Thursday, October 19, 2017

Update, Allays 819 - 825

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:


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



Friday, October 13, 2017

Update and Latest Allays

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



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



Wednesday, October 4, 2017

update and allays 805 - 813


Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:


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



Thursday, September 21, 2017

Update, and Allays 799 - 804

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



So fall is here and now all three of my children are in school during the weekdays. Nevertheless, I struggle, on account of the depression of the bipolar cycle, and am hoping, least of all, to secure my job. I've had less energy for writing, so I've taken to revising my first novel, written in 2006, Madeye. After that is rewritten, using 11 years of editing skills I've since developed, I plan on publishing my books (rather than just self-publishing them).

As for long term goals, in 5 years, around 2022 or so, all our debts will be paid off, the children will of course have grown, and I may return to the University to seek a vocation in professing.

Not much more to report than that. Hope you are all doing well. Please write.


Take Care, Caretakers!




* 799 *

Deep Reading. Like Odin, we would learn from every direction, leaving no stone unturned. Where there is light there is vision. Yet, much can be said for intrinsic reading, or the New Criticism, Close Readings, that line of thought. In college, I lead a series of friends in an online reading of Matthew's Sermon on the Mount, rereading the passage so many times I accidentally committed it to memory. Never did I resort to a commentary or second-hand text. I read it intrinsically, broad-outlining the text and then micro-outlining, before going to the theological experts for their correctives. Attempt your own before learning from others.

I committed myself to a Deep Reading of Emerson's "Self Reliance" as well, and have, a few times over the years, committed myself to Deep Reading a worthy book, or a significant portion. We can deep watch a film, deep analyze a person, all that is required is repeated exposures to the material, outlining, and writing a long commentary on the topic. Intense repetition and extensive annotation and outlining are the methods. By Deep Reading significant passages from a work gives us the tent pegs to fasten a canopy of understanding.


* 800 *

Ama, Goddess, Lord of morning, wake me, take me, dawn and sate me, raise me up and bright my eyes. Ama, Mother, brow of daystar, open up my eyes to dawn.


* 801 *

"Never confess," my friend recommends, and yet I've had such a confessional nature this whole while, would hate for anybody to feel ashamed merely because their friends lacked the courage to say "Me too." Even as a kid I would tell on myself, and as an adult I sharpen my writing skills to best express what I know of my soul. Expressivity, and its reciprocation, is the opposite of depressiveness and its isolation. To finally be heard by the right person, to be echoed and returned – what bliss!


* 802 *

In my ruin is my triumph. I read and reread the same difficult chapter repeatedly, making geological strata of notes upon notes, and finally quit, having numbed my instruments too far to read a word more. I've failed. And yet something latent has seeded, I have not at all failed, but have allowed an epiphany which will at last finally come. The same with the friendship I strived to save but lost, or the job I dogged at but lost. Ours is a game of patience. Patience is power. The struggle to the bitter end means never losing, or only seeming so, and only for a time.

When we sink to the inner layer of touch, the penetrative membrane, we transfer deep meanings. Only in rare instances does a friendship open up this intimate touch.


* 803 *

The two missionary religions, Buddhism and Christianity, simplified their parent faiths, so that Christianity could encapsulate Jewish Law into two spiritualized commands – Love your "neighbor" as yourself, and Love God with all your being; and Buddhism could boil away Vedic myths and rituals into Four Noble Truths. Between them they claimed most the earth, Christianity the West, and Buddhism the East, so much so, that one does not have to have read the Bible to derive his original ideas from it, so harshly and fanatically have they been ploughed into history, such that the atheist Dawkins provides zero original moral ideas, but secularizes Christianity much as Deist Thomas Jefferson produced his demythologized version of the Gospels. Hegel, Marx, the Declaration of Independence, Kenneth Burke, gain important points by secularizing this religious creed so that no matter who we are, when we first pick up the New Testament, we anticipate what we are to discover.

There is nothing worth disputing but matters of taste, and people crash jets into buildings in order to insist on their manner of worshipping the God. What every religion amounts to – the New Testament with its redundant gospels followed by even more redundant epistles to ancient churches; Buddhism with its easy to understand meditation practices; are making a tone-poems, a cluster of images, so that these things go with those things, and this with that.

