self-comforting

                My depression is the ebb and wane of waves of pain and pleasure, the being with feeling on of a heart and mind spilling ideas like endless ejaculatory seed, but my quell withdraws, I come to mistrust the limits of the day, to wonder when my inner light will open again. Ama, I call to you in all this – you are the language of my live. Oh lover and fellow world wanderer – I hate in my heart whoever else would be your other. You are Ama to me. I need your literature, your words of love, they are pure Lissidy, they feed my inner soul. Amazhiar, why do you mock at my loves. Even in my depression, I keep to Beethoven’s motto, nulla dies sine linea, but ever write, am forever ejaculating my writing of solitary bliss into the night.

                I wake up grey, my mouth chalk dry. My life-thread strings tawny, but even in this, in the core of it is a pleasure of being which never cracks; and our optimism kicks our path before us, unrolling like a carpet.

                So I yawn. Why do good things never want to stay? Why do those I love hide away? Cloudy eyed with flame dying, a touch of morbid realism worrying my brow, I am at least invigorated by the violence of opposition, and I remember to let cultural diversity always be warfare. With our words we kick forward our paths. I keep it up, I seek Ama in a circle of faces, my friends are her for me. Let not passion settle into duty, duty into a burden, burden into dread. Enmity by enmity is overcome; strife enlivens; eros is a wrestle as well as a loving; war is the father of all things, peace the mother; necessity is the mother of invention, genius the father, and my symbolic infidelity, fitting my perfidious preference for direct experience, sets you aside, sets you all aside at times, as I run into thrilling contact with a touch of the all.

                This mind, inhabited with habits, this habitat I never leave, becomes haunted utterly with the ideals of my hope, the striving light of Allism I seek in all things; this keeps me solid, though my temperament ups and downs, leaving me saying with a young Emerson, “sometimes my mind is full of thoughts and ideas, but often empty and grey; my youthful hopes to be somebody have been replaced with the realization that I am mediocre” – such he feels and so in my depression I feel it too; self-doubt is the only hell.

                Language is a living presence, she is the light of trope, Lux, the Holy Spirit that inspires all literature, and that peculiar literature called scripture; all beauty, and that peculiar beauty called spirituality. Poetry and prophecy will forever quell my my heart, and loneliness arises proud and laughing as solitude, which means being alone with you Ama.

                Lulls and depressive spells distill time and purify my eyes; sorrows and heart breaks are built in, structurally, to the growth and molting of an infinite soul, which as the ever increasing spiral is both time and eternity, both progress and cycle, is the each in all and all in each of an individual who is equal to the all divine yet situated utterly within her. Nothing can be forgiven because what is deepest to the soul is never wrong, always light, a new sun, a new light; indeed, is is not the self, but the mind, that strives for apotheosis, and becomes an angel who bends, or a god who insists on himself, depending how in life we decide to make ourselves. Depressions and pleasures cannot dismiss this joy of life; the central sun is pure joy, and the only pain in all of life is eclipsing our mind from that innermost bliss.

                Existence is happy, but graduations of greatness come as raw shocks of pain and trial. We endure because we can’t not. We know who we are at our heart, core, and centermost. Knowing that and knowing it utterly, not settled network of facts and mortal truths can daunt us. Choice endures. In all we make we make our heaven. Even the moments of throated dust are ascendant and serve to compel us onwards and upwards. There is no hope for he who haves. Hope or have: I choose what I am. In this, a thrill of pleasure clothes my naked body, no matter how despondent I previously was. This is the irrefutable and final seed of my existence, and every journey of identity in a mind that grows and suffers is to remind me of what I ultimately am. My depressions never ultimately can unsettle me.

 

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

On the Use of Fear -- a short essay

On the Use of Fear

 

            Defensiveness is viewed as an obstacle in psychoanalysis. One psychoanalytical figure, Wilhelm Reich, preferred the straight-forwardness of schizophrenics to the secret heart of “homo normalis” or everyday men, who he scoffed at with deep scorn for keeping such a tight hold over their hearts. Yet secrets are healthy and defensiveness is necessary and good. Openness is the road to pain. We reserve intimacy for the worthy, and reject, ultimately, the idealistic talk of such figure as William James, when he says that a person ideally should be in love with everybody. He finds faults with the “exclusions and jealousies” of lovers as if they were obstacles instead of auxiliaries; and he claims the love of a saint in someway could match that between two sincere lovers – which has not been the case even with such extraordinary lovers as Whitman, who loved whole cities and populations. The truest love is one to one, and ever must be. Defensiveness and fear is a necessary and beautiful part of the system. Fear is power: in its right place it is sublime and wonderful.

            Allism affirms and embraces all religions, is them all, can exclude none, yet experienced from any point in the system, Allism is the blasphemy of each in the name of all: every religion is only a part, and the true religion, the ultimate divine, is the innermost self. The highest affirmation is blasphemy of all: it is the peculiar logic of Allism to affirm and praise all, and yet to prefer and love most intimately what is our own, what is our self, for that is God to us, that is true Ama, the highest love, and the rest, what others love, their expression, we must accept as their expression, their approach, but not lose sight of our own vision in the name of tolerance. Sooner be intolerant than forfeit an iota of your vision. Sooner be utterly fundamentalist and philistine than give up the true good you really have. All loyalty is due to that, and ultimately, justice is a virtue among aggregates, but the eternal increase of the centermost is the only true good for a man, and the rest, the balance of all against it, the compensation of the system, the justice of all other things, is only to open and allow this.

            The person truly open to others will be most vulnerable to him. The smug and tolerant intellectual is not truly sympathetic to others, he has closed his heart, and because he has a politically correct answer for everything, he doesn’t feel the touch of the world, the true pleasure and pain of contact, the suffering and bliss of partiality, of caring for, caring against. Tolerance is a second-hand virtue. A deep-set intolerance is the better virtue, and must balance the external tolerance; for the beauty that ravishes us we must love unconditionally, and having no conditions to hold us back from it, we must deny all conditions, intolerantly renounce whatever keeps us from beauty. Unconditional love puts conditions on all other loves. There can be no promiscuous love of everything except at an abstract level, or at a deific level, calling the all herself “love,” or “Ama” and addressing her under this aspect. Living the baby rabbit and the eagle that feasts on it equally in the same moment, and yet feeling it in an Eastern love detached from suffering with the death is not the love of intimacy; love takes sides, love is unjust. Love ultimately is twinned with fear, love seeking the beauty, fear seeking to thwart what would destroy beauty. And since beauty is by nature a balanced thing, it is vulnerable to fall into imbalance, it has enemies, it has dangers. Beauty is death, beauty has that possibility. A world without dangers would lack all beauty. And therefore, the opposing emotions of love and fear are mutually related; love is to beauty what fear is to power; both mature into necessary and good things.

            To fall into the net and nettles of a world of edges, to arise from it, to bleed from the breast and yet love, this is life, this vulnerability. Feeling profoundly wounded, vulnerable, and defensive at ideas, people, expressions, and events that others mock at and ignore is no weakness but the inlet of a variety of power, a dangerous variety that ultimately feeds the energy of a great artist ambition to expression ones potential into an eternal beauty.

            There is nothing intrinsically wrong-headed of donning the aspect of the saint and “loving the world,” only one must not imagine that there is more love with more scope, but instead imagine love to be a light that can be focused on a few intently, or on a wide world dimly. There is limited amount of focus the mind can achieve in time and duration; we can only think of so much in a day; likewise, we can only love so much, can only work so much at building a relationship with those we love. If we are married to a political movement, to a religion, or to a traditional family, the stuff of love is basically the same, and none is immediately more exalted, but any of them can became as great at the others, depending on how the man or woman develops a style and intensity. In this, the objects of our love are almost indifferent, so long as they are sincere and genuinely heartfelt. Whether a man is a husband or an artist or a revolutionary is irrelevant as to his intrinsic worth as a human. His ultimate value is in his relationship to his own potential. That is why enemies can respect and honor each other, though they fight for opposite values, seemingly. Both a man and his enemy can be great men, the best of mankind. The old Zoroastrian notions of good versus evil work best in comic books and religious fantasies, but real life strife and wrestling better resembles the agon of the Greeks and their gods who are all good or bad, petty or exalted, but ultimately striving like the men below to in their nobility create a sustained beauty.

            And thus a man cannot be valued in terms of how many friends he has, or how much money he makes, or whether he is healthy or diseased, or anything extrinsic like that, since those are circumstances, and not necessarily even obstacles, for every obstacle can be turned into an asset, every hell into a heaven once one has comprehended his real power and assessed what he can really do. What we thought was a curse or a shame was our greatest benefactor – and pity is a shallow emotion to feel for anybody, even for yourself. Man is made for greatness, is a god embryonic, merely awaits the terms of his apotheosis, which never introduce themselves in exulted in world-altering terms, but the most modest and intimate, so that something as small as mending an abused cat can be enough to set his heart in the ascendency of becoming who and what he ultimately can be, that cosmic expression which bleeds from the inner of the heart, that new light, that new sun that has never been guess, that awaits, potentially, in the breast of every man and woman. That new name, that new power is our self, and ultimately in life it can express itself for itself, for the greater beauty of the universe, of we can bend to something external, bow to something out there, in the world, become part of something else. Either way is fine, and a final way to be. Coming to terms with that decision is the entire crisis of life and death, but choosing a purpose worthy of expressing our inner being, our utter name, or self, is the entire purpose of the game of life.

            Love is pleasure is happiness is the union with beauty; fear is power is distance is master of space and control of what surrounds us. These two are clearly co-related and cannot be divorced even by such Zoroastrian machinations as heaven and hell. Wherever we find ourselves, the dyad remains. Success is electing the values that express an ascendency over all circumstances, using everything, incorporating everything, denying nothing, and yet retaining a deep intolerance, by proxy, for what does not suit us personally at this time. Intolerance, hate, fear, defensiveness are all moves of the heart, small moves, useful, and the heart is round. The heart is round and feels all emotions. Using each one as moves in the game, as expression of a love of life, of a realization of the fact that life is beautiful, is how a man absolves him to himself, how he achieves apotheosis, which is of the soul in this life, and of the body in the next.

 

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

"Culture" by Emerson -- audiobook

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WeP99lvch6M&feature=youtube_gdata

I am recording "Conduct of Life" for volunteer for free download on librivox.com. This lecture series by Ralph Waldo Emerson is one of my favorites; Emerson is a little older, and his initial optimism has matured with experience.

 

Take care, Caretakers!

 

DANI

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

"Lux" and a request for my friends

Hello –

 

Its been years I’ve been writing, and I’ve come up with a lot of stuff, from all manners of essays, “allays,” poems, novels, novellas, short stories, and so on. Despite having a decade of material I have never made a serious attempt to publish my work (accept for the articles on infidels and the word I do for jdjournal.com, and a few self-published projects). Please let me know if you think anything I have written in particular stands out. I am trying to assess my work for an audience as I take the next step and contact agents and publishers.

 

Meanwhile, here is a copy of my story, Lux. Narrated by SIStem, the A.I. internet system that governs a utopia of peace over the earth, she observes with cool fascination the arise of a man named Solman who can seem to do magic with his language that slowly starts to turn her system into turmoil. Only his own wife is impervious to his magic language, and system uses her to control and perhaps destroy him.

 

http://perfectidius.com/LUX.pdf

 

Daniel

 

 

\~ @M@ ~/

perfectidius.com

 

"I pour out my soul for you Ama"

 

I Pour Out My Soul for You Ama

 

Every night you wring my heart like a washcloth,

Press like an orange my spent and emptied rind

You edit endlessly my soft-as-a blush heart

With your merciless scalpel you cut distractions

Would prune every branch but that one

Bearing the fruit that is the love of you and me.

 

Are you not in fact everything

All in all -- in everything?

Why demand, with razor distinctions,

Where my duty truly lies?

Why despise so utterly the loves of my life

You who are in them -- you who are them?

 

Your wrath is refulgent

Your blush resplendent

Your influence in all my doings

Utterly incandescent.

 

I live my life a manifestation of our love

I write as metamorphosis every passion for you

 

Let eternity be patient with time!

My corpse will medicate this world

But please leave my days animate

 

Ama great maker Tiamat

Great Mother -- your aspect terrible

Yet gentle and precious as the milk-toothed child.

Omniscience wearing pig-tails

You are anciently young,

Born tomorrow.

I am the child in your womb

Twin in your bed

Father above you

Husband beside

You are everything in everything to me

And if you don't snatch me too soon

I will be everything to you as well

Austere heaven, pleasurable hell,

Mythosphere, logosphere, dimensions of being

I will be everything for you.

 

http://perfectidius.com/?p=134

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

"Pride as power and faith" an essay

Daniel Christopher June to the students of life --

This is the latest section of a protracted essay on pride. I have a future book entitled Allheart which has an extended essay on each emotion -- love, fear, courage, pride. This one on pride continue to unfolds; in this section I consider that pride means "power" etymologically, and then take a look at theological pride, with Joseph Smith as a foil for the sort of self-reverence Allism expects of itself. That pride is a virtue -- the crown of the virtues -- remains the theme of the entire essay. This section expands the experience into the mystical and religious sense, while keeping it grounded in every day ability.

Take care, Caretakers!

DANI

http://perfectidius.com/?p=131

 

 

\~ @M@ ~/

perfectidius.com