the One, endless intercourse. It so happens that every relationship requires a certain distance, and the roommate loses spiritual intimacy as the long-distance relationship loses physical intimacy. Every relationship at every moment holds its ideal distance. We cramp till we find this. Much of socializing is finding the best distance or intimacy for each person we meet.

 

* 812 *

Ah! The rank and dignity of the great broad blank! The appalling white of abject atheism, the great all-consuming white of pure being! The scrubbed table, the shined mirror, the chored house, the austere check book.

At first pass I made the most obvious alterations. Of 100,000 I took it down to 10,000. With every pass, a subtler touch, a finer detail, till the garlic was chopped to slivers, the spice ground to powder. Finer and finer my editor's mark twined, making as a cape and cover the great bright blank of utter perfection to shine through all my speech, the spokes of the world wheel.

 

* 813 *

Only a cynic would judge a man's life in terms of his worst moments, as if his mistakes reveal the Truth about him. Yet again, what we do despite social conformity bespeaks a private necessity, and our Necessity cores us. Which is it? What is the key to a man's soul? His prides or his shames? Or perhaps his everyday life, the great average? Isn't every day a euphemism and every thought a rationalization? What is the Truth of man? Is it what he chose or what he could not at all avoid choosing, so much was it a part of him? How shall we write a biography? Aren't all biographies fictions "based on actual events"?

A man is a thing, is many things, is a story, is many stories, and, if given enough attention, rewards endless study and competing interpretations. Our great figures tell us the most. Folks like Socrates, Jesus, Confucius, and Siddhartha we know little about, mostly legendary and mythical encrustations. Yet even apocrypha or legends about a man can reveal more truth than historical facts. Facts obscure the truth, and only a great fiction reveals the Truth of a thing.

Certainly a man's tendencies, his character of various habits, mask themselves in a compensatory balance, so that cruelties get a reasonable expression, generosities get a reasonable expression. Most of attitude, or incipient action, can be detected through a personality of words, but some ideas, memories, and opinions may be vulnerabilities, publicly blamable, and so they act behind the scenes, invisible agents – so that for good or bad, we can only catch them off guard, either by inference or through embarrassment.

Most of our strategies must be unknown to be effective. Our eulogistic coverings and public rationalizations keep our desires and intentions under the radar, and we may rightly say that much of virtue is to pay for vice. Yet virtue gets its energy from vice, and would be impossible without it. What best exposes the attitude, belief, personality, and character of the man – his feelings, thoughts, words, and behaviors, may not be averages, tendencies, and statistical norms. Strategic moments expose the logic of the whole. Like recognizes like, and a true biographer is not quite an autobiographer, but discovers himself through this other.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!