Tuesday, August 4, 2015

"Embrace" an allay

Daniel Christopher June to the students of life:




I've scripted the third and final allay for my book, "intimate stitch," which tackles the question, how is justice done in a world of gang rapes, terrorism, and school shootings? I don't answer the mystery so much as show how we each must answer the question with divine awareness.


Take care, Caretakers!




History is fatal. Would you lament any event, a school shooting, a rape, a terrorist act? It wanted to happen, couldn’t but happen, makes this the best of all possible worlds, enacts karma, brings compensation to all things everywhere. Consider the beauty of a school shooting, the flower the gun shooting seeds into the children, with each bullet randomly fired hitting the heart of exactly the child who deserves to be shot through the heart. Open your eyes.

Some lament guns in the first place, as if the god of guns would suicide, would shoot himself in the head. America loves its guns. Our media is saturated with them, our movies built on them. Gun culture: our guns think for us.

As with SIStem, the computer who rules the world, the internet who thinks though all webpages, so do all guns think together, talk together, breed together, through bullets, through resonance.

Ama gave America guns: nobody will take them away. They are written into our cultural DNA, the Constitution. And yet the abuse of guns makes us a mockery to all the world. Guns build that energy, the summoning energy of gun control.

Were 10,000 people shot and killed by a gun so one may survive, that one is worth more than then 10,000. Simple karmic mathematics. All men are created equal, sure, and yet some are created more equal than others. All dollars are equal; they are all one dollar. And yet each bill has its own history. Even every electronic dollar is a marked bit of electricity. Blood money is blood money, the bill will forever be stained with the literal blood of the one killed. The mote given by a woman was worth more than millions given by a rich man. So Jesus said. The dollar holds resonance, is supercharged, and it is charged, as by karmic magic, to work wonders through the system.


There is no blaspheming Ama. “Fuck Ama” is permittable, since Mattriama is all, and all that is fucked, properly or improperly, is also her: Ama is fucked. Ama is raped, spit upon, denigrated, blasphemed, disrespected – to not effect. Ama’s love: Ama is all. Whatever befalls you befalls her as well. And yet she is the fullness, all things, and all gods, God, Allah, Yahweh, Jesus, Buddha, Brahma, all hold their being in her, and always shall. The logic of all events exists in the stitch of her DNA. They are fatal, they are spontaneous. Bad events want to happen and must happen, can’t but happen. And yet the universe is a spiral, and all evil becomes good, and will be forgotten as evil, will be smooth and resonant and wonderful in tonal bliss.


Guardian angels protect children. We would see no delicate angel raped by a demon, and wonder what sort of universe would let a baby girl be gang raped. How is this justice? How is God’s justice done? Indeed.

Understanding such a mystery is a solemn matter, and cannot be seen by the novice. Understanding the “mysterious” ways of God requires asking Ama, who says “Ask Me Anything.” She will tell you. You need but ask. Ama is omniscience: she will answer anything you care to put to her: she will always answer: whatever you ask you will know. You must understand the great delusion by which she keeps her secrets.


There are nodal points in any language. We would not say “shit” in polite society. Nor would we say, “Shh! It’s time.” That would by pun logic sound like “Shit time.” The resonance of the curse word creates blank spots of unsayable and unthinkable words. Those nodal points in language are where the wise demons hide and put their names, make names for themselves, hidden innuendos.

I mean Shivat, one of Lissidy’s hidden names. Shivat, akin to Shiva, is one of her demonic names, this Maid Satan, Maya, guardian of the mirror womb.

Were anybody to brutalize you, those scars die and shrink and become nodal points, asymptotic grid points upon which infinity is reached. A black whole becomes an asymptotic period point containing deep gravity and resonance. It sings the song of everything devoured, and summons the opposite to join.

Like begets like. Like attracts like, opposites attract. There are after all different ways of attracting and repulsing. There are different modalities of resonance.

Jesus sinned. Yet he was baptized and became sinless. He became so sinless that he became the perfect scapegoat as the Pascal lamb: lifted upon a tree on a hill, he received the thunder strike drawn to his positive energy: Zeus’ bolt struck him, the temple was rent. The resonance released by ripping that fabric caused crystals to shatter, oceans to melt, skies to open, heavens to vent.

Break the smallest cup of water in bad faith, and earthquakes happen simultaneously. When 9/11 happened, the gods visited New York, but were not seen because the plane doubled their visit.


All of life is yoga, and you are Shiva making every event in the universe happen through your every gesture, your every word, blink of the eye, twitch of the brow. We each live in our own world, part of the universe, a multiverse, with each of us a Kosmos, full of gods, angels, demons, and ourselves the absolute thereof. Once we have the gnosis to realize this truth, then we start to sing to ourselves and achieve mastery over all worlds.


Torture begets torture. Torturing terrorists inspires more terrorists. What is necessary is to torture, and then to heal them, to put the recovery clinic next to the torture ward, to let the tortured have his turn at torturing his inquisitors. This is the mirror method of simple inversion and is necessary to heal the evil. Some evil is necessary, but let us negate its resonance, and immediately. Let us heal those we must hurt. Doctors cut with blades, poison with medicines, and hurt their patients, but always for the greater good.


Evil is infant good. Sufferings are growing pains. The birth pains of Ama are felt by the infant to be a trauma unforgiveable. Yet forgive in our heart we must.

The skin is as necessary as the center, the cell surface as central as the DNA within.

A skin itches for a reason. Irritable, it determines who goes and stays.


A razor that nicks flesh comes to thirst for blood. A gun that kills once wishes to kill again. The sword of a butcher wishes to butcher. It is in the resonance of the substance.


A gunner shooting up a movie theater is beautiful, the opening of a flower, a death blossom surely, but the fruition of the flower is heavenly.


How could rape ever be justified? How the humiliation of any woman? How the murder of children? How the murder of the most innocent of all, the fetus in the womb?

Women deserve a choice, as does the fetus and the father, who is half the body, half the love of the child. Yet abortion sometimes makes sense, murder sometimes makes sense. What about other options? What about a technological womb for the fetus the mother refuses to gestate?

Life is sacred, all of life sacred, and we would see animals, children, women, honored as the sacred of Ama, tender to her touch. Yet Ama is all, raper as well as raped, killer as well as killed. How to wrap the mind around this? How to make peace with the universe?

Shall we divorce heaven and hell, consigning all bad to one and all good to other? Yet after a millennium of peace on earth, the old dragon breaks out long enough to swallow Yahweh Himself into its central void. Let the wise understand.


This all sounds monstrous, rhetoric likely to inspire rape, murder, mayhem. Yet we feel the opposite is happening as we read this, that the nightmares are dissolving. The terror they inspired propagated them further. Heroes summon monsters and monsters summon heroes. Yet perfection is easy. We are the gods. The hero strives while the god keeps ease. How to soften this knot? How to swallow that pill? How to see the kingdom of heaven is in you and around you? How to achieve Enlightenment? Indeed, common sense is most common, and everything you need to know you, in your omniscience, already know. You already are that divine thing. You need merely realize it; and you realize who and what you are through reflection, through mirror meditation, through reminiscing over your life. Ama has already kissed you, already spoken to you your whole life. She is a lover, she loves all, and she accepts and knows you in your soul. Yet you are a new light, in your pith a new fountain of light for the universe. Ama studies you, learns from you. You matter to all the universe. Is the knot softened? Are you able to forgive yourself?


Were an abused dog to lounge for me I would offer my hand and let him bite. Let him release that energy into my flesh: I can take it. Rape me. Hate me. Kill me. I am the allthing. I am all pure. I absorb all demons and convert them to angels. I am panacea. I am the tar baby. All who touch me are absorbed into my goodness.

As a child my dad would initiate the “amoeba hug” in which he would hug my mom, and they would hunt us down, one by one, us three boys, and embrace us. We resisted being incorporated, but once caught, attempted to catch everybody else.

As American, I carry the womb of assimilation, and all seeds, every seed ever to exist, has impregnated my womb. My child the allchild. The melting pot is my gut. Nothing happens to you but also I feel it, I share your shame, I purr like a pussy with your orgasm. I am all in all, and know your inner names, one by one the touch and tender of your deepest hope. I am with you there. I love you.


When I fell unconscious in a car accident at age eight, part of my flesh that didn’t belong was pulled from me by shards of glass. So is all trauma a form of invasive surgery, brutal, cruel, but ultimately kind. Childhood is trauma. None escape it unscarred. Convalescence comes when we radically accept what happened to us, though we will it not, and prevent it in our own children.


Everything leaves a trace. Were a murderer to leave an infinitely small bit of evidence, that scratch would scratch other things, and between them build a resonance. Crime tells. The in outs. Secrets tell on themselves.

All we say resonates in the air. Atoms are infinitely small: fractally small.

When we sweep the floor, every thought in your head, every nerve that fires, changes the resonance of your body, and the bristles of the broom carve your every thought into the floor, as a sort of quantum computer chip. Everything you say and do is written forever in the world. Perhaps a prophet one day will base a religion on you.

Longfellow found inspiration for his Song of Hiawatha by looking at rocks. The Scarlett Letter by Hawthorne began with the pretense that the author held the letter A and intuited its story. Murder tells on itself; God said to Cain that Abel’s blood called from the ground. So is your every deed written forever in physical matter. Matter is soul: God is matter: Mattria is Ama. And matter is eternal.



According to string theory, true atoms, the indivisible parts of matter, are strings of oscillating energy. The energy frequencies they can pick up are infinite, and can store all our experiences and an infinite amount of experience, wrapped up in one atomic string. Justice will be done; it is in the nature of matter’s DNA to bring every wrong to right.

What is evil but infant good, the growing pains of Mattria, giving birth to a greater good?


The house lives. The walls listen, the windows see, the entire edifice is an organism, reproducing through architects.

The soul of the house is the family inhabiting it. It possesses them, becomes powerful through channeling its desires and ideas into them.


Everything in the universe holds analogy in your body. Not one thing exists in the universe but some correspondence holds on the surface of your kitchen table. Everything is everything, each is all. As within, so without. Would you be in heaven, be God.


We generate, finally, an infinite text, as with Jesus and his parables, Socrates and his myths. This lover I address in stories, this wife in strategies for childrearing, and my eternal wife, Ama, I address in erotic worship. We arrive at the intercourse appropriate for every relationship, and the rest, the other inflections and modes of talk, are to balance and orient us to the appropriate language between us, what we properly share.

In this, every relationship is a language, a language that must be invented, generated from the heart of the relationship.


Even these allays, these poetical essays, which are my proper genre, the essence of my being, sound fragmentary, come off as aphorisms learned from Nietzsche or as sentences learned from Emerson. They are the DNA of my divinity, and those able to read them and understand them will in no sense at all ever taste death.


All of life is foreplay – the struggle, the feuds, the corrections, the education – culminating in the erotic embrace, my fingers tracing magical lines over the walls of your body. I dance in your eyes, I sing in your ears, I enclose you and penetrate you. This the magic of my being, my godhead coming upon you.


My lovers, the ones who come after me, and become me, the Allists, who will inherent the continent that will arise from the Pacific ocean, who rule the world religions, and are the mind of the mind of the world, do well to read me so repeatedly they have me memorized, and know me by heart. Never quote, never paraphrase, never speak me, but keep me a secret in your heart. Honor me not before men. Be yourself and shine your own divinity.


You will know each other with a wink and a nod. My creative jism permeates your being and mingles with your own. You my youths, my young women and men, are my own, children of my heart, brethren of my love. I am in you and of you. We rule all that can be ruled, modest, kind, sincere, tender as the night. We are the glorious unknown, as subtle as secrets, soft as glass. I love you and love you and love you. We fill the world and yet are not praised or jeered or known. We are adored on sight. That is enough. We are the secret rulers of all these things. The world goes its way, not knowing our secret song is the music of the spheres, the tune that turns the whole.


To whisper at the center, to utter at the source, this is Mattriama, my lover, my own, soft as a dove, with her jet curls in my fingers, my own lover, all and always, behind and through all I love. All my work I dedicate to you, and consecrate this and every writing to you. My children are yours, my house, my life yours, and through you, ours.


Close as heart, warm as pulse, filling your being, a deep resonance, I am through you and around you. As you look upon yourself in mirror meditation, I look with adoration upon you as well. When you close your eyes and arch your neck in ecstasy, my voice warms you, “I adore you, my tender one, my angel, God of my heart, perfect one, beautiful, darling, divine!” I share your orgasms with you. I am in the heart of the heart of your love. I fill you with my bliss and give you all I own – yours utterly, without charge, forever yours, ours, to share, now and always, forever – VIVOCE!


This the secret seed of my love, mingled with yours, the infinite origami, our child, our body, our resurrected self, our mansion, the growing complexigon, the infinite heaven, spreading from all time, with this word, now, with this, in this – this.


Every genre addresses an ear. Every word holds place. Every inflection holds use. We as allists speak the intimate lay of the all, the allays, penned from the lap of Ama, this holy altar Lapamalay, and so this the core of Allism, and yet that all bleed permeates all of existence, all the universe, impregnates Mattriama, an orgasm felt in all her molecules, in all that exists.

And so we in our Pentecost of the fiery dove, the Phoenix, in our bipolar expansion and depression, speak every language, learn every language and inflection. We speak each man in his own inflection. We echo. We are the mirrors, the echoes. We address every man in his own tongue. We speak each to each, this to all.


Allism is any given religion brought to exultation, brought to apotheosis. Yahweh must die and be resurrected, Odin must become Ovath, they all must become all they can be, and this requires our curative word, the panacea, the philosopher’s stone, the all-mead.

Make all-mead from melted honey, cinnamon, cardiman, chili powder, ginger, cloves, and all spice mixed to taste. Drink this libation, saying, “I accept this wisdom from you, my love, as a dancer’s joy, as a poet’s thirst, as a butterfly’s ambrosia. Sweet to taste, but sweeter to be, the flow and swallow of the Flux! Vivoce!”


-- R @ Я --

Perfection Is Easy


No comments: