Sunday, December 11, 2016

Allay about truth and lies

* 436 *

Only the best liar best tells the truth. The truth in itself is not compelling – often enough it is monstrous – and it is the man of persuasion who can convince to accept the truth, he knowing well enough how to make us accept anything at all. Thus Liar Lissidy is the protectress of the mirror womb. We confront her in our conversation with ourselves before the mirror, in pure reflective speculation – receiving intermixed comfort from Ama as we go so we keep our courage. Lissidy, protector of children, is maid Satan, mother Maya, Lord Liar, the ironical, the dream weaver. She alone can give us access to our inner name, not that she knows it, but that she blocks us from it, from our centermost, our Name, our innermost sun, the InAll.

Certainly we are used to accepting the truth through fictions, transcendental meaning through religious fables, mysteries through parables, stark reality through jokes, psychological insight through made up stories, numinous truth through preposterous myth. Truth is absurdity. The universe was created by laughter. Below even the deepest suffering and utter humiliation lies the smirk. Life is a game. And death is the deepest prank.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Saturday, December 10, 2016

allay about belief


It is not so much that we believe in God but that belief is God. Let me be understood on this point, that belief cannot be willed but it can be commanded. And, being commanded, we obey involuntarily -- that is precisely what Master Intonation accomplishes. Deeper than doubt, we believe, all of it, every time, and even our disbelief is a means of believing so that a man confronts his own beliefs which stand before him with disavowed majesty. Who commands? God, belief itself, the belief beloved by which we are mastered unless we have the strength to so fully submit that we bend God back. Submission is mastery. The commanders of the game -- I coin them Aya -- are by nature anonymous, for the universe is commanded by a whisper. Belief belies, it cannot be faked, like love it is known even in disguise. A man passes for what he is. Money is money by belief alone -- a King a king by belief alone. What does not exist now that will one day exist eternally? It is already within us.

-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy


Thursday, September 29, 2016

Allays of Master Play Complete!


Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:




I've spent this year working over a scripture I entitle "Allays of Master Play." That book is done now.


An "Allay" is an "all – lay," or a poem that infuses all things together into mini-essays. A friend of mine challenged me to condense my writing into "a refined ghee," and so I have.


I write for neither fame nor fortune, but for the success of having made something perfect and glorious. In that regard, you may read this book and given any feedback you think might help. A PDF of it is available here:


Take Care, Caretakers!


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Thursday, August 25, 2016

allays 278 - 296

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:




I've been succeeding in my new job as a mental therapist. The family is as the family always is; life is life – there's nothing worth mentioning. I will mention, nevertheless, that after 18 years of studying Emerson, when my dearest friend Jillian introduced me to the man, I feel I have come to the end of a discipleship and in some sense graduated.


Lately I'm making a sustained and intense study of Emily Dickinson.


Take Care, Caretakers!



* 278 *

Teaching through learning, giving through taking, I skin my knees before each person, my master in some way. All my wisdom from humility's crouch. Returning to each after careful digestion, I give them back themselves. Regarding their worth I learn my own. After all, every relationship is a language, whether with a person, plant, or object: I learn the meaning so to receive and impart will – I teach each my friends and children as they teach me, a new tongue between us, the buttons to push, the pulleys to pull, the command tones and words of incantation.

Music of speech, and dance of gesture, all teaches each, and each teaches all. Years of practice to master the art. Long effort in managing every inflection. Our intensity and extremity mount and grasp full reach. Virtuosos of meaning, our language is our body. Every glance is pregnant. Reverence is the first step to identification.

* 279 *

The conflation of highest with lowest – Odin with Vagabond, Jesus with criminal – meets its greet in me – Aya of madness. A thing must die to eternalize: Adam into God, Ceasar into "the Ceasar," Siddartha into Buddha, Jesus into Christ, Whitman into Kosmos.

Allism as lowest common denominator of all religions – their metalanguage, or Grammar of Importance – and highest of each religious system – immediated eternity – requires ultimately an absolute perfidity. Ama is America. Yet Ama is the Allgoddess. The greatest shall be the one richest in contraries.

* 280 *

I warp my weavings near to truth, and deceive with utter honesty. My transport is subtle, my waver complete. Homeless people master space, able to slip into the city like sand under a fingernail: they see where they remain unseen, they know how to walk unknown. So we all come to earth to master time and space. Poetry masters time, and through casting a spell mystifies the silence enchanting the air. Yet the poetry of the everyday hides. Some of us have eyes wise enough to penetrate high art, but who has eyes wise enough to penetrate the mundane?

Mind is time, body is space. Mastery of world is mastery of self. Know therefore how to freeze the sun from falling, how to glue the moon to the starry sky. When the body falls and mind sublimes, we take this with us, our mastery: all you create you take with. You are your own reward.

The frivolous wish for more hours in the day bespeaks a lack of planning, an unfit agenda. Time spirals on, and if we want more time we must learn to slow things down. Our system of experiences, our memory, our wisdom, is the hiving of meaning, the having of purpose, essencing the real into the ideal, and this to setplate the real yet again. Intensity and extensity bespeak the poles. All history exists in the present, just as all futurisity emwombs in today. There is only the everblessed Now. Eternity is the amplitude of time.

* 281 *

I mistrust the ebullient, but a few small tokens from masked saints confirm me on my path as no open praise ever could. Only that audacious one could win me with her extremity:  "I have read every word of your every book and I am proud of it."