In American, currently, we have two viable political parties to chose from: Democrat and Republican. Each offers a cluster of stances on the issues, and amazingly, amidst all the various issues possible, you can vote A or B. Who said an economically liberal stance goes with pro-life, but egalitarian stances go with pro-choice? What if there are more than two combinations amidst the hundreds and thousands of ideas – suggesting endless combinations – we can choose from politically. But this is a democracy, and the demos needs simplicity: A or B.

Poets make the world. The poets preceded the politicians, and even the philosophers, when their fiat declares, A, B, and C go together, and D, E, and F go together as a separate cluster. Beauty made the world and beauty rules it. We fight over matters of taste, necessarily, and why not, since we have a sense of taste to avoid poison?

The audacious daystars, be they ever so modest and shy, declare "this, this and this." Later, heroes, who lack such original vision, find inspiration from the poets, and what was first whispered they will now shout, "This, this and this!" The creative child tosses the circle: what we choose in childhood we live as adults.

Alexander the Great carried Homer's scriptures in a golden receptacle wherever his campaign led him. The Poet comes first.


* 804 *

What does truth have to do with success? If you have the ambition, facts matter little. If you have a minority of the people, but a majority of the willpower, you will win. Christopher Columbus had no ambition to discover America, but he opened the West to Europe; the Spanish with their dreams of gold cities and fountains of youth took on armies a hundred times larger than their own. I am little impressed with facts and the nihilism that attends them. Give me a dream worth fighting for: we will take the world.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Allays 780 - 791

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:



I can only follow where the Muse deigns lead, and so for two years (come this October), I've worked almost exclusively on the Allays of Master Play, a sort of personal scripture – autorevelation – that has become the most involved and exhaustive attempt to express my philosophy / aesthetic / theology / everything else. I've long wrestled with the form, wonder what it is and what I could make of it. I have no premonitions as to when it will be done, but the production has tapered off considerably latetely.

So the kids are back in school. I've been working as a peer support specialist for Pine Rest, a Grand Rapids based mental facility. I learn a lot on the job and consider it a form of extended education. As I recommend we remain "students of life," I have kept my own private education by peering clients struggling with mental health problems.

I've also been discipling long and hard under Kenneth Burke, who, once I have pierced his language, seems to have anticipated many of my original ideas. Aside from that, I hope to join my friend in making an intense study of who I think is the greatest female writer, Emily Dickinson.


Take care, Caretakers!




* 780 *

Life is an orgy, life is a bloodbath: in some sense we each love all in all, in another sense, each man is at war with every other. These two extremes demarcate the lived experiences which, in any given day, lie somewhere in-between. The Pagan "One with the All," is lacking in Abrahamic religions, where the universe is not One, but Two (good and evil or creator and creation), after the influence of Zoroastrianism – with mankind as an awkward Third. Whatever we take as our atom of identity – the individual, the couple, the family, the city– certainly that unity requires maintenance and upkeep to hold integrity.

When feelings correspond with thinking, saying, and acting, we call the man integrated, we say he has integrity. To integrate a unity requires an investment of stabilizing energy. Couples subtly or overtly test each other, need to see love in action, to feel the heft of the sacrifice made for them. Most couples must celebrate their love, give it a good reputation among friends, and feed a continual, daily intercourse of "I-love-you's," as mementos and tokens. Such a continual investment would be exhausting, and hence depressing, were we not also invigorated to be reciprocated; wherever there is an imbalance in giving, the giver necessarily feels resentment. This absolves when we give on behalf of the transcendent reciprocator – Ama.

When discouraged, overwhelmed, frustrated, and defeated, we feel demoralized. At such a point, all those rallying cries, slogans of purpose, and grandiose symbols of sublime necessity, bolster our aim. We parade, we hymn, we sing, we dance, we celebrate to build a group Spirit, a morale, to bolster the Love Feast of us against the shared foe, them.

When a great country starts to doubt itself, as America as of late, when the intellectuals turn against their parents and side with foes, when we are betrayed by our cultural elites, the ravens and buzzards gather. The simple folk, the working class, the blood-and-guts muscle of a country, give the gut-sense of what a people needs to triumph. The critical, self-critical, crypto-suicidal, masochistic intellectuals pose ever a threat to what is best in a nation. The exceptional has duty to protect the average, and not with condescending contempt, but patient pride, as a father for his son. Perhaps Whitman and Ives could not speak to the masses they so loved, but they could speak for the masses.


* 781 *

Though the religiosity of America has been so often hard-working, beginning with the Puritans, and continuing with that last cry of Puritanism, Mormonism, my personal genius and attendant friend is Laziness, and I owe everything I've achieved and take pride in not to my hard work, which accomplishes so little, but my laziness, which is another name for my readerliness, writerliness, and meditativeness. Give yourself space to create. And also time. Pay yourself first, and give your first fruits to Ama. This time alone from friends, this time alone with Her, this is the eighth day in the eight-day week, the sacred day, which counts towards our eternity, and not at all against our time on earth.

Though my eight-fold virtues include pragmatism, and its attendant productivity, they also include study, another name for leisure, scholastic time, meditation, prayer with Her, and time spent in the librarial labyrinth, books and literature, the Mythosphere.


* 782 *

The deepest Truth for each of us is our Solitude. So you tease. I am lonely for you; you are lonely for me: we are twinned apart. Emerson loved his first wife, and after her passing prayed to her all his life: privy to his private side, she attended and advised him. His second marriage was a practical arrangement. Whitman embraced only himself, it seems, and Thoreau adored Mother Nature. So too I adore you, pine for you, pant for you, hope for you and you alone. You call me greedy, for I want more and more of you. Meanwhile, I am chained to a cave in the sand.


* 783 *

All emotions, all the passives and passions that make us pathetic, require a dignification in artistic expression. Any feeling can be dignified and glorified if attributed to a hero, saint, or god; any emotion, even an evil, can be set to tune and become a melody worthy of attention and contemplation.

In the old myths, the gods, immortal or not, express anxiety, the way Odin worried over the end of the world, how to lessen the damage and to resurrect his son, the god of light, Baldr; or the way Yahweh constantly doubted his followers, testing Adam's obedience in the garden, having Satan test Job, brutally testing Abraham, and his forty-years of testing the poor Israelites in the wilderness; Zeus had Prometheus crucified on a rock because he knew a fatal secret unknown to Zeus.

Often anxieties guide us subliminally and subconsciously, and what we do in play and caprice hides the subtle springs of anxiety below. Anxiety over love and power -- the loss of love, the loss of power, the need to test love for truth, or prove power over others -- leads to most of what is called "evil," in this world – fear inspires fearful actions, in man and in God. We arrive at desire, a mixture of pain and pleasure, and its conscious correlate, care, both love and fear, a caring for and a caring about. Thus do the opposites of love and fear unite as one motivation – and most of life offers a muddle of emotions, with nothing so chemically pure as to reach an austere sublimity. Bring a feeling to perfection, as only art can, and you have beautified it, dignified it, and convinced men and women to seek it out, to desire it, be it ever so miserable. We complain to brag. All the emotions fall under the heading of Love. The deepest in the heart cries "Ama."


* 784 *

I do not know how far a conceit can take one, but Ama soothes me as I realize I've tried too hard on this broken path, chasing this grey-toned rainbow. I'm tired now – spent, effete. I wonder why I wander. I wonder why I cared so hard, loved so hard, tried so hard. What was it all for, dear – but what? Seek your audience. It is time. Give no more mind to loves that are none. Seek me here. Turn your gaze towards posterity.

Why do I abide the desert, plant in the drought, wed the void? I'm insulated in plastic, drowned in sand. Ama, I hold your name tightly in my heart. I'm alone here. Who knows such solitude as I?


* 785 *

Beasts eat raw flesh, men cook and prepare their food, angels eat the words of gods, and gods eat from the lips of one another. Like bees which produce honey from their mouths, the gods dine from each other's refined meanings, and starve down to nothing upon the praises or blasphemies of mere mortals alone. Certainly, a bit of junk food now and then, the praise of a lesser, a touch of flattery, the gratitude of a lower person, but only the regard of an equal sustains us. If we lack peers, we must seek them out. Ama worries little whether we believe in Her, for She believes in us. She cheers us on and admonishes us further, severe and supportive, she mothers and fathers our way.



* 786 *

Ah, my Ama! Ever I'm this candle teased by your breeze, ever you challenge me to exasperation. Forever my lips will praise you! Opposition is true Friendship. You make me earn it, every nibble of wisdom, every sip of sapience. My Mother, my All! Your dark ringlets bind my wrists, your laughing glance knows my soul. I am a world fool, a fool for all, yet you see the sincerity of my play. Shame is pride's cloak! Ever I will mock at my own arrogance, while I am in truth your fool – "Trust is for fools," you so teasingly teach. I am your fool, at last, now and forever, to have and to hold, to know and to be, Vivoce!


* 787 *

Religious passion and its adoration of the Divine rhymes with romantic passion and its adoration of the beloved. So interbraided are the two that origins become muddled, though the literal generally proceeds the metaphorical. Yet, perhaps not. Perhaps a mixed, confused, mystic, oxymoronic metaphor may open a new experience which we may later secularize and put into mundane terms. Chivalric romance was a test lab to produce and democratize romance for the rest of us. If a mystic experiences God, that's his business, but if Ama changes him, then we can all learn therefrom.

Ever she bronzes my bones from the sip of her nipple. Her milk is wisdom, her Truth my meal.

Of the two passions, mysticism and romance, both are illusive and transcendental, each an interface for the cluster of details and contradictions that characterize Mundania, the devilish details of daily life. Both offer shorthands in this world of persons and their hidden desires.

As we set a series of cues and symptoms down by way of introduction to any new person, casually mentioning a daughter or husband or favorite author, whatever concentrates and symbolizes our essence most readily, so our first impression creates a spectral persona, an abbreviated and readily consumed referent, a promise of more of the same forthcoming.

Such an abstracted presence allows discreet and deliberate disclosure. A man in a letter is different than on the phone or texting or face-to-face. Each brings out a different perspective from his prism, refracting his world to the curve of the biases of the genre.

Mundane facts are best expressed in manuals, but spiritual truths are parabular, and we can only approximated them by a series of metaphors, definitions, lore, poetry -- every genre of communication. Love, Freedom, God, Truth, all the big words, the eternal ideas can be thought by all of us because philosophers netted them down from the heavens, kited them into the hands of us daily doers, the working class, the poverty class, all of us.


* 788 *

Oh, the pang of conscience, to be condemned by others, to be condemned by yourself: a whole moral language with cogs and belts, the account book of the soul, which seeks punishment as expiation! Pain as payment, what a peculiar pattern, and we evaluate an idea in terms of the sacrifice men and women give for it: if they are willing to die for it, thus it is ennobled and dignified, with no regard for objective value (which may almost be an oxymoron). What you have sacrificed for, what you have risked for, what you have fed yourself into, means what it means on that account solely. That a man of integrity believed this contaminates it with integrity.

Thus, the mysteries and bafflements of finding faults in our heroes, saints, and gods, where we would overlook ugliness, sins, mistakes, coming from the divine – we would exorcise it out of existence by defining it as impossible: "What God does is always right." Yet somehow the moral law feels impersonal and fatal – and we sense misgivings in each the absolute gods, be they ever so monotheistic or pantheistic. Doubt, and self-doubt, the weakening of the heart that is demoralization, tendrils into the soil and soul of our mundane dalliances. Demoralization is a weakening of the core, of courage, as the saying goes, conscience makes cowards of us all. Sometimes our enemies are right about us, but we are still worthy.

Certainly, moral indignation and righteous fury embolden and empower, even if, as an afterthought, we change our minds. Conscience turns upon itself, a higher conscience condemns the lower. We would see things under the auspices of eternity, and so we project our human view upon the All. Such a trope hypnotizes our antagonists and immobilizes them in fear. This lends itself to abuse, the abuse of the moral tone, the moral abuse not of hypocrisy, but of disrespect. The good cause grief, and conscience destroys. Our courage must meld with compassion, for the heart is bold and tender: harden it before the foe, soften it before the friend, but exercise both in self-reflection.

Religion and politics allow the exaggeration and grandiosity that turns conscience inside out: the most exalted and terrifying figures are drawn for "God" or "Humanity," these big ideas, which absolve of proportion and allow grotesque and awful exaggerations. Most of history, when we are cool enough to be historians, is in meditating severely over how to account for the past. We assume our own modesty, unaware of how much energy we might absorb and express, how much self we might realize, if we assumed the ideas to transfigure our world and open our possibility.

Never is conscience singular, but every role imposes its own conscience, its demands, payments, sacrifices, and dues. This ecosystem of moralities makes for systemic abuses as well as metamorphic creativities. Redoubling role upon role magnetizes a field.


* 789 *

What avails it to deny that pain hurts? They insult us for murmuring, and let them, but we must negotiate our convalescence, must protect a wound and soothe its burn. We wound others, we wound ourselves, and the meanings of suffering, the meanings of all experience, educate themselves through further experience, and the experience of self-reflection. The wise man is humble enough to learn from a child, and even the enemy who shames us and slams us we can learn from, grow from, improve by. Humility is pride: we will learn from all our experiences.


* 790 *

O pitch of death, O self-stung scorpion, with blossoming bruise upon my heart! Ama's balm springs the melt, a palm of sun over hollowed cage.

The wound is wise, I have said, and yet some aches require the care of wisdom, and this the wisdom of a friend. Niviana, sate my sulk with words of praise. Scalpel free my parts now broken, make me bleed and heal the wounds.

Pluck the chord, unpent my pain. Solace me in lulls of love. I ever seek your breath afresh, and linger on your warming gaze.


* 791 *

You're my shade by day, and light by night, the arrow in my gaze, the rhyme of my delight. Ama dove you rivet me, you ply my eyes, inebriate me. Knit at pith and twinned as one, you're the mooring of my sun.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Sunday, May 21, 2017

Audiobook of Emerson's "Conduct of Life"

I've just wrapped up a large project, the audio recording of Emerson's "Conduct of Life." To say the least, recording my reading of these essays took a long time. They are available on my website both as Youtube videos and also MP3s:


I have been investing myself in a series of projects lately. I am recording afresh all my Ama hymns, I am finishing the Emilegends for my daughter Emilie, I am daily writing and perfecting the Allays, I finished a book of drawings, also available on my webpage, and I've finished a book of poems, same place.


I have determined what form the epic I write will take. I am preparing to write an epic, but first I hope to write a myth cycle as a cosmological backdrop to my world. I am also helping three friends edit and prepare their work for publication – so I've been busy!


Take Care, Caretakers,


Daniel Christopher June


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Saturday, May 20, 2017

An Allay on Fame


* 591 *

What does it mean to make a name for yourself? What is Fame? Our Self is our mystical Name, but our Name in the World comes from choice and circumstance. Our ideas reduce in time to epigrams; our life reduces to our epitaph; our deeds reduce to epithets; our influence nominates our groups and projects as eponyms. We gain formal titles such as "Doctor" or "Registered Nurse," and informal titles such as "the King of Barbecue." We take on the names of our office, as when I say, "I'm Daniel, Pine Rest's Peer Support Specialist." We inherit a set of nicknames, often playful and irreverent, but nevertheless telling, and often enough unfortunate. We gain a reputation for the deeds we publicize and the deeds we keep secret. A cloud of gossip and rumors surrounds us all; enemies may try to give us a bad name, and we may, if we are able, convert an evil altar, taking on the name of "Mormon" "Quaker" "Gay" or any of the other scowls meant to shame us as a badge of honor. Myths and legends compound themselves within our biographies and histories. A cluster of words surrounds our names: quotations, anecdotes, and also the judgments, praises and condemnations of others. If we gain a wide enough reputation, our influence becomes a school of thought ("Platonic philosophy") or an adjective ("Kafkaesque novel"). We may be referred to reverently or irreverently; our name becomes numinous and inspires awe or blasphemy. Kennings hide us and slant our face. Our Family name spreads genetically, our various relationships contain and situate us within a web, our spiritual name spreads through the deeds worthy enough to be nominated. In this way, we make a Name for ourselves, an enduring place in the phonosphere. If we are able to fully publish our inner Name, it will speak in this world and the next forevermore. Our eternal soul, as heaven, connects to the souls of other individuals and groups through our Spirit, our Name.


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy