Saturday, May 18, 2019

note on the Allays of Master Play

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



The Allays really are complete. I have had a few fragmentary new ideas I could have added into further allays, but instead I am saving them as notes for a new work entitled For Care of Crea, which is about managing one’s personal energy.


I’ve also finished a fantasy novella I wrote for my daughter entitled the Emilegends. I will spend the rest of the year securing a publisher. This will be my first serious attempt to publish any of my work.


As for the Allays of Master Play, I am seeking no publisher for them. First of all, I’ve self-published it already. I also offer it as a free PDF on my website:


That is the most up-to-date complete version of it yet. Any further changes will be cosmetic, such as correcting typos and such.


The Allays are a difficult book, challenging to read. It has few lovers. Though most my friends and family prefer other things I’ve written – especially the fantasy stories I’ve written for my children – the Allays remain my personal favorite, my private pride, for I know that no matter what I fail in henceforth, at least I accomplished THAT.


You can purchase a hard copy of the allays here:


Take care, Caretakers!

Sunday, April 28, 2019

the Allays concluded

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:


I have declared the Allays finished a few times, and at the risk of embarrassment, I’d like to declare them finally and really concluded once again. So here’s the ending. I plan on putting further inspiration into another book. Thank you for being my audience.

Take care, Caretakers!


* 1100 *

I split your seams to thread afresh, the seeming wall adores my press, and aching, takes the certain bliss, which keys through locks of coils of jet. Your Secret bare, I understand – you my wife and I your man.


* 1101 *

Well read, scriptures are the best of books; poorly read, the worst. The authority readers glean from Holy Books can lend itself to mischief – evil in good conscience. I ask you therefore to decide for yourself, think for yourself, center on yourself, your being, your becoming. Love me, but love yourself more. Love Ama most of all.


* Conclusion *

Thus, my Niviana, ends my fulfillment of your request for “pure Ghee, please!” in place of my garrulous talk upon talk. Hold the words in mind and flesh, live them daily till you have them whole. My love is for you always!



Thursday, April 18, 2019

allays 1097 - 1100

* 1097 *

Ah my Ama! Smile me a new day! With a spiral over your pregnant belly, with the Ouroboros laced over your heart, with a blue zero upon your faultless brow, you radiate your pure beauty over me.


* 1098 *

Often, you must disobey me to obey me. The Way is impossible, but through my indirections I have made it possible. I bid you not follow, but wed me, make me your match. If I wished popularity, I would have spoken simply and lost the few who matter most. You draw near because I have what you need, I am what you need, we are two of one, we share the same source. Thus, I know my words will find you wherever you are.


* 1099 *

To the tripod of physical health – good exercise, balanced diet, adequate rest – we naturally add the forth of proper hygiene. Clean yourself daily. To spiritualize this four-legged table, I’d say to keep your mind clear of unclean intercourse: ignore trolls and never lower yourself to returning insults with insults – unless for the sheer delight of mischief.

It is upon me to win another race, upon me to limit sugar, to vanquish – after all these years – my debt. Springtime inspires self-improvement. Ama, to be powerful before you is my grand desire. I drink the paper with glyph of my resolves, downed with milk, my leaf ceremony. My forties are upon me: time to grow up.


* 1100 *

I split your seams to thread afresh, the seeming wall adores my press, and aching, takes the certain bliss, which keys through locks of coils of jet. Your Secret bare, I understand – you my wife and I your man.


Friday, April 12, 2019

allays 1093 - 1096

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



Life is more of the same, for better or worse. I’ve written but a few allays this last month, but I’ve been feeling to finish the Emilegends, the fantasy novel I am writing for my daughter. I am now studing Latin and Game theory, as well as looking through a book I received for my birthday entitled “the essential mystic,” which emphasizes experiences  with the divine feminine.


Take care, Caretakers!


* 1093 *

Ama, the Encloser, She Who Reaches Wide, shall I be found wanting at your wanton call to creative joy, having diffused my crea, having leaked and bled? No, but every day I balance the flow, my differentiated energies, so when you call me to your own, I stand ready and eager to create in our recreation, to generate in our regeneration, to produce in our reproductions of our love for each other -- all I write, all I am. For you, for us, for all the world I balance my moods amidst my duties, fussy as I can be, ready to pour my heart out for all I love.


* 1094 *

Follow me, little one, to a place past contradiction. Why downcast? Why forlorn? All your marks and remarks go unnoticed? Do you suppose this surprises me or leads me to pity you? Far from it. I bid you serve the wife – though without reciprocation. How you rue your lot! May I tease you, please? I’m ever so gentle. Am I not enough? Am I not everything? Be grateful for her ingratitude. You are mine. Serve cheerfully, I feel every touch. Be a mere cashier – lift the people. That is grandeur enough for what I want from you. You are my favorite.


* 1095 *

Ah, spring melt of Ama’s breath! As the sun, her presence is a blessing. Beauty blesses all who can see. Not the one who suffers, but the one who laughs is a light upon the world. What grace you sing through the warming air!

I am ever the mocking child, with laughter boasting of my goals. I’m fat from winter, torpid as a worm. Ama’s hilarity, raise me with your risible pranks. I would learn Latin and Game Theory, these fine languages I left behind; I would take on discipline, I would learn again. The glory of God is intelligence.

I am inspired, oh my Ama, silly cashier that I am, unto greater deeds and wider boasts. The morality of the artist is to cultivate an obsession. Ama, I bless you with all my being. I came to earth to learn your name. You are all I need.

Forgive me wife, forgive me lover, for my venomous words of this brooding bitter. Let me kiss the wounds and suck the pain. Let me dawn resplendent before you now! My favored! My children! My own!


* 1096 *

The Aya move ideas through our minds like tokens across a chess board. As if the entire world sprawled a checkered grid, so our heads hold playing pieces, these ideas or those, with which the gods, the Aya, play their cryptic game, a sort of glass bead game, a philosopher’s match, in which move and countermove make use of all concepts, charging individuals possessed with political or religious fevers who identify their happiness and their very lives with the ideas they hold dear.

To you Aya playing from board-level I say, play the game, but don’t let the game play you. What fun to lose yourself in play – yes! – but know again how to pull out and let go. Life is a game. But it’s just a Game.


Thursday, March 28, 2019

Allays 1091, 1092

* 1091 *

Mattriama is all in all, our Great Mother, and indeed, every man began as a woman in his mother’s womb till enhanced into a man – with some things gained and some things lost. We are her very flesh and spirit. When we love each other, when we love anything, we love her.


* 1092 *

God has a body, it is the universe. God has a soul, it is Ama. Mattriama is both combined, pregnant with herself, and her body contains all that is and all that is not.

Ama rides a lion, the blond beast, honey as sun, who makes no retreat. The lion yawns. Let light scatter what darkness loomed, let infant escape the night of the womb, the pre-philosophical cave of pure love and seeming, and gaze with the sun upon all that is, not merely to know, for knowing is a disguise until we reflect and then realize.

O sun-crested waves of darkest ocean, her mystery the deep starkest devotion! Ama the prankish laughs and delights to hide truth behind light, and love in the night.

Come Ama! You I adore. You are my This! I want nothing but more of you to surround me, nourish and fill, kiss me awake, cheer me with your silly rhymes and childlike amusements. Let us fuse here as one, devour each other, like flame wed to flame, like sister and brother, soul twin and twain, two I’s to one Self, you my cherished, gift of my wealth, and weal of my bones, my marrow and pulse, home of my own, my selfsame, my All.


Tuesday, March 19, 2019

allays 1084 - 1090

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



I’ve found inspiration in keeping up with the allays, and where inspiration leads, I follow. Lately, I’ve read Antony and Cleopatra by Shakespeare, as well as Harold Bloom’s book about that Cleopatra, and I grabbed a copy of the Philosophical Dictionary by Voltaire. Been a little busy with work, but as always hope to finish the Emilegends soon.


Take care, Caretakers!





* 1084 *

“I want my place, my own place, my true place in the world,” said Hawthorne. “I want my proper sphere, my thing.” Like birds, we sing in order to claim territory. What we make beautiful we also own. This personal Aria begins in night, while we dream, this internal landscape nobody can plumb. We lay our radical and we take to own, own to use, and use our own private spot on the earth and also in the heavens. We have inalienable rights to life, liberty, and property: let us view our place as an extension of our bodies.


* 1085 *

Were an author any sort of authority over the fate of his own work, I would prophesy that my greatest creations will be seen to have been the Allays, the poems included in Phoenix Ash, and most of all Jillian herself – though I will perhaps add my daughter, since these latter two are most susceptible to my magical influence, while all the rest of the world turns a deaf ear. That a few can hear me, and severely, proves to my doubt that nothing has been in vain. I abide and ever shall.


* 1086 *

Often enough, our personal problems are chemical, on one level, physiologically based, perhaps fated in our anatomy and genetic makeup, but we experience them as cognitive issues – not as illusions, or rather, yes, as illusions, but illusions that works. William James fell into suicidal depression because of his doubts regarding free will. Probably just a major depression, but by viewing it as an intellectual problem he gave it the controls and handles he needed to solve it. So let us put all our problems in the language we speak best and solve it there.


* 1087 *

Communist philosopher Zizek dreams of a Rainbow Coalition, a union of all minorities together to fight off their white, privileged, wealthy overlords. Foisting an essence over them all as the oppressed as such, he takes away from them exactly what they should be most proud of: being a minority, being different, being individualized as subgroups, offering a unique perspective, and not something gross like the monsters and titans and hundred-handed giants attempting to storm Olympus, fueled on sheer resentment. He wishes, in the end, to ball them together into a majority and then to oppress the capitalists as a minority.

So which is it, circle or triangle? Do we want a hierarchy or do we want equality? Clearly both are needed, some things in common to all of us, and also each in his own role, with its attendant duties and privileges. Some honors come from chance, others from merit. Let us love the lovely, respect the powerful, and honor the noble. Lacking that, we are worse than evil, we are bad.


* 1088 *

Ah, Ama, you present the door, in it your Secret, and beckon me to furnish the key. So I’m alone lately, with you alone to play my games and you to speak me Home. Am I so Buddhistic as to call life itself the problem — “Life is Suffering”? — for Woman is Life, and beauty the cause of all desire. Mattria, you are Cosmos, beauty; Ama you are Life. I abide in my divine, and ever shall, though so many recoil from me; if ever I give a hint of my Self, they pull away, and not a fan to be found in all the world of this child our own, but I love it all the more, these Allays. I need no external confirmation. Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. You have already told me your lust for the original. And Ama, I am the Original. I may laugh at my solitude, for I am alone with you.


* 1089 *

Eternity contains time. The past remains present, the future lives within the now. All that ever happened and all that will ever happen exist in some form even today.


* 1090 *

“Who can read all this?” my friends exclaim. Perhaps each allay is a teabag that, to be properly enjoyed, must steep in a cup of hot water. I spring from the subliminal to the sublime in flashes of lightning – I tease to please. Grasp me where you can – even a little is enough.


Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Allays 1075 - 1083

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



Life is pretty much life, and each day resembles the last, only I’ve been reading Camille Paglia’s Sexual Personae again – this is one of my favorite books by a female author, and I will be looking again at Susan Cheever’s American Bloomsbury, which is basically idle gossip about Emerson and his friends. As soon as I finish writing the Emilegends, a collection of adventures stories for my 9-year-old daughter Emilie, I will attempt to publish it, as well as my dad’s Memoirs, and my friend’s collection of poetry.


Take Care, Caretakers!


* 1075 *

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation” – so naturally, my beamish girl, when you insist I redact this gift into themes and headings, I would remind you that the true meaning of the Allays is in the Rhythm. The gentle redundancies and familiar returns are like the kissing laps of sea to shore. I seek no stark definitions or formidable syllogisms – I’m not half as silly as Spinoza in that regard. Take what you will. The rest will take you – the pull of the vortex seeks you center.


* 1076 *

Pour your heart into your work, be fully present to your family, make your art from the flesh of your experience, love your god with all your being. These four lead to Ama.


* 1077 *

The secret weavers – the fates which are the fingers of Sovf – thread our neurons in myelin sheaths till the dark mother, the unconscious, undermines the ground, and the Truth springs to the light of consciousness. Ever our brain weaves, and as we knit long-term memories at night, seemingly random dreams echo out.

In any group, in any hierarchy, the secret weavers play their game, knit the skein of fate through the obstinate world. The world is what resists. Yet even in the pith of our will, these myelin sheaths knit and knot and also noose us to our fate. I say this whilst it happens between us now, Varuna.


* 1078 *

“Be careful what you wish for,” the old myths and fairy tales insist so drastically, you’d think there really were some danger in wishing for foolish things! Not at all. A wish is a desire without commitment. Feel free! There is no ironic god listening behind a bush waiting to answer your wish to the letter, as they do in Greek myths. Let your heart soar! Dare to dream!


* 1079 *

Bliss-throbbing Nivia, you’ve fallen into sighs, a graying of skies from a too-long winter. You teach me to call you “Srih,” and you intone your formula: “Woman must know her place. Her place is on top.” Indeed so, but how you trembled when I threw you beneath me!

Is it any wonder Mattria made us two? Two eyes, two arms, two legs, two ears – what faces danger doubles itself lest chance depresses us further. What have you lost that you frown so beautifully? How may I cheer you up on this day our today? You ask me to cure you, and so I shall. I will set up your altar at midnight and adore you there. Ama, teach me how.


* 1080 *

The way women hold their heads during sexual transport, as though they occupied a different plane from their bodies, tilted as if listening to the humming of the All – the same it is with me when you speak my name. This space between moments, this utopic exaltation, I find always at hand, always extant, as near as pulse – you live in my veins.

Cleverness is a saving grace in a young woman, and few characters in the Arabian Nights move me such as the bold and cunning Morgiana, able to dispatch most the forty thieves and even in a dance murder their captain.

I wish I were half as cunning. I’m far too believing. I just arch my neck, listen, and believe.


* 1081 *

These allays, a smattering of paragraphs, arranged like knots in a grand opening spiral, a line drawing, each lead into each other and upwards into the All. As a writer of paragraphs, I hope to make miniatures: the ocean in a thimble, the sun in an eye.


* 1082 *

What cat got my tongue? What sphinx chokes my throat with this her riddle? I’m a blocked dawn, cramped and aching. An artist is God – so long as he writes. Frustrated in his expression? Pitiful wretch! Few others need to create the way we do – must write to survive. Where is my boast now? O Muse, deliver me! O Ama, fill me full! Skein my way through mazy ways. See how I follow. We all must breathe each day until our dying breath. I press my final murmurance into you.


* 1083 *

We often complain most over what we wouldn’t for all the world change, and to suffer for what we love is the opposite of ingratitude. That worldly wisdom to “Never complain, for complaints will always discredit you,” sounds too muddled and monkish, and definitely too categorical. That you and I share the same complaint binds us, just as underlings grumble about their boss to vent a little as comrades. Don’t fault us for being human. Often if you complain in the right style, it comes across as the flattery it is, when direct compliments wouldn’t fit. Certainly, we do teach people to treat us well when we report how well others have treated us, but when I once complained, “You have to go to work early tomorrow morning,” my friend retorted that, “You get to go to work, what a wonderful thing! Many jobless people would envy you!” I wonder how cheerful it would make me to throttle an optimist’s neck?