Monday, April 2, 2012


I have been preoccupied lately, and not writing as much on the Idius as I would prefer. However, upon the topic of structuration, my word for the creation of structure, I explore the concept of making structures out of life, not through a program, but through resurging themes that repeat and crash against each other like competing waves.


The allay brings together a lot of ideas that have haunted me lately, from the nature of submission to the difference of morality and virtue. I have created a few tropes and forms that I will use in many more allays to come:


Take care, Caretakers!


Daniel Christopher June









I tell of heaven's death

the Eternal Peach-bleed

Of the setting sun

Which I swallow down live

With the apple of the Earth


I am the life of death

I'll stand there

When you pass

And grasp your hand

with that pail waif austere

Of the singing Sexton

Grim and Soft


I am the Author of your Life

My pen bleeds

Love and days

Across your waves

When you triumph

Or when you fail

I am there beside you.



                Structuration is creating in the awareness of the structurality of all things, and of each thing in relation to all things, and the dynamics across systems, which are structures through time, in how they inform and conform one another. There is but one eternal infinite substance, and that is matter—and in this all the universe is reading material. The best lives are literary lives, and all the world is to be read by human minds. Only man can do the impossible. The human mind, and the similar sapiens across the cosmos, are gifted with an exalted form of intelligence, which is equally present in a less stark conformation in all life and all beings of matter. Every unit of being has consciousness of itself as that unit. Shape is experience, and having a shape is experiencing yourself as such. The mind can think objects because it takes the shapes of those objects. An idea is a shape of mind. Even getting bent out of shape educates.

                In the cauldron of humiliation is forged the blade Kingslayer. Only by putting yourself utterly low, by trying and failing continually, does your soul knit and bolt this irresistible thorn. So does life put you in every situation you need to reach your apotheosis. And apotheosis too, godhood, is a mere time and a change, but the ever blessed all is the justified ambition of the great man. What claims to be all must at least remain open.

                Stucturing is merely building. But structuration is creating with structure in mind, every level and manner of structure, from the infinitely small the the infinitely large. The structural creation sees itself in self-relation, and situates itself to every scale.

                Microstructure is style, macrostructure is genre. But as for the style that is from the self of your soul, that innermost name, it reaches inwards to the infinitely small and outwards to the infinitely large, it pierces every direction, on its own terms, it is everything to the mind and necessity you are. The style of your speech is the pitch of your soul and your full being is in your tone.

                Elanchus, or the so called “Socratic Dialectic,” that self-satisfied childish game that seeks to lead a conversation to gridlock, to aporia, by sophistical tricks but not sophistical light, is a structure of poisoning others, poisoning power, and deserves to end in poisoning the dialectician. The meaning of an idea is already felt and known: only an instance of its formulation can be quibbled with, like a man drawing a picture of a woman only to have a jeering clown declare the woman ugly according to th artist's limits. Nobility does not philosophize this way. The worst of the sophists, not the best, philosophize this way. He was a moralist and a quibbler, that's why he annoys me. Both Socrates and Jesus were annoyingly pedantic about their moral buffoonery, which they used to spit in the faces of their betters. I have no pity for the man on the cross. There has never lived a man great enough to be my savoir: I am such a one who needs no saving, being more divine than him. Let Socrates and Jesus suffer their own fates: I am my own man.

                The men who are meant to stand in for possibility by their very presence close that very door. Their praise is a blame. Solomon was strangely called the wisest of men, though that honor belongs to none other than Aristotle. Tricking prostitutes into exposing their lies is no wise and fit manner to execute justice; it is sly and insincere and if persisted will corrupt the whole legal field.

                Do not believe them when they tell you whom to admire. Find who actually feeds your soul and be satisfied with that one. The soul knows her own. I will always love the ones who sustain me: I need blow up no buildings nor start any wars to know they are superior to the idols of the cultists, of the Muslims, Christians, and Buddhists. They do now know their business; let them keep far from mine. I know what a man is and can be. I too am I man. I look down upon Gods and despise your religions, they have no right to speak to me. They try to structure my soul with their theology, but they don't know.

