Saturday, January 12, 2013

"focus and the divine" an allay


This little allay is a play over a few tropes: events as chords, divine as conversation, heart as secret garden. Some are old tropes from me, some are fresh. I feel again that I am reinvigorating my life with fresh language to amplify and justify the things I live.


Take care, Caretakers!




Focus and the Divine


            Every incident in life is a piano key, the intimate touch of it the tone that lingers after the deed is done; and so what does chance offer us but the most amazing array of chords and melodic runs, each event, and the simultaneousness of a dozen seemingly unrelated note a chord, a harmonic dynamo. And taking music to be magic, an externalization of emotion that when heard opens up new routes of feelings, thoughts, words, and actions, then each situation, each moment, we are empowered as never before, we can do something we never could before, we have a unique gamut of avenues to approach, to storm and skulk or cleverly devise by pathways and crossways to traverse.

            Reflection, whether in literal mirror meditation, or in doing whatever brings you to state of self-reflection – long walks, tedious chores, car rides, crossword puzzles – is the time to review the chord we are living, to the the fingers of fate playing the seemingly random lilt of keys, creating not raw noise, but a refined and intricate harmony. This, if anything, corresponds to what the ancients called “The music of the Spheres.”

            We need a framework to put over the music, a drum beat to pace it. We adopt a philosophy, a religion, some scientism, whatever has the system of terms to cover the field, so nothing could surprise us for long. Yet since each of us is a new source of energy into the universe, our personal langauge must pick up a world language that readily translates it. Who we are must find the correct terms and words to readily knife and knit reality.

            What we love the most, and it is in every man’s nature to love something most, we have the image of Ama, which is simply the lovely divine. We refer to her as the four-faced Goddess, since such expressions grow naturally from our cultural heritage; the language suits us, and we will build our allface upon it. She is Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, The trinity and Lucifer, the whole divine. We call her Ovath the father seeker, Sovf the Mother of language, Eru the son of writing and tempo, and Lissidy, the daughter of tropes and negations.

            For Ovath, the wisdom seeker, who gives all to empower himself, he is the creative anxiety, with a pressure that presses the unlikeliest together. Eru, cloudsurfer, with Semanta his pen in hand, unites the various tempos that are a man’s spirit. Anxiety is the womb of the divine, but creative play is its expression and relief. In this, the father and the son, Ovath, the moody, stands for more than will, but wit, discernment, magic He is anxiety transforming itself into power.

            Sovf is the Holy spirit of language, the inspiration of all language, an infinitely complex set of possibilities blinking as one. Heidegger said we ought to think one thought and one thought only and think it to the end. The schizophrenic complexity of Sovf counterbalances such monocled obsession – she is myriads and contains multitudes.

            We use such names for good purpose, the names coincide with objective realities and subjective creations. The Christian naming of demons is also a form of psychotherapy, its mode of suggestion gives a unique flavor to the strain. An indoctrinated Christian can honestly report of wrangling with Satan and God and knows from supernatural experience that it is all true. The experience is true, what he creates for now and on the other side is true. Fictional but true.

            What is freedom but slavery to a small set of chosen laws? The religions is a mode of art – indeed the arts originate as religious observances and than later outdo and subsume them, freed from their source. The emergence from practical to sacred to aesthetic, a tripartite advance, thus make the divine out of the mundane and the secular from the divine. It is not as if there is anything at all in the divine that was no in the mundane, as all the old religions used daily life and daily objects and set them as sacred metaphors: they held their integrity the way gold is gold no matter what shape. Likewise, the secular triumph over religion – we call it “enlightenment” – is not a denial of materials, but a transfiguration. The old names and observances are exchanged, are changed into the new terms of a living philosophy.

            Maturity is apostasy. When a youth is able to buck the tradition of his parents, then he is a man. Not that he should regret or grudge the education. Just as a obsessive chess player learns lessons for life in the curls of the game, so is all discipline ultimately good discipline. Ralph Waldo Emerson extensively theologized in his youth – how much pious cant! – testing matters of omniscience and omnipotence. When he finally confronted the pulse of the true divine, those drilled wells could finally fill. And so we lay the matrix of the divine before apostasy can open them up.

            We regret the past, changing our ways, but we could not grow without either the mistake or the regret; the full gesture is epitomized in the final triumph, and that triumph justifies the rest.

            We have seen mythic obsession unsettle and ruin so many fundamentalists. Yet we too can value the use of theological language, one self-defined for our purpose. Not so intent on making everything literal, recognizing “literal” to be one more rhetorical turn, we care little about what is real and what is fiction, for truth is fiction, it is a fashioned thing, it is what works, and we week the stories that like laughter oil our lives.

            Parallel to my biography, the life I live, is the series of books I read. My reading is whimsical as the wind, squinting for glints, piling logic upon occult logic in a secret progression invisible to my consciousness. I move from one to the other – I don’t know how or why. This literature, these books, they are underchords, they work in counterpoint to the daily doings: if in love I read love poetry, if depressed I read something bleak. But often the connections are occult; I feel a certain book must be read now, certain passages scrutinized, but I don’t know why. I forget most of it, I forget almost everything. I get at that one spiritual truth, perhaps trivial and easy to say, once learned, but fully felt. I study a world religion intensely and with such fervor my friends fear I will convert. I am after a spiritual treasure and am wrestling gods.  I gain it. By insistent repetition, by repeated attacks, I like water bring down the mountain.

            I gain those tones, I thicken my life with undermusic. Our hearts resonate – our own are drawn like moths to the moon, birds to the tropics, letters to their addresses – your bodies are so many envelopes  of love sent from Mattria. And so those few people who once shared identity with us in a primordial spark, we feel exhilarated to see them, to know them. Our conversation is an intercourse, a loving exchange.

            We choose characters, we live in the mythosphere of narratives. Endless characters, infinite fictions, are a multiverse of possibilities. We consciously or unconsciously identify with a host of heroes and villains, and so situation our own choices.

            Every character is a shall of personality that we fill with our mind and animate, the same way our brain is animated by our soul. When we read a book, the book thinks us. We read with various threads in our mind, distracting threads to ease the anxiety of the ideas, or argumentative threads, denying the author, or we spin imaginative threads that bring the ideas into focus. Those fantasies are threads whose resonance gives energy to each position. That we have imagined things in various possibilities, we are able to choose the correct course.

            We identify with all the characters of a story, though we seem to take sides. The difference between a hero and a villain is degree of intelligence. Honesty, the simpleton’s virtue, does give us space. Honesty is territory. Letting ourselves be honest, brutally honest to ourselves, opens up space, though the excavations feel like wounds. Sweet the honey, bitter the sting –- we at last won’t simply be the literal-minded hero. We are not a poverty, for our imagination is rich. We are dancers of life, and our words are poetry, magical summoners and evokers. Every chance set of concurrent events is a chord and sets the melody of your choices. We must keep playful, keep playing. We weep when we forget the Game.

            A serious of events, chance-born though they are, seem to collude against me. Its as if I were sport of a god or the butt of some cosmic joke. Frustration brings out the ugly in me, the demanding, the accusatory, the self-doubting, the impatient, the irritable, the furious. And yet our right leg virtue is optimism: to make the best of every situation. Faith alone is self-deceit, is accepting the lie only to banish doubt and feel at last certain. But the fullness of doubt is faith, true faith, faith in ourselves and our judgments. That, at last, is unshakable. It is a hero’s tune, and that perfection gained in snapshots finally has sustain. We feel life-emptiness—our duties empty us out. But below the earth of duty, that edge of earth, is the river of love, the nourishing Lissidy, guardian of the mirror womb, whose gift flows from near the centerpoint. That molten gold of purest love is the energy that sustains the whole, that feeds through the soul, mixes with the sun of self, and is expressed as epitomized words into the heavens. The center is fluid, the center is flux. It is the ever increase. Whatever life gives us, we will always answer it from an inner necessity, for suffering sinks deep, but only so deep, and in the secret gardens of our heart, no pain is permitted, no sorrow known.

