A sum of expressions I have felt and experienced for the divine.
Daniel Christopher June
What is the ultimate real, to you? What experience most real? What can you most realize? How different it is from person to person – what gives life to one, opens his eyes to every breathing pore of his beloved, is as shut to another as a stapled door. And so you, who are all, and to my ear the complete voice, must be likewise partial in your view. How do you take me in? What do you take me for? You feel it but you don’t quite tell. You chide me for dreaming, but everything I make of you is from your own living substance. You recognize your own in all I say. We share a substance and a body of experience.
Your words, your presence of mind, your attention on me are the life of my days. I take your slightest words, the whispering overtones behind your voice, in all their austerity, as your own true sense. Your words are fingers over my heart. The familiar is not enough: not all that is familiar is intimate, and you are intimacy to me, you are the one being reaching towards the center of my being. All the gods you don in world religions are mere maskings of that, but to come to the pulse of my being, you must be naked of all that.
What have I told my friends? That each object, each beauty offers a gift for you and only for you – only you could see it, recognize it, take it, if you first learn to open your eyes. That is “Seeing the Ama of the thing,” its divinity. I see in you, in us, the fourfold, four layers of experience – father, mother, son and daughter.
I call you fourfold, because I feel the fullness in your being, a full spiritual enclosure in your name. The mother is the encloser, the father the penetrator, the son the converter, and the daughter the symbolic. Fourfold goddess, because we are all fourfold, we are each like you.
It is our supreme blasphemy to know God face to face, to call her by her intimate name, and to do this, we need to spiritualize our material situation, to make an idea of it, a principle. The body is the first idea. The world is the second idea. We make the body the key, the world the door, we walk through our place in history to what is under all of history, our own deepest being, there with yours.
By seeing all history as an analogy for my biography, all fiction as the story of me, by seeing us in all things, I know you more. I resolve all tongues into my own, and with these beautiful creatures around me, I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs, a poetry of love. I know my own, and they smile for me. This code of love presents another aspect of you – I mature into us. We are wed, you and I, I have vowed it.
You might chide me for making pails of milk for my Idius, rather than churned butter, rather than epitomized ghee, but in a drawn out work we see subtle ideas revealed. I have in fact long-lasting patience, have written this book, dedicated to you, for all my adult life, and will spend the rest of my adult life filling it out. I just spent months reading the complete works of Kenneth Burke, 9 volumes, and am going to spend years reading the 16 volumes of Emerson’s journals, just as I will read continually Dickinson’s and Whitman’s poetry, cover to cover, and the complete works of Henry James, William James, Thoreau, and Melville. These are authors you gave to me, Emerson you gave to me, I learn the Oversoul of American thought, so that I may fulfill Emerson’s prophecy and become “a beautiful and terrible condensation of America.” I nourish myself on our nation’s best.
Only chumps work for money, dove, and this knit of intimate commitment, this word-knitting devotion comes entirely from my devotion to you.
I dreamt of you, long ago, you were as the Mother alongside the Father, Mother God and Father God, in nude dignity, telling me “We approve of all you do.” I felt utterly absolved in that, smiling with the bare fourfold name of Ama. The mouth seconds the eyes. I was always this winged thing in delight for the flower of your love, and as petals are the plates of bees, so I lapped up every written, spoken word to come from you. That is the flesh of our experience, and especially, like Captain Ahab puncturing through the plasterboard of existence in his one white whale, so you were an impossible asymptote when you looked me in the eyes with no sense of pity, no shame, nothing but sunbold love, and I in my simple sincerity met your gaze and held your eyes for quarter an hour.
How do I explain this pang when I see your face? I in my heart want your love, your loving attention. I want to bathe in your attention. If the substance of the heart is creativity, the basic substance of life, creativity, I ask we create together, and always, create more you, create more me, create us, create worlds – mutual suns in dual orbit. My work is for us both.
Fame dissipates. I write for you and only you, I write for those who feel the love of Ama, who feel the infancy of their own greatness and the promise of their own deity. This peach bite of purest bliss, your lips to mine, is me every time I am write. When I write, I am in Ama. I am impatient for your love. Exasperated adoration, I hold your name fast. What is religion but a skin over the muscles of the work we do? This Idius is a sprawling summa, scaffolding for the diamond epitome I will one day write and put upon your finger. Creative greatness exists for exactly this.
I gab with you every moment I can, am thinking on you and with you always, and write my to-do as a zebra star – half peach, half zephyr; half idea, half flesh. I make ideal realizations of my day, to mature, to grow more patient, more forbearing, longer building in this creative jism of love for you. I bold this house as an extension of the same thoughts – a house is a brain – I organize my study in the basement as the “womb of Ama” and create for your admiration, this perpetual bloom. You give my happiness wings. And so I give back with gifts to you, from heart to hand, the work of my days.
What I truly feel for you is perhaps unprintable, only because I haven’t invented the tropes capable of publishing my heart. Unprintable, yet in all my print. I am in love with life and especially now. I have ideas from you, more than you knew you gave. Ideas are the spirits that possess us. Not a demon or a holy spirit, so much as ideas possess men. Ideas are the playing pieces of the Gods in their eternal games, and we are most divine when we can take life as a game. With your laying on of hands, your kiss to my forehead, your kiss to my lips, I have felt the holy spirit of inspiration fill my lungs and make them Her home. All talk has poetry, but when your name kisses my mouth, then my lips are a fire, my tongue the Pentecostal phoenix, burning unto eternity. This word-weaving, this converting of experience into thread, this reflecting on you and with you, expresses the depressions and joys of my life. Art is homeopathic. All I do becomes a sort of medicine, and again a sort of map. When joy is upon me, I fall into a meld, the meld, a creative union of ideas. By sharing an intimate space, ideas and people seep into each other. Is it no wonder I am always in my heart with you? The soft-flowing ardors of your aspect Lissidy are with me as anything ever spoken.
How but in these planes, before this mirror, could I learn the words of command by which I fascinate your heart? Magic is that which commands the imagination. If I throw myself like an arrow to seek you, will you open your heart to receive? I must make my missive phallic, must make my desire direct.
I find my manic heights in your love informative, your gift of space and time conformative. We take from representative experiences our language, the tone of our language. Love means something by how we are loved, what love we’ve felt.
If you speak of the pains of youth, of your youth, the struggling to become the maturity you are and are yet to come, I ache with you. The depth of your love moved the full divine in those fifteen minutes upon your eyes – much more than a lifetime with Christianity, by which you reach many, but never reached me with the divine intimacy and omniscient pathos of knowing your other love. I had written hymns for God, but never felt the touch as with the inner you, Ama.
Through the four-faced goddess, I have felt it all, felt Ovath the penetrator harassed by howlers, whisperers, paranoia – but his strength is in his irresistible spear – all the world melts to his thrust. Lissidy too as the troubled daughter knows certain griefs, with scarred fingers, being a creator, her hands find wounds. Ovath once penetrated himself with his own spear, into his guts, with the resistless spear. The language he learned was spoken for the first time there, and the wound never fully healed, but gave him a pang of intuition. And Lissidy the child of longing, wishing for the full love of the Allfather -- her blood is pure mercury, the all-dissolver, the mirror mead – she too has a pang of resonance. You cannot kill ideas but you can transform them, not in their definition, but in their realization – she her was as maid Satan, as Lady Maya.
You complain at my flight for practicality, call for down-to-earth realism. Lover’s complaints are a tender torture. If life is a thread, then we spin through each other’s lives in a network of friendships and cooperation. The idea of a person in memories and expectations also draws a thread. Even were he gone, the idea of him has use.
In my family, removed in a sense from your name, your face, I feel the pride of being a spiritual center. I feel you in this sacred circle. Merely to set the tone, feeling the most is not enough, nor the mere bipolar ebb and wane, for that is material, like nature. To be the source of meaning, to explain all nature and chance, that is to be the spiritual center. This is my mundane duty, to give meaning to my family, to cultivate meaning with and through them.
Yet without your influx I am bereft. Alone, and a deep sonorous beauty at this sadness. Ama, I cannot persist! Mattria, I feel I will die! I am full of the slow heartful moan of life – breaking in the bent of this starless night, blanketed in clouds and loudly silent. I could die, die for the one I love. How could I even whisper? I feel my heart should break.
A thousand instances are forgotten in the one – “That’s the way he is,” they say. One shining example includes all the others, represents them. So a man is a type, is the type of a class of men, is the manifestation of the idea of the substance they all share. They are most that through him – he acts with them and stands for them and in that they are in him forgotten.
The maturity of my paternity says I Ovath, godslayer, seek you out in the pit of your work, through the living tissue of your tomes, wrest by day the breathing knight. I have you by insistent study – reading is my religion and I have in all its ardor the sword and shield of each last divine.
Oh my silly one! I am always. I hold you deep as the divine. Bereft would I be to forget your love. Can you not hear the soulful moan of my throbbing heart? In the throes of our love, in the calm of our mutual contemplation, when I comprehended you in my arms, and in the bare affectionate purity of your gaze I punctured existence, beyond the low lights of intimacy, I saw the pure white light of All-Sovf, all-embalming love of utter touch.
In mythic space, traversing an ordinary room, mere pacing is wending a path, sourcing the labyrinth, approaching a question. I must earn my nights, those times when I enter Ama’s womb to breath the Idius. Oh to enter the substance of writing, enter the mind of Eru! The same material things, a lamp, is the sun at first, and as we progress, a lovers’ touch, and as we progress, the cave’s guide, it becomes different things the further we go.
Life is best worth living on your own terms. That is why I address you as I do, and love you as I must. I will never let envy murder our love. I seek only a unification in tone between you and me. I pace this room with your visage in mind. A mere room can be a bridge, a mazy journey, an exploration of the levels of significance in these objects. The walls melt, and I am at the bottom of the sea, in a pearl lit bed, upon the oyster’s tongue, with you, and your words are as soft as milk, and your hands are as gentle as night. We come this way to accept the pain of life, by seeing the pain as part of a beautiful whole. Our time together, our future times together, represent the whole, epitomized.
All the world falls for you, heaven swoons, resistless, none escape your grace, all have you near the center of their souls. Headturner, their hearts leap from their chest when you pass by. The flowers tend to you and forsake the sun. Join with me then this unifying attitude. Take me in homeopathic doses before you take me whole – I come to you in bursts.
If I give you a gift, would you see it for what it is? Would you want it to be something else? I prepare a gift worthy of you. Whether I am Amandur and Rozhiar, Dani and Psyche, Amara and Lissidy, I always come back to this fact – and you are sure to remind me! Love is touch.
I charge my veins for contact. Expression is preparation. For actions – so many failed expressions are necessary for right action. All language is poetry and music – tone and affect. What alchemy, this divine conversation with friends, with Ama. The converter of mood is the converser of words. To seed a few words and let them return in bloom as writing continues – there is a secret garden that nurtures the seeds fallen from your lips. The divine of the universe, the full-blooded Mattria resounds through my body and says “regret her not: give your love to her.” You are my innermost touch. I circle you and always return. I am your always.
In all these daily bruises, the indignity of slights and bites of daily life, I become in my body and soul the allcure, the holly leave, the panacea: I convert all I consume to purify my body. I am medicine. Utter raccoon, I digest all experience in the night of my love. This Idius I dedicate to you: I would make diamond truth, pure ghee, epitome of my being. You will see it in my eyes. The eyes tell. You will see it in my life. I live for you. You will see it in my death. Death eternalizes. You remind me of time, but I would sooner forget. Nature insists. You have an insistent nature. In this nerve cage tend to madness. And so? Madness sees a truth. When I write I am in Ama. When I create I am in you already. I’m in you now.
Family is congested energy. So much energy do I pour into Natalie, so much life into Emilie and Theron. Adult excess compensates for childhood privations. I adore them, love them each day. Yet I do get congested. One decongests a mood and its objects through music – through punctuating an otherwise indigestible experience. Writing is the substance of life. Writing is flow – to get words flowing offers the joy of art. Even cramps build to aesthetic release. The aesthetic is in the fulfillment of excitement.
Ama bleed you love upon me
Fiery sun of inner heart
Breath me peaceful consolations
To praise the ways I seek you out.
You make my heart sing. There is nothing like you. It is deep as the child of my heart. The springtime nostalgia I would get as a kid, I couldn’t explain it, the spring air over the melting snow made me sad and aching for a lost memory. I was only in the third grade. What was I remembering? You remind me of that tender ache. I felt your presence then.
Greatness drinks from immortal fountains. Your lips are such to me. A vow of austerity, poverty, silence, lends power. What is your vow to me? I walk through the minds of Emerson, Henry James, Emily Dickinson, long draughts of their work, and never have enough. Give me daily your words, for I am even more yours than theirs. If we are to surrender to art, and then recover and criticize, and then swoon in surrender again, as the rhythm of appreciation, I am the same with you, sometimes severe and demanding, sometimes accusing, but always in love.
You make me childlike, you make me silly. I will pepper you with kisses till you are sneezing in delight. I will kiss you till your mouth forgets its purpose. I will unteach you to speak. I need this from you utterly. I need this from you now.
Solitude seems sour, but when the heart is ripe the lover appears from nowhere and plucks. If I am poet-souled, and trope-mad at that, forgive me. You are the love of my life. There is no other who could compare. You are in all the others. I adore you always. Vivoce!
\ ~@M@~ /