Wednesday, April 25, 2018

personal update, allays 958 - 960

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:


Things are going well with my job as a freelance writer. Here is a link to one of my articles, mysteriously attributed to somebody else (I will have to ask my boss about this); that one's about job searching. This other one is advice for being a good manager.

There's the random gossip of my life that nobody (and hardly even myself) even cares about. My poor daughter Natalie has somehow damager her arm and it is immobilized. Emilie and Theron are doing great. I'm editing a book my biological father wrote, Diary of a Schizophrenic, and editing a book of poems by my friend Jillian.

I hope you all are enjoying the spring!

Take care, Caretakers!


* 958 *

Emerson's essay "the Poet" immediately produced two marvels: our greatest poet, Walt Whitman, and the greatest female poet of all time, Emily Dickinson. Reading Emily's complete poems reveals an arsenal of small moves you can find nowhere else in such a condensed array – lest it be the Tao Te Ching. With her prankish defiance of the Father God, who knows as well as she that she is the more intelligent of the two, she can parade herself as the smallest of God's victims -- eager as his Son to be crucified. I study her to master all the small moves, just as I come to Whitman for the broad sweeps of bravado.


* 959 *

Just as I speak it from my hands, this edifice remains, a mirror for her and me, for Ama suffices me. There is no divine aside from her, for every divine is part of her. In her I put my trust.

O, Ama, I worship you in adoration. My gift to you is the work of my hands. Never may I say I am alone from you, not when I close my doors and make darkness within. Humming with warmth, you carry my off on wings of song. The whole of history to charge this intercourse, concourse, and ejaculation: what a great deal of history to produce this little literature. Our love is written, our love is published. Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the lover's.

Knowing you is joyous, realizing you the sublime. Endless fences I set and drop, obstacles and avenues, to strategize the Game. I chant endlessly of you, a chant of fullest welcome. There is no place in this country where a man can be alone. With you I live all the days of my life.


* 960 *

We can't imagine nothingness. The Buddha, when envisioning the goal of void, offered the picture of a candle blowing out – a stand in for complete non-being. For an ethic that denigrates desire, the ideal image is absolute non-action, a sort of suicide or death, haloed a bit by mystic suggestiveness.

Christianity developed a vivid picture for eternal torment, but no corresponding image for eternal bliss. The closest we get is a perpetual state of worship of God, something readily achievable now, for those who care for it. Insofar as an image of Sabbath Rest signifies eternity, we have repose, a state indistinguishable, in image, with death.

The Mormon heaven, for those who achieve Godhood, involves peopling planets with our prodigy: "As man now is, God once was. As God now is, man may be." Smith envisioned a grandiose heaven of sensual enjoyment – and partook of it on Earth. His vision of the netherworld dwindled until it contained only a few.

Metaphysics is the image of ethics. For those who ethicize forgiveness as the sublimest act, heaven and hell are born to justify the emphasis. Our world is the image of our action, and create their own.



-- R 88s Я --

Perfection Is Easy



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