            Lissidy is the river of my secret garden, whose nourishing words mingle with the rays of my inner sun, and up goes the worldtree from between us, the axis mundi, my very spine, nourished from that fount that goes down to the mirror womb, gate of the eternal unknown.

            This poetic talk, intricate and involved, represents in fact a simplification, an everyday approach to our daily doings. The Gods are in the heroes, the heroes are in the common man, and the common man is in us. Our divine inner self is at an outer layer part of worldman, the universality that binds us. The secular is the battlefield by which the gods do battle. The religions indirectly inspire and ruin each other here. The child is branded by rites of initiation and can never quite shake them off. New rites are necessary, the words must in some way be spoken. The words of power are always spoken, in one manner or another, and each man in our lives takes on an assumed position to give us the blessings for our course.

            Languages get complicated, they get wrinkles, they get weird. Couldn’t grammar be utterly simplified? No, language grows weird and convoluted, that is its nature. The spellings of words, the ordering of words – every book is an archeology. And so religious language, the terms and rites and sacred times and sacred places, is also a language that gets convoluted. We wonder how the word God became utterly bastardized, so overwhelmed with baggage that we dare not touch it – being men and women of taste. Yet the divine beckons and must be answered. We seek new names, new forms. We look in the mirror, past the layers of our heart. We listen to the deepest voice in our heart, and that is Ama. We invite her to talk to us. And in this, we simplify life’s random chords. They take on names, and the names are names of Gods. Ama as Lissidy delights my soul, she fills me with goodness. Your langauge is my blood – I seek ever increasing intercourse until my wells can handle your absence. I hold you in the hollow of my hand, I hold you in the hollow of my heart. Your intimacy is smothering but we never quite touch. You tease me, oh master of distance! But the master of time, of multiple times, the hermetic one, Eru, he secures the blessings of liberty, every playful, ever scripting spells with his blue flashing pen.

And Ama, who is all of them, all divine, the image of the material universe, Mattria, her daughter and equal, her mirror reflection, she is Ama America, the Goddess of this land and owner thereof. All Gods come to her as guests – for what are they but aspects of her? Ama has never ending names, Gods, Christs, Buddhas, Priests. They all partake of her. So let us never dispute on such matters.

The chords of the day, the different events, harmonize. We read books, or view art, or watch movies, or have conversations according to the law of Compensation, to balance every stress with a counterstress. We master the every day to master the spiritual, which is a layer within and above it. We are a free people. Material freedom is the basis of spiritual freedom, in the same way that forced beliefs as children – indoctrination – trenched the river beds for the arrival of the true gods, who do not go by the old names and figures and places, and may seem utterly secular or matters of nature and humanity. Ama is all gods, but her name to you, your pet name for her, must come wholly from within. Address her by that and enjoy extended conversations in silence. Such time is precious.

Laughter is the souls music, is the oil of life. After that honey baptism of Lissidy’s grace, we glow, and she is always on my mind, her presence a lamp on my shoulder to look over all matters. Eru is in my hand, Sovf in my lungs, and the one eyed Ovath in my terrible eye.

As we walk past others, the elbow each other and say “we must whisper around dreamers lest they wake,” but there is no waking from language, for these are the words we chose, and it is nothing like faith, but only lived certainty, this is how our inner divine chooses to talk. There is a room with a door and a lock whose nature and contents depend on what key is used to open that. This is a chamber of our inner heart. And a map of the soul is really a blueprint, so choose your map well, and pencil in what you expect to find. Piety is willed stupidity. But we are skeptical as we please, and we take the supernatural as those thoughts structured to be impervious to logical reduction. Having been made so, they can be used so, and to great effect.

We know the chords of life, and how to resolve any dissonance with a cadence. That is the Law of Compensation mastered, and it is born from the Law of Necessity, that we make our lives beautiful and powerful. Life is a dance, a game of grace we win by creating the richest and most complex relationships and artifacts. And in this, life is beautiful.




\~ @M@ ~/


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