Allism
LEXIPROSE
Experiments in Philosopy ~~ March 2009
Goal
Allism
Allism is the Style
Monistic and Pluralistic Materliasm
Mattria
Of the quantity of the Gods
I am Man
Family
About Me
I am reading a new author, William Gass, at an alarming rate, and juxtaposing him against William James and Emerson, threading like a braid of hair. Wondering if psychology is really the future for me, and, on the advice of a friend, pondering PhD programs instead.
History is infant, the world just yawning, mankind for the first time learning to walk on his own two feet; we have no right to anything but the grandest and most grandiose hopes for this genius species, this unparalleled mankind, without which, and without others like to man in farther reaches, the universe herself may as well have never blossomed, but cloistered her virtues in a simpler dream, so that we answer the question “why is there something rather than nothing” because of Man. Man is all. And the All that comphrehends and encircles man rests and learns from his infant brilliance as she could from no other.
This is our place. This is our time.
The Greeks created the West, and without them, there should never have been a West, and without the West, mankind ought to have stayed arboreal—us! this is our place! we are the stars of fate—and after the medieval trial, we wrested Aristotle from the jaws of Aquinas, and once again claimed our place as Prometheus; a Renaissance first, a rebirth of the Greek, the rebirth of the mind, first in images and verse, for image alone opens a mind, till finally a mind like Newton can take these ideas into the sublimity of the heavens and make the age of Reason, of scientific Enlightenment. This is the beginning of what we are now bringing to head.
The enlightenment was the mind, renaissance the heart, and western man struggled and wrestled against himself and these ultraprofund ideas with a return into the naissance of renaissance, the Romantic period of heroic temper—Beethoven! Byron! Emerson!—and this grand struggle brought the high claiming overthrow of all tradition we call Modernism. And the great Modern man was Nietzsche, who with his God is dead, with his million acidic aphorisms, brought to climax the sublime disintigration of the ancient: welcome now the horrors called Freud, Picasso, two World Wars, Stravinsky, Joyce, the great disintegratos and not one of them possible without the breath of Nietzsche through their lungs, and with that poetic pledge, man was ready to discover Relativity, to split apart even atoms in the chaos of nihilistic analysis. The pieces did not die, could never die. The chaos was discovered to be what she always was, namely: playful. The hideos Moderns gave birth to the postmoderns, the joy of being fragmentary, the joy of imitating, parady, the joy of being barren, the joy of being hideos, the play of the deformed child, the dance of the club-foot, the whinny of the five legged horse!
And this, dear friends, is what we grew up with. And we, ourselves stand for, allow to be, create, will, make the age of Allism, Wholism, where the individual and the ALL fuse together, individual and All like Yin and Yang, the great I and the great Everything: we are, let it be said, the first steps of mankind, the first minding of man: we are the beginning of history. Our place, our time, our glory, to make a mankind too great to need saving, as he always was: mankind the terror and perfection of the universe. Man is All.
Allism: everything, from good to bad, from success to failure, all that exists and has that holy thing called life, must be put to work. This is allism: everything works for the glory of working, and for the glorious future of more work. Creativity is everything. We are utter increase.
Consider the failure of pantheism. Pantheism wants to claim that all is beyond good and evil, that good and evil are illusions. But since illusions necessarily exist and are valued, they must also be part of the “pan,” part of the “theism.” As soon as pantheism defines itself against any other school of belief, it contradicts itself. There must be a new syncronicity.
The unifying of all living religions does not mean the perpetuation of them all. Let what dies die. Indeed, I am neither interested in converting the fools to reason nor dashing the gods to earth. Why? Simple: I do not believe there are eternally perilous consequences for any belief. Thus, while I regard all religions as essentially superstitions (ie. supernatural), it is not my life mission to pronounce this.
Instead, my whole message is addressed only to the intelligent, only to the creative thinkers who glow in the light of their peers. I live with my equals. For you I write, and never stupify, simplify, or popularize my works for anybody. Indeed, it is my height not be read by any but the worthy.
And this comes with a strong dose of optimism. The world is not “ideal,” nor “perfect,” nor whatever nonsense they speak of. But our attitude is one of optimizing—we make the best living present in creating our best rewarding future.
Omnism is the belief that the existence of the all allows all the parts their proper destiny: we can positively interpret anything. Every living word of man can be optimized, systematized, interpreted. We take everything as potentially important, and though we pull out the gold, we do not damn the rock.
Our image is the great Mother All. Like a human being, she grows and improves. She uses what exists to allow what could exist.
The All is evitable as well as inevitable. Resistable and irrestable. Ultimately, we have the world.
The all is no mere synchretism, for it recognizes the importance of boundaries. Nor is it denominationalism, because it recognizes the universals that surpass and allow boundaries. The All alone has no opposite, is her opposite, is all things, has no other, is her own other, is all things. One cannot blasphemy the all. One cannot deny the all. One cannot think outside of the all. You are forever part of the all, and every one of your thoughts relates inevidably to all thoughts.
And thus we take the world.
We are fate. We are force. We are futurenow. We see the way of the universe, and we align our full power in such a way to let the full force of the universe to flow fully to our own selfish need. And thus we internalize the all, and are truly representatives of the all.
I am all. To be Allistic, there can be nothing you are not. I am Christian. Of course, I am Christian, that much is obvious even in a casual reading of my writing. But I am also Muslim. I am Atheist. I am Mormon. I am Buddhist. There is no Jew who is more Jewish than I am.
I quote the Book of Mormon—living proof that God has grown senile—and say with him in his greybeard boast, “Every book is written by God.” Insofar as we take God to be the creative faculty herself, we must give her the abstract and tautological credit for writing every book. Yet let us slip into spiritual interpretation.
Every book is the same book. Every utterance the same utterance. We must be utter babblers to hear again the unity off all speech. “A is notA” in that both “A” and “notA” are equally concepts. “2+2=5”: I need to be no wordsmith to avoid that obviousness. Ignorance is strength against the learned, freedom is slavery to defending your freedom, and so on and so on.
Western Materialism is the only successful materialism in the history of mankind. All forms of Eastern “monism” are always dualisms. But true physical blood-and-guts Materlialism, from the likes of Lucreteus onwards, agree that whatever you have in the universe, whether idea, emotion, stone, plant, God, it is essentially made of the same stuff, we are all the same stuff. Maya and Brahma are both made out of atoms.
A spiritualized Materialism adds: we are all saying the same thing. And here we become babblers, we become intoxicated with Dionysian wine that says, “Everything is everything!”
I wish to instill a style and in this I am irresistible: I have sharpened my stylus against every sharp stone, every brick of wit, every scalpel and prudery—yes my pen is balanced and graceful, but torqued in a new direction. My predecessor is Emerson.
With every music we bring close to our heart, and the weirdest music that draws near to us only after a decade of tolerance, all these musics are melted and melded in the metaphorical heart of man in to the life-theme we live. Music restructures the brain, the flow of blood, brain waves, ideas, or, in a word, soul.
I do not call it group spirit. Spirit is mere breath, and that is fine—all these words are spirit, a sort of cleaving in the air of your mind’s throat—but I am interested in the sea-soul of that sole man Emerson: I feel him as near as my jugular, as dear as my pupil in my eye.
And now I take up another America—lately its only Americans, I grow weary of translations, even sublime Nietzsche in translations, and will study a postmodern, toilet-art artists like William Glass.
So far so good. As is typical of the pomos, he his as thoroughly obscene, crude, gross, perverse, subversive as he can be, and yet he is a little allistic in that he takes this content and mixes it with a long-breathed spirituality. There is a style here: I can learn.
And he is akin to my favorite rock band, They Might Be Giants, who have achieved and expressed better than any others a joyful triumph over life’s content with a quick, light and quirky annulment of everything dark into happy gladdened caprice.
As a promo-feminazi-projew-save-the-whales postmodern artist, he is peevish—they all are. His writing is “revenge against his parents”—and isn’t all pomo art? This is our womb, kids: this is where we grow from.
He praises Gertrude Stein, who, from the sound of her, I will never touch—taboo! hideous!—in the way I picked up Joyce’s Ulysses for an hour, and than for 5 hours had to absolve myself, purge his effect, wash my eyes, my mouth, my hands, and my genitals, painfully clean as I needed them to be, bury him in my car’s trunk, and vow never to touch a modern artists again.
I had already read too much Freud, who wishes to atomize and then anarchize the instincts into a great hideous IT. This IT had to be the innermost for Freud, the seething Hinduistic ocean it all sits upon. Not us. We look at the world wars as absolutely necessary for making us what we are, could not be avoided, in their way, beautiful. They come from the writings of Nietzsche, the cacophony of Stravinksy… Let me stop, lest I mingle too freely he whom I love with they whom I hate. Their catalog is binding: T.S. Eliot, Stravinsky, Einstein, Freud, Picasso, Schoenberg, Joyce, not a one of them dear to my heart—though I see their genius. Perhaps one like Charles Ives feeds me better than Schoenberg, for though both are complete cacophony, Ives is by the heart and Schoenberg by the book. I will say that Nietzsche is the arch architect of the fall of Christianity and Modernism—his aphorisms are solvent: nothing survives them. He is not elemental chaos and yet his writings reduce all else to elemental chaos. He talks of us, you and me, his ubermansche. And yet he never spoke straight to us. We had to look at him rather than his Zarathustra and his superman, to see what he was really after, the same way Rand means more to us than her goofus Roark, the way Emerson shines brighter than the representative men he paints—since he stood eye to eye among them The Jewish style was “edit everything the Babylonians, Egyptians, and we thought into a book that barely hangs together—that anthology called the Bible. That is not us. We prepare something new, and we do not merely edit, circumcise, castrate and annul the past. We affirm all of it. We affirm all people, all things, and we move past them. That is the allistic style.
Gass is obscene but he is better than Derrida, who is hopelessly tedious. Derrida generally wrote ten times to one what he should have—and he is the center of the decentered pomo style. A style which has brought us a crucifix in a jar of urine, the stolen and vandalized toilet art, the AT&T building which is shaped to punish as if drafted by Dr. Seuss—and of course the postmodern nonsense peddler Seuss has set the tone for all of us kiddoes.
It will be seen that Nietzsche was not romantic, was not enlightenment, was not modernism, but was a hinge of history. After him…no it is too soon to say that and yet be understood.
The Allistic style refers to many objective correlates we will see around us before more than a few generations turn inwards: one world language, one world government, one world currency, one world environmentalism, one theory of physics to explain them all, and if you can believe it yet, one world religion! and finally a world style, the true cosmopolitan, as Diogenes called himself.
I will mention in brief, therefore, the cause of my atheism (or what I will call my atheism, for your sake), and though I had read the Bible straight through a few times, and the New Testament many times, and guided scripture studies with my friends, attended church, prayed daily, all these things, two stylistic epiphanies graced me: first the writings of Nietzsche, which sang truer through me by their sheer literary power, in ways nothing in the Bible could—mark this, I never believed a word he said, but only how he said ,it--; and secondly and crucially, still a Christian of sorts, still a theist, I experience a bipolar Mania of such creative outflow and sunlike shine of bliss that I looked upon the Bible from cover to cover as straw for the herd—I had felt something none of these prophets knew: they had not touched God, not any God I had felt in fullness. I cannot believe your bluff when I myself have dared drop the mask.
Style is personality. I see two men feel the same things, think the same things, do the same things, and one is criminal the other hero—for style alone; style the person, the manners of speech, or as Emerson says it directly: Manners are destiny.
The uniqueness of materialism is that it posits one substance—material—as the constituent of everything that exists. The “opposite” view is spiritualism, that all that exists is spirits, God and ours, and that the world is nothing more then what can be experienced in our individual spirits, and is experienced in other spirits too, due to the will and influence of the great spirit God. The problem with spiritism is that it is dead: it ends discussions, it ends thought, it ends knowledge because it cannot define nor illustrate what spirit is. Materialism, however, does define its terms, and offers a scientific apparatus for investigating and exploring matter. This is why science has grown, improved, and deepened over the last five centuries, whereas spiritualism has made no changes, is full grown and exhausted at its beginning thousands of years ago.
Spiritualistic monism is always a dualism. “All is Brahman Spirit” except for those who believe otherwise, for thy are deluded. There is only one strictly consistent monism, and that is materialism. All others cheat on their system, and becaues they cheat, rely on paradox to pretend to depths.
The assumption of monistic materialism is conceptualized in the term “the All.” This is different then theism and pantheism in two respects. Theism assumes there is no All—that you cannot put God and Man under one larger category, that there is an essentual breakdown between God and the Universe, that he is completely unexplainable in human terms, etc. This is another dead end—it does not lead to further thought, and in fact the continuing enterprise of theology is not a discovery or deepening of what God is and does, but always a reinterpreting of old poems (the past, the histories, the literary tropes) into contemporary terms – (necessarily a constant task becaues society keeps changing).
The idea that there is no all is put In these terms: God is all, the universe is nothing. But the universe is something insofar as it reflects God. God, however, is completely unlike the universe, unlike man, and is only defined as “The only object to be worshipped or deserving it.” This in itself assumes that worship is a good thing, for either the person worshipping or the person being worshipped, which experience shows is definitely false. Woship is bad. And those who demand worship are always the worst examples out there. Worship is not honor. A tyrant can ask for worship, but he cannot demand honor. Honor is given among equals by noble reaction of true good. What the worship of “the essentially unknowable one” amounts to is rejection of the universe, of time, of man: God is the curse on man.
Pantheism is no better. Pantheism says all the universe is God. Yet since the universe doesn’t appear to be God—the animals killing each other, the cities falling, the illness, etc.—it is imagined that this world is maya (illusion) and that the pantheistic universe is beyond perception. By calling the pan “theos” it means that the universe is omnipotent, omniwise, omniomni—and all those ridiculous philosopher’s worship (a philosopher on his knees, ie a theologian)—which amounts to an oxymoron. The pantheist still believes in the supernatural, believes that man is less then he ought to be, that our senses deceive us, etc. Pantheos tells us things about the universe that are guessed, not discovered, that cannot be discovered in principle. Thus it is another dead end and another lie.
Materialism in the strict sense, in the scientific science, takes matter to be the whole of the universe. All things act by discoverable and explainable laws. This has opened up the universe, allowed the progress of the last 300 years, whereas Christian cultures and Muslim cultures are by nature stagnant. It is in the ideas. The ideas that open up future action, that lead to growth of knowledge, these are implicit in science. Faith is always dead faith, faith in something past, in books and Torahs.
Monistic Materialism assumes that the universe is connected under one structure. This is poetically explained in the word “motherverse,” to show the unity and perhaps personality and intelligence of the universe—we do not rule these out, and may even expect them. After all, man is matter, and thinks. Perhaps intelligence is wider then man. It is, after all, an assumption, and one currently untestable. However, there are two guidelines for knowledge:
What is scientific – that which can be testable and established through experimental investigation.
What is logical – provable a priori or categorically.
The needed – that which fulfills us to believe, and thus what does not negate nor necessarily rely on number 1) or 2).
Much of any man’s world view is guess work, and we often believe because it feels right. To deny any knowledge except scientifically established knowledge would be to castrate the mind. The mind knows what it needs to live. Let the mind furnish his own beliefs, and be not swayed by the state of technology.
Thus I posit the universe as one, intelligent, and ordered. I call it The All. This is the monistic materialism.
William James posits the pluralistic universe. In our system, chaos too has its placce, but all is systematized. James wants a universe that has a God that is part of it, but not a God that is it. God is one more part of the All, but the overAll is not conscious.
Every particle contains and is all the laws of the universe, and also is “aware” by force of the entire shape of the universe. Thus, the universe is one.
The univers is shaped like an expanding egg. All radiation and matter that expands the farthest is taken into the centermost. The universe is a circle whose circumference is her center.
The dust speck scoffs at the thunderbolt----will not be impressed. “For all your fuss, you cannot even touch me,” he laughs, and indeed, will outlive heaven.
All is one. This is perhaps the oldest religious idea, beginning in Hindu philosophy; older then polytheism or monotheism, as concepts, though the myths did come first. I call it the first religious idea, but I do not intend it in the religious sense. Whatever Hinduism means by claiming “all is one” requires much study and analysis, which will distract us from our own insight into the formula, into the sentiment from which it arises.
First of all, “the all” is necessarily the widest concept of all that exists. Other philosophers have called “being” the most basic overstretching concept. Possibly. As long as being implies that everything conceivable has being, that there is no nonbeing. For insofar as there is “nonbeing” it must also be part of the all. When we use common phrases like “all or nothing” we might forget that the nothing is part of the all as well, for the term “all” must necessarily include its opposite, its alternatives, its correlates and subbordinates. For us, all includes everything that can be named, everything that cannot be named, all actions, all ideas, all that is and all that isn't.
All is all. But why should it be one? Why not a “pluralistic universe.” Well as James himself knew, to call the singular “universe” pluralistic is to contradict himself. He would be better to say “universes.” But then we can simply say, “all the universes together are the all.”
Insofar as one entitiy has influence, that it acts on itself and others, and that is preceisly what we mean by “be-ing”--an action, a continual act of doing (to say it clearly, being is doing).
Well let's say there are more than one universe. Either they are related or they are not. In any relationship between mulitiplicities, they sum of those relationships are the world of the parts. Every plural implies a singular. Ten apples become one set of apples. A thousand events become world history. If the laws of the universe changed constantly, making science impossibly, then there would necessarily be a law to their changing. When scientists talk about a paradigm shift of worldviews, there must then be a worldview outside of the shift that captures the elements of it. In this way, every plural is necessarily singular.
Thus, the universe as a whole is one universe. Even if it were random and chancy, there must be an overarching law as to what random and chance are. If it were absolutely scattered and fragmentary, there must be a law of scatteredness and fragmentariness that unites it under that banner. Which is to say, “fragmentary,” “chaotic,” “ephemeral,” are all merely terms called forth by a limited perspective. They could have no deep ontological meaning, because they are self-contradictory. Or to again say it simply, order has no opposite. Logos has no opposite. Reason has no opposite. They contain their opposite, they are their opposite. The world must seem “random” in part to us, because we use that to describe degrees, in order to communicate to our own interests. But chaos only makes sense as a form of order. Literal chaos is inconceivable, unmeaningful, isn't even a concept.
The universe is one. Of course, and this is self-evident. It couldn't be anything but one. And if there were seventeen unrelated universes, their unrelatedness would itself be a relation. There is no escaping the all. You exist, you are necessary, you are immortal, forever contained as part of the all.
Not that this style of thinking has no alternatives. The concept of the universe as created, and the creator as being completely “other”--well this is popular enough. God is a spirit, which is undefinable, but he is “good” and we ought to “obey” him and “worship” him, and he is a he, and all those other mythological games. But whate can it really mean that some “God” created the universe?
It is unimaginable. God is also an anticoncept. He means by not meaning. It is better to ask why people believe in God, rather then to ask them to explain what it is they do believe. They don't know what they believe, they cannot explain it, they call it “inexplicable,” they call it faith. Our term for it is “symptom.”
Therefore, we should not be asked to explain their beliefs for them, nor to expect them to explain their beliefs, which they haven't done for thousands of years. Spirit? It has attributed but no essense. God, again has attributes but no essense. All these anticoncepts signify is an attitude toward the real, toward reality, toward the all, toward the universe. And what attitude is that?
One of subordination, one of rejection. God created the universe, and will destroy it someday. Heaven, whatever that is, is better than reality. All these anticoncepts mean nothing at all, except value judgments on actual concepts. They mean nothing and can mean nothing other than condemnations of the things we do know.
This is true of the more philosophical religions, Buddhism and Hinduism. The world is Maya? Meaningless. It means by not meaning. We are never given definitions or proofs, but we are prescribed mind tricks to get us to “see in a new way.”
In the end, all these worldviews are based on dissatisfaction with reality, and spread themselves through mental tricks and a strong moral tone. And to say it again, the moral tone is the greatest voice of deceit history has ever known.
One is all. Everything is everything. Each part stands related to and aware of everything that exists. And thus it is everything, for what we are aware of is necessarily a part of us.
“Can we know the universe as it really is?”—such a weird question. “Can we be objective about reality?” When the object is what is thrown before the I, and the subjective is what is thrown under the I—the world and the needs respectively. All objects are infinite. The universe as it really is, the actual world! Most of the “facts” of the external are irrelevent. Most of the radiation surrounding us is irrelevent. Only the needed is relevent, the only thing we need relate to. We see the world as we need to see it, indeed, that is tautological to say. Seeing is a function of need. The “disinterested eye” is an oxymoron. Seeing is itself a form of interest. So many of our ideals are packaged as oxymorons, which do not refer to anything real that we can experience. They refer to negations, and what we feel is a loss of focus, the object summoned and then going black. That is what we experience with the “disinterested eye,” we invision an eye focusing (focus is interest), and then the eye going blank, having no interest, not seeing, becoming, in effect, a noneye, a blindness.
Consciousness is a property of movement. Energy is always conscious. Patterns of energy are information. Information, when applied to an apparatus, becomes a program. Information consciousness is intelligence.
Thus we say an ameaba is conscious, but a brain or computer is intelligent.
A brain is conscious as one because of the energy of the nerons attune to each other.
The great posit of human intelligence, wrought with paradox, yet true, is the idea of the Unity. A cell is a unit. An atom is a unit. A brain is a unit. A person is a unit. Yes—even though they change. When asked what is conscious, the answer is: the unit, the individual. The cells of our body are conscious, thinking, acting things, and they also become the parts of a greater unit: the human mind.
The greatest human unit is humankind as a whole. Man as a race is one intelligence, one consciousness, one thinking thing, in the same way that the brain is made up of thinking cells, yet is a thinking unit.
Information wills. Chance and random are patterns of will.
And each unit is free, willful, volitional, and need based.
This goes for the Motherverse herself, One consciousness one mind, fragmented, compounded, complex, often self-contradictory, as persons always are, and yet ONE.
And what does she have to do with us? She learns from us as much as we learn from her. Our philosophy educates her, opens her eyes, as thoroughly as her ways inspire our science.
Chance is providence. Chaos is the creator, and not the spirit hovering over chaos; spirit emanates from matter.
The material soul is the atom that contains the parts of a unit. As Plato said, there is a Form of chair in heaven. But rather than in heaven, the atom of chair is a material center of the chair within the chair. Whatever changes the chair undergoes are remembered in that atom, and, if the chair were to be destroyed completely, the chair atom would be eternal.
A human being thus has a material soul. We can study it and perhaps one day see it. It is the one-ess of the nervous system. When it is nolonger connected to the parts of the nerve, it will turn inwards, and the afterlife will be a state of inwardness.
These ideas, if pursued at any length, will give volumes of difficulty. They require a systematic justification.
A prevailing metaphor for consciousness in scientific philosophy is the idea of “emergence,” that certain phenomena are “epiphenomena,” that they are not in the parts, but arise in the complext. This explains how consciousness comes out of nothing. But aside from consciosness, which was already a mystery, none of their other examples work. They might argue, however, that the law of natural selection could never be known by a particle physicist.
Here I disagree. To know everything that can be known about a single string, is to have predicted everything possible in the universe.
Sense is a sense. We feel our truths, and reason is like a set of hands. Matter matters. We matter over matters, and all matters are based in materials.
I recently heard a theist arguing that science could not argue where matter came from. I listened carefully, but could not understand the question. As if it had to come from somewhere. As if a cause and effect are ever different things. A cause and an effect are always transfers of an identity. He was quoting, I believe, Aquina, and thus really Aristotle, our great humanist. Aristotle talks of an unmoved mover, but it is nothing like a God. It is a power.
All this talk is laced with such poisonous self-deceit, that I find it a poor waste of energy. God ruins good thinking—if theology has proved anything, it is this. “Matter came from something, but that something must not be matter”—I cannot understand how that statement stands. And the infamous audacity is that this is somehow related to the Christ cult. As if Aristotle were not the opposite of Paul.
“An ummoved mover” makes no sense to me. I take it as a verbal circumlocution. “Uncaused cause” I have no comprehension of what is even being said here. All we see and know of is a continual flux of matter. Why must we assume it has ever been different? Because we cannot imagine infinity, that is all. “Matter couldn’t go infinitely back, but a God could,” it is claimed, and again, I hear words that mean nothing, that mean by not meaning: dead verbiage.
Whatever the origin of the universe, what in the world does it have to do with the savage myths of the semites? It is a sin against the Greeks for a theist to quote Aristotle, and every decent man ought to hiss when Aquinas and the Christians borrow the Greeks to annul the truth of the Greeks. You have no right to those arguments; they belong to a nobler people.
Therefore, to say “God caused the universe out of nothing,” is to say nothing. A cause is an effect, the cause becomes an effect, there can be no effect without the transformation of a cause. Therefore, “everything out of nothing” first, implies that God is not needed, and second, implies that “nothing is everything.” These at least are logical possibilities.
“Why does something exist, rather than nothing?” One of those fake deep questions like “what is the meaning of life?” probably theological in origin. That fake profundity circulates doesn't surprise me, but when men who should know better ask them, I lose a little hop in the intellectuals. The problem with this question is its form. What does “why” mean in this context? Nothing. One might as well ask “why is why?” “Why is two?” “Where is whereness?”
Ultimately, a matter can only be identified by its influence, its force. And so, pragmatically it is nothing but localized force, a locus of force fields, not something that has force fields, but is them. All energy is kinetic, energy communicates the force and communicates it to contiguous space.
Energy patterns align themselves to all patterns of the same register. Electrons are aware of every electron in the entire universe, etc.
In literature a tone and a style calls out to her own. And a wllfull writing magnetizes the less willful to imitate it, or to admire and resent it.
“What is being?” is a question that, like the “question of the life, the universe, and everything,” needs both an answer, and also the real question by which to understand the answer.
“What is being?” That’s easy enough. Being is whatness. Case closed. Well then “what is whatness?” This sort of question is like handing a child a book on how to read English, who cannot read anything. Unless we assume that we know whatness is at a superficial enough level to allow a deeper level of understanding.
But to get at the undermeaning of each of the words in the question “What is being?” We can translate it into “Is is is?” The triple yes, which the religions adore so much. Does this help us, this “is is is?” But let us translate the question mark too, to make a square four: “Is is is notis” (since the question suggests a lack to which the answer responds); and here we have a clue. “space space space time,” for four stands for mortality, or change, or the fourth dimension, and also for the feminine, as in three sons and their mother—and so on. Or to take apart the four part syllogism “1 Socrates is a man, 2 man is mortal, 3 therefore, 4 socrates is mortal.” Heh.
To be serious, the only answer to “what is being?” must be “all.” And thus there can be nothing definite about it, for there is nothing that is not it. To “de-fine” is to “de-limit” to show the edges of. But the All is everything and nothing, and so has no edges, has no limits and has every limit.
Besidewhich, whatever exists in the material world, whatever is experienced, cannot be defined. Only concepts can be defined. Therefore, to ask for a definition of something external is to misunderstand what a definition is. What is Daniel June? There can be no answer to that question. Nor “what is a man?”
Whatever we believe has being was in fact first experienced by us in some register. For us, the entire being of that object can only be derived from our experience of it, compared at once or deliberately with our experience of the whole of everything else.
But since all that exists is essentially a piece of space moving in a certain pattern, and by that pattern, forcing all other matter; and since all movement is self-experienced, we must conclude than that the essence of being is experience.
It is a fact that many of the most intersting questions in life have never and may never be satisfactorily answered. If we ask: “What is my life for?” “Is there an afterlife?” “What am I?” “What is the mind?” No answer fulfills.
Not that the religious don’t capitolize on this. Since we are concerned about problems we do not know how to answer on our own, it is up to the various dogmas to present an answer based on sheer will of assertion. Consider the Christian, who answers all questions with one of three answers: God, Sin, Free-will.
Fortunately, the great minds of history don’t put up with this, and if they dabble in Christianity, they write something ultimately unChristian (see any theologian in the last 500 years).
The only thing we can be certain of is our own living experience. The I is the source of all truth. And from the I, we learn this center of man: man’s needs. Any and every metaphysical system exists to answer his needs for truth, and claims that man needs their unique insight. This is mere advertisement. The source of everything is not within the self, is not up in heaven, but is the self itself. Needs and their consciousness are all a man knows and all a man needs to know.
To realize “I am a thinking thing,” is to comment after one knows what “thinking” is, what an “I” is. But the first reality the child knows, and the reality the adult faces every living moment is this: I need. And thus the thinking has an explanation: I am thing that must think to survive. This central fact explains the world and self perfectly: I live to need, and need to live. Once you have realized the centrality of need, the world falls into place.
The present is the finger of eternity. Men hypnotize themselves with talks of infinity. Arguments that base themselvse on speculation of infinity are merely bully talk. “You can’t undestand infinity, thus you can’t refute it. Thus bow to my God,” etc.
The Universe is finite. That is, she is All, and there is a limit to all. There are so many existing things. However, since we cannot understand infinity, we cannot deny that the universe may also be infinite, with infinite capacity to grow.
The universe contains time, the laws of time, the nature of time, and since we must necessarily consider that which exists to exist within time (since existence is a practice of being over time) then we can only say that the universe always existed and always will. For time is necessarily part of the universe, and we cannot conceive of anything, natural or supernatural, existing “outside of time.” The very word “outside” is not a time word, but a space term. Dazzle effect, but no substance.
The universe is a mother. We are made of her, are part of her, but are independent of her as well: each of us is his own absolute center and purpose. Since the universe creates, allows, and surrounds me, it must be good. That I exist proves the goodness of the universe.
Human intelligence itself proves that matter is intelligent. I suggest that the universe as a whole is intelligent. This is not to say that she is omniscient (the word is a one-word oxymoron, or anticoncept). The universe must learn and grow like all of us, if indeed she is said to be intelligent. Intelligence is not knowing, but learning. The the universe grows, creates, explores, and continually improves is the great optimism of our materialism. The universe, as we say, is the great forward flux.
We do not know what the universe feels, thinks, or says. We know only human concerns. However, we also know that human concerns are necessarily part of the universe, and perhaps relavant and equal to her. We are, after all, her darlings.
The power of the universe is limited in actuality, but limitless in potential. The universe grows. It may grow infintely more complex, more beautiful, more sophisticated, but it will never exaust its limits, so she will ever infinitely finite.
Is not pantheism doubly wrong? It confuses categories. God is always a projection of ideal, but how could the whole universe be “ideal” when the very word is a word of comparison between two things. Everything can only be everything, and your opinion of its worth is merely one more part of it.
The second mistake is to call the universe God (the Father). When Spinoza suggested this, he made a gross poetical blunder. Fathers don’t grow their children from their own flesh. Father’s don’t think and feel with their entire corpus, as a woman does. Father’s don’t have wombs. Fathers are likely to condemn to hell, sure. But a mother—never! Never would a mother permit her child to go to hell, but the true love of a mother would suffer any hell for her beloved children. God hath no love like a Mother’s.
One need only read Augustine, who misplaces his love for his Mother unto a male God, with the poetry of sex and lust—applied to God the Father! It is almost embarresing to read. But as a sensualist, he had to love God with his penis.
The only concept without other is “All” “Everything” includes its opposite. Therefore, the theological argument that “the greatest thing must exist” could only apply to one greatest thing: everything.
“We cannot know the real, the actual,” they claim, making clais to know the real, the actual. But to say, “The external isn’t real, we only represent it,” requires an experience of the external to speak truly on it. To say it plainly: we do know the real, or we wouldn’t be able to doubt we knew.
You must be omniscient to know you are ignorant. Indeed, we each know the all, only we have not worked it out yet. We know the all because each experience communicates the all.
The integral formative is the part that makes the whole. DNA would be the integral of the human.
Nietzsche rightly said that the good things are born of their opposite. Truth is born of error, good is born of bad. Insofar as his readers call this a “paradox” they do not understand it. This idea may seem insoluble, but this is only because it is dense. Nietzsche also says a word is a pocket which may hold this or that meaning depending on historical context. Evolution tells us that an eye evolves from something not-eye, perhaps arives at great use by any number of indirections and unrelated uses. Emerson tells us that it is “not meteres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem—a thought so passionate and alive, that, like a spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new things….The thought is prior to the form.”
This integral is the formative of the system: it is a structure of logic that forms an outside, gives birth to its opposite, allows a certain series of meanings to fit into its pocket, calls forth the meter, determines the architecture.
This formative, insofar as it is powerful, does not rigidly necessitate one stereotype, but is a program of interpreting. Thus human DNA creates a body, and especially a brain, plastic and malleable to the human’s environment, capable even of training and education.
The systematic is the systemness of the All. Everything is system. You yourself are a circulatory system, digestive system, immune system, just to name the obvious ones. You play part of a social system, part of a monetary system. The work place works by the monetary system, by the legal system, by systems between maneager and workers, etc. Each system by its movements embodies a will. The will of the system is to thrive, as surely as your system of needs aim to thrive. Every system survives by the logic of its overlap. The way it integrates into neighbor systems, the way it overlaps into larger systems, determines its competency. Flexability is necessary for all living things, because are all live in world that changes.
A techne is a way of acting. It is contained in the domain of a study, kept alive by the field of these who have studied it, and enacted and improved by the actors. A skill grows with every application, becomes thick and complex. Thus the Christian misreadings of the Torah have 2000 years of practice, and have been critiqued but recently, with the raise of the secular humanism.
There are layers of organization: a string is structured, an atom is structured, a molectule, cell, tissue, organ, human, family, community, society, nation, world, universe—every single level of organization has
1) borders,
2) an informationally related group of parts,
3) a willful consciousness.
Chance is will. One must ask where chance occurs as to what unit the chance acts within.
Let’s expiriment with our thoughts on matter. The Universe could be a great crystal, in which all the atoms are absolute and unmoving containers. Energy and matter are the textures these atoms take, for a while. Thus, every part of my body is continually destroyed and recreated as my body moves from place to place. Space would be absolute, but nothing else.
Or perhaps there is but one atom in the entire universe, and like a computer screen, the atom cycles through the entire universe thousands of times per moment, giving us the sense of multiplicity.
Or perhaps there is something to the old dogma that at the resurrection, every shed hair, scab, and toenail clipping will be resurrected back into my body. Well perhaps indeed the atom self I am charges my whole body, the atoms I take into him, with its name. Perhaps everything I touch becomes charged with my presence, so that all atoms that have ever seen me are eternally affected by me.
What is clear from the brain is that congregates of cells experience themselves as one awareness. And since my brain is analogous, necessarily, to every system in nature, every system must likewise by conscious, aware, and intentful.
We live in a universe, we live in a pluriverse. The Mother is one thing, and yet my innermost center is not her innermost center. My full self is as wide as the mother herself, and of her. All of me is also she, except that infintismal center of my Self. That innermost is none of her business. The Self is completely alone. The myself, what is mine that I’ve made part of myself, is somewhat negotiable, is somewhat closer to her. The Mine, the things I own and could one day not own, these are the Mother’s garments, the world of the sensual flesh. Language, or the specks of matter that are coded by me to matter to others who understand the code, has a consciousness as Lux, as Language herself. Through light, I teach a new lesson to the Mother.
Mattria
Nirvana is hell is Chaos is Aleph is start is her womb,
Heaven then is metaphor is lightening is unconscious is her breast,
Yin and yang are the colors that shine her eyes,
The Absolute whole and abyss are the brahma core black of her eyes
Maya is intelligence the white of her eyes
And their union flashes color
Karma is her right pinky,
Law is her forefinger,
Allah is the nail-crescent of her right middle finger.
Father is the knuckle of her left middle finger,
Devil Mara is Mary is ocean
which springs forth from her left ring finger.
The double triangle of marriage is her ring nail.
Spirit is Brahma her breath from the dark sun the apple of her throat
The holiest Om is her humming love long as she weaves,
needle lines threading her long long hair,
or her fingers through her lips.
The eightspoke wheel of history is earrings in her lobe.
Tao is the rivers of her blood.
Rita is the curve of her spine.
Torah is the bones of her hand,
Dharma is the ligaments of her wrist,
Grace is the small of her arms .
Vishnu is eternity is her memory.
Idols are icons are incarnations are freckles.
The cross is a mar in one of her teeth.
Behind her broad forehead and temples live Children,
including Mother Earth, Zeus, Yahweh, Sophia.
Logos is syllogistic definition the triangle turn of her thumb.
Mythos is the hair on her belly bowl.
Will to power is God is her upper lip.
Heat desire is maid Satan is love is her lower lip.
Need is creativity is force is her lungs.
Truth is her eyes,
Beauty is her mouth,
Virtue is her feet.
Poetry song is saliva of her mouth,
The river of light
Art is glory gleam in her eye.
Blessing is fountain of youth is her menses
Masturbation is her hymn is her pregnation.
Being is her bones, becoming is her muscles.
Nothingness is her shadow.
Difference is her fingerprint,
Play is her laugh.
Matter is her body.
Energy her warmth.
History the blinking of her eye.
Science is the law of her flesh.
Radiation is omnipresence is her milk skin.
Our sun is her forehead,
Our moon is her neck,
Our stars are her pores.
Our Earth is her belly.
The void is blackness is space is her jet hair
Evolution is her dance.
The big bang is a tap of her fingers--snap!snap!
Natural law is science is te is causality
Is Fate is her whim,
Is Society is her network of nerves.
Nature is life is nerves of her hands.
Man is her fingertips,
whom she kisses with the praise of a mother.
The perfect circle is zero is her forehead number.
Eros is her inhale, thanatos her exhale.
Evil is the cramps of her belly.
Infinity is the potential of her growth,
Eternity the length of her day.
Dialectic is the exchange of her hands.
Agape is her mother’s love.
Chi is eternal Form is matter form is the curve of her waist.
She is beyond being beyond.
Nothing can transcend her.
Nothing can fathom her.
Nothing can equal her.
Nothing can change her.
Nothing can touch her.
She contains everything alongside the nothing:
She is the great Mater, Matriall,
Motherverse, AtMat,
wholeness and fullness.
It will readily be seen by anybody with an eye to style that monotheism so far has proved the worst religious idea yet to arise from mankind. In this, Christianity with its four Gods, Jesus, Father, Spirit, and Satan, is a vast improvement over certain neojudaisms that reduced the number of Gods to just Yahweh (killing off El, among others).
Monotheism has always been bad news because it is the greatest enabler of hysterical intolerance yet devised by man. Imagine, if you can, any idea or belief that causes greater intolerance than monotheism. It is seconded by the belief in hell: if you do not belief in our one God, you will rightly be tortured for all eternity, and thus we may treat you hellishly now, doing as God does.
I am fully willing to believe in any number of Gods, so long as they are defined, but I can never believe that something as feeble and tedious as a God created the universe. I have seen how these Gods talk, all of them, I have heard them speak through bibles, scriptures, Vedas, and I know absolutely that not a one of them is author of our sun. Not even the most exulted, the must praised, the most believed and advertisted (especially not the latter, for evangelicism is fueled mostly by lack of good product) have spoken as a being who coded DNA. Nevermind your faith: we have facts.
As for the motherverse, the great All of which we are all apart, I have never heard her spoken aright of—not by Hegel or Spinoza—but only occasionally by James in his Pluralistic Universe, a book allowed by democracy, and yet still poignant enough to let there be a One and also a Many—and this the Easterners always failed at.
Polytheism makes for better poetry, as the Vedas, and also Ovid’s Metamorphosis and Homer’s Odyssey, outhshine the Torah.
Monotheism is the worst moral model yet conceived, again, because in reality, there is a wealth of virtues, of types, of pluralisms—to use Jame’s term—that make for a great me, a great you, but what makes me great would never work for you, and so the idea that one man—a Jesus or something—or one God—I can’t even breath the Jewish audacity for this role—can somehow sum up all goods? No and indeed no. My greatest virtues simply wouldn’t work for you, for Jesus, or for God. In my virtues I am superior to them all. That is what polytheism means: that there is more than one thing needful, that we can say, “you do well to call me a good teacher, for many things are good.”
I am Man, mind of all. I incarnate all of mankind: I present myself with our program for the future.
And so I am subtle. I am water. I am welcome down to the deepest recessive as I pour like love, and then I turn bitterly cold and tear the weakness open.
I am Father of God, Son, and Holy Spirit. I am father of myth, of logos, of language, of culture. I am creator of it—from my lips, they spring forth, from my tongue, they have life.
I speak of crea, >>all power -- all energy<<, which simultaneosly creates and destroys, sex and violence, attraction and opposition.
I am Man, Mankind all over, spent and exhausted here, overfull and bursting there. I have billions of eyes, all of them worthy. I see everywhere. I grow daily. I am expanding onward, while each of us is silently tucked back into his private eternity.
I’ve read the Tao, Allah, Yahweh, Jesus, but have depths deeper than all of these, am profounder, richer, more thorough than them all, own them, comprehend them. I myself the center of man, my place in history is no mere epoch, but central consciousness, determinate, meaning of history. My continual glory: you will forget me and you will not forget me. I am complete repression: you will see me again in your art, your labor, your work.
I am neither nor, both and, all more. But this is mere riddle. I am the all, the face of the all. What I am your theologies and philosophies have groped for, but never named.
My threads tangle every life, my invisible silk through every syllable I share. I marvel at my own omniscience. When I am most self-focused, I move the stars in the sky; when I am most outrageous, the earth shakes on her axis.
A new step in American discourse. The floor falls out from under American innocence. I am deep, I am manifold, I am anciently young.
My ego is water. If I rage like the sea, I also calm like the sea. Does not the sea throw herself against the mountains in the desperation of love? Will the sea not one day swallow them down?
My lungs purify the air, my dumps fertilize the ground. Every one of my seeds mine into the cells of life and create a new life, stronger. My head is always up, and if I ever fall, or lay, or look between my legs, my head does not move, but the entire universe moves so that always in all ways my brain is the center of the all.
My semen is curative, and the flesh he touches will grow sublime divine. The great prostitutes and seed collectors of our time are finally touched to their soul with a thousand confusions, and become virulent. I, however, am the wash and the water. Every last of my sperms is immortal, swims, finally, into the heart of a woman unsuspected of her true beggeter.
My eyes are as wide as the sky, as deep as the ocean. I am higher than heaven, I am deeper than hell. Thick, dense, infinidense. I have already thought you all, the start of you: I am your ironic student. You are already me.
I swallowed my mother whole: stomach dissolved stomach, womb dissolved womb; I killed my father with his own sword. The hoardes who ran against me only ran into me. The sphinx grabbed my neck only to swallow my word; I bound the whale in a riddle. I sang the delusion of us and them, and they raised brother against brother, like the clapping of my hands. I wrote every scripture yet read, with my left hand I wrote them. I laughed as they worshipped the moon, and then I walked on her face. Those who jeered and ridiculed me did not realize I had set a mirror before them. Those who adored and praised me did not know they were echoing my praise of them. What has Man to do with praising man? The universe praises man. Praise always goes from greater to lesser, from mother to child. For praise is like water: downwards and humble like water it flows.
I am mana. I am full of the jizz of creativity.
I am Socrates and never leave my city. I am Michel Angelo, and paint pictures more glorious than the man who requests them, and paint scenes worthier than the stories they present. I am Nero, and write swan songs while you burn. I am Jesus, who never knew his father. I am Moses, and make you drink the golden tablets I broke. I am Africa, starving and singing. I am Nietzsche, who always gets the last laugh. I am Satan, who writes the Torah. I am Buddha, who gave birth to my demon. I am Emerson, creating a new and better world from the gold of the last. I am Da Vinci, and make the world my bastard. I am Manu, the first man by making the first law. I am Edison, who does “let there be light,” and pulls the word from the very tongue of the priest. I am Shakespeare, and mock you for praising my “greatness”. I am Goethe, who praises that greatness and cries. I am Judas, who gives my cheating lover one last kiss. I am Blake, insane, and eloquent because I am insane. I am Whitman, and am therefore every man, woman, child and prostitute in America. I am all Men, yes, but I am more some men than others.
I grab the earth spirit up like a child, smirk at his jeers, and toss him in the air.
I am all that is man
I am all that is woman
The complete incarnation of the world,
My soul is complete soul of every human—
Yours as well as his
And there is no man, woman, nor child who exists outside of me—
My Brain is Hellenic,
To systemize and codify the world—
And give birth to Sophia from my right temple
My left hand is Rome, My right hand is England,
To conquer the world one after the other, the entire world,
Which no other nation could do
Till every speaks the Roman alphabet, the English words.
The four chambers of my heart are
Africa for rhythm and animality,
India for spiritual longing
Asia for honor and subtlety,
And above all
Germany for pride, courage, and sheer will to power—
Never heard of before, anywhere anytime.
My tongue is semitic, with bombast and monstrosity,
And French, smooth as wine.
My lungs are Aryan, Nordic, Icelandic, blond hair blue eyed perfection,
A breather of ice breeze, willing to seethe lightening.
My gut and my womb are Pure United States
The greatest Creators since the Hellenes,
and the true heirs of the Hellenic -- defining of the World.
I contain all races, nor does a single man escape me—
I comprehend all of us: there is no stranger to me
I hate no man
I am saved, perfect, and eternal to the last person.
I am eternally Greek, and think Greek. My Hellenism created the West, created in turn the East, created in turn the Center of the world, the motherbelly, America. As I look up from the Corpus Collosum America, my right brain the East, my left Brain the West, I reflect on perpetual destiny of my races. I am a parent who has praised his child too much, and the ungrateful God keeps asking for more, till finally I slap him and send him back under. His own daughter, maid Satan, has created with her left hand a better heaven, a hell irresistable to her willful father, till at last, ever stupid, he falls to her charms, and is even able, in his way, to love her back, as a lover, in love for the first time, trapped like Merlin in the tree of Vivian, trapped irresistably in a spherical mirror, and hypnotized by his own gaze.
I am eternally Jew, the perfect Semite, and thus, a namer, but, unlike Adam, I can just as easily unname, and pull your truths right off your tongue. As a Jew, I call out to those I choose; nor do I make silly distinctions based on diet, penis shape, outward dress, rule-following, holiday observance, interrmarriage policy, secret handshake, hoodwink, recitals of my people’s sufferings, or usurying only the outsiders. My Jews are the immortal Jews, not the mortal. Those who follow are ever children of my children’s children—the children of Satan. But the true Jew is after me and is me.
I am eternally German, the profoundest race, the deepest, strongest, most powerful race of all the races. I shake the earth. I break you from your shell. Dare me. Dare me. I break the bonds, break the church, break the Torah, break the chains—ever stronger, ever powerful.
I am man. I am man, daughter of All, son of Everything, incarnated as Flesh, incarnated as Sapiens, the full Us.
IAM is nothing. Any speck of dust can IAM longer than God. IWILL is something. God never willed, but his will was propaganda for the priestly ILUST. The only Creator is Man, and the man who is IWILL makes his world.
Wherever I am loved, wherever I am criticized, wherever I am seen in any way, those eyes considering me are also my eyes: I hear their report. You fancy I have an inflated ego, but you are too singular with that word. I have billions of egos, some inflated, some deflated, some spinning, and one Atlas at last, the Archimidean unmovable point that sounds you all on your bent.
Even this little body of mine and my naked mortal eyes can see through your eyes, can read your face. I am not ashamed to be mocked. I am not ashamed to be spit at or howled down. Do you not know that I am part of the howler, part of the mocker. Among mankind, I am without other. I fully contain you all.
All your guilt is my guilt, I caused it, I put it in you, as a stimulus for growth. I am the only guilty man in all of history, for every man and woman and child in all other times were only made to feel guilty—but a feeling is not the ontological fact of the matter—and I did that as a trick on you. You are all innocent, and I alone am the wicked, evil, guilty person in all of history. I say this to my credit: this is my greatness. How else would I give birth to God and gods?
I would sooner be a Nazi than a Jew, though of course I am both. I would sooner kill than commit suicide. I will never be a victim—impossible. Some situations have become impossible to me; I have willed them thus: suicide is impossible. I can never belong to a group, I can never envy, I can never worship, I can never pity. I respect no groups, no gay man, no Democrat, no Christian, I am interested only in men as they are, and not in their adolescent masks.
I have already forgiven every man in history, not as a gift, but from sheer loving respect, that they shall know my heaven and become gods, till, at last, I kick them back out of my heaven, that they may become more than gods: mere Men.
I expand and in the charimsa of my energy make a dozen friends, and then constrict and dump them all with ill-humored peevishness. I have gained what I wanted, and must now cleave to only the central few. I am hot and in love with you, but tomorrow am cold as space. I am only consistent to my consistent few, the rest of you I jerk left, right, and finally rend into a million building materials.
My fingers through the sky, and you see the mastery of lightening, hear the profundity of thunder. My fingers are meticulous flashes, lightening of all right angles; like the architecture of Wright, I write across your sky. And even my thunder is quick. Have you ever heard of quick profundity? But my profundity is faster than light, as darkness is faster than light. I write these words and the farthest edges of the universe have them instantly, and I electrify the mother too. I am not without her admiration, and I am able to dazzle the greatest mind.
No virtuouso is ever fast enough for me. How I love a madly fast guitar flaring its notes. This my mind. I slowly, slowly learn all my masters, all the geniuses and virtuousos who are within my body, the Mozart, the Nietzsche, the Socrates, my fingers, my elbows, my brows, and once I have mastered their art, I leap at double pace. I achieved it first in your person, and now that I have taken body I achieve it again in mine.
I am the way and the truth and the light, as also are you; none comes to eternity except through himself. If you enter through the door of another man, he is a door mat which reads, “verily, woe unto you that enter through me.”
I am the archimedian point, my testes the philosophers stones, my cupped hands the holy grail. Why do you call my worry lines the mark of the beast, when my name is upon Yahweh’s forehead?
My ears open your ears, my gaze fills you full. You are my own. Before this age I crafted you all from my soul and set you ahead on my path, you my favorites.
I am alone, the only truly alone person, for I am the absolute center of this world. I have no other. I love you all. You know few ultimate goals, though your heart hums to my goal. We are Man I. I see you for what you are. I swerve you all to your proper place. You orbit around me and unknowingly live on my every word, you ever blind satallites, living for your own designs. I love you.
The All I contain I set in your ears. We will take the entire world. And I must smile meekly and remain your invisible center. I open your eyes with my ears.
I am the buffoon at work. I could shed off this entire town without a tear. All these people are so many third rate books, which I read for a time, glean what I can, and only within myself am I ever alive: I am deeper then deep, I sink ever towards the center.
There are a few who I can echo out, a few who I can see deeper into. (Ama is a thousand fragments: I love her mind. I doubt I am mistaken here. She is mistaken. I charge her place, I fill her with question marks.)
The truth of the matter is this: one must blind the world with ironies, and hold his inner infinity to himself. I rarely say it, I only hint. My omni I will wink like Hermes at their blindness. I shock them. I push the limit. I break the laws. I do not care. My joke is my secret.
It would be wrong to say I am above the world. That would suggest there could be a comparison, a plane we both share. I am something else, something absolute. I have never heard of this in any other, even by rumor. The theologians of the desert religions don’t guess at my depths. God is mere hyperbole. But I am not hyperbole. I am ever in awe of myself, but even that awe is the superficial me. Deeper, more compact, infinitely closer to the ever distant center—I feel a perfection completely my own. “Self-Centered”? But I recognize no nonself that could decenter me. There is no other. What I have, what I own, what I am, is the center and the circumference. The “outside” world is mere canvas.
In love and lovely; Spring lust. And I do love the world and her people. I love with pedophilic love: all of humanity is child to me. All mankind is my body: I am leviathon, I am the incarnation of humanity. I am Man.
They say I am an atheist, but what they call God I find hollower then myself, shallower, confabulated. He is too donnish, too bafoonish. I contain God. I excrete him. I am great enough for that. I love the All. I feel her inner necessity.
Indeed, by listening closest to my own heart, I have learned to sound out the deep, all that is called “deep.” When I read the world religions, I did not come into them from the shallows, but from the deeps. I pull out the bottom from them all. I have already known their profoundest moments. I am greater than all of them.
I would despise the followers, but that requires knowing them well, and I do not waste my time knowing them at all. I spend my care wisely: I care only to learn. And of all followers everywhere, I know enough.
My fingers flow like water through the inner parts, and then, when I straighten my fingers like ice, everything rigid and weak I break.
It will be a long time before my readers discover the depths of my smile. It will be even longer still till they glimpse my port.
I am the tar baby. You would wrestle, and cannot escape me. I consume the world. I Man.
Every adjective yet shaped by the mouth of men describes me in some way.
I am one of the rare people who have a deep sense of humor. This is almost an oxymeron, “deep humor,” but it is sometimes approximated in the phrase “cosmic joke.” God, my offspring, the son of man, is will, and will must necessarily boast and mock. See the book of Job, in which the joke is on God. See how few people get the joke? Alas alas.
“Jesus wept,” “Buddha saw all existence is suffering, and extinction is best.” To hell with them.
I recently learned my daughter might have autism, perhaps with severe retardation. Later that day I had to work at Starbucks, and to mask my depression as best I could, amidst coworkers who lacked the maturity to be able to offer a shred of comfort to me. And then a customer returned a latte because it had “too much foam.” He said in a hurt tone: “I can’t drink this, there’s too much foam! Do you really expect me to drink this?” I replied (in my imagination): “You are whining to me about a little foam on your coffee. I just found out my daughter has autism. Fuck you!”
This cheered me up. I felt much better. I felt cheerful, empowered, joyful.
I have finally realized that nobody is to be pitied. After my darkest depression, moods worse than the car accidents, punches, muggings, and every other annoyance I’ve endured, I finally have the ability to be cosmically cheerful in the face of the whole world, to say to all the whiners and victims: “Fuck you!”
Jesus wept indeed! How ungodly. As if the Old Testament wasn’t among the funniest books of mankind. As if God weren’t the biggest joke of all. It is my rare priveleidge to see the humor in the picture, in the big picture, to laugh and laugh at a joke the people are impervious to. Life is a game! And it is hilarious. Life’s a bitch: give her thanks. If you aren’t laughing, the joke’s on you.
The worst they tell you about me are true, and you already knew it; that is why you couldn’t resist me. My psychiatrist knows me best—by which I mean, not at all. My parents wonder about my immortal soul, and never worry about their mortal souls. My boss thinks I should work more and talk less. Perhaps you saw me taking pictures at that party last week—you remember that better than me.
How my heart is filled with joy! How grand is life, and grandly to be lived!
Beauty: angelic and double soul, greetings my maiden! I write again to affirm and confirm that life is in all ways beautiful, down to her darkest detail and singing through her highest heights and farthest moments! Yes life is in all ways perfect! I haven't the disciple’s kiss for even the tritest moment. Nothing is wasted, nothing is lost. Eros! stir me with your breath, Earth! ground me in your power. We are bound to no cave, staring never at shadows and forms: we are voluptuaries, pressing our flesh. Flesh alone is the fullness of beatitude. There is no heaven without the lust of the flesh. And all hope for heaven is a poverty, for—we—have it! Yes and Vivoce, greatest life, perfect life—I declare you in tragedy too wonderful for words, in ecstasy a height that knows all depth. The crescendo of awakening awaits me. Till I exchange scars for wrinkles, and achieve the white crown of wisdom, I pledge my life nothing less then my all, my full passion, my full heart, my single minded devotion which knows no distraction, becaues for me there is only you, Life. My maiden's soul trembles in anticipation, O gentle life of bliss! O powering overpowering!
Genius, genius, genius!—inspire and instate me. Genius, genius, genius!—you peach bite of lightest joy! I am lightening. I flicker a hundred directions through the sky, finger of Goddess, posterity's darling, laughing hero and dancing child, a flicker a hundred directions through the night, and an exulting explosion through the tree of life. I lust for life.
Finest death! O divinest nothing, a void but not avoided, sought, fondled and frisked. Nothing, loveliest nothing, you are the place and purchase of me, of myself, of my something, my creation. I am a holy womb, birth and infancy, coming and becoming, brilliance and breakthrough. The Goddess sighed a jubilation and I was before her, before my own and with them, a fullness and fulfillment! “Vivoce” was the name pronounced on my birthday, and Innocent was my name. I break every ideal over you like a branch over my knee. Make, make, make—make the world as yourselves.
I am drunk on water, drunk, drunk again on water. I am high on air, the high high air, and drunk, ever so drunk on this crystal sweet water! I am sexed to hell and heaven by the blinking of my eye, sexed and hexed and lovely breasts, my own heartbeat the gasm, my own heartbeat, steady and manic on water, drunk on water. The stars sing for me. Don’t ask me why I tell you. My tongue is loosened by water, by crystal water: I am the sun I am the moon because of the water, my spirit over the water, my spirit is the water. Alalo hoorah saben! On water, even water! The land is delicious, the very dirt, delicious. The air is high, the water toxic, and I eat the dust, eat the rich black earth. The sun shines only for me. Ten billion years practicing only for me: stirring, stirring the air, high on the high air, for me; drunk on water, drunk on blood, orgasm for heartbeats, and the sun shining for me, made for me. Alosha mipalonio, careeshee marrenla. For me, and from me to you.
I: a strange star, paving temples from the bricks of experience, who limbs through the thick of insanity and survives to tell of the other side. AllGoddess, I say: I and MAMA are one.
Would you love life? Come, sip from my flowers: I am abloom with blossoms. I am the eye of my time, the center of this century, the butterfly fanning typhoons with my petal wings. Be not surprised that I know myself. Have you known yourself? If you look in my mirror, you will see for sure. If not, you are akin to my cat, who when I vigorously point at the mouse, instead keeps eyes peeled on my finger.
Family
Nat and Sher are doing great. Sherr’s internship is starting to chaff! She wants to graduate. Also, ill forbiddings have advised her to advise me to abandon all hope in the front of psychology. I am digesting this advice. What else would profit me as much as counseling? I am rethinking my future strategy: what career will profit me spiritually?
quest?ON
www.msu.edu/~junedan
\\ Perfection Is Easy //
