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



Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Allay #238

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:




I've created an allay I am especially proud of, so I am passing it on. Meanwhile, by way of personal update, I have a new job now working as a "peer support specialist," a sort of counselor for mentally ill persons. So I've taken hiatus from freelance writing for a living. Natalie just had her 10th birthday; she is out of traction, out of the halo, out of the cone, and can move her neck freely now. Theron, my three-year-old is more or less potty trained, and Emilie, my 6-year-old artist, is blossoming as always.


Take care, Caretakers!


* 238 *

When a society ripens, it germinates a prophet, the harbinger of a cult, a great condenser, a possessed man. He is possessed by God, inspired by God, and God here, as always, refers ultimately to a relationship between man and men. The prophet submits, he submits because he is sensitive, and having submitted, he commands. I speak of such obvious cases as Muhammad and Joseph Smith, the Buddha and Paul. That such a person himself becomes convinced he is Destiny is enough: few people can convince themselves of this, beyond manic cases, and these but briefly.

The material kernel of a religion is in the cult, and the cult cloisters around one artifact, as with the Bacchus cult – basically, a wine cult, basically, the kind of plant one gets from a grape seed, transplanted to Greece, and blossoming into a mythology. The stuff of a cult, as with a culture, is a pattern of experience, imposed, taken in, and held reverently. Again, we cannot choose what we revere. Like love, it is chosen for us: by us, but not by the will.

Ideas precede words. There are more ideas than words, and ideas for which there are no words. We think them, but cannot say. We guess invisible planets by noting how a far star sways. This is a key to the riddle, "Why is Sovf, the Goddess of language, mute?" Language means by the said, language means by the unsaid.

To say that a cult is a condensation of a greater culture means not at all that it appears to be a microcosm, but as Buddhism encoded Hinduism, and as Christianity dual encoded Judaism and Romanism, the new creation appears at first, and in its obvious manifestation, as a contradiction.

The object of reverence means less than how one interprets it, and to interpret anything aright you must live with it, consciously and unconsciously, internally and externally, for a long time. To grow up in any society is to inherit a language. What marvels we discover through introspection, not knowing how prematurely stuffed we are with centuries of cultural baggage – all of American history gestates in each citizen.

To become timeless, one must realize he is eternal. For this reason I say there are those who are deeper than prophets, and by that I mean the Ayan, the gods. To contribute an original word to the universe, to breathe your name, requires that particularly American experience of utter solitude, which means, also, that we must master the travesties of loneliness -- all the shames of masturbation, suicide, selfishness, hermitude, alienation, and insanity belong to us, the vicissitudes of self-mastery.

A man's relationship to himself matters more than his relationship to his lover, his family, his hometown, his country, to God, or the universe. A man's relationship to himself is the archetypal relationship. After death the best of us collapse into such a solarity. God is solitude.

The ultimate cultural seeds have always been and will always be poetic myths. All the scriptures and great books of the world frame our inner and outer reality, be we ever so illiterate and unread. That a few of us do read them, and religiously, critically, deeply, reverently or blasphemously, is enough, by overt and subtle communications, to atone the whole. This is why Allism, in my immediate expression of it, is a writing cult, and its basic ideal is not the servant, as with Christianity, which lacks any accent on creativity in its New Testament, or the traveling beggar, as with Buddhism, which likewise corresponds beauty with desire with suffering; archetypal we are with Mattriama before the mirror at time zero, and we are with Eru, fatal pen in hand: the first to read, the second to write – the archetype of the Poet.

Since we are all already Allists, Christians and Buddhists included, these other archetypes naturally must fit, and the indifferency of sacred object is especially true for the self-determined individualist, as compared to the family member, who believes the same out of love; we can choose to revere a given form, and hold it as reverently as does a group member. For though it is easier to believe in groups, given the external confirmation and reinforcement, by which he internalizes the "secret magic words" of a given religion, there are those who realize we are playing a Game in life, as the gods of life, who can revere something according to personal and private selection, so that the world never knows what the game is, and is played by us, and only the few with us. The prowess of the player, the secrecy of intellect. Profundity loves a mask.

Thus a few of the particular moves of Allism include problematizing, by which I mean being able to confound any given statement or position. We may problematize by mirroring, which means turning a noun into a verb or a verb into a noun, and having it act upon itself. How do we problematize problematization, for instance? Being able to brace any situation in a metalayer, a scaffold, a framework, being able to outline, comes again from our foundation in reading, that all things can be read and interpreted. Interpretation too can be interpreted. Reading can be read. Nor must we take science as any sort of final authority, since that particular method, the cult that grew from that method, will eventually exhaust itself, and as magic and religion peaked and then dissolved into other forms, so will science as well, as a new means of knowledge presents itself.

The self-possession required to be able to intensely doubt, or to intensely believe, requires self-reflection, mirror meditation, the anchoring of a man into himself, and the evoking of the voice of certainty – the voice of Ama. The cluster of Allistic forms surround the mirror, with its visual echo, and the internal monologue made two, the audio reflection. The line drawing, the manic dance, and the butterfly chord progression variate this theme – once we have secured the idea, we can adapt it to any register.

The flexibility of Allism comes from the deific nature of the Allist: since all religions are his, he may adapt any form he wants – the forgiveness of Christianity, the submission of Islam, the detachment of Buddhism, or the husbandry of Mormonism.

The foolishness of any religion or philosophy is to underestimate the others, as atheists who marvel at the miraculousness that people believe in miracles, or the Christian assurance that Hinduism is hopelessly muddled. Ignorance is strength, and it belongs to shallow people to prejudge all other beliefs as patent foolishness. The each-and-all philosophy of Allism affirms both prejudice and rejudging, both blasphemy and piety. Power is power and we take it where we find it. Ultimately, knowing how to read deep books is religious, re-ligere, meaning "to read again." We are able to disciple under a given voice, person, or system, intensely and mono-maniacally, and use, as we need, the Judas kiss to disengage ourselves thereafter. Books are the ultimate transmitters of culture, and to control the great books, to write our own, to write poetry, is the deepest power possible to man. The poet, the Aya, writes a circle on chaos, choosing something with suitable gravity to saddle with sacred meaning, endowing the timely with the eternal, as with a personality cult, a cult practice, or anything solid and savory. As I am bridled in breathe, the lisp of Ama, my allform shines in her, and she the Muse of my inner sun.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy