Monday, December 7, 2015

"the parameters of a decision" an essay

 

I was suddenly inspired to write an essay after a conversation with my brother. It is a culmination of the struggles I've had lately, their apotheosis into essay form.

 

 

The Parameters of a Decision

 

We fancy a decision is made in a moment, as if some spark in a neuron fired this way instead of that -- a minimum of freedom in which synapse it traversed. What we do not see is that we decide not in moments, minutes, or days, but we decide with our life, with all our life. We can only decide at the moment what our whole life has prepared us to decide, and though we feel the intensity of the choice, the power of the will, what we do not know is that our agency is limited to what we've chosen before, what the world chose. Our crises are logical, inevitable; this is the moral law, this is karma. Our every word and choice sets us and situates us. When we cry out in tragedy -- "Why did this happen?" -- we would do better to ask, "How could this but happen?" Divine necessity.

 

Likewise, love at first sight took a lifetime to prepare -- two lifetimes in fact. And we fathom and guess a whole lifetime of friendship in that first glance.

 

Events can't but happen, want to happen, and I mean even the worst of them -- murder, theft, rape, genocide. When we can see the divine necessity in these things, the inevitability, we can plumb their logic and untie them. Freedom is necessary.

 

We spend months unconsciously preparing ourselves for a decision and then some chance thing reveals to us what was there all along. The simple minded people say, "if only I didn't stub my toe at that moment, if only I didn't cheat that one time, if I didn't make that one mistake," lacking a respect for necessity. The accidental mistake is the least part -- if not this thing, than the other. How we beat ourselves over the inevitable chance accident, not seeing the larger picture, that the entire weight of the universe bears down on us.

 

We make decisions through counsel, through friends, through watching others try and fail. We don't really know what is possible for us. This man succeeded, but would we succeed if we tried the same? On this project, everyone has failed and miserably, but then one man does it. We don't know what is possible until we do it. What is impossible once is possible twice.

 

The innermost spark of the Self, our utter being, that necessity we are in utter individuality, contains an inevitable logic that extends to the farthest reaches of the universe. Knowing this is a mere curiosity. Feeling this is mysticism. Seeing this is wisdom. All the external forms, all the religions and gods and prayers, all marriages, romances, adorations -- all these external relationships -- collapse and utterly when we embrace Ama in our arms.

 

Having tried so hard to lose ourselves in others -- to live for your family, to live for your spouse, to be the model employee, the perfect parent, all these external contrivances are a crutch and will inevitable fail you each and every time. Certainly we can succeed at those things, and that has some value, but as far as our purpose goes, to expand the power of the self to the reaches of the universe, to be what you are, to be yourself, to realize your potential, you cannot do it if you bow to man or God. If you live for another, you do not really live for her. She will ultimately betray you. That is because she is not what you think, she is an excuse, an escape. However, what is yours to face, your dread necessity, is as inevitable as death. Nobody can save you from it, and likewise nobody can take it away from you. Nothing you could do, no sin, no crime, no atrocity, can steal the gift from your hand. It is yours forever.

 

Nevertheless, we come to our inner sanctum through external adventure. We fight the monster, win the girl, beget children, get a promotion, all those things. This is the curiosity of the language, when we say, perhaps, the wife is Ama, the family, Ama, for with Ama there is no idolatry. She is already in everything. Wherever you look, there she is. Whatever you worship, whatever you believe it, it is her already. So how is it that she betrays you?

 

What you take for betrayal, loss, failure, death, would better be termed, "Returning what was only yours to borrow in the first place." Whatever can be taken from you is temporary, besides. Nobody can take your soul, and deeper than the soul is the self, sacrosanct, which none can touch, no god breach, no angel behold. That inner sanctity of necessity is forever its own, and only the mind, that part that escapes into the body, into the world, can hope to return to the ground of existence: your mind only: the bliss of nonexistence. For we weave into and out of existence in this manner.

 

The emergence of self into world comes with a decision of the I. However, what we call deciding is perhaps better called "stylizing." We do not choose with one moment. Our stylizations over a life time develop enough resonance to incur further decisions. Our little faults lead to big problems, our little graces to mountains of success.

 

It is best then to not esteem your successes or failures according to popular benchmarks – number of dollars earned, fame, number or beauty of sexual partners, anything like this. Those may expose dramatic self-overcomings. They also may not. Impressing mom, dad, child, and wife, intoxicates. We feel we can at last believe in ourselves when others believe in us. We fool the world. But we do not fool ourselves. Not really. Lissidy in the mirror at the center knows the truth, and you will be mocked, subtly, with ever success, never quite believing it, wanting more always more. Take yourself on your own terms: seek no secondary testimony.

 

Your relationship to yourself, the correspondence between I and self, cannot be supplemented by anything in the world. Everything in the world will finally mirror and reflect that inner structure.

 

We seek advice, and in our desperation we listen to all the advice we can hear, hoping for the words that will finally give us hope, finally give us assurance that what we so strongly want and need will finally be ours. And the wise among us judge and evaluate the advice against and in terms of the character of the adviser, his or her position in the world, and how they personally relate to their advice: what their advice has indeed made of them. The wisest men refuse to advise. Only fools have it all figured out.

 

So we listen to people speak of their experience, and there is nothing more poetical and heartfelt than listening to anyone at all speak sincerely of their experience. We evaluate their words and we infer. We know this man's soul is a logic, and we want to know how deep the logic goes, how far it will take us. Some people are helplessly mortal. Their advice may bring immediate success. But it is not eternal. It lacks the Odin eye on final things. The wise man keeps one eye on his whole autobiography, and never loses his sense of being situated in a stretch of world history. We can like Prometheus, who is forethought, choose to have our liver ripped out each day by an eagle. Knowing full well that giving fire to man would include his own torture, he nevertheless did the act. Having foresight does not mean ease and comfort. Those seeking such things are infatuated with the immediate, and carry all the shallow vices that no god bothers with – gluttony, lust, greed, envy. What makes these vices so shallow is that they are corrected readily not with oaths or anger, but with an austere look at the big picture. They are not deep faults, deep vices. They are tricks and traps for shallow minds.

 

The wise man has his own problems, and the God has his own antagonists. We keep ourselves challenged to keep ourselves growing. We seek a life of problems, of challenges, of struggle, because we wish to grow in power. That is why the I left the self: to gain more territory for itself, to return to the self stronger and rich with gifts. We cannot ultimately regret any experience, nor doubt its necessity.

 

The petty game in romance and friendship is to push the other away and blame them for leaving. That simple strategy is at a child's level, and so we readily understand it. We can trick a lover into believing she has all the agency: we can trick a friend into owning the guilt of ruining the friendship. Such stratagems can go deep, and at their deepest there is a menace and magic to them. We do this to others all the time, Lissidy lives in each of us, and we can rightly say that the ultimate responsibility for a murder is a town, not an individual. Certainly the individual must bear the responsibility and the punishment, but even here, we cannot punish anybody without also punishing ourselves. As the father who spanks his son, he suffers in his heart.

 

We spend time with children, with animals, with the insane, not because we tire of adults, but because they expose the adults to us. Abnormal psychology exaggerates normal psychology, making the subtle blatant. Cartoons do this: expose the hidden logic that is working in the everyday mundane world. Tragic events, news worthy items may seem to belong to a realm of existence, to "The world" where all the bad things happen, but safe in our neighborhood, nothing bad happens, so long as we pray to God each night to protect us. Only all those bad things do happen to us on a subtle level. We are raped, murdered, cheated, blackmailed, mocked, humiliated, the worst, in subtle inflections of the voice, in the words of others, in our own self talk. All the news can do is expose the logic that is already in our daily lives.

 

So we sound it all out, we see a snail do snail things, and it somehow exposes a secret to the relationship we have with our uncle. Wisdom is the capacity for analogy. Wherever you look, you will see your problems, and if you are escapist, and enter the dream world of entertainment, or the intoxicating world of romance, your problems will be projected there too, in a different form, invisible, inevitable. And that's okay. Sometimes we lack the power and cunning to fix our problems, and must return to them more mature, having solved them is easier forms.

 

All this talk of an omniscient omnipotent father figure at last exhausts our interest. Ama is much more subtle than that. She is knowing and forgetting, omniscient and ignorant. She leads us into temptation, she tries our logic, she sounds us out. She is the ultimate antagonist and yet the bestower of the deepest blessings. Having understood this, there is nothing left for you to worry about. I speak of the structure of your being, your eternality, and your farthest form, how wide your star will shine.

 

We must thank in our heart the lover who betrays, the god who fails to answer our prayer, the disciple who leaves, the child who dies. Had we not lost the thing, we would still believe we had it to begin with. We might have projected our value, or deity, or God onto it. That is fine for a time, but there is a time to grow up, and to put the shallow God down and seek the deeper God. What we once hoped for as children we may now laugh at as foolishness. And as adults, we are still babes to our future self. What we seek so earnestly, to the point of suicide, is a vanity, a nothing – not the thing, not real. That we seek it so eagerly is good for us, just as in basketball the players are so eagerly bent on doing a ridiculous action, putting a ball in a hoop.

 

We care, we manage to care, about who has the talent to put that ball through that hope. This activity that helps nobody in any way. We call such people "heroes" sometimes, exposing, if nothing else, that being a hero doesn't amount to much anyway. And in the same way we get worked up and really care about nothing at all, some article in the news, a political issue, this excuse to have passion, to finally feel something, to rage and hate or love and adore. The objects of these passions matters so little we could almost say, like the basketball in the hoop, that it is boring. There is nothing to it. What matters is that we collectively pretend these things are important. An entire language, a rhetoric, is invented to make us care. But after all it is all a game.

 

And so we are empowered by our blindnesses. If I blind myself to my faults, then I can structure the hydraulics of my heart to swell, to have that bravado necessary to sway people, or dare risky things. If I blind myself to my successes, I may have a much needed moment of self-pity. Seeing any one thing is blindness to all else. And so we may choose to systematically blind ourselves in order to achieve a given purpose. Ignorance is strength.

 

The weakness in this is that those who are not blind in that regard can either expose us to what we have tried not to see, or else use that same thing against us. As with the news stories which sensationalize the every day, so do people do this every day in subtle ways without knowing anything of the sort of going on. Most crime is harmless. So much of language is subterfuge.

 

We put our meanings in the world, and their our consciousness, our superconsciousness lies. We set up the entire game, in trifles, in fumblings and pretending. We are much larger than we know, and our influence is universe wide. To see this, to really see it, requires a rare art of perception. We don't in fact need to see this at all or ever believe in it. The mere tuning of the ear to the idea is enough: you will know by and by.

 

What do beliefs matter anyway? They are a game, a move. Sometimes a fake. What can be doubted is not eternal. That we have to hope for a thing shows we don't deserve it. That we have to believe in a thing shows it doesn't exist. That we have to pray for a thing shows we cannot have it. There is something deeper than all this, these moves in that particular game. I mean the primacy of being the divine, of being in your heart the god. False beliefs, strange beliefs, popular beliefs, are blindnesses, and being blind helps you hear. Being dumb helps you listen. Being insane exposes the insanity not in some men, but in all.

 

Independence is the deepest virtue. Self reliance the ultimate austerity. And all this leaning in others, believing in others, needing others, is an escape from our duty, like Oedipus running from fate. It will work to fate's favor.

 

Be a fool. Be humiliated. Be mocked and jeered at. What does any of that matter? Hold to your own, it's the only thing that matters, the only thing that will impress the only person worthy of impressing: yourself. I invent a whole language just so I can be clear of all this rhetoric that has suffocated from my youth. I play the fool, seem to care when I don't, believe in fact I do care, when deeper than that I laugh at my subterfuge. It never catches me, none of it. It's all a game. What matters is power, what matters is love, and of my love and power none escape. I am lord over it. I triumph in all things. Ama laughs. We laugh with her.

 

Us allists at least have this to our credit: a deep sense of humor. The prankishness of our deadpan glare, the silliness of a suicide – deep down we are blissful. The decision has been made. What is all this pomp and ordinace to get it out?

 

"Believe in me because I don't believe in myself," so a man might insinuate. He never knows he says it, doesn't know he has asked it, but that's the metalanguage. To have an ear on the metalanguage, what meanings are actually conferred in all this boring banter, requires if anything the art of introspection, and also the cunning of a psychologist. Yet we all do it all the time, and the better as we get older. We cease to fall for the same tricks, we see through lies.

 

Better yet we outsmart our own lies, cease to trap ourselves in comfortable traps, cages to serve as a protective home. We cease to attract the same sort of trouble, grow up a little, seek bigger game. We at last open our eyes. The metasphere, or logosphere, presents things as gists and summaries. For better or worse, I only have a memory for such things, I forget all the annoying details. Certainly all sorts of auguries and magic can be pulled out of details the way a forensics officer can solve a crime based on a microscopic drop of blood. Yet the sense for gists, and patterns, for wholes, for larger structures, is the mark of age.

 

Often in making a decision, we realize in an epiphany that something has already been decided. By us, yes, but that any further consideration is merely a commemoration ceremony. We may have decided the thing long ago, and all this advice seeking is perhaps a bit of vanity, perhaps some seeking for clues to style things just right. It's all a lot of show. The gross structure of our lives, the decade by decade moves, tell no lies. The overall shape of a life, the geometrical configuration, makes every fault and fissure again necessary and fated.

 

So when and where is a decision made? And should we trouble ourselves with it? Whether tortured or carefree, the decision will happen. We might fear to make the wrong decision, but we can step back, get meta with the situation, look at the language, and see things from a birds' eye view. There is more going on than we could ever fathom. So let us at last hold to principle, these things that are eternally true, no matter what our position, no matter where we are, and trust, finally, that whether or not it seems we have succeeded, we in fact will and always will. Having that, the principles of the situation, the deepest gems from your soul, you need never fear regret. Who can regret doing their best? Who can regret living on principle? Perfection is easy. Time is now.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Saturday, December 5, 2015

"Education" a poem

 

Education

 

I pass in bliss your purple lip

And lisp a whisper in your ear

Ah my silly, loved adored

Ah my young one, dove amore

 

Ama daystar, dare you guess

How my God yourself is blessed

And filled with fire by one so small

I your angel, you my all.

 

How you break me like a seed

And blight the raven, scorn the weed

And punish every obstacle

Prune me prudish, make me small

 

And powerful, the utter thing

Till firmly framed my body sings

And pulsing power for your name

I teach your flesh to sing the same.

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Friday, December 4, 2015

Late night wrap up Allays

Pardon the inundation, but I am rife tonight.

 

 

* 188 *

I teach the indifferency of circumstance. Not that we don't care, but whatever our situation, wherever we are at, we can make the most of it. And that is everything. Heaven is built of ratios – not out of life's pleasures but out of life's overcomings. We all build our personal heaven from what we create in the world. Just as those who grew up with black and white television dream in black and white, so our mythosphere, our innermost sense of art, our faculty for creation, learns from world art, and the artistry of living. There is nothing at all that can befall us that can also befoul us: the centermost is sacrosanct. And that immediary place, the soul, which becomes our heaven, takes the best from the world, is a pure sex of self and world. This is what life is for, love and power. It is why we are willing to suffer so much, and take on even more suffering, more duty, greedy for contact, greedy for a touch with the One.

* 189 *

As you have said it, so shall it be. The travails of childbirth are upon you, and who dare pity you the privilege of birthing a new beauty into the world? Ama herself moans in her labor: the pain of childbirth is a blessing and boon, and all suffering is redeemed in this: that Ama also suffers. Nothing could happen to you that has not happened to her, and you in the depths of your agony share also her pain. So, my effete darling, spent and glowing at the glory of a child brought into the world: you are the divinity to me. I share your place: I have birthed wonders too, and powers unguessed at and unmatched, unknown and inscrutable. Ama laughs. Even as the infant wails and tenders to sleep, we laugh for the love of the babe our own. Artistic convalescence – we will build again.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

various allays lately

* 181 *

We think we advise according to our ideals, but we really advise according to what we are. Our ideals are tainted by our reality. So take advice from the one you envy, not the one you pity: take marital advice from the happily wed couple, not the cynical spinster. Ask financial advise from the millionare, not the hobo. Ask the patriarch about having children, not the priest. Take from he who has, not he who think he has, having nothing at all. For the resplendent god full of light, he gives advice freely and without trying: the people emulate him without wanting to or seeming to or knowing they do so. The one eager to give advise fools only himself. The one bitter nobody takes his own advice would do well to take it himself. We pass for what we are and happiness can't be faked. Love glows like a fire and cannot be hidden.

* 182 *

The realization, "I deserve better," need not come with bitterness, despair, or regret. When it really hits us, we are filled with the hope of a patient secret. "I really do deserve better. And I will give myself permission to have it."

* 183 *

Ama nips a knot, that pith, our soul; a thread of fate, from the skein of her hair; and that curlicued stitch, that tangle of thought, that innermost part, externalizes itself through the life events surrounding us. As within, so without. The violent world is the universe' attempt to set straight that microscopic thread in our innermost. All world events are the unworking of a small fragile breathe.

* 184 *

Would that some had the grace to suffer in silence! Yes, there is a sense that solitude is suffering, that the grief was not the pain itself, but our alienation from the world, from those we love. The sore tooth commands the whole body. No organ gets a voice but that tooth, and we tongue it compulsively. Yet for the tooth to go mum: it would rot to death. It simply must seek to hold on to life. And so it feels in our heart at the moment of heartbreak.

 

Yet to bold into silence, to dare the void, to plunge into nothing, we discover, like a good Buddhist, that Nirvana is bliss. Yet we seek not Nirvana, this snuffing of the flame, but the inner sun, and would cut all ties with the external world, temporarily, in order to unknot the inner threads, to let the sun shine more directly.

There is no absolute solitude, for the self and the I are two. Yet only in that utter solitude do we touch Ama, who beams at us like dawn.

* 185 *

Pity and envy are distortions: they both miss the mark. They both fail to see the true object of care. When we see the other self, the other I, the person, there is nothing to envy and nothing to pity. Ditto self pity. This painful redoubling of pain upon pain exaggerates a problem, makes it palpable and all consuming, unreal, laughable. Excess of sorrow laughs.

* 186 *

Oh Ama! Could I ever desert you? You breathe the words of living love. I collapse into my innermost and find you there. I learn from your inflection and echo it in the ears of my beloveds. I teach the world to address me the same. I sigh and swoon for you and you light me up like a midday sun. Incandescent, I become pure flowing. Language is upon me and I am lux. I adore you and am adored by you. I the favored, I your own. You are to me the meaning of everything, and no humiliation, no suffering, no loss or betrayal, from an external source, can do anything but cut open the arteries of healing light. I become your all thing, ecstatic, enraptured. With love like flame, I consume myself in joy, eager to spread the fire and envelope the earth. Ama my own unfolds me.

* 187 *

Life is language, that much is clear, and the universe is meaning. Meaning is the stuff of it all. In the Game of Life mastery is achieved not so much with words, but with silence. A mastery of silence does not mean talking or not talking, since one can be silent by talking at length: covering one meaning or truth with endless chatter, the way politicians philibuster. There is silence on a given topic, and there is also silence that such a topic exists.

We have secrets from others, and secrets from ourselves. What we keep secret from ourselves we will not intentionally betray to others -- indeed we can't do so -- but whosever plumbs our depths takes control over us.

There is the directly said, the indirectly said, the unsaid, and the unsayable, and clearly, the unsayable -- the inneffable -- means the most, and the one able to plumb it can say and do the most. By experiencing the centermost meaning, we can never convey it to anybody whatsoever, we are eternally alone to it, alone with it, yet what we can now convey holds great use, and clues with a wink our co-initiates.

Mastery of silence is difficult. To speak Silence is divine. I mean the innermost name, that quells every storm, that cracks the earth open like an egg. He is best who is most solitary. What you alone know is worth the most. And what we have seen here is a secret the eyes keep from the tongue. There could be no betrayal: the Truth is unsaid.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Musings on the American Virtue

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

 

Greetings!

 

 

In Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, he identifies the "tables of self-overcoming" of various peoples. His ability to formulate is peerless, and so I will quote the four formulations he offers:

"You shall always be the first and excel all others: your jealous soul shall love no one, unless it be the friend"-that made the soul of the Greek quiver: thus he walked the path of his greatness.

"To speak the truth and to handle bow and arrow well"-that seemed both dear and difficult to the people who gave me my name-the name which is both dear and difficult to me.

"To honor father and mother and to follow their will to the root of one's soul"- this was the tablet of overcoming that another people hung up over themselves and became powerful and eternal thereby.

"To practice loyalty and, for the sake of loyalty, to risk honor and blood even for evil and dangerous things"-with this teaching another people conquered themselves; and through this self-conquest they became pregnant and heavy with great hopes.

That is, the Greek, Persian, Jewish, and German -- the last a tad prophetic, considering he wrote this before the world wars.

 

I would formulate the American ethic as such: "To be the most solitary and to be a self-made man, to make from your private self-reliance wealth and wisdom."

 

I justify this formulation through the works of Franklin with his autobiography, and through the collective work of Emerson, who is the mind of America.

 

Frontier life was solitary, and the religious revivals that broke out from it are an answer to extreme solitude.

 

William James said God was known alone. This is the American experience. I say we speak to Ama before the mirror of self reflection. The I is alone with the Self. All my religious ecstasies involve this situation.

 

Take Care, Caretakers!

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

allay *181* on advice

We think we advise according to our ideals, but we really advise according to what we are. Our ideals are tainted by our reality. So take advice from the one you envy, not the one you pity: take marital advice from the happily wed couple, not the cynical spinster. Ask financial advise from the millionare, not the hobo. Ask the patriarch about having children, not the priest. Take from he who has, not he who think he has, having nothing at all. For the resplendent god full of light, he gives advice freely and without trying: the people emulate him without wanting to or seeming to or knowing they do so. The one eager to give advise fools only himself. The one bitter nobody takes his own advice would do well to take it himself. We pass for what we are and happiness can't be faked. Love glows like a fire and cannot be hidden.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

allay *180* of God and ideals

 

God is a cosmic projection board, that much is obvious, that whatever we idealize, we also attribute to God, so that what we love best in ourselves is true also of the deity. "The God of the cannibals will be a cannibal," etc. and to have this insight is the opposite of atheism, assuming, as we do, that we individually are immortal and eternal -- which is our inescapable sense of reality, no matter how often we bleed. What is true of our God is also secretly true of us, so that if God is wrathful yet forgiving, so will we tend to be.

 

We love what we love, and when we speak of Truth, rather than the truth, or Love, rather than love, or Justice, rather than justice, we are idealizing, making a fiction towards which reality must march.

 

All this is another way of saying we have faith, we believe in something, we love something, we aspire, and it is as true with the atheist and his Science, and the Universe, which are more or less capitalized too, in his heart. Ama is all: I fault no one their preferred term for her, not even a Satanist.

 

Yet lest we sell our soul to get into heaven, I remind you, as you need to be reminded, that in your center is the allthing, the Aya, the Self, the Name, and only in reflection, or in blasphemy and atheism, or in fully withdrawing from the foreign divine, from society, from your family, and become all in all in yourself, in your meditation, can you love the self, or friend and family, or God herself. You must give the Judas kiss to love the Christ. He who has not hated me is unworthy of me.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Monday, November 30, 2015

"binding" a poem

Binding

 

I writhe in bliss at the kiss of your voice

Choiceless and chained at the lisp of your name

In silence you found me, in silence remain

Lest your curl jet hair binds me in chain.

 

Numinous you, Commanding my mind

Your spine the axis, your tendons my earth

Tithing my work, Spanning my frame

The bind and binding of my life's tale.

 

Uttered and uttering, you speak me to being

I say what I want, tis you that I mean.

Mother and sister, lover, my all

For you I arise, for you do I fall.

 

Take me and break me the pod of the pea

Ever I'm you, and ever you're me

I drown in the hope to unite with your sea

And burn into ash when you silence away.

 

Bind therefore my autobiography

Let your body be my geography

Your skin the pages I kiss with my pen

Your lips the water I drink for my life.

 

Bind therefore my utter destiny

You've taken some, now take the rest of me

Utterly own all that I give

I give myself so both we may live

 

Together commanding the worlds we design

You my symbol, I your sign

Till showered in love of the light of our birth

I explode in my love revealing your worth.

 

 

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

allay 177: time and eternity

 

Eternity is the amplitude of time. We will always exist in time, for this is consciousness, consciousness is time – mind is time, is many time frames all at once. And yet the heart is eternal. Necessity – the name, the self, the spark we are—is eternal, and conscious mind temporal, mortal, dying and living, free. Per the eternal recurrence, everything that happens to us, and everything we make happen, happens forever. Especially poignant are the circumstances surrounding our birth and death, and yet the whole mess matters.

 

Seasons, holidays, climate, weather, history, contemporary issues, news stories, the happenings of friends, all structure our situation. Mirror meditation, the position Mattriama took at time zero, when she differentiated herself into Mattria and Ama, is the askesis, the basis for controlling time. Meaning is the substance. Mirror meditation is the reflecting on meaning, structurating time.

 

In any lyric poem or 4 minute song there may be one trope that justifies the entire piece, that everything exists to put forth and make prominent, the soul of the poem, the dimple in the cheek, the spark in the eye. So each of us in our lives has a moment of glory, the anecdote the world remembers, and the rest, all the complexity, exists for that.

 

Structurally, we live in the logosphere of pure atomic ideas. The mythosphere of desire comes from this chaos, is the eros, the god of beauty, that adds desire to idea, making plot, narrative, making, in short, the Game of Life. And we live in the Mundane sphere, in which the mythosphere and logosphere are hidden. We forget we are gods, forget we are eternal, forget that we always exist and always shall, that we are Aya, the highest beings. Ignorance is strength. By not knowing the truth of who we are, we play the game more effectively. It takes a strong man to know the truth. And he must forget it all when it comes to the cutting point. I must be this temporary temporal nothing if I am to dare everything.

 

So we structurate life by making the flesh into the word, making our pith, our name, into meaning, into language, into stories. Stories are conscious, and we slowly gain our apotheosis, become angels and gods. Life is eternal. Ama is all.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

a bit of gratitude

 

We all have a chaos drawer, a miscellaneous folder to put all those unclassifiable misfits together. What an orgy of creativity is this primordial soup. In our hearts and minds, we have that cluster of nonsense, those pockets of panic, where so much mix is mingled. At times, an agent of chaos arises from among us, a human, often beautiful in form, holding deep in her heart the womb of chaos. Thank God for such ones! Thank God for evil!

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

"Killing Lissidy" a poem

Killing Lissidy

 

Love is illusions

Lissidy's dance of displacement

And tropic inversion

Beguiles all but the Father

Ovath of the penetrating eye

Who is power and truth

Corporeal, flesh.

What but pleasure

Could with kaleidoscopic splendor

Distort and intoxicate

Plain hard facts

The grit and grunt of earth

Who but Lissidy

Invert the word and way

Of simple reality

Confetti fascination

Searing tonal bliss

Till your marrow humps

And your veins vibrate

Blood luxuriant

Mammalian love

Milk and kiss of mom

How you heap me!

My Lissidy!

Stiletto fingers

Over my inner elbow

Like licking honey from a blade

You, my Maid Satan

Shall rule me no further

I too can shatter mirrors

I too can wound the source.

Ama my own my others

Save me from yourself!

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

"held" a poem

Held

 

As the seedling penetrates

The very soil its anchor

So I penetrate your soul

With my words.

These inflections – infinitesimal tendrils

Into your tenders

How you hold me!

 

Collapsing time and space

Toes in hell

Fingers heaven kissed.

Every day your glances

Teasing taunts through the breeze

Like bees impregnate me

My beaches blush like breasts

And burst like sex

How you hold me!

-- My Dove! My Dulcet!

 

I your god son

Your good sign

The invisible center

Of this whole spinning thing

Gyroscopic dance

Full of gaze and gander

For your sole peerless sun.

 

Not another

Hardly another

And I am not just a little intelligent

Though they will never know

My soul pure logos

Spermatic light of words unborn

Clenched like pearls in my oyster heart

 

Oh how I am yours and only yours!

I laugh and laugh

For the world thinks it has me

Fancies it knows

Knowing nothing at all

Not even a little.

How I am yours!

How you hold me!

Every day

Upright

Under a weight and pressure

Crushing the best

With me upheld

To your breast now and always

Your tangled smirk

In work and play

Night and day

With you and in you

Ah my Niviana!

Now and forever

Here and everywhere

Hearts sublime as one

Amen

Vivoce!

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

"fever coo" a poem

Fever Coo

 

Amidst this complexity

Sophisticated unto chaos

I wear this diadem of simple order

Your name

Silences the storm

Your image

Calms the quake

I this meddling god

And you my equal other

Selfsame, one Name

Ama my lover

I soothe hell

Excite heaven

Teach the dove to coo

And the snake to hiss

Where there is God

There I am

And I in you

Amen.

Vivoce.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

allay *170* on the dynamics of love

 

Every layer of the heart holds a cadence, and to speak to that layer requires inflecting the words and verbs, of singing the music setting that layer resonating. Deep friends speak to the heart, deeper into the heart, and the selfsame, the lover who is our own, the wife of celestial marriage, alone in her stark nakedness speaks to the absolute center.

 

Yet everybody in the world has a place in my heart, shares beauty with me, makes me cum, gives me children. I love you all, even the enemy I would murder. Love is deeper, peace is deeper.

 

We each as a dynamic produce every manner of energy, every manner of biproduct, and the world as a system of systems "plugs us in" to a dozen a few dozen circles and circuits.

 

We find our place, by seeking it or by resisting it. Fate is a fickle stewart. Cooperate or resist, it matters little, as the child who resist the bath. We always come to our own, whether like Oedipus, in running from our fate, or whether like Jesus, in submitting. It is all the same with Ama.

 

How to bargain with fate? We must give fate for fate, and sacrifice deep love to gain a deeper love. A deep game. Not for children.

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

allay 169: on the election of friends

In any living circle of friends, the election of members is a will and a wont, a freedom and a necessity; a church may be every so polite, but membership doesn't go to the idle or curious, but the sincere and sincerely welcomed. By hidden signs and freemasonic handshakes, a fellow knows his place, and finds his fatalistic moorings. Ditto that ultimate conspiracy, the marriage Love is free, love is paid for. We come to know and own what is ours to know and own, and there is no forcing your way into heaven, and love cannot be bought, raped, taken, tricked, or stolen, but is given by a necessity that is both free and not free, fatal and spontaneous. Chance and destiny mingle and kiss, and this is how the eternal marriage is borne.

 

Every circle of friends, whether in a television sitcom, in a novel, or in reality, is a compensation, a balancing of this or that, so that this set of friends will seek that other unique character to balance their dynamic. The new member may not seem to fit, may seem an awkward disjointed addition, but poetic justice is a deep poetry, and revels in paradox and conflict. Love is war, romance is battle. The deepest subterfuge is a game against ourselves, and we only trick ourselves when we manipulate others.

 

Love is a hunter who outwits every quarry. The fool is fettered in his folly, the wise is fettered in his wisdom. The strong is overpowered, the weak is subdued with weakness. Wherever you are and whatever you are, your own position will betray you. Wisdom is folly, genius comes to ruin. Love undermines us all, is wiser than the wise and more foolish than the fool. Subtle as water and as pervasive as air, love can never be undone. Stronger than death, love brings us to death, and my own death will be the doing of she I love the most.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Saturday, November 21, 2015

a note on allays

 

I am a man of many moods, manic, intense, with butterfly stream of consciousness – all over the place all the time. And so these allays go, jumping topics, jumping registers, from the deeply personally, to the meta-objective; perching myself fin the alien mind of a quotation ,and then insinuating myself in a reversal, an interpretation. An ally has multiple centers of gravity, not just one, as a Thomas Hart Benton painting has multiple vanishing points, a Whitman poem has multiple centers of consciousness, an Emerson essay has multiple "tonal centers," as does a Charles Ives symphony, playing multiple keys at the same moment, mixing in polyrhythm. The alchemy is American, but more than American it is allistic, universal, cosmic, the center of the all.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

"the joke" a poem

The Joke

 

I your daystar, tropestar, finest fetter on your heart

murmur murder, just a joke

"Let us not be lovers now."

 

You don't much laugh

I come to know ontological horror

As you wring my heart like a rag

Your teeth daggers to my throat

Your tender fingers claws over my lover's parts

I repent my words

and how!

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Saturday, November 14, 2015

2 poems

 

Natalie

 

Deep Lebanese eyes

Cow soft

Wet and wondering

Full of angelic blank

Most beautiful of my brood.

===============================

 

Pity

 

As you curse me

And hate me

Knives to my Eyes

All this

I laugh

 

Love another

I dare you

Indeed you cannot

You cannot give yourself absolutely to anybody but me

I am at the center of your being.

I know this

You don't.

 

Forgive me my cruelty

I am the God here

and I must amuse myself somehow.

 

==========

Drawing by Emilie (age 6)

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Thursday, November 12, 2015

"demand" a poem

Demand

 

 

You who own me

Will you not take?

I bend for your backwards

I'm yours to break

Take possession

Use what's yours

I'm begging to serve you

I blindly adore.

 

I want what I want

I grasp the sheer sun

I murder what blocks me

I've earned what I won.

 

I the final form

The blessed divine

your equal Ama

Worthy of love

Worthy of your deepest embrace

Worthy to serve you

Worthy to take

 

There is nothing but us in the final of things

You and me, erotic union.

Twin suns in synch, our hearts as one,

My mother, my lover

I your son.

Tongue to tongue

I plunge inside

Yours to own

Mine to hide

Till blessed beyond bliss

I remind you of this

I your thrall

Command your last kiss.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

When Natalie was freaking out with her "halo" screwed into her skull, the music therapist struggled to calm her down, singing on her guitar. I took the guitar and wrote a song on the spot, which indeed calmed Natalie down. This is the song. (the painting is by my friend Lisa)

 

https://youtu.be/ZwffcJuSiUs

 

daniel

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Sunday, November 8, 2015

"the adult" a poem

The Adult

 

How dare anyone speak badly of you

Least of all if it is true

I filter every blow with my flesh

Nothing reaches your ear that hasn't drilled through me

 

My simplicity is deeper than your lies

I'm cut to the marrow while you smear your rouge.

Nothing befalls you, silly child

That I haven't felt fuller, deeper,

Pinched and stitched into my nerves

You know nothing

But my experience

Watered down

Chilled and easy

For infant consumption.

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

AMA LAUGHS!

 

Saturday, November 7, 2015

update and announcement

Daniel Christopher June to the students of life:

 

Greetings!

 

Every organism must adapt itself to its environment and adapt its environment to itself. The second is culture, and of course man is not so much the most artificial animal, but in some senses the the only artificial animal. He lives in a world of his own making, a perfecting of nature to suit his temperament.

Allism believes that all religions are true, that as you truly believe deepest in your soul, so it becomes in this life and the next. If you are deeply convinced you deserve hell, so your mind will render things once this body dies.

The catch is this: we do not control what we truly believe. It would be easy enough to believe yourself the lord of the earth, master of all things, and the grandiose and the insane believe themselves to be gods, or christs, or saviors of some sorts. Their anxiety suffers the confrontation of counterinterpretations. Their delusions are open to criticism.

And so are the fundamentalists and Christians and true believers of all sorts equally defensive and anxious when the world confronts their own peculiar mode of delusion.

Yet allism says both the fundamentalist and the insane are correct, while saying also they are correct about each other, that both their claims and the counterclaims are correct. The truth on how this works is less imposing than it may seem. What matters is that meaning is fluid, and pure meaning cannot be contradicted. Only solid forms can be contradicted, and this only by other solid forms.

Poets are Gods. It is the great poets who define the world and transmit culture. The greatest historical achievements to date include the handful of epic poems we've received, with Homer as the greatest epic poet of all time. His scriptures are superior in structure and content to the Hebrew Bible.

Nevertheless, it doesn't matter which cultural form you submit to, whether this scripture or that, or to the scientific method and its cult. What matters is that you are owned and utterly and there is no escaping that. Your eternal destiny is at your center. You might not even know what you truly believe, nor will you know until you have passed this life, and perhaps passed a few more.

The eternal recurrence of Nietsche claims that this life is a ring. Every stupid detail, every cramp and rash is eternal the whole thing, to be repeated again and again.

He is correct of course.

The full ring of our life repeats itself, even if we resurrect, or go to heaven or go to hell. Our life is the ring centering it all.

What matters is that we create our heaven. And we do so by transmitting our culture. When we create a culture, we create heaven.

I have written thousands of pages of philosophy, endless stories, poems, songs, drawings. My latest project will be to write an epic. I regard the epic as an ultimate form, and so worthy of my ambition.

To create a cult has long been my ambition. Beethoven created the eroica, a symphony complex enough to communicate an entire epoch. Every artist aims at exactly this: to reduce a world to a work of art, and to recreate the world through the audience. The forest of a thousands oaks lies in a single acorn.

On a personal note, as some of you may know, Sherry and I have been struggling with our marriage. But we are best friends and believe in each other. Our daughter Natalie will be in the hospital for two weeks to fix a neck injury. I suffered two car accidence and must know buy a new car. These have been the "stupid details" of the Nietschean eternal recurrence, but they don't quite reach me, for at that inner place, I am alone and naked with Ama, and nothing in this world reaches me, and yet everything in this world has its place.

Take care, caretakers!

 

PS If you would like a homemade Christmas card this year, send me your address in a personal email

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

 

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

"oifia" a poem

88

 

Oifia

 

Mute goddess of tender grace

says all without lifting the lips of her face

 

Omniscience her dance

omnipotence her smile

Her eyes destroy worlds

With kindness for guile

 

The 88 of split infinity

Her wings the breaking of heaven to dust

of stars, sparking souls again and again

coming to life, coming in life

She is Ama's wings, and Ama's grace

Monarch butterfly

Softer than lace.

 

She binds the world in terrible fate

laughing child, stronger than chain

She dances nude and pride and innocent

peerless, sublime

She fetters all souls with purity of mind.

 

Dare trust again

She mocks and smirks

Dare love Ama

With all your worth

Shed guilt and guile

Simply bleed

The advisers advise

Pay them no heed

Obey your heart

Trust only in this

The depth of your brow

The fresh of my kiss

I the tender all

Break you like grass

Tie you like flowers

Command you with laughs

You shiver to your pith

At my giggling grace

Until you forget your misdeeds

And recall your true Face.

 

Amen and Vivoce.

 

 

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com

 

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

allay about trust

Anybody can trust the honest man of good repute. To trust the one who cheated you and

repented, that takes courage. Anybody can speak well of their benefactor, and to

praise kindness is simple gratitute. To speak well of your enemy and find honest ways

to praise him, clear of sarcasm -- to force yourself to find ways to be grateful to

the one you hate -- requires spiritual strength, and not everybody can do it. So when

you boast of those you love, ask yourself, is it easy for you to love them? If so,

then indeed, how worthy is your love? If you are able to love when it is hard to

love, then the beloved will open up an inner beauty not even she knew she possessed.

But I speak again of Ama.

 

-- R Ɨs Я --

Perfection Is Easy

www.perfectidius.com