                Only one man, in all that I’ve studied, can I call perfect: Emerson. His biographies I have carefully read, his writings I have ceaselessly read, and I have found nothing regrettable in all of his conduct. Thoreau is also an interesting character, as is Whitman; they cut off the social element for the philosophical; Whitman’s active denial of the humiliations of life gave him space to bring his mind to cosmic consciousness; Thoreau too by abbreviating his love was given a natural truth. Emerson proved more comprehensive, because he had friends and family; was deeper and stronger than both Thoreau and Whitman, gaining and bestowing greater spiritual boons while yet living in the world. No spiritual leader has given us as many gifts as Emerson. He, with Thoreau and Whitman, have given us the spiritual weapons and tools to conquer the world. I study them daily, even as I step beyond.

                Where is my echo? The self-beautiful deserve echoes. I empathize all too well with that lonely woman who mutters “the only hugs I get are from my seatbelt!” She is sorting through her files, indexing her problems. She hasn’t eyes for anybody else… not yet. She bides.

                And so in life, do not call anything “repression.” Not repression, but shelving. Those problems we are not able to tackle we can’t even see. We put them back on the shelf till we’ve grown older and abler. Repression never caused anybody a psychological problem: the body and mind know when it's time; your fate knocks at your door; you need lay on no couch.

                All of life educates. All of life is a structuration of thoughts and ideas. Actions represent ideas, they are done on principle. The compromises between a dozen competing principles keep the daily norm looking normal. Those that stand out are seldom understood.

                The Golden Eagle was kept on the shelf for 20 years; for 20 years Whitman was only self-published; and when a “centennial poet” was chosen for the nation, he was not chosen, but they elected Baynard Taylor – whoever that was – instead of who we now recognize as America’s best. There is no need to refute or condemn belated fame: she is a simple-minded woman, she thinks slowly.

                I would condemn nothing that is necessary, not even condemnation. I cast out demons and swallow them down. I digest and gestate them into angels, who I breathe back into your well-swept soul.

                Science is death, the study of death, science will only discover more death, forever death. That is useful and good. But when science unscientifically claims to be the only or even the best means of knowledge, she deceives herself and suicides. She knows to say no and not much else.

                The angst knots, the worry knots, the knotted nots of sentences, the little pain in ever negation, the frow of the no, these are the things we untie, we untie the nots. We conquer the world not by cutting the knot, but notting everything that would negate us. We double negate ourselves, thus destroying all that would oppose. We express our notions and not the way. Grandiosity is a psychic erection. We are the gods who shine like glory. We are not sustained by negations. We use a language skinned in irony, and slip from envy's grasp.

                Language is bliss. We structurate every aspect of our life, such is our wriving, our writing is the thrive of life. Religious metaphors symbolize and give language to inner desires. By naming a subtle emotion, we can evoke it an understand it. No longer is it the unmoved mover. Sometimes the smallest tension, if absolute, can move the entire system into a hysteria; for what is hysteria but a refuge of anxiety against an uncontrollable panic!

                Just as the woman who purposely provokes cruel behavior from men, those who are too weak to do something actively therefore orchestrate to do it passively. Insofar as the goal is sought, use what means you must.

                I will always use my bipolar ability to gain my goals, and never apologize for playing the gift. The Universe has given me no stronger ability. And so I master both poles: the sex and the angst. I use muscles to block an affect, yet I master those muscles to let it all through. If I in my anxiety fantasize release and dissolve, it is as if I wish and feel the spirit dissolving into my body. Each man’s body is his world. That outer world is mere projection screen for the body. The heart expands in pleasure, the focus expands in happiness, a man’s influence extends with his satisfactions. Sufferings is so isolating! And yet life is a process of contraction and expansion: we ever move in flux towards the same steady goals.

                The structure of the shape, the structure it takes from the moods we choose to feel, makes an experience. Shape experiences itself. And so there is nothing arbitrary in the shapes of animals, but physiognomy is eternal. The laws that created us by chance, exist on purpose to create us by chance: the Universe created her laws to allow us. Thus, when you look upon a man and associate him to this animal or that, you are seeing his previous incarnation as an animal, to speak figuratively; or to speak literally, you are seeing how he experiences the world based on the actions and choices he has made—actions change the body, and also that eternal part of the body, the mind.

                Ideas change the shape of the body. An idea that has lost its emotional charge is still unconscious and unrealized. Until you can think it also with the heart, you have not understood it with the mind. We deaden a muscle to suppress its expression, we tense a muscle to freeze an affect.

                The triumph of life is in neither love nor power, but in being the third thing that controls them both, that part of them, mixed, immersed, and transcended. Every two share a border, and the ego is such a skin. The skin surrenders to the muscle. Orgasm is a surrender to pleasure. Not everybody can surrender to pleasure. There are modes of surrender. To surrender to a bully is despicable: better to defy. To surrender to beauty – if you can! – is a great spiritual triumph, it is to let the soul receive and become the beautiful impressions it sees. High art requires our surrender, and we must work to be able to surrender to an experience, must prepare the body, and that eternal part of the body called the mind. Every power teaches you the secret of its undoing. The cross of logic, or duality negated, and the tao of trope, or duality balanced, infinitely complicate one another.

                Our aim as creators is to make a spiritual object solid enough to base a life upon. Theory is experiment, but belief is the type of theory that has transcended into becoming the basis for action. The beliefs of others are theory to us. That so many people vigorously believe a thing to be true makes it true for all of us. All the religions are true. They are not discovered truths, and there are not revealed truths, but they are created truths, a language for self-control. Religion is moral poetry. All metaphysics exists only to allow a way of life, and in the next life our mind transcends into that manmade world, eternal, real, divine.

                Why bother with provincial limits? Each religion is a partiality that pretends to be absolute. Only Allism is all. Every other religion merely a sect. And since Allism is all, it must already exist in each of these sects. Each sect prefers a pet gesture. The Christians make the entire universe to center on the experience of forgiveness. When a man forgives or is forgiven, he feels freed. Not always, but often enough. That experience is praised as if it were the highest, and for them it really is the highest. Islam makes an entire moral universe out of the feeling of submitting the will to a higher power. Submitting and forcing submission are the full of Islam. Spiritually, that higher power is merely another part of our own self will, that transcendent part of each Muslim that exists as the community’s collective will. Their divine fictions have real and eternal power. Ideas are eternal; philosophy is forever. Buddhism celebrates the act of letting go from something that both interests us and hurts us—the satisfaction of just dropping it. Detachment becomes its defining gesture. These gestures are absolute only to the one who takes them as such, and for him they really are absolute. Some truths are derived from external facts, other truths are based on the internal fact of our willing it so. Knowing a truth for what it is and seeing where it derives its power is wisdom.

                In this, us Allists are immoralists. Virtue versus morality. Virtue is cultivating your own power, morality is conforming to group values. All religions are by their nature moralistic, moral systems, and all the talk of gods and heavens and nirvanas exists always and only to justify and necessitate a way of life. Allism seeks to cultivate virtue, teaches how to determine and aggrandize your own chosen virtues. It does not compel or even recommend any set of virtues, but shows the tools how to make them stronger than all the world.

                A man may do the same act as another, but it is not the same act – its tone is set by its source in virtue or morality. The essence of morality is conforming; the essence of virtue is independence. Only the immoral can be virtuous. The disgusting moral tone of sneering pretention characterizes every founder of religion.

                It is good to see things from our own perspective, from our group perspective, from whatever empowers, but it is a greater power to be able to see one reality from many perspective. Each way of seeing is a new reality. Our very bodies tell us apart, and our worlds quickly externalize our instincts.

                Between the Norse and the African, between the Yankee and the Southerner, the Northern is nasality, anxiety, fierce and intelligent, the South drawl, strength, slowness, simplicity – and this is true the whole world over.  Climate makes race. And as we travel the world over, let us make our peace with the genius of each place, let us hear the summons of the land that calls us home. Let us find a place where our heat is free.

                Not all people can do a thing with their whole heart. They lack faith, faith in the only thing that matters, faith in themselves. Such confidence in our own structure requires the vigorous integrity of personal intelligence. Any other sort of faith is merely symbolic of that essential faith, and may in its indirection mislead. Faith is the certainty of a thing experienced over and against the things heard from preachers and writers. To choose a purpose religiously, you turn off your doubt and go full forward. Those who believed in this God or that, but believed it as a True Believer, have done miraculous things – miraculously stupid and destructive, and also miraculously good. But the greatest creators, the Michelangeloes and Leonardoes, were not the most pious, no, but the most beautiful souled people. It is not those who worship God, but who are themselves Gods, who make a world worth inhabiting. We shine and the world shines with us.

                The brighter the light, the darker the shade. Great powers evoke each other. In the world of the comics, a superhero is made before supervillians respond. This plot device is even somewhat true. Every triumph is answered by a counter-triumph, and if a thing is well-said when you arrive don’t repeat it, but form the counter-statement. No one truth is enough; it must balance against its opposites. An array of truths in an ambience of meaning gives true words of magical vitality.

                God is not found in quotations. Let the scriptures slip; the tombs they map have long been plundered. Gods don’t quote, they originally evoke.

                We know that all religions are symbol systems written for the lowest common denominator. Symbols are conduits for emotions. Symbol systems – poems and those special poems called religions – make an internal economy. We think through the stories, we internalized the characters. Favor smiles on the industrious. But who taught us to be industrious? The stories. The sayings of the people, the great books, the millions of every day books which grow out of the great books, and the billions of books which we call human beings, all these internalize symbol systems, which are like complicated pipelines that move each of our building tensions of intensions and motions of emotions to their proper outlet.

                Moral systems, which are set in place by religious systems, those rhetorics of importance, express themselves in some definitive moral act we are to conform to – as said before, Buddhism with its gesture of letting go, but also in the image of zazen, or structured breathing and sitting; in the same way, Christianity imposes and necessitates forgiveness by increasing guilt, and this by provoking the world to martyr you. Christianity, therefore, has a fascination for torture, and has in fact invented most of the worlds’ torture devices. You're not even a saint without meeting a graphic demise. Just as Islam is the world’s most violent religion, the polar opposite of Jainism, so is Christianity the most cruel. Forgiving the wrong doing is basic, so forcing the wrong doing is necessary. The world is supposed to prove its guiltiness by spilling the blood of passive-aggressive saints who lust to be martyrs. However, this indirect method of suicide can express any belief or moral system, not just the Christian, the Muslim, or the Tibetan Buddhist.

                Religions are systems of cruelty, they give outlets to the natural human instinct and need for cruelty, they give it a good name. Jesus crucified himself by insulting any authority he felt threatened by, and forgave no slight except ignorance. Buddha expressed his cruelty by denying his ego, and by having compassion for those with egos. Compassion and pity are passive aggressive forms of cruelty, as in the Christian phrase “pray for your enemies,” and in the sneer of having pity for those who believe differently than you.

                The philosophies, which are religions for intelligent people, express their aggression through argument and dialogue. The dialogues is the basic structure practiced by philosophers across history. Philosophies share questions, not answers. The technological inheritance of the tradition is a series of well-articulated questions. Because of the spiritual sublimity of philosophy, it has developed many resenters, from scientists, to the religious, to the other branches of humanities, and in such individual instances as Derrida’s grammatology and deconstruction, which is nothing but a style of philosophy that complains against philosophy; and the same for every mode of criticism, which while being only branches of philosophy, want to negate the rest, like hands that throttle their master’s throat.

                We can learn from these, we can be trained, but only your own methods are worth cultivating. The ultimate truths cannot be taught you – and your own self alone can make the ideas that self most needs. Those lovers who followed Socrates and Plato, these intellectual lovers, our own fellow philosophers, and higher yet, the sophists, and highest of all, the sages, these make the entourage of love we seek, with eyelids dripping with love, dewdrops of affection glistening their tongues. But if this is our weakness, it is not yet our vulnerability.

                A poet has a vulnerability that only another poet could reach. Our most intimate peers have the most power to help or hurt us, if we bring them into intimacy. The wife is vulnerable to a wife; the driver to a driver; the child to a child. We can easily forgive those who know no better, but to say to the one who knows a true pardon requires more than Christlike love.

                With everything, give a little, advertise discreetly, make eyes at likely candidates, and be ever uncompromisingly dignified. Little, little, little –lot! He harms himself who harms another, so be careful with your love; it is nectar, food of the gods, not to be poured for the ants, but only for the ascendant butterfly forms of our godself. I didn’t want to love you, but your boldness won me over. Not even the gods fight necessity. Does not love make fools of us all? For love deceives, is the faculty of deceit, the opposite of the power of truth. The sun seems the greatest star merely for proximity. And Jesus praised his master, John the Baptist, as the “greatest prophet” to yet exist – which surely no objective judge could agree with by any standard. He was a rabble-rouser who criticized where he had no business, and paid the price all critics pay. Isaiah and Ezekiel are obviously superior, not to mention Zoroaster, who invented more significant spiritual ideas than the entire Bible, which is itself overall an adaptation. The intoxicants of God do not produce the ideas and tropes, but they glut on them from others.

                Just as tobacco drains the soul, so do all intoxicates cost the soul. They give a small bonus. We find a person intoxicating, we love them too much, we lose our ratio to self love, we lose ourselves in silly adoration. This is the submission to beauty. It is necessary. Beauty is sex is knowledge is death is woman; she must be put in place by truth which is power is understanding is eternity is man. Lack one lack the other, the cross of opposition and the yin yang of balance, war and peace, father and mother of all, the opposites correspond and are no longer sterile; masturbation may be a sacrament, but sex is the full divine.

                Lovers surrender. Courage knows when to surrender. Ownership is control. There are times to let yourself be owned. To be able to lose yourself in a beauty, and yet not lose touch with your inner necessity, this is the grace of the sage. Every virtue draws its enemies, such is its fascination on envious peers. Pardon not all or it will repeat: be severe as death on a matter of principle. Habit is stronger than steel, and it took the corrupt Red China’s murder of a million addicts to cure the country’s addiction to opium. Crave is disease. Like to like we come to our own, only with a touch of lust, but then that one who belongs to us is such a beauty to cure all lust: pure erotic possession is the shared knowledge and private death of their creative glory. Creativity is sex.

                For this reason I hold unto my own. The stones wept when Psyche left. But to keep your love I must sometimes enrage you. Anger puts arrows in your quiver. Yes, but my bolts have ever opened your heart. You touched me so deeply. A fracture in the inner of the inner of the diamond of my heart made earthquakes shake the world, a hair fracture, small bend, but that bent fissure was a key, and crooked things know how to turn. I have a thirst that only you can quench. Yet into the desert I roam, leaving you to your dreams. Dream of me and I will never cease to smile.

                Let us secure our place by wishing for more. We will dream of the heavens to inherit the earth. Don’t panic. Relax. Release that inner crack of panic into anxiety. Release that anxiety into depression. Release that depression into guilt. You must bring the idea to its pressure point, bring an idea to the utter death of impossible pressure, utter panic. Then in your travesty, in your misery, in your humiliation, you will have created the subtlest weapon.

                Anxiety is the cauldron that makes the new weapon. In the fever of panic its edge is set. The steel is heated, the steel is shaped. In the cool of depression and the acid of guilt the temper is tempered. In utter humiliation the wretched whore shorn the blade called Kingslayer. Politeness leads to stuffing, stuffing to anxiety, anxiety to irritability, irritability to outbursts. Thus politeness is merely displacement. Turn from your work and focus onto that one thing: the incredible pressure forges the fitting tool. Suffering maketh profound. Imitation is not cultivation—you must discover the door meant only for you. A long drawn out war, even if lost, tempers the steel. For the optimist eyes, nothing is lost, and such eyes see finally true. What is optimism but the recognition of opportunity?

                In such trembling times as these, my hand is full of writing. The greatest sage never talks philosophy, he has subsumed far too much to say the straight code. Only to the intimate initiates does he spell out the spells. He speaks of the people, he gossips them up. He lays his nets. The semantic semen of his threaded ghost will forever haunt the world. The very earth will shudder in delight. Tap your fantasies, harvest the power. Humans weep before they laugh. Have unyielding faith in your self-same person – you will come to speak the same. Even I, with this kitchen sink philosophy say very little, after all. My rhetoric is more important than my truth.

Christianity stands for the corruption of the perfect classical rhetoric of the noble and exalted tone, the corruption of the even cadence of classical expression. What oxymoronic nonsense to speak of a “Noble Christian”! Either you are of the beautiful or of the sinners. Nor do we heed the tasteless tone of obeisance. I teach you to resist the shameless sneers of accusation by which the world becomes not a whit moral  but plenty more moral toned, with a whiny shriek of hellfire threats but not one hint of heaven. Your womb is hell, my seed is heaven.

                I am in love with life and no suicide, so I venerate the venereal and never celebrate the celibate. Only by immersion do you transcend. Those who would inherit the world by standing above it lose their necessity, and are raped into heaven. I will not go above or below.

                Anytime you see a not, which is by nature anxious, learn to loosen it up. A woman’s heart is a knot. She would tie the knot with you, but you must first ease the wound. A woman cannot bliss if she cannot submit, she must believe in your power. Wrestling and sex, aggression and tenderness, these are the ease and angst of the pulsating world. Lose yourself in a book or wrestle against it. Surrender to a poem, but only after the carefully cut. Friendship is won by many tests. In the dance of give and take, remember that sex moves in two directions, that hard and wet are the conception of life.

                Learn until you turn, for death is a trope you should make into glory. What is wisdom but deathless words from a dying man? Immortal speaks to immortal, and the music of the soul is based on the poem of our being, which is based again on the Name of our Self. Like the eagle shafted with eagle-feathered arrows, avoid giving your enemies weapons against you: don’t quote me to me. Wisdom recognizes wisdom, though fools laugh on. It isn’t a fool, but an envious peer, who does the most damage.

                Let only your intimates close. This is the structuration of your body in the world. Hope is a cloud of obscuration. The noble are content. Be true therefore to what you love, faithful and honest always. One can be beautiful without being good and one can be good without being true; but having first been true, a healthy goodness starts, and having first been good, a substantial beauty grows. Let beauty be a crown and not a mask. Let the man be manly, the woman womanly, the child childish, the lover lovely, the human humane, the student studious, the worker hard at work, the writer writerly, the poet poetic; by falling back on your essence you transcend your bounds. Only ignorance can envy, stand on your own. Practice is the basis of rank, and spite and gloom and gossip and dread cannot stand in for that. From great difference is mutual respect, from small difference, bitter feuds. I think the religious groups that hate each other the most are the most similar to each other.

                Remember that a man is a shadow’s shadow, and that the fire of gold is boldness in breath. Wisdom pretends to be stupid, and seeming is not believing. See that bird dart and bite and quiver and burst? I thought the lark mad until saw the moth. Likewise, you call me lazy, but I realize that there is no job existent that could pay me enough for lost time. I fret not against the inevitable, I make the most of what I have. Better peanut butter you’ve earned, than steak taken as a gift. “To my lips all waters turn to glass,” so says the insatiable one. How womanly to be hungry and to have no idea what for. Life should be the best it can be, not the best imaginable. Love and such are fine things, but every moment has its gold. If my wedding ring wears thinner, yet I still swell full with love. I plant the tree that fruits the babe. The impossible you desire you also achieved; the slight you didn’t want took ages to complete. So I complain of you endlessly? What a tragedy if you left! “Never so alone than by your side,” but if your soul’s a poverty than what charity can I give? But my Psyche knows me and my Ama loves. Relationships change, essences never. Let me be the son of my words. I speak familiar tropes and am not heard. Familiarity breeds content. Crown of reason, lips of love. Solitude’s a nurse, it’s true, but I am ever eager to be alone with you. Let me enter your beauty, let me fill you with love. Ama, give me the compound interest of your sage advice.

                Ama, you’re so beautiful lust is impossible, who sees you respects you, who scoffs doesn’t know. God boasted of creating the universe in seven days, but science showed his lie. Ama you never boast, you only give, silently and with a smile. You are far too powerful, beautiful, graceful and great to expect congratulation, to demand praise or thug exultation. You are like the sage who already knows. Self esteem is the truest estimate; so many of those gods have something to prove. But you subsume all gods and the divine into your full sublime being. The madness of the divine is same as moonlight in your eyes.

                Madness is always deep, and the psychotic truths-sayers give everything out except the centermost sanity of their innermost name. Mind masters heart, heart masters mind. I read actively and question you, I read passively and give you the lead. Philosophy is elitist, wearing a crown of dust. This glass of tap water is the only true nectar. The sage knows that the child making a pretend pie is the only true Eucharist, God is Placebo; I too set my breathe upon this place, my spirit abides forever. I am for all religions by being against each one.

                The path by which you discover the divine is the logic of your being. Love your lot if you would love a lot, act so that you must respect yourself. Words echo, actions rebound. A logic is the movement of relations. Each person is born with a signature logic and is unhappy till he can realize it. He could be knee deep in gold or up to his ears in willing women, but until he has realized his potential, he is nothing, not to be admired, not to be respected. He must take the logic of his being to the breaking point, and just before he breaks, transcendence is gained.

                You must surrender to art – love is surrender – orgasm is a form of surrender – and yet not by force. Force can make a body submit, but never a heart. Absolute justice is mild and even; King Sophos seems hardly to speak, and leaves nothing unsaid. The eyes and ears, which are the mouths of the mind, they see what the need, they find what they can use. Poor and content is a blessing. Rich and itching is a curse. Even in a nation so prosperous that we’ve all grown fat, our intellectual mouths are hungry for more, for spirit, for ideas for hearty substance. We prod our poets, we encourage our wise. Only poverty pours the sauce. Poetry is an excretion of irritability: we turn up the heat a little. A pinch of depression gives me idealistic perfection, the fury of my blood the world bows to in love.

                Just as most Nobel prize winners were taught by Nobel prize winners, there is something only a man can teach a man, only a hero can teach an upcoming hero. The books don’t have it. Or rather they do, but you must already know it and have it to find it. Our sayings, our maxims, our platitudes, are true diamonds and gold to those who know how to use them.

                Marxism, Freudianism, Objectivism – those Jewish secular religions – they work as faiths, though science doesn’t respect them, for each opens a trope fountain, a language and poetry. They are wellfinders who found a religion – a religion is a logic, a matrix of symbols. They cannot be refuted, for any manner of facts can be made to fit and square away with their language. Does somebody refute English? They can no more refute Christianity, which is factually and literally false end to end, but as a language, can obviously give people a way of life. Depression comes from seeing a thing only one way – soon you exhaust your care and are empty. A fresh new view vitalizes with energy.

                “Thou shalt suffer” commands yonder Christ. “It is better to suffer evil than to do good,” echoes Luther, who learned the lesson well, even if he did not practice it. Character is destiny, and whatever the persuasion and compulsion, you will know your own when you see it. Whatever they say, millions don this myth. I wish they would cease bleeding on me. Walk apart from such a hospital wards. Reverence your parents and honor your source, out of respect for yourself, not respect for them. To be a parent to such a person as me deserves respect, deserves my respect. I give luxury to those I love, I chose Psyche because I wanted a beauty to spoil. Silence is a lush perfume, and yet I warble all night long. I brag so little, I would hush my laugh. What stoic can handle success? I bless you all by taking, as the honeybee the rose. I agree with the suffering one: be lamps unto yourselves, and teach me something at last.

