* 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 ᴤ88s Я --
Perfection Is Easy