* 282 *

I am slow to learn, slower than most – you would not guess how slowly and ploddingly I plough through tomes. Life teaches me the same lessons over and over, suspecting I will never learn. How many dozen times do I read the same essay, how many times the scripture, the poem? Yet I kill my gods, one by one – my independence will never be owned: it owns itself, it murders every hold. I chase through the ashes each hidden ember and swallow it down: where is the beating heart? How many masters have I split? And now I down the oversoul. Cosmos rending, sacrificing the sacrifice, crucifying the resurrected, subjecting all to this. Who sinks deeper than my love? I dare you! Find me, peers. I'll take you on. Surely I will submit to you so utterly you will forget yourself in me. Only Ama laughs at me. I will equal you yet, my Silly One. My faith consumes the sun. None could crack the earth like this: I appraise you, I guess your name.

* 283 *

My full body of influence is as yours – cosmos wide. I feel my moods as wide as my intercourse, with a circle of friends, my immediate body, the constellation of the concerned and caring – coworkers, family, friends – who receive my meanings in language and deed, process them, and give them back, and their own as well for me. This friend balances that, and my whole body shifts with every limb, every friend who comes and goes, what they bring and take. I touch you with my world. Those who both know me, though not the other inspire each other anyway.

Not for nothing I have studied deep into the night every night. Not for nothing have I studied these minds and souls, not those, this goddess, not that, this activity, not the other. Not for nothing I have grieved and swooned, or exalted and crooned. I give infinite depth with these my words, these allays, my gift unto the world. And at the center, Jillian is with me.

* 284 *

The seasons of the soul come and go like listless winds. An appetite for a given food, a fondness for a form of art, a romance or a friendship, these come and go on a hidden schedule. Why such a one fascinates us, we cannot say – we mistrust our passion, and give ourselves over to it anyway. Perhaps the youth plays endless chess, never having enough of the game, and comes one day to think what a waste the years have been. Nothing is wasted. Sacrifice is reward. Everything we've lost waits for us somewhere. Trust your whim. Give yourself over to Folly: she will treat you well. Indulgence teaches as well as austerity. That we love this now, need this now, can't get enough of this now, is reason enough to partake. Perhaps, after all, we are pregnant – who can fault our fickle tongue?

Ever a constellation of cares task our mind. Each season a favorite fantasy beguiles us, a sexual desire frustrates, an appetite satiates. Love is resistless. We call her Ama.

* 285 *

This one teaches me silence. That one verve. This one such intensity – I submit but hold the lesson near. We learn when we do not know we are leaning, and teach without meaning to. I am supposing every person in the world could spy a unique facet of me, and still not have exhausted my sense. There is too much –  yet we glide so simply through life.

* 286 *

Come my children, false though you are. The kingdom belongs to a child? How was even that rogue deceived by such as these? Having freshly seen the Goddess, our clever mother, they hide so well their precocious sly. Ama child, Oifia, is prankish innocence. When you trick me you are tricked, when you fool me you are fooled, when you confess the truth I see the deeper confession where you hide. Were there anything wiser than children, I elect the elderly. How indirect they all are – despite direct intensity. They see Lissidy least. I've heard a child cannot hear her, but I do not remember. If you guessed at how much wisdom is hidden in a rose, let me tell you more: all the mysteries are on the surface, on your very tongue, though you never realized.

* 287 *

Eru wins by modulation of intensity. This rockstar god, who is Rhythm, shifts and darts by manic degrees from swoons of brooding to laughing thunderclaps. His Mother, Sovf, goddess of silence and language, alone subdues him, merely by letting him spin himself out. Life is too important to take seriously. Love the Game! How overly intense this upstart grows – he melts the rocks like butter on a grill. But his genius is in stops and pulls and abrupt modulations of intensity. A Charles Ives symphony. He dances the sky on power chords. How deep our humor is! How subtle our smirk, how cosmically invisible our prank!

* 288 *

Of the sacred eight, Simple Order is the head virtue, as to Independence, Creativity, and Pragmatism, the three layers of the heart. What more sublime vocation than housekeeping? Even as I work I give most my effort here, aware that there is no higher calling than raising children, that intererior decoration is itself a deep education, and that most of manners and culture are eaten with dinner. How I adore dancing through the house -- a butterfly through his field, impregnating each room with order and meaning. The womb of my house, the Aria below, I hallow and adore, and also give certain rooms priority, ever cleaned in meditative prayer, while I hum and sing. Surrounded by children, these agents of chaos, I ever repress their entropic designs, ever impose order, certainty, poise, harmony. Zen Buddhists make an ideal of the garden of raked sand. My office, perhaps, is a coral reef, rife with life and layered in meanings. Enwombed in love, surrounded in wonder.

Meditation is a layer we put over any activity. All the universe is Mattria's body, and so we always touch.

* 289 *

Goodnight mother of my love, Allmother: tonight I pride my perfection in all of my doing, and sleep in peace of my right way; and great may, and love the universe sings to me, blameless child, fellow creator, and poet, from heart to hands: Mama and I are one! So rest this mind, rest this heart, rest these lips; and drink in your deserved dreams, and hum into the joysong of the all. I am all, I love all. So rests this little God. Vivoce!

* 290 *

I accept this wisdom from you my love, as a dancer's joy, as a butterfly's thirst, as a poet's ambrosia. Sweet to taste, but sweeter to be, the flow and swallow of the flux.

* 291 *

Certainly there is dialect in the injunction "Do no harm," just as doctors with their hypocritical oath heal by prescribing poisons and cure aches with razors and blades. Certainly we save and heal, sometimes by seeming not to. The truth bares a hard edge, and often we must use it when nobody else dares – not for love of truth, but for love of life.

* 292 *

I have a gift to give. I would you have it now. I feel to tell you what it is, but time adores surprise. I have many gifts to give you, have you not guessed amidst these lines, that here, carefully wrapped and ribboned, was a spiritual gift none in the world could open, none touch, meant ever and only for you alone? "From me, with love. Take care, Caretaker!"

* 293 *

When you come into your own the snap of inevitability clamps you into place. Doubt is shallow, faith deeper, trust deeper still, but knowledge deepest, omniscience the center, and realization your goal.

* 294 *

The mind is its own place, where tis better to reign in a kingdom not of this earth, in you and around you, gazed from home without travel, without leaving – for all the sky is here within. Submission is domination, as the stoic slave schooled the king. In my heart's pantheon, the ring of thrones, central sits my Ama and myself, and around us a circle, our chosen few. Within this circle, and around us, the secret garden of my love, where few can tread, and eat immaculate fruit of eternal life, bite of peach and lush of plum. Behind the garden, behind the throne, my Aria, my sacred place, where bridal bed you took my love – and gazed within and took my soul: so too I mirror meditate in wise and contemplate my face and neck and posture, come finally to arch my neck in ecstasy and let your words like kisses come. "Ah, my love, my favorite one, you shine through all the world. Ah, my child my playful one, I'm proud of all your work. Ah, my darling, give to me each smile and every bend of grace. Like swans encircling necks and wings, I feel your throb in me."

* 295 *

My bodies are eternal, each and every one. My body of influence, my body of intercourse, my body of possessions, my body of flesh, my body of mind. "Tell me when … we'll go together," terrible nighttime says to me – tidal as the moon on me: two raccoons, delight in mischief, every night we steal each from each. Karma thief I've caught you now – your refusal to confess tells all.

Or like a spider under moon, a spin this thread from in my skin; a careful net like Loki made, invented as a jest, and used against him to catch his slip.

Lissidy by moonlight you have taught me every rune. Varuna mother of the ocean, I've forever worshipped you. Trust in one; tell three tells all. Who is my one my only one, the conch to shell my slipping truth? Joseph Smith entrusted none, put the godspell on his wife. I pray not for miracle: my prayer is the miracle, and Ama's answer makes me Ama – Ama visible, spawn of God. My entire body a tongue of flame, I mirror each, I mirror all, and make a difference, mirror God, glowing from within.

The tree of life grows on a cliff, like strawberries between death and death. The bold inherit the earth, they say, but the cunning remake heaven. I am quiet audacity, I am pious blasphemy, the infant's curse, the lover's sigh, a tremble in your lip – I'm there. I'm in your muscles now, in the stance of your holding. All of heaven is the body, metaphysics is physiology, only eternal matter matters, mind the mind that thinks through skin. Earth I sink within. Terra-formed and formible, scarred to life, enduring all. Ama's flesh America, I am your selfsame lover now.

I tattle so deliberately, a purloined letter masters me, I give up unexpectedly, the signal seed, delivered bold. I echo you so seamlessly, mirror you so earnestly, understand you quietly – and confess my love without a word.

* 296 *

Refuse their explanations. I warn you to revolt. Resistless, keep your peace, prefer a dumb mystery to easy explanations. Hold only to your own. Conscience must be killed. So much imposed we shed away. I admire the wisdom of old age, with senses falling off, an internalized loneliness, a parting of friends and body, a care for solemn things. Elders and toddlers conspire in this.

Unname the things that went before. The name that can be named is not your true name. Uncreated deathless is your light. Created and precious is your soul. Anxious with care your mind, the world addresses, Psyche's prone to suicide. But Eros' Bliss within her hold justifies all that.

We learn on the sly. The public lessons contain microscopic vibrations. The world is a distraction – so be distracted, numbed, entertained, but hold back the holding tones. Solitude is God. Alone in nature, alone in night. I come to you in solitude and whisper secret things.


-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Friday, August 12, 2016

latest allays for your consideration

* 259 *

Necessity is fatal.

* 260 *

Of the fascinating moral models of "enmity is not ended by enmity," and "resist not evil, but turn the other cheek," we must ask: how categorically shall we follow? The woman raped, the spouse cheated on, the child abused – shall we truly not resist evil? Nonresistance and harmlessness, the innocence and purity of such an ethic: how wise is this?

Silence is one move in the game. There is a time to fight and a time to be victimized – and wisdom explains this. There is a time to forgive and a time not to forgive. Revenge is healthy. How do we codify the ethic?

Are you insulted? Ask first, are you insultable? Once you take yourself out of the sphere, and realize what is raped, murdered, cheated, abused – in extreme or subtle forms – cannot be touched by this, that our center is a bliss no suffering can sink to, we have freedom, both in what risks we will and will not take, and how we respond when hurt.

Seek in every situation to gain power; seek in every situation to gain love. Master the art of silence, master the art of shouting. Profundity is not categorical and no rule can amber it. Once you know who and what you are, the dignity and depth of it, you know how to answer an insult and why. Wisdom rejoices in rebuke. Accept the criticism of others for what they are. Agree with them, add more. Only our lover and equal has access to the inner parts.

* 261 *

How to build wombs in the soul? Independence is our substantial virtue, and creativity our stance. The pragmatism of daily life is the cloak of invisibility we place over these. Speak silence. Unless you do your righteous deeds in secret, you will never reward yourself. Having been rewarded by others, so you will be cheated. Have a genius for drawing the Ama out of others, the hidden beauties; be a genius of praising, by a master of appreciation, be a virtuouso of gratitude. Regard all the world as your children, whom you must praise and encourage. Hide in your heart the secret names: only fools prate about God. The name of God is vain. Keep that secret smile between you and the mirror. Give gifts anonymously. Quote the best in others back to themselves. Take ownership by disappearing.