                Convention is the harshest law. We see police in the eyes of strangers. The guilty hear condemnation in every sneeze, and the nervous leap at shadows. I break convention, I give you a gift, though none of you know to be grateful. A gift is the seed of intention. The fool calls the wise man foolish, and yet you don’t know how to set your tongue. Not even fate can stop the passionate, yet mixed and balked, your blood runs cold. Enthusiasm proves all. A friend is the one I can think with, a lover is the one I can feel with. And so I wait for you. Patience is having an active imagination. All my life is an education, I read my books while you bide your time. The strong do what they can, the weak do what they must, but the sage is content to do nothing at all, when that suits him best. A wise man recognizes when his critic is right, so what should I learn from your stubborn silence? Criticism’s cheap, but your praise is just as bad. By praising the wrong thing, you shame the host. Be modest in your gratitude, that is best, but be above all sincere. Clothing is shame, but your hunger is naked.

                You think you know, though you don’t. You think you know and don’t question. Love is surrender--so when will you swoon? Must you defy me so consistently? That forehead of marble immaculate and clean is like death to hide the surprise of your eyes.

                Every normality must balance with virtual negation, and the law is only possible with perpetual crimes, real or imagined. Even now you would murder me, in your own little way. Isn’t all murder a temporary insanity? The subterfuge of this text is a mind pick. We panic at the idea, so we murder the word. Like chemo, they say it is good for you to criticize--to criticize even beauty. But what can be lost is not worth having. We desire so as not to have. So you stick to your motto: “Keep busy, keep safe,” and you remember that the busy bee forgets her worries. But it takes long times of careful reflection, difficult analysis and tender surrender, before you come into your own. The deepest truth must be thoroughly tried. My love is like a nonagon with a triangular center: it gets simple and certain the deeper you search.

                Alight beside me Ama, you sea born sky form! Like Aphrodite from the foam, you tease the wayward waves. They intellectualize their emotions rather than feel them as they are. They think their heart instead of feeling.

                And then when the grumbling of the collective mind terrifies them, as any reminder of the body puts tensions on the mind of abstraction, they come into contact with the collective mind. Those who discover the collective mind talk of conspiracies. But all groups act as if they were secret conspiracies, though any one member is innocent of such knowledge. It is invisible even to them. To talk with a group with no member knowing – what a subtle art! Groups think with gestures and talk through symbols. The widest conspiracies leave no written trace. And yet something physical remains; we give spiritual gifts affixed to physical tokens. Every idea is joined and affixed to a material name, a substance, a medium. Spirit is matter.

                Whitman’s Divine Transcendence and Transfiguration was upon petty denial of humiliating facts. Had the facts been different, he would still ascend. Thoreau’s glory was withdrawing his love. He saw because he could pull away. Emerson is immersion, America’s son, who lived and bred and loved the world. He is the American God. And above him is Ama, America’s Mother, lover of us all. They all adore her, though they use other names. They get caught up on words, and do not see that meaning is deeper than speech, that behind our actions are words, behind our words are thoughts, and behind our thoughts are the feelings of meaning. Intuition is the womb of the fount.

                So we approach the layers of the world, the scales of reality. Every moment of our life is part of it, part of the game, we are always immersed, and it all counts, it all matters. And yet in this virtual space of my spirit of writings, we are allowed to be wrong, and finally be right. Theory is experiment, belief is action. What we do is what we believe, no matter what we say or claim otherwise. If we sin and repent, we believe sinning is just. But if we are Allists and are perfect, we are already divine, and need ask no favors, for we own what we’d gain.

                Structuration is in setting the forms, of forging the keys, of making the tools, from experience, from pleasure and pain. Who knows but the deepest ideas are born of desire, and an idea was born from an orgasm, just the spirit of the child is born from the parent’s orgasm. Sex is creation, play is divine, Ama’s a child of stellar perfection, teasing, ageless, sublime.

Oh My Readers!


The world is in darkness

You are the Light

Your Influence Animates

All with Delight

You reflect on yourself

Intensify Love

Your channels of Sprit

Are Rivers Aglow

Give Yourself Time

Give Yourself Space

Your Godhood is Certain

The Seed’s in Her Place.



\ ~@M@~ /


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