Wednesday, January 16, 2013

"structuring the unknown"

What we are here to create in life has no precedent and is new to us. How then shall we know how to create it?



Structuring the Unknown


            Mattria created all the works of art in the garden of her flesh at the zero of history. Each of us emanated our own soul-poem to mingle with her words. And so we were then confronted self to self and through her work and our own created an eternal soul from those selves. And in that garden, the hidden garden of her heart, she sculpted, and sang, she danced and painted, she invented arts that appeal not just to man’s senses, but to all senses, and every invisible part of the universe is visible to her. In her dance of accumulation she evoked powers from her own depth and learned her limits and learned where she was limitless. Speech, will, love, congealed and became life, nor were the crueler aspects of her heart forgotten, but every emotion had its form and she was all and everall. Mattria’s art, the universe, beautiful on all levels, down to the infinitely small up to the ultimate symbolic shape. And we, situated by our needs, must see some parts are repellent, some as hideous and gross, others as sublime and surpassing all comparisons. We need to so see for our survival and the manner of our flourish is different than hers in some ways.

            There is an echo, nevertheless, between her zero-dance and our own lives, when our Necessity pronounces itself and we choose our Purpose. The ultimate material of our creating is the flesh of our lives: we create from our own experiences, from what we’ve felt, flesh to flesh, what we’ve lived. Though the media we choose, the careers, the social relationships, the literal and figurative art forms, vary, the ultimate expression is Self Expression, the revelation of something new and divine and wholly our own, impossible to exist or be known without us.

            When we come into our own, therefore, there is no model to constrict or guide us. No god or ultimate could tell us what to do, no great man could advise us. On this, nobody can speak, and only fools interrupt. Historically, the sacred and the militaristic are brothers, are mutually envious, are the two arms of the government, but in our own government the must be united in that audacity that insists only on itself.

            The question then, once each of us realizes we even have a purpose, have the freedom to define that purpose, have the emergence of choices, the challenge to properly become and be, is how we are going to do it. A million stories surrounds us, from television, novels, anecdotes, sermons, scriptures, legends, the lives of our parents. We are thick in the mythosphere of narrative. And what’s more, we have within us a fantasy space, partly known, partly unknown that sets up trials and temptations and ways and possibilities. In one life, we live thousands of lives, our lives are thick with possibilities, lived possibilities, fantastic and unrealized, but then, yes they are realized for the affect of every one of those lives influences the literal life we choose to execute. We live in no void. We hear the myth, we see the painting, and we are moved, and we cry or smile, we shiver. We don’t know that our inner must, the innermost layer of the soul that opens the door to the plethorabyss at our center, is finally learning hints at how to convert Necessity into Purpose.

            We are not after all alone. We thought our sufferings were private, but Mattria suffers in us and through us. Our secret fears and private humiliations happen not to some men, but to all men. A few lives, that business about the Analects, the Gospels, the life of the Buddha, the Dialogues of Socrates seem as if they speak of a different manner of being. But this is only by pious censorship. These men were the same as us, they suffered slights and trifles, they were at times petty or perturbed. They are with us, we are them. Our own lives would look so sacred and perfect if an editor so rendered our autobiography. That parable of the eternal recurrence is true, this life does repeat itself, in every absurd detail and up to the exultant triumphs, not in a literal repetition, but in the persistence of our soul as we spiral outwards into becoming greater beings. Every life is chrysalis to the next, and not some of or life, not just the best pieces, but all of our life is metamorphosed and transcends.

            If we are ever grateful to God that tragedy and suffering passed us by, yet acknowledge the world can utterly degrade and humiliate men and women, then you must regard them as justified ingrates, and yourself potentially the same. Whatever befalls another could just as well happen to you. But the suffering, even the most profound and extreme, never sinks to the centermost. Nothing can touch that sun of bliss.

            And so we are given over to ourselves, we set ourselves up. I am given to Daniel, self to self. I admit my follies and errors my ugliness, I have that pride of those Buddhists who brag about their faults and hide their strengths. For our abilities depend on our disabilities – it is only be not being able to do a thing that you can do another. The panics and phobias hidden in everyday activities – kitchen phobia, yard work phobia, public-speaking, to overcome would require a ridiculously softened and simplified training space. “I can’t do math” are you so sure? Perhaps you can’t learn it at the rate your professor teaches, but so what?

            So I am disabled, I have my limitations. I accept the shame, as I must, but I accept the glories of my abilities, which prepare me for the unprecedented purpose. One idea, embedded in two unspeakable secrets, can best be expressed in the words Man is god. My prose and poetry seek every missile to fill the storehouse as we storm every heaven, which are way-stations, each on the way to the impossible top. We must suffer along the way. If happiness were a choice, who would ever choose otherwise? But we choose life, we choose expression, we choose to become, to expand our being, to expand beyond what we thought possible.

            So I review the biographies and some glimmers of myself. I get at the glints and indulge my playpad. I think I could read ten books just to secure that one necessary idea, and having gained it, I forget all the rest. I gain the stubborn pith and the flourish. Beethoven translated all his personal crises into artistic challenges. Emerson used his endless journal to prop up lectures and essays of the highest value. Whitman decided on his own that he would become the nations poet, and after he died, his audacity came true. What we claim for ourselves is the image of what we will become. Charles Ives wrote music for two decades with no audience, no orchestra, no fans, but only the encouragement of his wife. He sometimes demanded of himself if his ears weren’t broken, nobody could hear his genius but himself. His problem was creating artistic forms that had no precedent, no fore-ordained shape. How to create a whole new genre, to think thoughts for which there are no words? That is our creative challenge. That is our Purpose.

            And so we double and redouble our purpose in our lives. What is the aim of this sprawling summa of a book, this ten volume Perfect Idius, other than to metamorphose my readers into images of their inner divine? What do I am other than to make Gods? And so the family function, the goal of my family, what we are here for, what we do not some days, but every day all the time, is create divine personalities and perfect minds. My Idius and my family hold the same aim, they are mirror images of each other. I aim to create a certain kind of person, to inspire him to so create himself.

            In this I had to teach myself the language of my goal, the grammar of my project. Do I not also doubt my own ears, do I not weigh against Whitman’s Audacity when I propose to instate the crown of all World Religions: Allism?

            The new matures from the manure of the old. All that went before, the difficult living, the difficult writing, is not surpassed by my later apotheosis, but lifted up, incorporated, justified, perfected. I dream impossible dreams, but the impossible is symbol for the possible. Dreams of flight are figurative. They speak of triumph and creation and love and freedom. They speak on everything. For the impossible promises the possible. The rough and rusted edge of the daily would be impossible without the smooth and ease of impossibilities vision. Having my eyes on that, the world is beautiful and I am patient. What is patience but impatience turned magnanimous?

            Just as Walt Whitman, as a hack writer, brought himself to apotheosis at age 35, never having written a worthy word, and now able to transform all his notes, paraphrases, and prose attempts into a new and genuine verse, so all our lives, the bad parts the stupid parts, are also brought to fine light, to the utter delight in the eternal recurrence. It is as if a unicorn pierced the heart of each thing and converted it to good. Our bodies are the golden playing tokens and our divine self stands immensely above them and plays them through the game. Our Godself already is and does, and we participate in that in our best moments. “A man realizes the venerable myth,” wrote Whitman, “he is a god walking on earth.” We would ladle the ocean, justifying each part of our lives, bettering each habit. The center is converted, or rather, opened, so the innermost shines, and all the rest falls into place. I am the poem – language is my flesh. And just as sickness marvels at what health forgot, so too does the highest health remember what we forgot all our lives, the infinite possibility of our becoming. So many of our hopes were flying high and then plucked from the sky as the duck to the bullet. But something in us never believed the cynical conclusions, that the height is forbidden, that we were meant to crawl. With earning and metamorphoses we resurrect in this life. Just as Emerson resurrected, as he himself said, after he left the ministry, and fell into psychosomatic illness for months, so does a bit of divine flesh invade and double our material body, so that it is in it and yet beyond it.

            We need a map  of the inner. But here a map is really a blueprint. We discover what we intend to find, and all the religions turn out to be equally true regarding that fantasy space that is our heaven now and in the next life. The Hermetica tells us that “Earthly Man is a mortal God and the Celestial God an immortal Man.” And yet there is the immortal in each of us. Man’s power outstretches heaven. Our ambitions are heard even in the ears of the All. We already walk the mythosphere, our being is thick, we lead many lives on many planes, and yet fancy these trifles don’t matter.

            In this as always, I say oh Ama, my heart is for you, and Lissidy, my readers, you are ever enthroned in the pantheon of my inner heart. A day of light is all we need, I knit my book of sunbeams. All men, the highest and the lowest, need at least that one image of perfect. What less could I aim for in all I create? Shall I rescind these cinders of hope? Now but I sing of love resplendent! Exuberance may be careless, but it is at least sincere.

Sometimes a simple truth eludes us – it could be bare as earth, but maybe it stands for a systematic blindspot. We need to slow down to an utterly stupid pace, for here we are truly stupid – what matters that, so long as the lesson is learned? In all my writings, which are endless, I would bring you to one simple idea that cannot be said but can felt and lived. Getting just an inch is enough for a seed I strive in my reading to get just a little dirt. And a mile of husk can be junked once the germination has set its root.

We produce ideas from the idea we are, personal creations. They are more lived than spoken, biographer bares them out. I am more than I can say. I am also more than I can do..Myths and ideas take root in the lower levels, and slowly grow to the surface. I feel my effects may never be seen for what they are. Success is lonely. But must it be so? I am ever greeting my lovers deep into the freedom of my being. Here we are all! I the eye of the wheel upon whom the circle circulates am keeper of the world hive and taker of its honey, ambrosial notes and letters to sate my hunger for beauty. In this place where air itself is music I am every in the arms of the ones I love.

            We structure the unknown by knowing ourselves, but emanating love and power, by negating all the world as if we were Maid Satan, Lady Shivat, the denier and the goddess of tropes. We break past precedent. For great works continue to write themselves, and our greatest achievements live forever in this life and the next.



\~ @M@ ~/


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