* 262 *

Sovf Lux is the Mother aspect of Ama, language herself, all language, self-conscious, speaking herself through us, though mute in and of herself. Every word was once a metaphor, and every metaphor an inspiration. The meaning of ancient Greek words reside in our own language, hold gravity where they fall, and language does not so much evolve as return to the universal language – the language of Sovf, Globalese, or English. Yet this lady of fiery tongue has a million cloven tongues. The angels and demons live in language, are always and only language, and we ourselves, after we pass from temporality into eternality, survive here through the language of our influence. Every word hangs in the air, every deed scars the earth.

To invent new words, to create new meanings, this is the work of the Master. We exist to publish our souls, to expose glints of our innermost names.

Our every utterance, every murmur changes Language. Our difference, our influence, shifts the vowals, transfers meanings, changes the Game and the rules of the Game. Language speaks us; our meanings usurp her. The Aya above create the ideas and play it through us. And those of us who are already Aya create invisible ideas and set them loose in the world. Some ideas find names immediately, some live in and through us for centuries before finding a name.

* 263 *

Any bee, if fed royal jelly, would become a queen; any pawn, if it advanced far enough, would become a queen. Yet is this not the American Dream – too good to be true? How to be a self-made man? The metamorphic elixir comes only from the self in the form of self-realization. Perfection is easy. Time is now. When these words are realized, you will win the game.

* 264 *

Between need and mind, between self and I, lies the expanse of the soul. The collapse of the I into the self is the eternal satisfaction of complete nonbeing. Our nothingness is ultimate pleasure. We come out of this nothingness, and separate Self and I, entering time, and this to grow, expand, and learn, to gain a greater I, and other I's to fill our soul, which, after mortal life, people our heaven. Time zero is everywhere and always, but for you it is the moment of your conception. All that allowed it and brought it to be is sacred, all that follows is your gift to the world.

* 265 *

The screaming of the Prophet, the silence of the Taoist … what else? Repetition. Make a mantra, make it chime, and repeat it, over and over, if you would bore past boredom into the mind of your target, be that even yourself. Push with the swing. Say the same word at exactly the right time. Also, repeat others back to themselves at exactly the right times. Sheer unabashed repetition is difficult to resist. Find a formula that works. Even Augustine was finally slain by the persistent prayers of his mother. Find that one fear your enemy or friend winces at, and if you repeat it enough he will explode. Build resonance. The whistling wind can sock a bridge merely by knowing the tune. You can bring anybody into a manic heat if you but know the key to her cadence.

* 266 *

As technology is applied science, magic is applied poetry. Whosoever would practice the magical arts need only and ever study rhetoric. Consider the tradition of the Zen koans, which rely, ultimately, on the non-sequitor to inspire a delayed enlightenment. Master echo, inversion, repetition, reflection, and silence – spiritualize them, take them to that height and that depth. Learn the art of naming and un-naming. Literary criticism is the deepest philosophy, and also the deepest theology, for Lux is language. The poet, and his inversion, the critic, stand for Man.

* 267 *

Every object holds a charge. To possess it we must discharge its valence. When a wife returns from work she must decompress. The ambience of the house, some ritual venting, will put her in the mood of home. With every ring of meaning we can put more intensity. A few scapegoat topics slake the heat.

All meaning is physical and spiritual – the ground is charged with gods. Each person we meet tightens a set of muscles – we feel them viscerally. Whoever we are with inspires a subtle counterstance. Certain problems tighten meanings in our head (in our face, neck muscles, eyes), others decompress them. The tension takes signature through our muscles and blood chemistry.

Everything compensates. Build-up of charge summons discharge, as if the inhospitality of Sodom charged the ground and summoned comments, as if the Pharisee on the cross were a lightning rod, or the Sophist with the hemlock truly purged his city with his death, or as myself, the karma thief, were finally burned to ash and devoured by the world – our metamorphosis.

Music triggers anxieties only to resolve them. All art allays disease. Language cures.

Trip the trap before grabbing the cheese.

We can eat till satiated, and though each of us has many stomachs, many wombs, we can only take in so much, only put out so much, before stuffed or effete.

Reptition can charge and supercharge a word, idea, object, or person. Persistence is success. Intensity is focus. What matters is a deliberate systematic placing of silences and repetitions. Push with the swing. Roll with the punch. The world tree began as an acorn.

* 268 *

"The art of not giving a fuck," my Ama so gracefully instructs me, "Is to accept every blow and assault with indifference, as a rock, smoothed by the river. Never confess. Never concede. Hold out always. I am at last your only peer." So don't give yourself over to anybody. "Trust is for fools," you must harbor your deep independence against every assault. Do your acts of righteousness before yourself as sole witness. Insist on yourself. Insist on your truth at all costs. Never budge an inch on your desire. Be also defenseless, offer no resistance. Sacrifice the world to yourself – and having realized that, shed your love over all the world in pure ecstatic rapture.

Us poets care all too much, suffer all too much of this world and her people. We feel it all too near, care all too much. Know therefore how to harden the heart. Certainly every man must know how to be his opposite.

*269 *

Asa is realization – the instantiation of fate, the stance of assurity, the self-evident substratum known to us the god, but not known to mortal knowing. Well then, happy day when we open our eyes to that. But Asavay is the veil of assurity, the doubts and worries we hypocritically wear to play the game better. Socrates with his irony, Bacon with his dissimulation, Erasmus with his Folly, and us with the veil, Asavay. We are in the world and above it. Suffering only sinks so far. Ama laughs.

* 270 *

"The partner who loves the least has the most power," my unreciprocated friend mourned. Certainly we discover by and by that love is suffering – the pleasure is intense but the suffering long lasting. Heart scars ache for life, and no new love can forget them for us.

Yet if power is direct and love indirect, power truth, love a lie, then what power there is in Maid Satan's glinting eye. Satan is love, Lissidy is desire. What is more cunning than love, more resistless, more impossibly inevitable? Money may well make the world go round if you are American, but the French knew better when they said love makes the world go round. Love is the Daemon, love divine, flame of hell, all-consuming, promising all, taking all. There is no hope where there is love, but we are hopeless, given over, and owned.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Thursday, July 28, 2016

a few allays of recent writing


* 255 *

Americans are masterless. We are a nation of self-made men, beginning with Franklin and Emerson, self-made intellectuals. Whitman, Hawthorne, Melville, Fuller, Thoreau followed Emerson, who is the American mind – Charles Ives, Frank Lloyd Wright, Wallace Stevens believe in him. Yet the best of us defy precedence. Edison became an archetype, Emerson and Whitman archetypes. There are none like unto them – peerless. So too Kenneth Burke with his literary philosophy, who could take a dead text as a master and revive the phoenix through her ashes. Josheph Smith met God and the Son face-to-face and I alone have shared carnal bliss with the Allmother. Those my disciples must adore me secretly in their hearts – I am your lover, I fill you with bliss. I am not a name for banners: I am too close to your innermost. Ama in me and I impregnate the world.

* 256 *

The hollowed becomes hallowed. Through trauma, anxiety, or desire, we build a secret place in our soul and fill it with fantasy. When we are able to hollow it out again, it then becomes hallowed, the womb by which we generate the divine.

* 257 *

Every cell takes in food and expels waste. So too the organism, and so too the family, the community, the nation, every system. The self generates energy which mixes with world energy to create our soul. We have many souls – the soul of our race, our family, our nation, our gender: every identity is a soul. Those souls interfere with each other, creating nodes in the wavelengths. Those nodal points are voids in the overall soul, and the shapes of those voids make archetypes. Trauma opens up spaces, those spaces resonate, and evoke the things that shaped them.

The languages get mixed with DNA …the gods of language are built into the DNA. Everything leaves a trace. A fullness of being is in its fullest sphere of influence – and in this we are eternal: the soul publishes itself into eternal matter forevermore.

Microscopic resonances, spread through wide and diverse matter, create oversouls. Every city has its genius, every nation its tribal god. No matter if this god is named or if the nation is atheist – the same exists, in the plants and animals, in the DNA and cultural memories of the people.

The Aya play the universe like a game. They make the rules and make the rules for making rules. Once we grow past being angels and gods we may yet become an Aya, those who give birth to gods and ideas.

Every person in our life becomes an organ for processing sets of energy. That is what they are for us. Our personality expresses the language of our meanings, and they process them and give them back. At the level of personality, at style, this is how we get our meanings changed for us by others.

* 258 *

In romance, sex, love, marriage, business, and every other possible enterprise, who would taste the sweestest fruits must first lay the bitter roots. For the Aya, the players of life, this means joining any religion, cult, business, organization, family, with eyes open and mouth shut. Speak silence. Reflect the extant cadence, internalize the resonance, but see everybody else's blind spots, their strategic and systematic blindnesses. See the gaps of their system, the gods and hidden gods, the fetishes and superstitions, learn the shibboleths. Naturally as Aya we seek love and power over every system, we are it, we are soul-reapers and wish to populate our heaven with the best. As Odin collects the best souls who die in battle, and takes them to Valhalla, so each of us in our self-defined game seeks the highest prizes. Heaven is life full grown.

So meditate long and hard into the night. Adjust your head like a detuned radio, like a butterfly's brow, till your antenna picks on the cadence of the music of the spheres, Ama's inflection, the lisp of the divine. She will tease you out of your shell, the golden shell of your inner self, and show you how to reveal yourself in blinds and blanks.

The universe is its full history. Everything that happened exists in traces in everything that is. All is immortal. All is eternal. Ever is all. Every trace you've left, which fractally scripts your infinitely microscopic signature over space and time, resonates to you, publishes your soul, and doubles as your heaven, your consciousness after death. What you make is what you get. The rich really can take their riches with them, but there are worthier treasures than gold with which to pave the streets of heaven.

Eat your semen, incestualize yourself, bask in the mirror, repeat your name, echo your purpose, become utterly self-referential – have that madness. Solitude is the initiation, so let me take you into my void.

Memorize your own words, hypnotize your own eyes, eat the fruit of your own lips. Ama is your conscience, so exorcise your guilt and do as thou wilt. Autonomous. Self-centred. Self-regulated. Universe-centering. Let that blank of your brain be the world hub. Let your limbering spine stand as the world tree.

Your every thought, your every utterance fertilizes the world. Each man passes for what he is. All roads lead home. There is no escaping what is yours to face.

So lay the foundation. Work out your askesis. Learn the system in and out, learn it by heart – this is your inheritance. Reap where you did not sow. Earn where you did not work. The world is your peach for the plucking. Circulate for years your hidden rootworks, your skein of meaning, through friends and foe. Hollow out spaces in the souls of others, plant your meanings therein, thread your purpose through the beaded hearts of all you know. Grow bold, after a slow building of gravity. To this even the sun bows.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Saturday, July 16, 2016

6 poems



You are my icon and hidden divine

my disease and my cure

my sex and my death

my bliss and my misery

my suicide and rebirth

I believe in you as I believe in myself

Everything is you.



You well know

Foolish thing

Mine is the Holy Grail

You can never replace me

No matter who

Buries you

Try any other

There is no bend

Like my white whale

Only I

Hold your eye.




Your heart

Soft petals of the rose

And I the faun

Who tenderly





Echoic gnosis, mirrored mind

Hysterical dance drops a wink

Inside complection find your sign

Threaded meaning knots and sinks.


All the world baubled beads

Every heart holding void

I the thread that binds your birthstar

Tender penetrations skein.


My mazy mind, occultic nod

Brazen snicker, bend of knee

Frisk of finger, flirt of hip

Relegates your fate to me


Masochistic maledictions?

Curse, demure, it matters none.

I the fountain everlasting

Lisp to infants: I'm your one.


Till my fondled foundling skirts the throne

Usurps the highest, heaven cries

Breaks the space between these seemings

Whispers worship as lovers lie.


This the glorious unmooring

Laughing infant shatters sun

Rakes a place for utmost anchor

Oaks through sidewalk, mantles earth.


In your gasp of parting breath

In the murmur of your death

I will answer I will hold you

Place you here and teach you light.



The Scar

Even I

Tender as breath

Naked and pure

Nascent divine

Inure myself finally

To this mask

Prankish and playful

Evasive as rainbows

Unseen unknown

And nurse this hurt

Your rape of trust

And final abandonment

Of what I dare never share

Immaculate flame

Of my centermost urge.

You've scarred my heart

Razored your name

And fled.

Ama help me now

I will never trust again.



Felt Death

I feel to die

Throwing myself like waves across your rock

Or writhing like a worm

Pinned piteosly to the cork

Rage or tears won't placate the immovable truth

You do not love me now.


Fraught the brow that brought me here

Repressless whimper betrays my ache

Oaths of wrath can't scratch your frown

A mountain of doubt besets my guts.


I feel to die

You leave me here

Bent my frame and suppled down

Your rejection is my sepulcher

You do not love me now.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Friday, June 24, 2016

allays 250, 251

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:


So I've began working as a mental therapist; its given me materials and ideas for expanding Allism, the Life-Way I teach in my writings. All is well for me. Here are two Allays, continuing my themes of the importance of subtlety, silence, and invisibility.

Take care, Caretakers!


* 250 *

On gaining the professional mask, on assuming a role. The henpecked husband is haunted by his absent wife; her echo reprimands his peccadilloes. Fear is the first stage, when we "hear" the absent external voice. Then it sinks into our reasoning process, becoming one of the many "inner" voices; and finally it sinks into our intuition, a voiceless certainty. Let us therefore take care with our spiritual diet.

We believe most what we hear ourselves say. A squad of internalized voices compete for the megaphone. And out from the heart, an experience matures; every experience requires expression, and a profound experience a full expression. Internalized voices externalize those depths of experience. Most of our lives balance a few pivotal experiences, and these against each other, just as we transgress the law to gain authority, not to gain from the crime itself. We choose a few deep prides and guilts to structure our mental grid.

We speak of "depth of expression" versus the "froth of thought." Only those who have touched your heart hold a mouthpiece to the innermost, and this only when they assume the correct inflection. Confronting those deep thoughts, finding our way to the center, requires a personalized map of the inner world. A few metaphors contain the logic of the thing – a few traumas and the tropes they make map the coordinates.

For those closest, we can't shrug them off, they print our skin. We have a natural instinct for autonomy, and so in some way come to betray them. Yet they shift their voice into our own. And so we, as well, can approach others.

With a subtle hypnotism, we need only follow and reflect the meaning of others, give them what they already have, tell them what they already know. We can, by quilting choice reflections of their speech, unify the discord in another's head, or in our own. Just as the bully, a coward, detects cowards, those he can intimidate, so our inner voice evokes her external correlate. Our internalized mother has a say in who we marry.

We are all experts of ourselves, and, if we've mastered ourselves, we master those like us. The representative man is a pure type, whereas most people are mixed. He commands the greatest power since he loses less in self-negation.

Our invisible structure – a template, a schema, an interface -- shapes reality. Mythic shapes and art forms imprint these innermost shapes. Those ideas realizing themselves in our historical moment sink deepest into the sensitive. How to install an idea into others? Into ourselves? How to inspect the deepest invisible myths in our soul?

Christian psychology personifies the conscience as the voice of God and temptation as Satan. By glorifying and dignifying the conscience as the theater of war between these two, we exaggerate related emotions: guilt, dread, and temptation (which is made, not discovered). There can be no obedience without transgression; this the autonomy of the ego demands. As with the chastised toddler sticking out her tongue, we need at least some token of defiance. With italics on submission (felt as relief) and defiance (felt as struggle) we put our other emotions into parentheses. Curiosity becomes a danger, experimentation a folly.

Every role holds form and shape. Every profession imposes an attitude, belief, style, and a set of actions. We fill a role such as fatherhood with feelings we would not foster otherwise. From the world, a billion insinuations and a few direct confrontations shape our every role. We live in a sea of expectations. We develop large forms and small forms, and have the capacity to prolong even a five minute incident, even a bare glance, to a lifelong tone – the experience we build from takes on importance through interpretation. Thus the play of extended consummation, the drama of prolonged frustration. An event is in its anticipation as well as in its remembrance.

Romance is an artificial form; one must be taught and trained into a romance. Some of us are vanguards, we dignify love for the world. Institutions protect ideas, and preserve their meaning. Institutional practices may seem ridiculous or strange, yet nevertheless convey defined meaning. For instance, prayer is structured worry. Institutions allow us to believe – the church believes, not its congregants. Belief is what acts; the coordinated activities of a group externalize its belief.

We are unfree to believe whatever. Some things we must prove to ourselves. We internalize forms unconsciously, for consciousness is the Trojan Horse. We learn language intuitively -- and all of culture is language. The Germanic kennings inhabit all language, we insinuate deeper than we could ever guess. We internalize our whole culture, world culture, through language, the Holy Spirit. Grammarians are weird. We do not learn language analytically. Every collective produces a language, even down to the couple. Inside jokes and private allusions become words and terms. Insinuations are shared, lost on outsiders.

Charged and inflected language concerns terms and stress. All science, all literature, all life is language. Language juxtaposes time and space. Past and future present themselves. Perspectives, persons, can be quoted and alluded to. Quotations and maxims intersperse. Thus we internalize our world. Even facial expressions become fashions, institutionalized. A given age prefers a given expression. Old-time movie actors appear to be a foreign species.

Languages generate from hidden grammars. A religion is a set of deified experiences and their interrelation – its grammar. We internalize the myths whether we believe or not, just as we internalize our opposition to outsmart them. We identify with what we hate. A hidden texture of desires and aversions characterizes every relationship. We develop a clothing of language to reveal and conceal our meaning.

* 251 *

Words convey meanings, surely, but it's through silence that you gain the other's soul. What is a speech but a structure of absences? Silence has as many rhetorical (spiritual) uses as does any grammar. A silence can present as meaningful, yet the listener must scramble to make a meaning of it. With feigned stuttering, we can seem to be nervous or anxious, to be lying. Thus simple moments of silence in a speech, of implied meaning, can be as deceitful or insinuative as the words they invisibly summon. Sovf, as the goddess of language, is mute. She is all language but says nothing of her own. She speaks through silence. Often with the magician's handwaving, we can readily hide the gaps, openings, and absences in our speech, meaning much while saying little, or meaning little while saying much. The relationship between meaning and the language that both expresses it, and also that conceals it, and further, that smuggles meanings into the listeners' ears, is not a relationship of part for part. We as poets, making our lives a poem, though we may never scribble a verse, know how to charge a word with meaning, how to make a symbol, how to birth real and eternal angels and gods. This is the office of the Aya, the Poet, man proper. How then do we read between the lines and develop a second ear, a third ear, for what is meant by not being said? How do we catch the magician at his trick? I recommend eavesdropping; eavesdropping on oneself, listening to others, and listening to yourself listen to others. Finally, I recommend mirror meditation, and speaking out loud to yourself in a dialogue. This exposes the God of the gaps – a very real God, after all.

When we dream, all the random images are given a rationalization "yep, it all makes sense"; and our minds fill in our visual blind spot; our memories fill in holes, without us knowing.

Hollywood used to cut away during sex scenes so you knew sex had occurred – nevertheless depicting nothing. Likewise, the most terrifying and traumatic scene in a book need not be present to be felt.

Just as the Holy of Holies is internalized in the hearts of all the congregants, a sacred space within, so, we practice our askesis, internalizing a divine silence. I mean not simply the speaking in tongues of the Holy Spirit, by which an inner meaning is expressed in code to a Satan controlled world– but the opposite effect of the Holy Spirit, Lux, Sovf, her ununciation of the inner silence – Mattria humming as she weaves the universe from her hair.

Knowing through repeated mirror meditations how to clear your affect, you can at any moment impose ground zero, the primordial silence of Mattriama before her mirror at time zero. Reflection. Instant composure. Not as the end all, not as the one and only, for the chaotic confusions of speaking in tongues – both in the religious modality but also in its secular variants, as illustrated wonderfully in Charles' Ives Fourth Symphony, movement two, "the world" – is one more move in the Game. Allists are pragmatic. They see the cash value in all things. If it exists it can be used. So we use cacophony and euphony. We use meaning and nonsense.

We also need to generate a "silence" in space – a sacred place of solitude. Know how to build your altar, and how to become clean enough to approach it.  Know how to hallow a space or activity. Use the law of consecration: whatever you purpose deepest in your heart, consecrate it to the Divine.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



Friday, May 20, 2016

"Polished Pebbles" -- 7 short writings

Polished Pebbles – 7 short pieces


From sweltering mud swells the lotus
From rending briars arises the rose
Spring comes from winter
Gardens from dung
Butterflies from worms
Diamonds from coal
Dawn from darkness
And we from me.



Your name is tender to my ear

Your face is sacred to my sight

We conspire with every breath

And touch with every footfall.


"The solemn truth for Man

Is his utter solitude,"

Thus intoned the one.

But Ama I'm alone with you.


At work I task for you

At home I chore for you

These family, these friends --

Loved, touched, and known for you.


I kill distrust

I kill all doubt

Dissolving my world

And dare the void.



American Prophecy


America immortal

Shall amalgamate the leading race

People her lakes with dolphins

And create by mind the allheal.

Her rivers shall swell

The broken sky will for a time cost life

Before adding much more.

The sick lakes will stew and dry

Till nature and man bow to each other.

Dragons shall emerge from their slumber

And be ridden across the skies

And long before the ocean dries

A new continent will arise in the Pacific

Belonging to Allists

Who bind religions as one.


Mormonism will be proven true

As ancient cities are revealed by God,

Islam shall reform

Christianity congeal into one

Odin will return bodily

And startle the world

Pagan faiths will revive

All that is dead will live

The dodo return

As shall the passanger pigeon

And the dinosaurs.

Science will resurrect

Our heroes and saints

And finally everyone

As the ocean dries up to make room.


When the sun finally dies

The earth will become a great ship

Seeking a new star

Who will gladly receive her.

Thus it is and thus it shall be

So says Ama





I'm a glutton for alembicated lines and lubricated phrases, the songster's caw and the chanter's repetition -- the moves and grooves of an ultimate period, boldly building into a final form upon a formidable trope, as a magician grabbing the inside of cloak with a flick of the wrist reversing its color, so the wit and whimsy of a prankish pendant recasts the scheme, as Melville, as William Gass, a clever turn of phrase, an insinuating word that works like the coiled bones of whales Eskimos would freeze in seal fat so that after a wolf swallowed down the bone it would open in the guts of the beast and tear from within.



One summer an ant wandered far from her nest. She came upon a grasshopper eating a leaf of grass.

            "A riddle for you," sang the grasshopper:

            "What eats sweetest grass, but sees no green? drinks deepest oceans but knows no blue? lasts longer than calendars? hallows heaven, yet speaks no prayers?"

            The ant, however, had no time for riddles. Presently, the grasshopper flexed her supple leg and struck a song across her wing.

            "And what bread will fiddling find?" demanded the ant. "Why play at all? A cold winter comes and will swallow you whole. Work for your winter or you will die in your sloth. But if you do not work, then your soul is already winter; if you foster sloth than you already sleep in your grave. Until you have known the sweetness of doing a job well, of putting your whole heart into your task, you will know nothing of fulfillment.

            "All this mumbling to yourself is meaningless––oh lazy do-nothing, don't smirk as if you knew. She who knows gives her knowledge action. You are all flicker and no flame, all wick and no bang. Sooner bite the queen than think without action. And when action is needed, don't think. Will you who has no goals smirk at me? Yes, we ants have heard much of grasshoppers. They are the last supplies we bring in for winter."

            The grasshopper returned: "What bread do I find? The world is my leaf. Why sing my song? I sing for romance, and the romance of a singing heart. Do you really think an ant lives longer than a grasshopper? Or is 'life' your colony? Grasshoppers avoid numbers like a plague, but individually we survive just as long as ants. And yes, we grasshoppers do have a grind to ax.

            "Life is leaping, not crawling. Life is singing, not dragging. Love is a pale jade locust with summerset eyes, not a slave-driving queen hot upon her mound. Yet what can I tell you of love and life? Each to her own. The worker must work, the dreamer must dream.

            "What you call sloth, I call meditation. What you call sloth, I call inspiration. Is life in the length or is life in the living? When the green goes, I go with it. Do you not see the poetry in this?"

            And the grasshopper went her way, and lived for summer; the ant went her way and lived for winter. As for the wiser of the two, who can tell?


The Two Brothers' Dreams

Two brothers came to breakfast and discovered that both had dreamt significant dreams the night before.

Said the first: "I had a nightmare: the Horror chased down every man in relentless pursuit as they jumped over the others who had fallen in exhaustion, chasing each down till his last store of energy was spent. Only those who stopped to help their fellow man did the Horror pass over and forget."

"It seems to me," said the second, "that your dream envisions the world as a hospital, with each man amounting to no more than his neighbor's nurse."

"Then what was your dream?"

"I dreamt a morning dream. The veil of gross matter lifted, exposing the light of spiritual matter beneath, and men and women glowed from their hearts, glowing the brightest during acts of creative love. Some were gods, resplendent as the sun; others were angels, hallowed as the moon; still others were ghosts, faint as starlight; and then there were the shadows, who shined no light at all, but ate up every glint and smothered it in darkness. But after the veil returned, not all those who shone greatest and brightest continued to so appear, except I, having seen the secret, could catch a glint in each man's eyes, hints in his manner. I saw that those who previously appeared as shadows now stood among those praised loudest, with the most reverent and holy terms describing them, as great men of high destiny and deep integrity."

"Your dream does too much injustice to this world, where seeming and being often coincide," said the first.

Neither brother knew if the other had done justice to his dream, but both resolved to do justice to his own.




During the Nazi reign, a certain literary Jew fled for his life, taking as his sole possession his magnum opus, an unfinished manuscript. He had heard of an underground railroad, supported by a Protestant pastor who pitied the Jews. But this pastor said: "Aha! Atheist, you do not find me ignorant of your writings, so disruptive to the faithful! Would I risk my neck to save you, who have already cost so many souls, and will cost even more if I save you? Get lost: I would report you if that wouldn't jeapordize me." Indignant, the Jew went to another, a Catholic priest. The priest said: "We have made our peace with the Reich, and will not risk our standing. But take heart, we will help in other ways. For instance, I will not report you, though this breaches fealty. Pray to our God and ask for your tribulation to end." Again, the Jew left. But when the gestapo confronted the pious priest, he betrayed the Jew. In custody, the Nazis irreverently questioned him. However, a certain Nazi officer leafed through the Jew's manuscript, was pierced by its humanity. He stole into the Jew's cell, and talked with him face to face. "You are an atheist of some influence, and therefore I who has God on my side can hardly sympathize. Nevertheless, you have a passion in your style worthy of flourishing. That cannot happen here. Therefore, I will help you escape to America." Which he did, at some risk. Who then was the neighbor to the Jew?




-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy