Allays 1091, 1092

* 1091 *

Mattriama is all in all, our Great Mother, and indeed, every man began as a woman in his mother’s womb till enhanced into a man – with some things gained and some things lost. We are her very flesh and spirit. When we love each other, when we love anything, we love her.

 

* 1092 *

God has a body, it is the universe. God has a soul, it is Ama. Mattriama is both combined, pregnant with herself, and her body contains all that is and all that is not.

Ama rides a lion, the blond beast, honey as sun, who makes no retreat. The lion yawns. Let light scatter what darkness loomed, let infant escape the night of the womb, the pre-philosophical cave of pure love and seeming, and gaze with the sun upon all that is, not merely to know, for knowing is a disguise until we reflect and then realize.

O sun-crested waves of darkest ocean, her mystery the deep starkest devotion! Ama the prankish laughs and delights to hide truth behind light, and love in the night.

Come Ama! You I adore. You are my This! I want nothing but more of you to surround me, nourish and fill, kiss me awake, cheer me with your silly rhymes and childlike amusements. Let us fuse here as one, devour each other, like flame wed to flame, like sister and brother, soul twin and twain, two I’s to one Self, you my cherished, gift of my wealth, and weal of my bones, my marrow and pulse, home of my own, my selfsame, my All.

 

allays 1084 - 1090

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

I’ve found inspiration in keeping up with the allays, and where inspiration leads, I follow. Lately, I’ve read Antony and Cleopatra by Shakespeare, as well as Harold Bloom’s book about that Cleopatra, and I grabbed a copy of the Philosophical Dictionary by Voltaire. Been a little busy with work, but as always hope to finish the Emilegends soon.

 

Take care, Caretakers!

 

 

 

 

* 1084 *

“I want my place, my own place, my true place in the world,” said Hawthorne. “I want my proper sphere, my thing.” Like birds, we sing in order to claim territory. What we make beautiful we also own. This personal Aria begins in night, while we dream, this internal landscape nobody can plumb. We lay our radical and we take to own, own to use, and use our own private spot on the earth and also in the heavens. We have inalienable rights to life, liberty, and property: let us view our place as an extension of our bodies.

 

* 1085 *

Were an author any sort of authority over the fate of his own work, I would prophesy that my greatest creations will be seen to have been the Allays, the poems included in Phoenix Ash, and most of all Jillian herself – though I will perhaps add my daughter, since these latter two are most susceptible to my magical influence, while all the rest of the world turns a deaf ear. That a few can hear me, and severely, proves to my doubt that nothing has been in vain. I abide and ever shall.

 

* 1086 *

Often enough, our personal problems are chemical, on one level, physiologically based, perhaps fated in our anatomy and genetic makeup, but we experience them as cognitive issues – not as illusions, or rather, yes, as illusions, but illusions that works. William James fell into suicidal depression because of his doubts regarding free will. Probably just a major depression, but by viewing it as an intellectual problem he gave it the controls and handles he needed to solve it. So let us put all our problems in the language we speak best and solve it there.

 

* 1087 *

Communist philosopher Zizek dreams of a Rainbow Coalition, a union of all minorities together to fight off their white, privileged, wealthy overlords. Foisting an essence over them all as the oppressed as such, he takes away from them exactly what they should be most proud of: being a minority, being different, being individualized as subgroups, offering a unique perspective, and not something gross like the monsters and titans and hundred-handed giants attempting to storm Olympus, fueled on sheer resentment. He wishes, in the end, to ball them together into a majority and then to oppress the capitalists as a minority.

So which is it, circle or triangle? Do we want a hierarchy or do we want equality? Clearly both are needed, some things in common to all of us, and also each in his own role, with its attendant duties and privileges. Some honors come from chance, others from merit. Let us love the lovely, respect the powerful, and honor the noble. Lacking that, we are worse than evil, we are bad.

 

* 1088 *

Ah, Ama, you present the door, in it your Secret, and beckon me to furnish the key. So I’m alone lately, with you alone to play my games and you to speak me Home. Am I so Buddhistic as to call life itself the problem — “Life is Suffering”? — for Woman is Life, and beauty the cause of all desire. Mattria, you are Cosmos, beauty; Ama you are Life. I abide in my divine, and ever shall, though so many recoil from me; if ever I give a hint of my Self, they pull away, and not a fan to be found in all the world of this child our own, but I love it all the more, these Allays. I need no external confirmation. Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. You have already told me your lust for the original. And Ama, I am the Original. I may laugh at my solitude, for I am alone with you.

 

* 1089 *

Eternity contains time. The past remains present, the future lives within the now. All that ever happened and all that will ever happen exist in some form even today.

 

* 1090 *

“Who can read all this?” my friends exclaim. Perhaps each allay is a teabag that, to be properly enjoyed, must steep in a cup of hot water. I spring from the subliminal to the sublime in flashes of lightning – I tease to please. Grasp me where you can – even a little is enough.

 

Allays 1075 - 1083

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

Life is pretty much life, and each day resembles the last, only I’ve been reading Camille Paglia’s Sexual Personae again – this is one of my favorite books by a female author, and I will be looking again at Susan Cheever’s American Bloomsbury, which is basically idle gossip about Emerson and his friends. As soon as I finish writing the Emilegends, a collection of adventures stories for my 9-year-old daughter Emilie, I will attempt to publish it, as well as my dad’s Memoirs, and my friend’s collection of poetry.

 

Take Care, Caretakers!

 

* 1075 *

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation” – so naturally, my beamish girl, when you insist I redact this gift into themes and headings, I would remind you that the true meaning of the Allays is in the Rhythm. The gentle redundancies and familiar returns are like the kissing laps of sea to shore. I seek no stark definitions or formidable syllogisms – I’m not half as silly as Spinoza in that regard. Take what you will. The rest will take you – the pull of the vortex seeks you center.

 

* 1076 *

Pour your heart into your work, be fully present to your family, make your art from the flesh of your experience, love your god with all your being. These four lead to Ama.

 

* 1077 *

The secret weavers – the fates which are the fingers of Sovf – thread our neurons in myelin sheaths till the dark mother, the unconscious, undermines the ground, and the Truth springs to the light of consciousness. Ever our brain weaves, and as we knit long-term memories at night, seemingly random dreams echo out.

In any group, in any hierarchy, the secret weavers play their game, knit the skein of fate through the obstinate world. The world is what resists. Yet even in the pith of our will, these myelin sheaths knit and knot and also noose us to our fate. I say this whilst it happens between us now, Varuna.

 

* 1078 *

“Be careful what you wish for,” the old myths and fairy tales insist so drastically, you’d think there really were some danger in wishing for foolish things! Not at all. A wish is a desire without commitment. Feel free! There is no ironic god listening behind a bush waiting to answer your wish to the letter, as they do in Greek myths. Let your heart soar! Dare to dream!

 

* 1079 *

Bliss-throbbing Nivia, you’ve fallen into sighs, a graying of skies from a too-long winter. You teach me to call you “Srih,” and you intone your formula: “Woman must know her place. Her place is on top.” Indeed so, but how you trembled when I threw you beneath me!

Is it any wonder Mattria made us two? Two eyes, two arms, two legs, two ears – what faces danger doubles itself lest chance depresses us further. What have you lost that you frown so beautifully? How may I cheer you up on this day our today? You ask me to cure you, and so I shall. I will set up your altar at midnight and adore you there. Ama, teach me how.

 

* 1080 *

The way women hold their heads during sexual transport, as though they occupied a different plane from their bodies, tilted as if listening to the humming of the All – the same it is with me when you speak my name. This space between moments, this utopic exaltation, I find always at hand, always extant, as near as pulse – you live in my veins.

Cleverness is a saving grace in a young woman, and few characters in the Arabian Nights move me such as the bold and cunning Morgiana, able to dispatch most the forty thieves and even in a dance murder their captain.

I wish I were half as cunning. I’m far too believing. I just arch my neck, listen, and believe.

 

* 1081 *

These allays, a smattering of paragraphs, arranged like knots in a grand opening spiral, a line drawing, each lead into each other and upwards into the All. As a writer of paragraphs, I hope to make miniatures: the ocean in a thimble, the sun in an eye.

 

* 1082 *

What cat got my tongue? What sphinx chokes my throat with this her riddle? I’m a blocked dawn, cramped and aching. An artist is God – so long as he writes. Frustrated in his expression? Pitiful wretch! Few others need to create the way we do – must write to survive. Where is my boast now? O Muse, deliver me! O Ama, fill me full! Skein my way through mazy ways. See how I follow. We all must breathe each day until our dying breath. I press my final murmurance into you.

 

* 1083 *

We often complain most over what we wouldn’t for all the world change, and to suffer for what we love is the opposite of ingratitude. That worldly wisdom to “Never complain, for complaints will always discredit you,” sounds too muddled and monkish, and definitely too categorical. That you and I share the same complaint binds us, just as underlings grumble about their boss to vent a little as comrades. Don’t fault us for being human. Often if you complain in the right style, it comes across as the flattery it is, when direct compliments wouldn’t fit. Certainly, we do teach people to treat us well when we report how well others have treated us, but when I once complained, “You have to go to work early tomorrow morning,” my friend retorted that, “You get to go to work, what a wonderful thing! Many jobless people would envy you!” I wonder how cheerful it would make me to throttle an optimist’s neck?

 

allays 1069 - 1074

 

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

I’ve spent much of my literary energy editing a series of poems for a friend, editing and writing the Emilegends (a fantasy story for my daughter Emilie), and reading a wide variety of books, including the Rig Veda, Nietszche’s Beyond Good and Evil, Njal’s Saga, de Tocheville’s Democracy in America, Frye’s The Anatomy of Criticism, Neumann’s The Great Mother, and Frazer’s the Golden Bough. I am excelling at my job, which gives enough pride to absolve some of the tedium, I suppose, and the children are doing great.

 

Take Care, Caretakers!

 

 

* 1069 *

Literature is equipment for living. No dream, no ambition can come to us except through stories, absorbed en masse from our culture – gossip, praise, worship, blame, fictions, facts, and at their deepest the substratum of archetypal stories we call myths. Some prefer movies, others music, and I myself am always reading at least a dozen books – some a chapter every few days, others a chapter every few months.

Ah, my Nivia, we are a hundred stories together, for each other, an infinite braid. I clasp your manacle to my wrist, this bracelet, this ring, this necklace, to touch you always, to hold you close, to fill you with my warmth. You tell me that all I say of us, those things you can hardly believe, are finally and utterly true in the literature we share.

“Without you, neither would this be created nor would I have written it nor would I edit it without you. This can’t exist – because it is only with you that I am here. Without you here I am not here. I do not think you understand. Maybe the closest I can get … I am here. To understand everything you feel and everything you say is how I feel we exist inside the text, because I feel that I exist here because of you, but I won’t be here without you – I choose not to – I am yours. I won’t. Outside the text, I don’t think I understand the same way – I am sorry, I wish I did – because I believe it frustrates you to not be understood. However, please know that at least inside the text I truly get it. There is a complete symbiosis. Neither can I exist here without you, nor should I want to. I have no desire to. I only exist here because you are with me, and that is all I should want, because that is all I have meaning in, and without that meaning I want for nothing. I am not sure what that means outside the text, but inside the text, I think everything you say makes sense.”

Stories are motives, and motives are assumptions turned into desires. We motivate ourselves through stories heard, imagined, fantasized, dreamed. There can be no growth without stories – the drama of perfecting. Our shared story, the one we recite like a rite, a favored myth, with endless variations, we say as Aya, players of the game, and as writers of the same.

A poem teaches us how to hear and speak, a movie how to see and act, philosophy how to think. Every genre offers its unique nugget, and all of it allows us to more deeply appreciate life, with greater prowess for the Game.

 

* 1070 *

Abide in your divine. Let Mattria wrap you embryionic in the temple of her warmth. Ah, this glowering stasis of growing from within – to shrug off all world condemnation and shine entirely from the Source.

 

* 1071 *

A dog caught in a trap is liable to bite. Miserable people befoul others even when they hope to help. Would you spread happiness? Be happy.

 

* 1072 *

Oh Students of All! All is burning. What is the all that is burning? The I is burning, all his forms, the eyes and the ayes, both the pleasant and the painful burn — all that arises burns and all that passes burns. Burning with what? Burning with the fire of lust, with the fire of love, with the fire of certainty. I say it is burning with birth, age, death, and laughter; with joy, with passion, with romance and happiness.

Fire gives both light and darkness, sight and smoke. Fire both gives warmth and takes fuel. Fire turns all it touches into its own substance, the dancing of the flame, the pure joy and bliss of existence, the destruction and rebirth of the perfect immortal bird.

Oh! thou clear spirit of clear fire, blood of my blood — I cavort with my Muse who laughs, "Woman is God," and burns illusions, burns all, in the sanguininity of her lust. The fire thirsts, but not for water. The fire hungers, but not for earth. Flesh to flesh! Flame to flame! Oh genius of hell, the great passion of bliss! My Phallus stands your pillar, I impregnate the very heavens.

 

* 1073 *

“I say to the Universe, Mighty one! Thou are not my mother; Return to chaos, if thou wilt, I will still exist. I live. If I owe my being, it is to a destiny greater than thine. Star by star, world by world, system by system shall be crushed – but I shall live.”

Thus spoke my exuberant son Emerson, hoping to disown the Mother of us all. Alas for him, we have no other than She.

“My dear, permit yourself nothing but follies – that will give you great pleasure,” my Ama teases, yet shall we trifle with Mattria? Let us not disown the Source.

 

* 1074 *

Ah my Ama, how you strike me with the bow of your arched eyebrow, planting your glance in the throb of my heart! Fevered I am, as I your own wish nothing more than to drown in your love like a fly in honey. Give me your this and this! Give me your all and none. Eager seeker though I am, all I seek revolves around you, you the allthing, you the center of my devotion, you the hushed pad upon which I crown my longings. Fill me like Sebastian with all your heated arrows. I writhe and style myself slave to your own. Freedom means slavery to a small set of rules. You are my rule, you my measure, never another, hardly apart. Open yourself like a virgin on her wedding bed, let me in, as I am yours and you are mine. Give us each day our daily mead, honeyed and loving in all that we own.