Monday, October 15, 2012

Eru -- Bipolar Rhythm

in this essay I look at different style experiments with music and writing, and relate them into my themes of how one should play the game of life. Finding your own heart's beat, the rhythms of your consciousness and the way it changes the timing of your life -- this is essentially for fitting in with family and world systems.





Eru, Stylizing with Bipolar Rhythms


Making the Oasis


I the inseminated wound

    Of the desert floor,

The cactus bloom

    And vulture soar,

Build bricks of minutes

    hours for pipes

Eternal station

    From rocks of angst.

My clouds of green

    Sky the sand

Power pays visit --

    -- My vulture the rest.


With crooked fork

    Through metal bread

My chopping pulse

    Of fury rains.


Pact in peace when chance is done

I hold war's spill from jealous sun.


            Some thoughts must be thought very slowly. Some authors contain only one sentence of truth, but expand this into a book, and are for a while listened to. For who can handle a sentence of truth unless expanded to the size of a book? Such books are popular and abysmally boring.

            You say much more by omitting the obvious. Once you’ve known your truths, form them into beauty, attempt various styles.

            Eru is a style of life and writing that moves from frantically energetic to deliberately slow and powerful pressure. Imagine a woman slapping a man’s face, but right when she was about to touch it, she slowly presses into his face with a powerful and graceful touch. Or lightning flying through the air, and right before the earth, easing into her and opening her like a yoni. Eru is a style one develops by allowing his mad flashes of insight to take him to the problem, and once there, he ungloves his surgeon's fingers and gives apt delicate detailing.

            The moments of great explosive power give a manic godliness, a feeling of sherry, of intoxication. That glorious S when the yin and yang open like a smile the the tao bursts from its hidden water nature into the burning fire of logos: this is it, authors live for this moment. This is the way of all art: Odin means frenzy: we seek the moment when Tao becomes Lux, that light of language, when intuition becomes tuition, when the great God of our own slow soul speaks power into the world.

            Yet in our lives and our writing the sloth must keep his pace: you must think much and dream much and waste time. You must go slow. We are inconsistent, that is our power. Every time you meet us we are somebody else. The modulation of times, as nuanced as an Ivesian symphony, puts us above time and in many time frames at once. Months of drought, torrents of love: blitzkrieg after pause.

            War is the father of all things, peace the mother: we ever balance extreme against extreme, subtlety against subtlety. The war is ancient, the names are new. We fight for the same things mankind has fought for since the dawn of history. When war is comprehended, it will be spiritualized to a higher plane: but war is necessary. War will gloriously continue once the murder is removed. War is the play of ideas. Truth acts in justice. It is not so much that might makes right, but that right makes might: to be right, and to know you are right is to have might, to have the power to act with conviction.  The guilty villain trips himself. Unevenness of character keeps the world surprised, keeps friends and enemies respectful and attentive.

            The master's thoughts are deep and quick. The superficial think quickly, speak quickly, the sage thinks deeply, speaks deeply. To unite both is to speak the Lux of creation. The holiest word yet spoken? "Eureka!" I am as fast as lightening, and slow as thunder.

            The creation of ideas in the form of intellectual tools, style-setters, method of interpretation, term-sets, to dredge riverbeds for passion's channels – for thinking, saying, and doing -- is the boon of history, science, and art. The style of Eru, slow and fast, dynamic, gives the heart a sensitivity to change – a mastery of both boredom and surprise. All emotion is music – the master of passion is the master of time.

            Us madstars of the mind lead boring lives. Family is forever, friends merely passing: we prefer the adventures of thinking, the mad flights of fancy. I hold the serpent of the all coiled within my skull. I choose family and friends, a few and fruitful tribe to be my garden.


            Repetition is pattern, it creates regularity, builds expectations, sets a norm, establishes comfort and intimacy, yet builds the tension and anxiety of boredom, a tension released by a surprise of relief and alarm, the excitement of the unfamiliar. Passion is the music of the ages and music is life.


            Motions are by their nature dance, emotions by their nature music. Our changes of affect over time make the symphony of life, which latches to epitomized and carefully articulated external music as its symbol and intensifier -- the radio doubles the soul. Life is music, every moment flows into the rest. Not a second could be undone, for in resisting anything, we add to it resistance. Only resistance can be fought -- you can't attack the air -- you must provoke the enemy before you can attack, or as the police do with a peaceable but stubborn group of protesters, they send in an undercover cop to attack the police on behalf of the protesters to justify a retaliation. Violence must never be initiated, certainly, but it is easy enough to bait. One can make a red herring into a white whale, deliberately misunderstanding our opponent to such extremes that he exasperates himself. Our very rhythms and motions evoke their complementary antagonists.

            The comfort of the familiar if taken too far leads to boredom -- boredom is a sort of death. The joy of recognition is a part of music and the musical effects of language. The joy of recognition compounds against the excitement of suspense and the thrill of surprise. These are the instincts we have to work with; they are fully animal, but playing with them is not animal, it is human, it is of the musing mind, the mental transcendence over instinctual mechanisms, playing upon the predictable, like a wind over the water.

            The Elohim who "created" by fiat, without imagination, experiment, or creative pleasure -- which created like a king creates "Let there be..."-- are no model for us, nor is Allah who views mankind as slaves and claims his Quran always existed. So long have these Gods mocked us and invited mockery back -- lowering us, for humor is cruelty without conscience. But what if we don't play that game? What if we are after an inner emanation of our own music, our own style, our internal bent? I will never be popular for I have no desire to please. But I please myself and those like me. There is some internal resonance you and I have always shared.

            I am an exhibitionist in my egotism -- I ever reference myself. I enjoy admiration and yet don't seek to please; I enjoy telling stories of myself; I brag of my weaknesses in mocking disconcern over those who would ferret my flaws. My ego is a phallus -- the Cock of God. When my mind is excited, I feel orgiastic and frenzied -- I please myself, I please the world, I beget new life, I beget heavens with my art. There is passion in my rhythms.

            We talk of myths, we love such stories, we know their pragmatic heft. They are irreplaceable for the feelings and actions they inspire. One pragmatic use of "samsara," the reincarnation of souls, is to take the edge off this life. We'll have more chances, and if this life is especially painful, no worries, for we've had worse, and also better, and we will again.  The deep myths and their gods live through the heroes, and the heroes through us.

            My body is Ama's pen, my living is a writing. I began my life in laughter, alpha god I am, compressing by repetition these lifelong inevitabilities. The compression of the classical style--slow-controlled power over its subject--this is one of my turns, but so is romantic exuberance. If folly favors the foreign, I at least acknowledge it, but prefer what I know and am perfect at my daily-doing. I am the dispenser of divine gifts because I ever reach inwards to receive them.

            Zeus was nursed by the goat, Odin the cow; nature nurses the divine, but in my childhood I was visited and nursed on angel's milk -- God is mammal. Birth to death I keep the same, I the cheerful greybeard who parts life with a kiss of gratitude. Laughter-loving friend of sorrow, polar in my moods.

            The world insists being busy is being happy, and they accuse me of being baptized in Lake Superior, with my loaf and my laugh and my "I would prefer not to." Make your home in Ama, friends. Have no higher hope than your inner stream.

            My heart beats at its own rate. I hate working at another's pace. I prefer the night, when I control the time. Being rushed and stressed is a tonic to others; but to me it can only freeze. Language, the universal solvent, softens the knot of my angst, stretches those muscles and sets them glowing. Love is the law, and I am the source, and I am the filter -- the universe and her universities filter through my mind. Faith is faith in yourself, faithlessness is betraying yourself; hold to your love and you will also love the world. Oh, my pious fools, dancers to those pipes:


A slave of God, not men

But a still a slave for all that

Afraid of God, not men

But still afraid for all that.

A man must be something in himself

A separate greatness

Without reference to anything else

He his own reason for being

He needs no excuse or explanation

For being forever himself.


            Every situation is a system of logics -- the overall logical signature of each situation is its logos -- unique and yet with parallels that open it to be used as an explanatory analogy, parable, metaphor: and so I use it all. The situations are thick and self-contradictory, that is how they create. No biographer of a great man has ever found his subject “consistent and without paradox.” Any careful study of a life reveals paradox. Tensions in the soul are dynamos, engines of creativity. Imbalance inspires.

            My morning Orientation is the time of the day to see the parts of my life in terms of my purpose – and thereby set my pace. I must be ruthless and unsentimental about husbanding my resources, which are comparatively scant -- I'm in many ways less able than most people in work, so I must plan around it. Where will is lacking, wit must fill. We must fight to instate the American Dream, but that dream spiritualized is the knocking on the door of our Apotheosis, as Ive's Concord Sonata laid bare. Name and Structure are the inner of in -- Name our centermost, Structure our Soul. I end my day in writing and Mirror-Meditating into Talk with Ama. In this my anxieties and panics are cured, I am perfected and able to glow, full of creative jism.

            Long arms and short feet, I seldom leave my home, but create these words in the rhythm of Eru. Daydreams taste better than meals; the very thought of my readers excites me. And my life? Necessity absolves all -- each of my shortcomings was necessary, fits in, optimism is the highest truth because it alone can ordinate all things to their optimum. Not God, but Man makes this the best of all possible worlds. Your music sets the world dancing. Do what is in you to do. Think of the music of your moods and the dance of your actions.

            I love to be challenged but not discouraged. A challenge suggests something better is possible, discouragement recommends that you quit. I married no flatterer, and that on purpose -- she is difficult to impress but worthy of impressing. I create in the shade of a modest oasis, praise comes barely -- the most I can take. The timing must be right on criticism and accolades. Like comedy and music, all of life must come on time. Lacking that, it compensates.

            Musicality is the emotional aspect of language, the mythic is that which implies action and impulse. The use of flow to suggest movement and pauses to relax or frustrate, the use of cadence and word-texture, are all gestures calling to mind and body the affect of action. Thus we fall into the mindset of poetry. When I am poetry my mind finds assonance and consonance easy and flowing. Remember the beauty of wide empty spaces, like bare cupboards and bald desktops. My favorite books are blankbooks, for they incite me to write. My ambition fills the world. Greed is philanthropy: I seek to gain the highest power to give better gifts to the world. The great symphony makes such struggle into musical images. How then to be a God without struggle? I accept my expanses of slowness and the dull, my flash of quick in the flow of Eru. Poetry binds the gods because time binds eternity. The pace and the beat set the man on his path.


\ ~@M@~ /


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